I am sitting on the floor, at a pine coffee table I bought from IKEA a few months back. Simmering on the stove is a blend of herbs I formulated for the challenges of my current stage of life.
In the oven is a piece of salmon caught in a distant ocean.
I am typing on a laptop that is essentially a magic rock, made of elements (Aluminum, Copper, Gold, Selenium, Silicon, rare earth metals) from supernovæ that somehow made their way to earth over inexplicable time.
Its quiet in this room, in this condo in a building in downtown. It feels, in some ways, like a library. As possessions go, I could fit everything I own in here in my van and drive away, with plenty of room for a passenger. But I own more things than I have in ten years. I am living a life I never could have imagined.
And yet, amidst all the change, life always feels about the same. I guess because it is me that is living it. There is a strange thread that continues, day after day after day, and that thread I suppose I call myself. Resilient through changes and and losses and gainses (sic), it continues while all else falls away.
Until, I suppose, it doesn’t.
But I don’t know what that feels like, and can only guess at the hereafter.
There is so much talk of big shifts this year. “A new world order” as a world leader said. Large movements of distant planets that are said to impact our emotions. A lunar new year with double fire energy.
Everyone seems to be saying: get ready.
Get ready.
Get ready.
But ready for what?
To me, readiness creates tension. Some kind of bracing for a fast start, or some future that cannot be controlled.
But I don’t know what to get ready for. Maybe others do, maybe they know exactly where they are headed and how to do it all.
I own that I don’t. I have no idea what to be ready for. And to fabricate something seems to be fabricating a form of augury that I don’t have an honest claim on.
And so maybe what I need to be ready for, is to release control. To allow what comes.
In many ways, living alone, I am spending more time on my own, with my own thoughts, than I have in some time. And studying medicine, I’m finding yet again that I am on a somewhat solitary, inward journey.
Having come through the most difficult two years of my life, I am now sitting at a precipice, looking into the future. What will I do with all the supposed potential of my current life? I want to create a healing arts center in the high desert that will allow expressions of creativity as a form of life giving culture. And the opportunity for people to come practice healing modalities of many different kinds there.
But to be honest, I don’t even know what healing is.
And some days, I suck at caring for myself.
I have a hard time eating alone, because it’s boring. I like cooking for people.
Living alone and being single in a city can be hard. There are rules here that I have had to learn, and a lot of unhealthy social dynamics that people accept as status quo.
Though I feel that all of this is on some kind of thread of direction that feels real to me. At least as real as anything I’ve done before, with the added aspect of being recognized after this passage as more than just a random artist with a camera, laptop, microphone, and notebook. I’ll have a license, be an “acupuncturist.”
Is this what becoming yourself looks like?
Because to me it feels messy, imperfect, uncertain, misty, painful, lonely, and strange—and this process has been going on for a LONG time.
Sometimes I don’t know where its leading me.
Two springs ago, when I couldn’t sleep more than a couple hours for weeks on end, was having panic attacks and night terrors when I did sleep, felt haunted by my own psyche, like I was an embarrassment to myself, my family and the world—I went to visit my sister in Boise. It was a blur of a trip. I can’t remember really what happened. My nervous system was so dysregulated, that even with my years of mediation experience, I couldn’t get myself into a calm state. I had to stop consuming any form of caffeine for half a year—I went off sugar completely for over a month. I experienced a complete nervous system collapse. This is what recovery from a long term addiction looks like, in case you were wondering.
But there was a moment in the airport on the way, when I was sitting in the atrium area, and I noticed an old man dressed nicely, accompanied by his wife. They came up to me. I was listening, as I often do, to an album, and had recently been inspired to investigate dance by a person I was dating. The track was called Scythe Master by Four Tet. So I was dancing a little in the chair. I don’t know if he saw me dancing, or was just attracted to whatever vibe I was giving off.
But he sat down at the table with me, after asking permission. He looked to be late 80s or early 90s, and his wife had a beautiful German accent. He told me he was a retired doctor, from WSU Medical Center in Seattle. He asked where I was going, and told me about the train trip he had taken north, long ago, through a tunnel, and how the train back then ran straight through the middle of a town in a canyon.
His eyes were full of joy and satisfaction, of a life well lived, I could only suppose. I told him I was going back to school.
“What for?” he asked.
“Medicine,” I said. A half-truth. Because I knew what that meant to him was “MD.”
He looked at me steadily with glistening eyes, and said:
“I taught at WSU for many years. And you can tell who will succeed, and who won’t.”
Then he paused, and looked at me somehow even more profoundly. And his next words were pronounced with gravity.
“You will succeed,” he said.
He reached over, patted me on the knee, got up with a chuckle, and headed off to a funeral of a dear friend.
I sat there, stunned, crying.
How could I, at the lowest point in my life, be recognized for my goodness? For what I had worked so hard to preserve, despite all the barriers and mistakes I’d made? How had this random man seen something that I felt I had to some degree, for so long, forsaken in myself? Somehow, he saw my essential goodness. And knew, maybe, what I had done to hold onto it. And that it was true.
So maybe this year, for me, is about an inward journey. About accepting limitations. About realizing and reveling in progress that is all but invisible to anyone but myself. And loving myself for that, and believing, that even though I don’t know the way, that I’m headed somewhere. And I may not make the right decisions, or even be in the right place, or meet the right people at the right time. But that every day is all that is meant for me. And to be content, and in love with that fact, as much as I can be.
Thank you for listening.
