[Author's Note: I wrote this last weekish and let it sit in my drafts box because I know it's controversial. And quite honestly, I was a little afraid of posting it (least I hurt someone's feelings). I also sat here for a half hour debating whether or not I needed to put several disclaimers on here and apologize for my strong opinion. But really, I'm not sorry for the following post. And I do truly believe it's our duty to be responsible, to ask questions, to educate ourselves, to stand up and say, "Hey something's odd about this," even about the hard things-even about cancer. I also believe in listening to my urge to write, and this I didn't so much write as standby and let the words fall out. ]
Dear Internet,
There are a handful of things that really fire me up. Like when my husband gets something out of a cabinet and leaves the door open. When people say one thing, but do another. When grave injustices are committed like double parking, genocide, or Netflix not having a movie I really want to watch.
But nothing really compares to the disdain. The furry. The annoyance. The fire I feel for the month of October. Because for the month of October I have to hear about, and see, and deal with breast cancer awareness.
I usually keep quiet about this particular pet peeve of mine because: 1) it's not exactly popular to say, "If I see that stupid pink ribbon on one more thing I'm going to scream." 2) I know my hatred is personal and stems from the fact that my mom died of Ovarian cancer. A cancer that gets little attention, yet is far more deadly (figure that one out Internet). And 3) Deep down I'm all about promoting awareness and research and supporting survivors and their families because regardless of what kind you or your loved one get-cancer sucks.
I bide this month sending dear friends snarky messages, rolling my eyes, and complaining to my husband. But this time October you've gone too far.
I mean seriously, a National No Bra Day? Pardon my french but WTF? How is putting on display the things breast cancer survivors loose helpful? Should we have a no underwear day in support of testicular cancer? I mean the cruel, cruel irony of this idea makes my insides hurt. (Which is what really fired me up about this whole thing in first place. Because really, a No Bra day?!? It makes no sense to me.)
(Then, there's the second thing riles me up about any "awareness" type event, breast related or not.) What does it do?
Let's say I didn't hate trite (My inner feminist would like for me to also insert the world sexist here, which I realize opens up a whole other can of worms. Do with that what you will.) stuff like this and I just happened to whip off my bra in support of breast cancer. Then, what? Are we closer to a cure? Has some family suddenly gotten money to offset the cost of medical treatment? Has a survivor magically grown their hair back, overcome their nausea, and resumed a "normal" life?
No. Not one of those things happens.
What happens is people have pointed and stared at my nipples and sagging breasts all day. Which helps no one, and quite frankly makes me feel a little weird. Just like half the crap that's painted pink.
So while it might make you, personally, feel better to ditch your bra or buy something with a ribbon, it's not actually doing anything (and in some cases it's actually spreading the disease). (Some of you will argue, "Yes, it is! It is! It's bringing awareness!" To which I will reply: unless you have been living under a rock for the past decade we are all very aware of breast cancer. I can't buy yogurt without being reminded of breast cancer. Awareness does not in fact fix the problem. It's like if a giant hole opened up in the middle of my living room and all I did was tell people about the giant hole. "Hey, there's a hole. It's giant. It's in my living room. It happened at this time and was caused by this. And it's a real problem. Let's make t-shirts about this giant hole. And go on walks. And spend a portion of the money we'd use to fix the hole making sure everyone has a trinket that acknowledges the hole!" And if I did that. If I made sure everyone was aware of this hole. Not only would my husband think I'm crazy, we'd still have a giant freaking hole in our living room. The problem wouldn't have actually been solved. I can't just wear cute shirts that announce the presence of the hole. I actually have to do something about said hole.)
And doing something is what cancer survivors and their families need. They don't need you to take off your bra (they may even actually hate you a little because you have a bra to take off). They don't need you to buy a key chain, water bottle, Christmas ornament, trash cash, vibrator, dog dish, T-shirt, bumper sticker, tote bag, pencil, pen, roll of wrapping paper, yoga mat, magnet, lipstick, or cookie. (Things that organizations and institutions have to spend their money on to make, instead of spending their money on you know finding a cure and doing research. And all because we want some bauble that says, "I'm aware! I support! Look at me!")
No, cancer survivors and their families don't need any of that. They need you to come over. To sit with them. To clean their house. To buy their groceries. To talk to them like they're normal. To talk to them like they are sick when they are sick. To mop up vomit and diarrhea. To help care for their children. To visit them in the hospital. To listen to them. To cook for them. To tell them you love them. To make donations directly to companies and foundations that are doing research whether you get a knickknack or not. To take care of yourself. To be educated and empowered about your body. Your whole body-not just your breasts. To give them a pass when they are tired and cranky and crabby. To be supportive by actually being supportive.
Because cancer is hard. And it sucks. And for the most part we'd all rather buy a cute shirt or take off our bra because it's easier. But these people don't have it easy. And neither should you.
Love,
Sara
Redefining Yoga
"If you love something, set it free." —Sherrilyn Kenyon, or maybe someone else who had waaaay too much time to create Facebook memes
Dear Internet,
I walked into my first yoga class when I was eighteen. That means that for the past twelve years my life has revolved around this ancient practice (Okay, so it hasn't been a solid twelve year commitment. There were those moments, mainly in college, where I did a lot more thinking about yoga while sleeping off a hangover than I did any actual yoga. But still—twelve years. Twelve years, I've been organizing my life around asana* classes.).
*For those of you whom I'm related to or suffered with through that bizarre reenactment of Peter Rabbit that the Baptist church put on when we were kids in which they forced us to dress up like vegetables, asana is not some secret code for having cocktails with Satan. It simply means posture. I could have easily said stretching, or attempting to put my foot behind my head instead, but I like to sound smart and superior so I say asana. I also realize this weak attempt to explain my heathen ways probably has no effect on you whatsoever and I'm still on your prayer circle list. To which I reply, "Thank you." Because as far as I'm concerned, I could use all the prayers I can get.
Anyhoo. Twelve years is a long time y'all. Some people don't even stay married for that long. Yet, here I've been rolling out my mat and doing my thing. For. Twelve. Years.*
*For those of you who have me on your prayer circle list because I've "been doing my yoga thing for twelve years," I assure you that does not refer to sacrificing goats, or making burnt offerings, or having graven images before anyone, or worshiping golden calves. It simply means that for twelve years I have been going to a public yoga studio, rolling out a rectangle of rubber, and stretching in the company of others, while sometimes talking about why it's important to be nice, and turn the other cheek, and be kind to everyone—you know, kinda like what Jesus did (I'm sorry was that too far?). But if you don't believe me, you can ask my friend Jan. You can ask her because not only is Jan one of the people I've been "doing my thing with," Jan happens to be a yoga teacher AND the wife of a minister. Yes, a yoga instructor AND a minister's wife. I just blew your mind didn't I? And before you discount her as the wife of some snake charming not real minister from the wild, wild West, Jan and her family live in Wagner, South Carolina. Wagner. And the church they belong is a real, live Methodist church. That's okay I'll wait while you apologize for condemning to me hell for something you've never even participated in. I got all the time in the world because I learned patience in yoga.
Now back to my existential crisis about yoga—the one consistent thing that has defined my life for the past twelve years besides trying to find a husband.
I can blame the following positive life occurrences on yoga:
- Recovering from my mom's untimely death.
- Managing my depression.
- Losing 70lbs.
- Prolonging my sinful life by lowering my blood pressure, improving my cholesterol, introducing me to a form of exercise that doesn't give me seizures (Okay, I never actually had real seizures, they were just mainly in my head when I thought about having to workout at a gym or go running or heaven forbid—play a team sport), and lowering my stress level (all of which can be proven by science, which I would totally show you if I wasn't
too lazyconcerned I might have a seizure from working too hard on the Internet, so you're just gonna have to trust me when I say there are numerous studies that scientifically show yoga to be very, very beneficial for your health, and if you don't trust me, well then you're just going to have to go look them up yourself but don't say I didn't warn you about the seizures). - Introducing me to a beautiful, supportive group of women who will fly to the other side of the country just to ensure my secret trashy isn't showing on my wedding day while wearing silver glittery Toms and non-matching dresses because I asked them to. They will also do lots of other nice things like tell you when you're getting that far away depressed look, or have salad in your teeth, or smell bad.
- Helping me not murder anyone while in grad school (see article about yoga as stress relief).
- Cutting my getting ready time to ten minutes tops, as yoga pants and t-shirts aren't really time intensive wardrobe decisions.
- Allowing me to meet my husband (Okay, so he's not my husband yet and if this does end up going South I'm totally blaming yoga for it).
Nevertheless, the point is—yoga has done amazing things for me. Things I'm very thankful for. Things that make this next sentence sort of hard for me.
I'm kinda over asana. I know, some of you just praised the Lord and others of you are speed dialing me to make sure I have not been abducted by aliens. I thank both camps.
It's just when I wake up in the morning and I check in with what my body wants to do, it's not asana. It's mainly everything but asana. And while I laid in bed last night working out exactly how I was going to tell you this, I suddenly realized I actually have a fantastic reason why. A reason that was so unexpected—and by unexpected I mean that I've been trying to figure this out for moths and only just discovered it last night at 3am even though it had been laying right beside me the whole time—I started to cry because it's so true and perfect and comforting.
Brian is my yoga.
That's right. Brian is my yoga.
For these twelve years, yoga has been the vehicle I've used for knowing myself deeper. For challenging myself. For growing. For learning how to be patient and kind and accepting and loving.
Until it wasn't. Because we can only do so much alone. We need mirrors.
And Brian is now that for me. The love and acceptance that happens between us is much deeper than anything that has ever happened on the mat. And I'd much rather spend my mornings doing that kind of yoga than trying to kick into handstand.
Because at the end of the day yoga is not about the postures or the stretching. It's about radical love and acceptance and deep knowing (Chit Ananda for those of you who know).
And Brian shows me that every single day. He shows me that when I roll over and poke him awake. When I sing the same four bars of one song for a month. When I spend the entire morning writing instead of cleaning the house like I said I would.
He shows me that because he loves me. Because he loves me despite all the weird, annoying things I do. Even because of all the weird, annoying things I do. He loves me even though I'm not perfect.
So suddenly, moving my body through a serious of contrived poses* in order to know that feels sort of meaningless in comparison. (*I'm actually putting this one at the end because lord the can of worms it's going to open.)
And I'm okay with that for now, for Brian to be my yoga. Because he's—our relationship—is pushing me to grow in ways asana never can. Never has.
And if I've learned anything from all the horrible, no good things yoga has helped me overcome, it's that—life is short. And if I've learned anything from yoga, it's—when you find something that lights you up inside, that so perfectly reflects your brilliance, and so so gently pushes against your growing spots you should hold on to that thing like holy heck.
So, that's what I'm doing.
I'm holding on to Brian like holy heck. And I'm taking walks, and writing, and meditating. And I'm doing just fine.
I'm doing more than just fine. I'm doing fantastic. And isn't that sort of the point of yoga, anyway?
XO,
Sara
*Hey guys can we all just admit that the system of yoga we practice in the West is relatively new and based solely on the ideas of a handful of men? Indian men. Indian men who did not have large boobs and short arms and birthing hips. Indian men who sometimes hit their students with sticks if they were misaligned. Can we all also agree that this is a little crazy? And that maybe we shouldn't be sooo concerned about exactly replicating those poses. And maybe we should stop giving people the stink-eye when they don't really want to do an Eye of the Tiger practice or be the Valedictorian of Asana or could careless about standing on their heads for ten minutes at the time. Because there are other things to life besides yoga. Other things are just as worthy and valuable. And being a yogi does not make you better, or more enlightened, than anyone else. In fact it probably makes you a little worse off in some ways (according the that book that was on the NY Times Bestseller list), especially if you live in the South, where you get the stink-eye for being a yogi. And could we also stop with all the competing and focusing just on asana? Because there are seven other limbs. SEVEN!
**And also could we realize that the above rant does not secretly refer to anyone I know personally or to either of the kulas I've been a part of, but just to the general air of yoga in general, generally speaking?
Feminine? Or Femi-none?
"A well-read woman is a dangerous creature." —Lisa Kleypas
Dear Internet,
I have worried about the following things this week: the current length of my leg hair, whether I could go one more week without an eyebrow wax (I could!), and how exactly I was going to whip up something delicious for dinner while washing all the dishes, scrubbing the grass stains out of Brian's pants, finding a cure for cancer, maintaining a perfectly manicured coif, and working forty hours a week (I could not.).
In short, I have worried about being a woman. And doing all the womanly things I'm expected to do now that I'm shacking up with someone and on my way to being his wife.
Now, before you phone me up to berate me for marrying such a cretin, let me say he does not expect me to do anything of those things. Sure he prefers not to be able to braid my leg hairs and likes a warm meal every once in awhile, but for the most part he grunts and shrugs and does his own laundry and mending. Seriously, I once watched in fascination as he sewed two buttons back on one of his shirts while simultaneously cooking dinner. I mainly watched because he was shirtless—but still. He was raised well and is generally a prince when it comes to these things. It's me who's not.
I expect to be able to do all those things because isn't that what we're told as women? That we must whip up homemade French Laundry quality meals after working all day and managing to keep our hair in the right place (and out of the wrong places)? And that if we don't we somehow fail the wife test and the police come and revoke your license and it's a whole big "thing." I do not like "things." Or failing.
Although, I'm sure you're laughing now if you know me intimately. Because you know I can go weeks—nay months—with chipped nail polish, that I am quite capable of using every last dish in the house before I wash a single one, and well the status of any of my hairs on any given day is usually code orange.
Which was fine when I was single. But now that I'm an almost wife aren't I supposed to get it together? Aren't I supposed to become this neat, tidy, well-organized, multitasking goddess of domesticity while also remaining wildly desirous to my husband?
It makes me tired just thinking about it. Sigh.
Now, because it's almost Mother's Day, I will blame my lack of skills in the domestic arts on my mother, god rest her soul. I will do this mainly because I can and I'm a therapist and it's a trade secret that everything is always our parents' fault.
But to make my case, the woman wasn't exactly the most feminine person in the world. She believed in applying lipstick once a day (in the morning), that panties were to be white, cotton, and bought once a year (for Christmas), and her version of cooking was eating all the icing off a store bought cake (heaven help you if you ate the last piece).
And because I don't want to be accused of trashing my family again, I will add—she had many wonderful qualities that I totally appreciate, keeping house and knowing her way around Sephora were not them.
So, I'm a little deficient in these areas (Ok not the Sephora part. Most of my twenties was spent figuring that element of being a women out, but doing that while also folding laundry is a lesson I have still not yet mastered. I've been too busy cataloging all my shoes).
Figuring out what exactly it does mean to be a wife is also hard since I don't have any sisters and was awkward around most women until I was in my mid-twenties. Okay, I'm still a little awkward around most women. Groups of them often scare me. Hence why my upcoming bridal party consists of four lovely ladies instead of the mandatory herd most Southern weddings call for.
But I digress. Back to all the responsibilities and things I'm at best average at. And yes, I just cringed a little when I wrote that word—average is not something I'm programed to be.
I shall learn how to crush keeping everything tidy while minding my nails. Ok, I probably won't.
Because half of the crap we worry about as women is total bunk. And if you don't believe me please read this book. Seriously.
And my god I have! I have learned so many things. I have also spent most nights howling at Brian, "Wait, wait just listen to this part!" as I laughed spit all over him.
Because this book is hilarious, and irreverent, and poignant, and exactly what a *gasp* feminist book should be (why do we hate that word so?).
Not to mention it instantly stopped all the hand-wringing and worrying and fretting. Because it reminded me that we are all in this together. And we have many ways of doing things. And contrary to what my Southern upbringing says there's no rule that mandates you scrub the floor with a toothbrush and always wear pearls. Nor do I have to have twelve pieces of matching silver and sixteen sets of china.
I can do it my way. I can be any kind of wife I want. Any kind of woman I want. And so can you.
And that my friends is what *gasp* feminism is. Saying out loud we're all in this together whether or not you've had your bikini line waxed or not.
Thank you Caitlin Moran for that. And thank you to all the wild, wonderful women I run with who remind me every day there are many different ways to be a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, a woman. And that all ways are pretty fantastic (even the ones I poke fun at for having tidy houses and perfect hair).
Now, since it is almost Mother's Day go kiss your mom. Tell her you love her. Thank her for showing you the kind of woman you want to be (or even the kind you don't want to be-although maybe don't say it like that).
Thank her for coming before you. For doing her thing. Because whether or not she was the best role model her existence is exactly why I can sit here typing this while Brian cooks dinner. Exactly why I can have a public opinion and job and fret about all the things I have to do.
Exactly why we can choose the kinds of women we want to be. And that deserves some thanks whether she was perfect or not.
Love,
Sara
The following excerpts may use foul language, allude to bodies parts we aren't supposed to talk about in public, and tout liberal ideas. You have been warned.
"Similarly, if we live in a climate where female pubic hair is considered distasteful, or famous and powerful woman are constantly pilloried for being too fat or too thin, or badly dressed, then, eventually, people start breaking into women, and lighting fires in them. Women will get squatters. Clearly, this is not a welcome state of affairs. I don't know about you, but I don't want to wake up one morning and find a load of chancers in my lobby."
"I can't believe we've got to a point where it's basically costing us money to have a vagina. They're making us pay for maintenance and upkeep of our lulus, like they're a communal garden. It's a stealth tax. ...This is money we should be spending on THE ELECTRICITY BILL and CHEESE and BERETS..."
"In a world of infinite possibility, why not learn to hang off a pole by your pelvic floor? It probably will be more useful than learning Latin."
"All weddings seen to boil down to acting like Michael Jackson at the height of his insanity—pretending to be a celebrity for one insanely expensive day. And we know why celebrities have pet monkeys and stupid shoes and the Elephant Man's skeleton and a fun fair and swimming pools shaped like guitars. BECAUSE THEY'RE DYING INSIDE. THEY'RE STARING INTO THE VOID....We communally pity these people as damaged idiots."
"There's so much stuff—in every respect—that we can't afford and yet we sighingly resign ourselves to, in order to join in and feel "normal." But, of course, if everyone is, somehow, too anxious to say what their real situation is, then there is a new, communal, median experience that is being keep secret by everyone being too embarrassed to say, "Don't think I'm a freak, but...""
This Little Light of Mine
Dear Internet,"Yes, but I think she's really a writer." —my mom
Someone recently asked me why I stopped writing here (*cough, Uncle Mark, cough, cough*), which led me to wonder why I started writing in the first place.
I've always been, shall we say-a sensitive child-a quality often not appreciated by some of my more rational kinfolk. So, at an early age, I began scribbling things down in notebooks or on the backs of discarded pages, least those things-those feelings-escape from my mouth or worse yet my eyes.
Some of you talk over wine, or spend hours on your bike. Some of you take baths or read. Some of you make art, or cook, or doctor on people. Or whatever it is you do to make sense of the world.
I? I write (and walk, and drive, and talk, and a myriad of other things).
But the writing-it just happens. The words come to me and it's all I can do to keep them from spilling out and ruining everything. So instead of blurting them out (vomiting them up?), I pen them down. I write them so I can see if they are true. If they make sense.
I write them so I can understand.
Because when I don't-when I keep them rattling around inside my head-they turn rancid and bitter. They bite and sting and make me cranky.
And maybe I should just keep them to myself-continuing to fill journals and bits of paper. But I don't believe that's what we're meant to do-to hide ourselves. No, we-we are meant to let our lights shine. And writing? Writing helps me reveal my light-especially when I forgot it's there.
So why then, as this person asked, did I stop writing here?
There are several answers I could give: I was busy and flooded with words, and sights, and sounds-too many to tag, catalog, and trap here; I said a lot of my words over there and didn't have many left for here; I didn't think it was wise for the words I did have to be kept here as they needed some sorting.
Which would all be true. But, there's a better answer I can give-a truer answer. And that's-I haven't felt safe here. Someone I adore, whose opinion matters dearly to me, said some very unkind things about my writing. Trash was the chosen adjective.
Which is right in some ways. What I write is trash-mental, emotional garbage that needs taking out. Cleaning up. Dealt with.
Trash that often makes me cringe when I look at it now. Because I'm not that girl. Hardly ever am once I let the words out on the page.
It took me a long time to shake that criticism out. To brush it off. To dust off my keys and open myself up again because what I write is so uniquely, heart wrenchingly me. And trash it may be, but it's my trash. It's me.
And the jab seemed to extend far beyond just the words on this page, because as I mentioned before I'm a sensitive child. And opinions matter to me. Those opinions especially matter to me.
So instead of leaving my trash here, I went into hiding. Retreated to my journals, my fiance (yes I have one of those now), and my bed. I let my mental garbage build up and weigh me down. I piled it up and barricaded myself in.
And while sitting amidst the rotting stench of unwritten words, I wished I didn't have this curse. This desire. This impulse to air my garbage out. I wished I could make myself into something more acceptable. Could just sweep my words under the rug and be done with them.
But I can't. I am me. And me writes and has opinions, and makes unusual choices, and marches to the beat of a different drummer, and yes takes her trash out and puts it on the Internet. And that's ok.
In fact, it's more than ok. It's fantastic. Because that's what we're meant to do. We're meant to stand in our lights. To be our true selves. To use our gifts.
Because when we do-when we have the courage to write, or draw, or talk-to live from our hearts-it gives other people permission, encouragement, the desire to do the same. And our world needs more of that-so much more of that.
But now my naivety has been scrapped off and I now know that not everyone can, or will see my trash (or yours) as treasure. No matter how much we wish they could. No matter how much we want them to. No matter how much we love them. Mean things will be said, eyes will be rolled, support will be withheld. And at times we'll feel all alone and it will stink.
But the cracks are where the light gets in. And when we bravely do what it is we're meant to do, other support floods in. Connections form. Hearts open.
And that covers. That mends. Any criticism.
I'm sorry I chickened out. Stuck my head in the sand. Tucked my tail between my legs. That's not the kind of living I believe in.
And I pinkie promise from now on I'll tell my stories, I'll write my words no matter what anyone says about them.
Love,
Sara
I Love You to the Moon & Back
I love you, I love you.
That is all that has ever mattered.
Live your full life and I will always be with you.
--- Cell phone call, September 11, 2001
Dear Internet,
Let's all pretend that I haven't ignored this blog for the past month, and we're all up to speed on what's going on in my life, ok? Because telling you exactly what has been going on, did go on, is currently going on is a epistle I don't have the time or energy to write, nor you to read. Trust me. It's been crazy. Is crazy. And I'm not sure I even believe all of it—yet.
But please know I'm safe, happy, loved and still looking at the Tetons through my windows (and will be for awhile).
This year has been one of the most transformative of my life. It's also been the hardest, saddest, best, happiest and every other emotion you get to experience when you pack up everything you own and move across the country to completely change your life.
I've had moments of sobbing on the studio floor. Moments of spreading my arms to the sky and screaming I love my life. And regular everyday nothing special moments too.
But through all those moments—those hot mess moments, those jump up and down moments—the one thing I've consistently had is you. That's right—you. Whether I know you or not. Whether we speak, or smile, or laugh, or cry, or just exist here together on this planet. I've had you.
You, who comes here and reads my words. Who may scoff, or laugh, or roll your eyes. Who may send me love notes, or what heck are you thinking notes, or hold my hair, or dance with me. Or never even talk to me at all.
You've been there.
Are there.
And knowing that has been what's pulled me through this year. Has helped me pick myself up off the floor, smile a little brighter, try a little harder. And for that I'll always be grateful.
You are beautiful and amazing and so precocious to me. I can't tell you enough—show you enough how much I appreciate you. How much of a difference you've made.
And I know I often suck at telling you. Can drop off the face of the earth for weeks on end. Can get so wrapped up in my daily drama that I temporarily forget you. I'm sorry for that.
But please know I love you. I love all of you. Even if we drive each other crazy sometimes, or don't understand each other, or don't talk for weeks (or at all).
I love you and I'm so grateful for you. I couldn't have done any of this without you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
You are so important and matter so much and I wish I could hug each of you.
More stories are forthcoming (scout's honor), but I have a lot of people that I can and need to hug, and kiss, and tell I love. And so do you. So scoot.
The world is too beautiful & life's too short for you to be sitting around reading my blog.
I love you dearly and miss you terribly.
XO,
Sara
Why saying I love you is so important.
Circles and Squares
It was well after midnight and I had just come of off two twelve hour shifts slinging beer to Teton Valley's unwashed masses when I found Eustace Conway in my mailbox. Eustace is the main character in Elizabeth Gilbert's The Last American Man, a biographical novel a friend gifted me because he thought I was ripe for it and that Eustace had something to tell me.
Despite the fact that my feet hurt like hell and I could barely keep my eyes from fluttering closed, I cracked open the spine. Because what can I say? I'm a junkie for the written word and couldn't resist a fresh score (especially one from this particular friend).
By page two I was hooked. This is your brain on drugs, egg in the frying pan, hooked. I couldn't put the man down even though I tried. I found him to be all at once charming, and alluring, and down right maddening. Because he's a man so committed, so hard headed, so selfish that at times he cuts his own nose off despite his face. Yet, at others he's the most connected, sensitive, charming pied piper of a guy you can't help be be drawn to him. Can't help but to want to sell all your stuff and walk right out into the woods and live with him in his teepee.
That's right. This girl. This city girl who owns 50+ pairs of shoes found herself wanting to walk right out into the woods and live in a teepee and eat squirrel and never come back again. That's the power of this man. This book.
Then the more I read the more I realized he sounded like every guy I'd ever dated (especially the last one). So maybe selling all my stuff and moving to Turtle Island to sit at his feet wasn't such a good idea. I mean if my dating history is any indication of how well I do with stubborn men who enjoy immense amounts of personal freedom well then I should probably steer well clear of Eustace Conway and his 1,000 acre nature preserve no matter how alluring. And boy is it. Is he. Alluring.
Because who doesn't want to be free of the stress of the modern world? To not have to worry about bills, and health care, and running here and doing this. Thoughts that have been pervasive since I packed up my car, sold most of my belongings, moved West, and got a not real job. Thoughts that have only gotten louder and stronger as I've started working one day a week on a farm, teaching more yoga classes, and picking up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet.
Which is a way of life I knew nothing about until moving here. Because bless their hearts, my family prides themselves on being well educated, upstanding, contributing members of society. Which is fantastic the world needs such people. And I'm very fortunate to have a whole host of incredibly talented doctors, and lawyers, and engineers I can call to bail me out when need be.
But this also means I was never granted permission to have those pointless but fun jobs, as college was a time for studying. Not for waiting tables or tending bar or being a ranch hand. And after college was a time for getting a real job that had benefits, and insurance, and a 401(k). Not for taking off across America or hiking Patagonia. So, now, at almost thirty, I find myself drawn to these things. This way of life. This kind of living. Which is an entirely different verbiage from working and is exactly what Eustace preaches.
That most Americans live and work in a box. Eat from a box. Drive a box. Do box like things. Never once considering breaking out of that box. Which is detrimental to the earth and everyone's health. So he offers a different way. A circular way. A way that is connected and integrated and whole. That honors the rhythm of nature. The cycle of earth, and life, and death. And isn't about filling a box with more boxes. Or in my case a closet with more shoes. But is about being mindful and respectful and breaking out of the box. About doing crazy things like riding across the country on horseback or hiking the AT mostly nude or living completely off the grid because you can. And why not?
And while I realize that I like my iPhone, and painting my nails, and electricity a little too much to go completely native the box metaphor does resonate with me. Especially since I was just offered a job that comes with so many boxes I could build a mansion sized fort with them. A job that by most people's standards is a good job with all the right boxes-health insurance including dental and vision, a 401(k), paid vacation, a hefty salary, a relocation bonus, paid CEUs and supervision and expenses, automatic increases in pay, etc, etc, etc. It also comes with some boxes that should be sent straight to the recycling bin as far as I'm concerned. Boxes like 24 hour call Monday through Friday and one weekend a month, a 40-60 hour work week, mandated clients, Medicaid paperwork, rigid counseling protocols, and a staff I haven't exactly connected with.
Boxes so large that I wouldn't even have time to consider other boxes. Much less buy them or enjoy them. And the only circles I'd get to experience would be the ones I was constantly running around in trying to keep up. Which is not what Mr. Conway had in mind with his metaphor I don't think.
So, now that I know Eustace. Now that I've experienced a different way. Now that I've taught yoga, slung beer, housesat, catered, done graphic design and PR work, pulled weeds on a farm... Now that I've pieced together boxes of work that allow me to have a more circular lifestyle. That allow me to live instead of work. To do what fills me up instead of what fills a box. I'm not sure I can take a job that is all boxes and no circles.
Because if I've learned nothing else from this book, from my year here, it's that ultimately once you break free of the box it's hard to go back in again.
XO,
Sara
XO,
Sara
PS-Don't worry your pretty little heads my darlings no final decisions have been made yet. And even if I don't take this particular box I'm still fairly certain all my boxes will end up back east. So everyone take a deep breath (especially you Dad).
Times are a Changing (and Quick)
"There came a time when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." —Anaïs Nin
Oh Internet,
There are so many things I want to tell you. The words rattle around in my brain and I struggle to catch to them. To pin them down on this page because there are so many. So many stories to tell. Stories about boys. New boys, old boys. Stories about jobs. New jobs, old jobs. Stories about yoga, and meditation retreats, and finding God. Stories about stories.
Oh Internet,
There are so many things I want to tell you. The words rattle around in my brain and I struggle to catch to them. To pin them down on this page because there are so many. So many stories to tell. Stories about boys. New boys, old boys. Stories about jobs. New jobs, old jobs. Stories about yoga, and meditation retreats, and finding God. Stories about stories.
Because this past month or so has been one story after another. One story dissolving. Another being created. Two more springing up. Three leaving.
A rush of new words and old words and unexpected endings and beginnings. So that when I start to tell you one thing it's quickly become another and I'm not sure what to say. Except that cliche is true, the only constant is change.
And boy have things been changing. Have I been changing. Rapidly. So fast that I often go to sleep one girl and wake up another. That one minute I have a plan and the next I don't. That right is left and left is right and my world is upside down and right side up again. And again. And again.
And how wonderful is that? To be so tapped in that things are moving. Rushing around. Shifting. Changing. And fast.
Too often we resist this. We cling to the past or reach out to the future. We attach ourselves to what we should have done, or said, or been. Or to what we have to or must do next.
Bypassing the moments that actually create the done or going to. But this middle part. This force that through the green fuse drives the flower is so sweet. It's what makes the bud blossom. And the blossom decay. It clears out and makes room. It creates and destroys. And without it you can't have seeds or flowers. Can't till, and plant, and reap.
So I try to sit with it. To marvel at the growth it causes. And the destruction it brings. Knowing that they are both the same. That I can't have one without the other. That if I want the blossom I have to be open to the decay. To the shifting and changing.
As radical and forceful and unpredictable as it may be.
So while I wish I could tell you all my stories. Pick the blooms and present them to you in a neat bunch. That doesn't seem to be how this is working.
Because just as soon as I gather them up they've already wilted and they're are others that need to be plucked.
And I know this will settle down. That the process will slow and there will be time to present you with a final bouquet. A longer absolute. But right now those are things I cannot say. Can't tell you what, or who, or where is next. And I'm ok with that. Because the blossoms I've been given are beautiful even if they don't last.
Hope you are well. Miss you terribly.
XO,
Sara
THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER
THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER
Dylan Thomas
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
THE ACT
William Carlos Williams
There were the roses, in the rain.
Don’t cut them, I pleaded. They won’t last, she said.
But they’re so beautiful where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
and cut them and gave them to me in my hand.
There were the roses, in the rain.
Don’t cut them, I pleaded. They won’t last, she said.
But they’re so beautiful where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
and cut them and gave them to me in my hand.