The Other Side.

I once dated a guy who told me straight to my face, "You know, it's good that you're a little overweight- you'll be a more empathic counselor for overweight individuals because you know firsthand what it's like." Since then, I've shed that person from my life, as well as those unwanted pounds, but sometimes those words will still echo in my head. Underneath the initial sting, I believe his message was true- we can more effectively guide people to the other side once we've walked through it ourselves.

Take the first step.

Even as writers, it's our responsibility to get people to the other side- to the other side of fear and judgement, and step into a place of ease and openness. But this can only happen when we're willing to share our own stories and walk on that bridge, over the river of despair, step by step.  If we all stay silent, we all stay paralyzed and isolated.

So don't discount your dark experiences.  Talk about them, share them, use them as supporting wooden planks that create that avenue of connection, holding our weight and acting as a bridge to bring us back to ourselves and to each other.

Syntax.

Let yourself become living poetry.

-Rumi

Wild.

"It was my life- like all lives, mysterious and irrevocable and sacred. So very close, so very present, so very belonging to me. How wild is was, to let it be."

-Cheryl Strayed, Wild

View from today's Mt. Diablo climb. (photo cred: Brad) I was too busy pedaling my bike!

Excited to see this movie tonight with a fellow adventurer who is just as obsessed with the outdoors and finding oneself as I am.

Mystery at Limatour Beach

The waves continuously lap
hour after hour
day after day

The sun rises and falls
The sky, watercolored cotton candy pink
and magnificent hues of orange

My light is shining
They wonder from afar who I am
I remain a mystery, an enigma

Tonight I swallowed the moon
She steers me to my destination
Lighting the way

Stage Names.

He caught my eye the first day of class, his baggy red trunks sagging below his knobby knees, arms crossed defiantly while everyone else stood enthusiastically in flowery two-piece bikinis with chubby smiles and rainbow plastic goggles. Clearly swim lessons were getting in the way of his summer vacation plans and video games.

We went around and said names- Allison, Jessica, Jennifer, Matthew- and eventually all eyes landed on him.

"Keeyan."

I stopped to clarify.  "Keeyan?"

"Yeah. Keeyan."

He was always the last to enter the water. While everyone else was halfway through their 20 bobs, he would stand with his toes curled at the pool's edge, arms stiff at his side. Then, without coaxing, he would jump in, fiercely without reserve, and join in with the rest of his bobbing poolmates.

Teachers say they don't have favorites.
It's a lie.
Keeyan was mine.

He would begrudgingly blow bubbles and float on his back like a squirming baby otter, his outie belly button reminding me of my Cabbage Patch Kid dolls. When he'd put his face in the water, his legs would kick with such determination that his oversized baggy red gangster swim trunks threatened to slide off. I found it hilarious and endearing.

"Keeyan, monkey, airplane, soldier."
"Keeyan, belly up, pretend you're Santa Claus…big belly in the air."
"Kick, kick, kick, Keeyan! Arms straight out in front of you, like Superman!"

For weeks, from 10:00-10:30am, I witnessed Keeyan's transformation from a disoriented drowning rat into a calmer, smoother golden retriever paddling out to fetch a stick.  Keeyan was my success story. Fistbumps and all.

The last day at the end of class, an older woman approached the pool deck, her arms spread wide holding a faded blue terrycloth towel.  She smiled at me, then looked down at Keeyan.  

"Get out, Ken. And say thank you."

I was speechless, betrayed, duped.
And then I laughed.

I wonder how many of us deliberately swim through life in our constructed facades and shells, paddling as fast as we can to preserve that freedom, in hopes to not get called out by our loved ones? 
Don't we all?
Whether we're Clark Kent
or Saint Nick
or Ken.

And yet realizing that at times we need those stage names to transform us into our alter ego, fearless and gangster and badass? Perhaps instead, it's about striking a balance between that certain special magic of our imagined selves and our real, raw, messy selves, trying to stay afloat and not get water up our noses.  It's knowing when to put away the cape and put on the nerdy specs instead. 

And Keeyan, wherever you are, I hope you're swimming in the deepest oceans, untethered by those awful red swim trunks, fearless and full of imagination.  I'm sure Ken would agree, that summer you taught me the true swim lesson.

The Uses of Sorrow.

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand,

that this, too, was a gift.

-Mary Oliver, Thirst

Taking Flight.

Sunset from Limatour Beach

Still soaking in this past weekend.  Grateful to be in the creative company of so many published writers and writing professors.  Proud of myself for showing up and being as present and brave and vulnerable as I could.  It was beautiful to meet such unique individuals and hear their poetic artistry as it landed on the page.  Perhaps the greatest lesson was learning that we are all the same- walking these same shores of life, witnessing the same sunrise and sunset, and trusting that as we pick up the pen, magic will be created and we will once again courageously fly with our words.