Category: Independent

dop·pel·gäng·er

Leave a comment

Photo Sep 16, 9 18 24 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday morning, I changed seven times.

When I looked up from buttoning the shirt I would unbutton seconds later, I expected to see someone else staring back at me in the mirror. But — it’s always her.

I turned to face my profile and pull at the bottom of my shirt. I was running late and didn’t have time to change again, but — I did anyway.

I’m not sure when this happened — but my reflection has become some strange sort of foe. It appears we agree on simple things like: cotton versus polyester, but, the clothes hang off us differently. Colors distract us.  Most of our wardrobe is black. And her expression is always sullen — to match our sweaters. But, things shift. I’m starting to see colors explode through the seams. I feel her fight the smile that creeps up at the corners of my mouth.

Across the river, at work, her reflection finds me again. She glares out from the glass doors of my office building, melting in the morning light like a Dalí painting. I shift my red tote bag around my torso to cover my waist. There’s no hiding from her though — she sees through things. Totes. Camisoles. Layers of mascara. Thick, glossy nail polish. Geeky frames. Bras. Boots. She catches me at angles that others do not.

My own disconnect still surprises me. She’s an imposter. I can’t read her.

I want her to look some other way. I want her to laugh more. I miss that — my own laughter and how it escapes wildly — a thousand big bangs imploding in my chest. Suddenly, I want to laugh at everything. I bite the side of my cheek.

I check my teeth in the ladies’ room mirror. A big, toothy smile. Is that happiness? Laughter? I’m not sure I’d even recognize it. But, truthfully, there’s not much of anything I recognize these days — It leaves me space to feel something new.

On the drive home, my eyes meet hers in the rear view. I decide only one of us will survive the summer. And — it’s me.

I turn up the stereo so loud that the bass shakes the little, white cat that’s glued to my dash. In a line of cars, waiting to cross the Ross Island Bridge, I pull my hair loose from its tight-tied bun. My auburn locks fall softly around my ears and the dying wind of summer kicks them up behind my headrest. I pull off my cardigan, in my eighth and final costume change of the day, and let my left shoulder bake in the sun.

Today, I’m showing up. — Myself. Alone. Take it or leave it. I dump my doppelgänger on the West bank of the Willamette.

As I make my way over the bridge, Mt. Hood welcomes me back to the East side. I drive up Division and turn down 16th Ave. I let myself get lost myself in a maze of circular streets, crowded with babies and bikers. I pull over. I turn off the engine. — I think I’m alone now.

Seat belt still fastened, with five minutes to spare, I throw my head back and I laugh, hard, before making my solo debut.

 

Maps

Leave a comment

Photo Sep 07, 4 45 37 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday, I celebrated two years clean and sober.

I once thought that sobriety would forever be the beacon, lighting my way. Yet now, more than ever, I find myself in the dark.

It has taken two years to learn that there is no way of knowing the path.

I do know this — Sobriety is not the road — it is the mile marker. Sobriety is the daily reminder: There is light. Where my own light comes from, and how it continues to shine, I do not know. But, it emanates from a place inside of me that, two years ago, I would have denied existed. Today, it glows hot like a coal.

In my second year of sobriety, I have shown up  for and stepped away from things and people. I’ve taken action and made decisions that once would have required copious amounts of whiskey. I have watched moments of my life unravel and then bloom with a happiness I still do not understand. And I have let go of my still beating heart, like a balloon, and watched it float away into an unforgiving sky, wondering if I will ever feel it again — love.

I have learned that we do not recover from some things. There are some wounds that will never cease to sting. But, if we treat them with care, acknowledge them with honesty, and bandage them properly — they cease to slow us down. Instead, their momentary aches become reminders of who we are, who we were, and who we are becoming. My scars are the road map. I wear them like the tattoos I do not have.

I have learned to smile with my teeth. I do not hide behind my own inadequacy. Perhaps the most poignant lesson I have learned in these past two years is: We are all inadequate. This isn’t a flaw. This is a challenge. This is the opportunity life affords us — to rise up and offer a fragment of greatness,  despite our lacking. To create from a place of authenticity, not perfection. To stand alone with the knowledge that, no matter who surrounds us, we remain cogs in a beautiful machine. To honor our worth. To step away from darkness, no matter how fervent its plea to take us over.

Joni Mitchell sings — “We are star dust. We are golden. And, we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.” So, I walk in my maze of hedges. I meet dead ends, where I collapse in frustration. But, I stand up. I walk again. Because, I know, I am already in the garden. I can see — on the other side of this wall of leaves — something waits for me. Light gets in through the cracks. I know. One of these days, I will turn at the right corner and I will emerge, unguarded. Luminous.

So I stand here. At the second mile marker, on this — my road.

Two years of nothing. Two years of everything. Baba Ram Dass, you brilliant motherfucker, you called it. I begin to understand the many ways we are infinite. I run my fingers over my scars. Old and new. Rough and smooth. My maps.

Behind me, everything is illuminated. Before me, my heart casts out its high-beams on the dark highway.

 

And, to whatever power it is that’s listening, I whisper:

For the light. For the road. For the maps.

Thank you.

 

To Everything, There Is A Season

3 Comments

turnturnturn

In an act of seasonal defiance — I bought a can of pumpkin purée.

I need to feel, no, — to literally ingest — something that has not arrived yet. The Fall.

In the cradle of my mind, Autumn peeks in through the cracked door, checking on me, the colicky babe of Summer. And, even though the temperatures still soar here in Portland, my bones can tell — change is coming. It’s more than just the seasons. Something is afoot. Students return to the college campus. A warm spice is in the air. I fight the urge to pull the covers up to my chin in the 90 degree heat. More than feeling this shift — I welcome it. If we’re going to be brutally honest, and — I am — I wish this year would just fucking end.

So yes, please, bring on the hay rides, family gatherings, and pie scented candles. I find myself searching for the fast forward button. My mother informs me that next year, by the law of averages, things are bound to start looking up. For the coming New Year — No resolutions. No reflections. Nothing sentimental. Just a clean white page where I can write this story: The year when all good things happened.

It has been suggested that I take my life one day at a time. And, feel free to call me a future-tripper, but, these days, I need something that’s in a higher echelon than “Just For Today.” I find myself wondering — Will I ever know the comfort of “Always”? The older I get, the more my long-legged idealism seems like a cruel joke.

The mere thought of 2015 has real sparkle, even standing here, at the edge of Summer. This year, once full of promise and hope, has become the penny lost under the couch. Once, it shone bright and new, like I had just popped it out from the bank’s tight, paper sleeve. Now, it sits on the dresser, caked with dust, the bronze tarnished to a sickly green.

My expectations fail me, again. And, I realize that I need to do away with all my big plans. Plans are useless. Don’t make them. Give them up and trade them in for something better — something real. In the words of the Book of Ecclesiastes, immortalized in Americana by Pete Seeger and then The Byrds: “A time to cast away stones. A time to gather stones together.” So, which will it be today?

I put down my pencil and stare at the ceiling before going back to the drawing board. No more rewrites. No more revisions. I want a new story.

The ceiling turns red as sun bleeds through the scarlet bed sheet that has served as my curtain for the past year. This is the time. The trees, about to shed their leaves, will stand bare in the cold and rain. Then, with the wisdom of all their years, their roots winding through dirt, sucking up water — they will grow new foliage. A brighter shade of green. Death makes way for rebirth. Me, the trees — we both know it’s coming, even now, in Summer’s twilight. We are ready to let our dead things fall to the ground.

To everything, there is a season.

So, I patiently await this season’s close. Though, I must admit, I find sweet satisfaction in the sweat that beads off my brow as I sit down to my breakfast on this hot, Summer morning.

Pumpkin Oatmeal.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

Reunion

1 Comment

Photo Aug 12, 5 27 26 PM

In my childhood bedroom, I sit cross-legged and allow myself to feel old.

It’s been years since I’ve seen this place. Everyone looks a little bit different. The landscape here has changed just enough to make things seem otherworldly. Like, I’ve returned to some alternate universe to find a different version of everyone I left behind years ago.

What has happened here? And, why is everyone getting married?

It’s my family reunion. I get a funny feeling that I can’t shake. I stand in strangely familiar surroundings — an observer and an alien. My awkwardness, performed in a nuanced fashion, is easy to disguise. Once, I was happily impaired as swarms of relatives buzzed around me — a host of inquisitive flies. Today, each encounter is centered. I see a different version of myself reflected in every set of eyes I look into — like watching an old VHS tape.

While standing in line for salad, I wonder if the only thing I have in common with these people is blood. I refill my red Solo cup with raspberry-lime seltzer right beside the keg where my relatives line up for the good stuff. Lager foam spills over the top of their cups and they push off the excess with their index fingers. They all ask me how life is treating me out West, and then, turn back to the keg without listening to my answer. I remember how easy drunken pleasantries were, I used to make them myself, between sips of frothy vodka sours. Maybe it’s me who’s rude these days, but, I’m less concerned with hurt feelings than I’ve been in years past.

The truth is, back West — it’s all unraveled. But here, in front of the macaroni salad — it’s whatever you’d like to hear.

My cousins pull me onto the dance floor at the bar where everyone has headed after a long day of family togetherness. They all do the twist, raising their arms up, cocktails spilling over the sides of their clear plastic cups onto the dance floor. I jostle my hips, stiffly, from side to side. This isn’t any fun sober.

In another universe, drunken dancing would have been the highlight of my evening. Tonight, I just want to go home. I tell my cousins I’m too tired, because I am, and I leave, alone.

I walk home on a dark country road. Another super moon dangles in the sky like a giant light bulb. The road, that’s usually pitch black at this hour, glows a hazy blue. The trees are lower to the ground here than they are in Oregon and the shadow levels us — there is something comforting in the congruence of our size. For a just a moment, we are all perfectly rooted in the Earth.

As I walk up the driveway to my house, I replay the day: As if it were choreographed, a parade of bathing suits, cut-off jeans, and summer dresses weave in and out of mismatched wooden chairs with peeling paint. My grandmother’s voice — caught in her throat at the sight of us all together. Tiny babies. Weddings planned and divorces finalized. Not-so-tiny-babies. Childhood brethren and sworn mortal enemies. It’s more drama than a good soap opera. Characters that move about wildly, without predictable trajectories. I stop to remind myself — everyone’s family is crazy.

Everything looks different through a steady lens. And, I feel it — an era has ended. Time is moving at different speeds. But, eventually — inevitably — we will all meet again. We will stand at the keg, whether we’re drinking from it or not. We will ask each other how things are going, only to realize — we never really cared to know the answer.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

As The Crow Flies

2 Comments

crow

In my world, there are no straight lines.

There is no single road that will take you back to my origin. My time is marked only by people and the smoke signals cast up from the wildfires of my heart. Sometimes the fire burns low — but it hasn’t gone out yet. While things smolder here, I yearn for the heat of my childhood fire. And, like a migrant bird that moves with the seasons, I know where to go.

Tomorrow, I fly East. Back to my home. There, I will plug-in to the people that have kept me lit up for as long as I’ve been gone, down, and lost. Extension cords across a nation. Beacons and anchors.

When I booked my flight, I imagined my trip as the great escape. My chance to flee all the ghosts that I’ve been dancing with for the past few months. I could see it — My mother’s actual shoulder, ready for my tears, instead of my neck craned over my own as I weep into the phone. My father, sitting on the couch, turning inky newspaper pages while the smell of coffee circulates under the ceiling fan. My cousins, making wise cracks on the deck, all with pasty white, Irish skin — reflecting the sun in their two-piece bathing suits — wet hair wrapped up  in old, weathered beach towels. My grandparents, like pigs in shit — surrounded by their clan — we unite, flanking all sides of their home. These people, these moments — they are not meant to facilitate my escape, but, instead, to bring me back to life. They revive my spirit with a power I have never known in my solitude.

These are the real things in life to hold fast to — Family. Love. Home. — You will forget until your crooked lines remind you.

This year has been sobering. I’ve watched myself morph. I’ve watched the people around me walk in and out of shadows. I have new, deep scars that I will wear forever — with pride. And, to my surprise, it’s got nothing to do with the drink. It’s more to do with the fact I haven’t needed one. Yes, crooked lines were drawn, but each end meets its own Mecca.

Sometimes, the breeze off the Willamette River smells like a summer’s day in New York. I hold that air in my lungs. I long for the people that kept me once as a child, who love me still — miles apart. They still follow my path, like the tip of a finger on a map. They stay the course, however deviant. They see, in me, something simple. We live inside each other. My heart knows these people — we are the saviors and the saved.

Kindred — We know the easiest and the most difficult kind of love.

We have come as we are. We accept each other this way — The mess on the dining room table. The 10 extra pounds. The broken heart. The busted tail light. The empty wallet. It’s there. It’s ours. It’s us. On display. They take me. I take them. They love me. And I, — I love them back — their messes and their pounds and their hearts all the same.

So, just this once, I draw a straight line through the clouds.

Metal bird, take me as the crow flies — not to my escape — but to my return.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

 

 

**ARTWORK CREDIT: Andrew Wyeth, ‘Crows, Study for Woodshed,’ 1944. Watercolor on paper laid down on board.**

 

The Play’s The Thing

Leave a comment

Photo Jul 20, 8 48 56 PM

I was an awkward kid.

Chubby, unpopular, and supremely geeky – I was a lone wolf – with terrible glasses. And, while I was painfully aware of this reality, I was also accepting of the fact that there wasn’t much I could do to change it. My prep school was a popularity contest I would never win. So, I lived for the weekends. I’d sit at home, alone, watching Molly Ringwald movies, aspiring to her unsurpassed level of chic-geekdom — one I would never achieve.

In the 7th grade, I thought I’d made my big break. I got one of the lead singing roles in the school play. When I saw my name posted at the top of the cast list, it set off firecrackers in my soul. Behind me, the popular girls were huddled up, whispering and laughing. But, for the first time, I didn’t care that they were making fun of me. I was going to be a star.

We rehearsed for weeks on end. I sang and sang and sang. Kids who’d never given me the time of day before were coming up to me and telling me I had a great set of pipes. My fat-kid heart didn’t know what to do with all the attention. So, I just kept singing. It was enough. It had to be. It was my only ace in the hole.

The night of the big show, I walked out on stage. A blue-tinted follow spot guided my chubby ass to center stage. I saw my classmates in the audience, 100 blinking hyena-eyes in the dark. I felt my heart, near explosion, clattering against my ribs. The music played. I sang. Everyone clapped. And, in that moment — the applause, the hot lights, the rustle of paper in the orchestra pit — I was enough.

After the show my parents gave me hugs and flowers in the lobby. Then, like nothing had happened, we drove home, my bouquet laid neatly across my lap. The popular girls went out to a diner together for ice cream sundaes. I was home alone again with Molly Ringwald. The play was over. My star, extinguished.

My search for enough started long ago. No matter where or who I’ve been, I’ve never felt fully sufficient. I’ve always looked to improve in some way. Do more. Give more. Be more. And yes, eventually, drink more. I did all this with the idea it would make me better in some way. Every relationship, job, or activity I get involved with — I always wonder if, this time, I will be enough.

I dream I will find this perfect place of enough-ness where I can do no wrong. It hasn’t happened yet, and I’ll tell you why — I am already enough.

No one told me on the night of the play, but, I would learn later: Ice cream sundaes with mean girls who made me feel like a worthless bug every day of my life– was not the prize. The prize was that I stood up on that stage and sang. I gave away my goods. Fearlessly. I opened my big-geek-mouth and I sang for those snickering bitches. No one paid me. No one offered me friendship. At best, I got a compliment or two from a few moms in the lobby. I sang because it made me feel like I existed. That spotlight, it lit me up. Chubby. Little. Me.

In times of frustration, when I throw up my hands and say “I’ve had enough!”, I return to my own, true self. In my surrender, I become enough. Suffering is the conduit that brings me to my authenticity. On that stage, I stood judged, but, I stood tall — chub and all — authentically me.

Enough doesn’t look one way. Enough is its own entity. We can be geek priestesses and pop stars simultaneously. One does not diminish the other, and, both are sufficient. Enough is not a quantitative word — nor is it qualitative. Enough accepts what is.

So, walk to center stage and sing, Goddammit. Sing your existence. Sing your enough-ness.

The audience — doesn’t matter. The play’s the thing.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

 

A Drive To The Moon

1 Comment

Photo Jul 15, 8 31 00 PM

If someone offers you a ride to the moon — get in.

Saturday, before my adventures as an astronaut, I’d resigned myself to a night alone. Book in hand, cat sprawled on the floor by my side — it had all the makings of a quiet and humble evening. But, as I lay there, turning pages, a rowdy-Saturday-night-crowd walked past my window. All on their way to the pub around the corner, I’m sure. Their voices were pitched high, you could hear their shared excitement. They held back their laughter, only to have it explode on the corner and echo back off the walls of my living room. It made my heart ache.

I miss that. That camaraderie. That feeling of not-knowing where the night is going to go — but, knowing it’s going to be good. I so seldom feel that anymore. It makes me feel old — expired.  Sometimes I find myself thinking that sobriety has stolen my flare for living. Muted my spirit. I miss those wild days where I didn’t care about what could happen next, and drunk or not — I felt like I lived in every moment.

As the pub-goer’s voices disappeared around the corner, my phone rang. A friend of mine was headed to the Columbia River Gorge to gaze at the super moon through his fancy telescope. He asked me if I wanted to join his group. My first thought was, of course, to say “No.” I looked down at my legs listlessly — I sported my hot-pink, cat-print pajamas. I asked myself: Is this it? Am I really in for the night?

And, though I could have fallen asleep in the next half hour and told myself on Sunday morning that I hadn’t missed a thing — I heard my old, wild voice say:

Sarah — Get up. Walk out that door. GO TO THE MOON. (And, for fuck’s sake — lose the cat pajamas.)

And so, I went, sans pajamas. My friends and I drove into a rare, hot, Portland night. The car’s AC gave me goosebumps. We didn’t have to worry about a thing — not even each other. Easy. It felt like breathing a sigh I’d been holding onto for years. It felt like — letting go. My insides shook with unexpected happiness I’d forgotten I could feel. My laughter bounced off the glass windows as we flew down Highway 84 — All for the sake of staring out into the dark.

We arrived at the Vista House, which peers into the mouth of the great Columbia River Gorge. As we parked, tourists howled at the moon. In the dark, the red, blinking lights of the Bonneville dam sent me cryptic messages. I felt like Gatsby, untethered. For just a moment, I was free. My bangs — blown loose from their bobby pin.

I lay on the steps of the lookout point, my grey hoodie pressed to the cement. The giant moon peered into the depths of me with his golden eye. And, there, I found myself entirely present. I was a cluster of molecules in a small gust of cool, river air. I was a beat in the rhythm of the dam’s pulsing-red-lights. I was another vibration in the hum of voices behind me — struggling to adjust the telescope.

I’m here.

Under this royal blue blanket of Oregon sky, dotted with stars, I am reminded what it is to be alive. Unplanned and wild. I am as lit up as the moon himself. I am. Here, it is both dark and bright. Empty and full. Like Baba Ram Dass says — to be present is to feel everything and nothing at once — it’s all happening.

This is my trip. Man.

The moon moves across the telescope’s lens. I see him. He sees me.

And, the next moment — He’s gone.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

Fortunes and Freedom

Leave a comment

fireworks

July 4th, 1776 — A few, super-rad, old dudes signed off on our freedom. And so it is — ‘Merica.

This year, I watched fireworks explode as little children waved their sparklers high. My neighbors sat in lawn chairs on the curb. American flags waved off the sides of their craftsman homes as a warm breeze swelled and dusk fell over Portland. Believe it or not, I actually spent this 4th of July thinking about independence. My country’s and my own. It was only a few, short years ago, that this day was nothing more than a good reason to drink.

Today, sobriety is my freedom. I’m not afforded it because of my birth place or my passport. It isn’t a matter of country. However, it is about allegiance — to one’s self. It has everything to do with this ground I stand on. Solid. Sure. Terra firma with integrity. It feels like something worth protecting — worth fighting for. That ground is mine. Not my country’s. Not my parent’s. Not my lover’s. Mine. But, still, I often give it away without thinking.

I once thought freedom was something given. Something we have or don’t have — an object. It isn’t. Freedom is a feeling.

I don’t feel free. Fears punctuate my life. Each day is a short. little. sentence. I am meant to be a run-on, of that, I am certain. The kicker is: Fear isn’t real. It’s something we choose to believe. It’s our own, internal government. We choose this dictator because it makes our choices easy. Life becomes black and white. And, in that simplicity, we mistake inaction for liberation.

I’m guarded. Blocked. My armies wait at the ready to fight, or retreat — I’m still not sure. I’ve had this desperate yearning to move: To move on, to move out, to move my physical body. But, instead, I sit still. Feeling powerless and defeated, I did what any woo-woo, Oregonian, half-blooded-hippie would do: I had my tarot cards read.

I met with my card reader for the first time in a booth at an Indian buffet and we didn’t say much. I told her my birthday. That’s it. She read my cards after I gently touched my palm to each of her two decks. I listened eagerly. I was waiting to be told what to do. Guide me. Show me. Tell me. That’s what I wanted. I traded one dictator for another.

Then — The Eight of Swords. My advice card. My reader pointed to the card and said: “The swords are just fear. The Woman doesn’t see it now– not yet — but, eventually, she will realize she can just walk between them and be free.”

8ofSLarge

Maybe it was the universe’s cosmic pull. Maybe it was the magical woman who hugged me goodbye, warmly, after knowing me only an hour. Maybe it was the cards. Truthfully, I don’t know what it was, but, when I left that restaurant, my clothing spiced with the perfume of India — I didn’t give a fuck about fear.

There is nothing real that stands between us and our freedom. The freedom that exists is the freedom we create. Assign your own limits accordingly.

So, this 4th of July, I declared my own independence. And, as the teenage boys across the street launched their sky rocket above our street, its red plume descending over us like fallen stars, I gripped my flip-flops to the asphalt — my terra firma — and I made a wish.

May we always feel our freedom — and have the courage to dance between our swords.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

Light Me Up

1 Comment

Fire!

Once upon a time, I was a pyromaniac.

Like most small children, my cousins and I loved us some camp fires. And, it’s true, our “camp site” may have been mere feet from my house — but, under the canopy of trees, amidst all the night-time noises, wielding our sticks topped with blackened marshmallows like weapons, eyes ablaze with the reds and oranges of the camp fire — it didn’t matter. We were rebels, living off the land. (Even if we did walk back to the house in pairs to pee in the middle of the night.)

Before dusk fell over “camp,” the adults would send the kids off to collect kindling for the fire. We’d all return to the pit with fat branches and heavy logs, eager to light up our inferno. My dad would explain that kindling is the small stuff: Twigs. Dry leaves. Little, crackly branches. The small stuff. That’s what gets the fire going.

I imagine it’s difficult to explain to a child that the little things make the big things happen. I mean, fuck, it’s a hard sell for most adults. Even today, when I throw my giant, proverbial logs onto the fire with fervor, the flames burn low.

As I gear up for a trip to my childhood summer home, I find myself thinking about all the lessons I learned as a kid. How do we get back there? How do we relearn what we completely missed while we were too busy having fun? My skin still itches for that childlike freedom to run, escape, rule, revel, save, and sleep…for days.

I want my life to be this big-ass, rip-roaring fire. Yet, here I am, stumbling with the big logs, when it’s become apparent — I need kindling — and lots of it.

While today’s twigs and leaves are a far cry from the ones I found pawing around in the dirt, it is still life’s simple, even childish, pleasures I covet. Sleeping in til’ 10AM. Hugging my cat after a good cry. Banana ice cream — for breakfast. Aimless walks. Reading library books in the bath tub. Two-hour phone conversations with my cousin (and fellow-former-pyro). Gardening on the stoop in my ugly jeans. This. My writing.

It’s uncomplicated. It’s almost too easy. I think that’s how we miss it. Kindling may be the the simple stuff, but, it’s scattered. It hides on the forest floor, so, you gotta get on your knees. You have to forage. You have to make sure it’s good ‘n’ combustible. Because, once you’ve laid the foundation, twig-by-twig, all you need is the match. That crack-then-hiss of sulfur and sand paper — BOOM — Fire.

I can still feel her, that little-girl-Sarah, ploughing through the woods. No fear. No hesitation. Her knees in the dirt. Her hands in the earth, gathering it all up. Every. last. dry. crackly. bit. Her uninhibited, childlike desperation was a gift I would not understand until it was long gone.

It occurs to me that I know her heart far better now than I ever did back then. I know things beyond her capacity. I’ve seen too much. Yet, I still understand her unapologetic, wild heart because — we share it.

We, the girl and the woman, are still in hot pursuit — Kindling. Matches. FIRE.

Light that shit up.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

New Sails

1 Comment

boats

I would like to note how absolutely crazy it is that just one, short week ago I was here, sitting pretty, writing about relief. My little pen, jauntily noting each grateful sigh. Breathe, I told you. Breathe!

Today, exactly one week later, I couldn’t be further from relieved. I take jagged little breaths that I hold, desperately, and tap my nails on my desk. And what’s worse, I’m a writer who’s unable to find the language for this. Even the right words won’t sufficiently express the twisted inside — the turning of my guts.

I’ll spare you the details of an already dramatic start to the Summer season, but I can’t won’t spare you the nuggets of wisdom that are about to get handed to me. Yes, the lessons are still flowing like fucking milk and honey over here.

I’ve noticed that I always come to some epic turning point when I try facing someone else’s adversity. I think– I’m going to fix this person, and, most of the time they end up fixing me. I go in with gusto. I try to help. I’m a helper! The thing is, while I’m helping, I will get in their way. I’ll get in my own way too. Thus, helping nothing and no one. But, I assure you, my intentions were good. It’s just the follow through. The follow through gets muddy.

Yeah, yeah, I know– ultimately, what’s good for you will be good for me. Yes, yes, All-Is-One, OM SHAKTI OM, and Namaste!  But seriously, here, in reality, where each emotion is its own Hiroshima, that’s a hard path to stay on. All this you and I. We and US…all this combining of stuff is too universal and complicated. It can’t be about US because then, well, what about meeeeeeee…

Why is it so difficult to step outside our comfort zones, our own realities, our STUFF? No matter how enlightened, spiritual, or positive you may be, no matter how many chakras you’ve got lit up, no matter how much happiness is coursing through your smiley-little-veins, no matter how nicely you’ve got your shit held together — it will all come undone. So, don’t be one of those people that allows yourself to think life’s a gravy train indefinitely. It’s more like a gravy boat and, eventually, you’ll have to dock, gas up, and clear out the poop deck.

This week my gravy boat has come a-crashin’ back to shore. Time to clear all the decks. Start again. Same boat, new sails. And despite ominous weather predictions, there is a strange beauty here, at the precipice of a new adventure, I’m able to stand with surety. Afraid. Alone. Undone. But, sure.

I’m not going down with the ship, because the ship isn’t going down.

That’s sobriety. Stepping into something and knowing the outcome, without really knowing the outcome. Some people will call it faith. Others will call it risky business. Some people call it trust. Some, stupidity. I call it bravery. And, I’m told, there is no better time to be brave than when you feel you are the world’s biggest coward.

So, I hoist the sails. I’m going to ride the tides until they throw me.

And, even then, I’m ready to swim.

 

Stay Saucy,

Sarah