I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write in a solitude born out of community. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to migrating birds with the hubris of language. I write as a form of translation. I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. 

I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of my anger and into my passion. I write from the stillness of night anticipating-always anticipating. I write to listen. 

I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around. I write because of the humor of our condition as humans. I write because I believe in words. I write because I do not believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in sand. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it is the way I take long 6 Why I Write walks. I write as a bow to wilderness. 

I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness. I write because as a child I spoke a different language. I write with a knife carving each word through the generosity of trees. I write as ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of my inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine. I write by grace and grit. I write out of indigestion. I write when I am starving. I write when I am full. I write to the dead. I write out of the body. I write to put food on the table. I write on the other side of procrastination. I write for the children we never had. 

I write for the love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a sentence. I write with the belief of alchemists. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write by accident. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I keep writing and suddenly, I am overcome by the sheer indulgence, (the madness,) the meaninglessness, the ridiculousness of this list. 

I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds-and then I realize, it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass. I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails 

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere. 

And if your spirit

carries within it 

the thorn

that is heavier than lead ---

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging --- 

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted --- 

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly, 

every morning, 

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy, 

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray. -Mary Oliver 

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To be moved by sound, by echo, is to ultimately be moved by grace. 

Hilarious and tender poetry for Valentine's Day from the New Yorker. 

Art from the fiercely talented SAINTE MARIA

A "Ha" and An Exhale

My father is not a man of many words. And the words I do remember, the majority of them, were not kind or encouraging--they were/are often belittling, acrimonious, painful. I don't say this with anger, resentment, blame, or bitterness. I render it only as fact; a small (maybe quite large, in retrospect), but true outline in the story that is my life. 

I came across this letter/list that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote for his daughter, Scottie, when she was a young girl. I thought the sweetness and hopefulness of the list was endearing. I felt a pang of sadness for all the words my own father has neglected to say, leaving me devoid of any fatherly, parental advice in my life. I fill this empty bowl on my own again and again. It has been propitious beyond words in its own right. 

The list is as follows:

Things to worry about:

This piece was published here, at the ever-growing Soul Anatomy. 

No one tells you that your boobs will grow in at twenty-two. It's the best kept secret. No one tells you that at twenty-three, you will develop cystic acne that looks like it belongs to a very hormonal teenage boy. But, like all things, it will heal in time. No one tells you that at twenty you will develop an anxiety disorder. And panic attacks. No one will tell you how to treat them either, especially doctors. But guess what? You will learn on your own. You will recover and grow through the concrete boundaries like the smallest seed in the crack sprouting towards the sky. I promise you, you will.

 No one tells you that your parents will be the empty bowls that you will have to fill again and again*--especially your dad. But the bowls will be there and you will fill them with good intention, with acceptance and compassion, and in time, forgiveness. You will repeat this all of your life. No one tells you that it's okay to not fit in with the family you were born into. You are not broken or bad. You are sacred and a being deserving of love. No one tells you how to breathe--this seems silly, right? We were born knowing how, but somewhere along the road, we started breathing in a reverse cycle, causing more ill effects than imagined.No one tells you not to blame yourself--that what you feel, no matter what in the holy hell it is, is valid. And okay. And you must not blame yourself, or anyone else, for the same reason that it will eat at you. No one tells you to sit in silence. To let whatever arises be present. You will want to run and scream. You will cry and shake and ache in places you didn't know were capable of feeling pain. But stay. Please, stay. 

No one tells you that American (and all worldly) "success" is an illusive fallacy, a smoke-and-mirrors effect created by capitalism and oppression. No one tells you the true issues of our society and culture, the faces of oppression resulting in violence, cultural imperialism, and exploitation*. No one tells you that when people act out in anger and in selfishness and in violence, they are hurting. They are in so much pain themselves, they are blinded by tension and primal emotions with little logic, compassion, and empathy to rely on.  

 No one tells you that you are wonderful as you are. You will hear from others of your flaws, you will know your insecurities through the faces of other people--but I will tell you, you are loved as you are. Through this recognition and self-cultivating love you will give your own self the permission to change and grow and, ultimately, just be. But no one ever tells you this. 

*Cheryl Strayed

*Iris Young 

This little affirmation of sorts was gracefully published here at Soul Anatomy. Thanks for reading (from all my heart).

Image from Soul Anatomy

I believe in the long drawn out breath after a good cry. I believe in the ritual that is drinking coffee (decaf, cold brew, french press, drip--the style and flavor irrelevant). I believe in throwing out the scales and going by how you feel; if you like the way your clothes fit then that is simply enough. I believe in not leaving your apartment for an entire day because it's quite possibly as restorative as anything else could be, every now and then. I believe in the written word--penmanship. I believe in saving every letter someone has ever written me, a piece of them kept in a box. I believe in therapy, good therapy and with the right person (you will find him or her if that is what you desire). I believe that what you seek is seeking you. I believe in selling everything I own and taking two suitcases across the world. I believe I will do this in my lifetime. I believe in serving and how it throws you in the muck and makes you a strong, hard worker; one that could handle any other job because this is probably the hardest one you will ever have. I believe some secrets should be kept closer, while others need to be caught and released back into the abyss that is the universe (or, to said therapist). I believe in writing because it will always help me to understand what the verbal usage of words do not. I believe in reading a piece from the arsenal of my favorite writers at least once a day because it nourishes me as much as deep breathing. I believe in good men--men who are good at the core of their person; loving, kind, and invested. I believe in good women, and people in general, too. I believe in cheap sushi, despite possible illness. I believe in not eating mammals or their produce--even though I do occasionally engage in it myself more than I'd like to. I believe in the revisiting of the gnawing feelings that ask to be felt, seen, and heard, again, and again. I believe in forgiveness and compassion--the hand I press to my heart each day, my lips whispering, "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

-mary oliver

Consider more sleep. Eight hours is okay. More is better, personally. Consider that people weave in and out of your life--it's part of growing up, in the least cliche way possible. Not fitting into the relationships with people you once were so comfortable in is integral to your own growth. Consider buying a pretty dress and wearing it the second the mail comes--then go on date with yourself. Get a glass of wine, a burger, and enjoy. Consider the fact that being single all through university is the best thing that could have happened to you. The best has yet to show up on your path, but remember, the path is the goal. Consider the path you've currently taken; the choices you've made that have led you here. Rejoice. For this is exactly where you need to be. Consider that perhaps backpacking alone is really the right move. It's you, babe. You are all you will ever need. Consider that your mother always tried her best. She did the most with what she could, with what she had, mentally, physically, emotionally, materially. Consider that life was hard, is hard, and everyone is walking around in a shell that houses scary, beautiful, haunting, and magnificent things that no one in that shell could ever run away from, despite adversity to it. So we all struggle and we all try our best. Especially mum. Consider the Lobster. Just kidding. But really--read more. Read the work of dead people and consider what it means to be human; what it means to have existed, to have felt the inner workings of one's own being so strongly, to have lived through the human condition. Consider delving into what the "human condition" even means. Consider eating bread for the sake of the warmth and softness on your tongue that is flour and yeast when beaten into submission; it then rises from its' own undoing. "Breaking bread" is sacred among almost all religions--find the beauty and the meaning among it. Consider that, yes, carbs and gluten and grain are in the making of the thing, but, for once, just once, let the senses be present. Consider what it means to be in the moment. What does that truly mean to you? Then breathe. Always breathe. 

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