Tag: Thirty-somethings

Maps

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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.

 

Fowl Advice

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ducks

The world is full of quacks. I’m starting to think this is a good thing.

Every morning, I walk over a small bridge that crosses the stream running through the local college campus. And, it has become my custom to stop and acknowledge these quacks — the campus ducks. There is a pair to whom I am partial. Mallards. They glide downstream until their rustled feathers are halted by the usual obstructions — fallen trees, large, mossy rocks, and other, floating fowl. They are un-phased by delays.

For a long time, I paid no attention to the feathered duo. I walked too fast —  my heart rate up,  burning my calories, set in my circular trajectory. But, one morning, as the ducks honked, announcing the dawn’s return, I flashed back to a memory of my grandfather:

Many years before he died, I sat in his living room. I’d taken a bar of soap from his bathroom and hid behind his couch with a wooden mallard duck that he’d displayed on his coffee table. I was a small child, and I had decided that “washing” the duck by grinding soap into its carved feathers would be a most helpful thing to do. When my grandfather discovered me, he was stern. His ducks weren’t toys. So, we stood at the kitchen sink together and he carefully removed the soap from the mallard’s etched wings.

In sobriety, I have always gone full speed ahead — no time to observe quiet waters. I quit my job. I went to rehab. I hit 12-Step — hard. I got a new job. I did the work. I never stopped to look around me. I never stopped to ask for guidance — especially not from quacks. I waited to be told the truth. I waited on orders that never came. And, when I lost my footing, I waited for a hand to reach down and pull me up. I never expected I’d learn my lesson from a pair of ducks. Yet, every morning, they honk out their reminder: “Slow down, be thoughtful in how you make your way around the trees and the rocks and other quacks that deter you.”

As the sun summits the tallest pines, I peer over the bridge’s railing. I look for my grandfather there — the mallard. I think that maybe his loyal companion is my grandmother. She died before I was born. But, I’ve been told how much my grandfather loved her — heard stories of his broken heart after she died — he was never quite the same. At his funeral, my voice cracked as I gave his eulogy. I hoped, if spirits do live on, that theirs were together.

Angels and idealism, I’m told, are for children. But, I still look for signs and symbols. I wait for messages. I have been called a seeker. I’ve been told, time and again: No external thing I seek will fix my broken things inside. So, on someone else’s word, I stopped looking. — But, the ducks keep showing up.

While home on vacation, atop a pile of cleaning products my mother had put aside, I saw a small, circular piece of stained glass. It appeared to be one, dark blue piece at first glance, but when I held it to the light, there they sat — a pair of mallard ducks. I asked my mother where she’d found it — It was from my grandfather’s house.

Sometimes, it’s best to dismiss the things we’ve been told. There are words and there are things that can be seen. I see the mallard. He is real. Visible. Audible. He invites me to remember the things that have come before and the things that linger. He reminds me: There is most certainly a spirit that lives outside myself, sent to mend the broken things. We are not alone.

At the bridge, I stop and breathe. I let the honking fowl punctuate the dawn. I remember my grandfather’s laughter. I embrace a childish ideal. If we remain seekers, there will always be ducks to find. So, I peer over the bridge’s edge and watch them. Rustled feathers. Gliding happily downstream. Together.

To Everything, There Is A Season

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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

The 25th Renewal

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shhhh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apparently, I have $8.75 in library fees.

During the obligatory-vacay-inbox-check, I was greeted by a friendly email reminder from the Multnomah County Library — I need to renew a book I checked out over a year and a half ago, for the 25th time.

Yes. The 25th time.

I’ve already read the book, twice. I just haven’t gotten around to returning it. And, with modern conveniences, like online renewal, I’ve put it off. It’s not wait listed. There are plenty of copies. Why not keep it? No one suffers and I save myself a trip.

But, for some reason, amidst the joys of vacation, I decided to over think the general concept of renewal — and the art of putting it off. While I lay in the luscious, summer sun of upstate New York, big green leaves fanning me with the East Coast breeze, I got the distinct feeling that you probably shouldn’t set your own renewal on autopilot. Renewal is something special. Invigorating. You can’t just go somewhere to return and reset — it’s a process of internalizing and letting go. It’s something intricate. A little thought. A micro-decision. Lilliputian, really. Something so miniscule that we don’t realize it’s happened until we are renewed. And, while the action of renewal is undetectable, its aftermath — sheer glory.

It’s sort of like vacation — I knew I needed one, but, I didn’t know how badly until I got back home. I lay in my own bed, jet lagged, took a few deep breaths, and for the first time in months I finally felt the oxygen in my lungs. Even in a state of total exhaustion there was a sense of relief. There is a certain pleasure in returning home, to my adult life, after being transported back to a strange version of my childhood for a week and a half.

My first day back to work, I woke up with the alarm at 4:45AM. My body didn’t complain or resist. The dark of morning cast a sweet spell over the streets of Southeast Portland, and the world felt easy and comfortable. As I jogged down the hill on Steele street, the wakening sky hung behind the West Hills like a new canvas. All one color. A clean slate. And, there, I felt it — my renewal. I smiled, alone in the dark.

It’s a worthy practice to appreciate old things seeming new, even if they aren’t. To take yourself away from your default condition is a spiritual experience — an opportunity to return to center with different eyes. And, while we may not be better or worse for our time away, we are undeniably changed. Renewal is just a synonym for gratitude.

This week, my renewal was advanced to me without having to visit the Multnomah County Library website. So, with appreciation, I dig out my library book, a year and a half later. Sigh. It’s time. This book cries out for a new place on a different shelf. I walk to my local library branch and I drop the dusty tome into the big-metal-slot for some other book worm. Yes, please, check this out —  it’s an old book, but, after moving from shelf to shelf, there’s something new and special with the turn of each page — a secret every library card holder knows.

The book sounds a heavy thud as it hits the bottom of the return bin. We had a good run. But, we are not meant to hold on to things forever. And, by letting go, we are reunited with the genuine delight of returning to things that are truly our own.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

 

 

Reunion

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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

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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.**

 

Speed Bumps

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Photo Jul 29, 7 24 00 PM

Go fast enough and something or someone will slow you down.

The past few months, I’ve found that detaching from my chaos comes with it’s own discomfort. Without mayhem to cling to, I find that I’m helplessly lost. I’m unaccustomed to ease. And, letting go of heartache is, in itself, a melancholy practice. My mind goes static. I forget why I’m here. I long for whiskey. So, seeking solace, I return to my war stories — reminders that ease is a gift, not a punishment.

A year before I got sober, I sat across from Kevin, a friend and fellow drunk. We passed a 1.5 liter bottle of shitty chardonnay back and forth. It was a wet, cold night. The wine was warm. I remember the black and yellow label, peeling up from the bottle at its edges. Kevin’s apartment felt eerie — haunted. The air was musty and stale. Every table, counter, and bookshelf was littered with wine bottles, beer cans, and children’s toys.

We sat there, without pretense, miserable in our cups. I mourned my failed relationship, and he, the collapse of his family. The sorrow was palpable.  There was nothing to say to each other. So, we drank.

When the wine was gone, we sulked out into the rain. We walked to a local bar that had Friday night karaoke and found a table with some fair-weather friends. We drank whiskey until we couldn’t see. I remember belting out Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” at the top of my lungs, doubling over after the the final note, unsure if I was going to cry or be sick.

When the bartender announced last call, Kevin and I shared a familiar glance — the well was dry. We shuffled with sunken shoulders to the door, too drunk to walk. I tripped over my own soggy boots. Kevin stumbled beside me, in an attempt to keep me upright. The rain fell hard on us both and I remember my jacket felt heavier with each clumsy step.

Half way home, I tripped and fell over a raised speed bump in the middle of a quiet street. My hands hit the asphalt hard. I rolled onto my back and let my spine arch over the raised curve in the road. The rain fell down in fat drops, each one drawing a straight line from the sky to my face. Kevin, now feet ahead, doubled back to help me.

“Just leave me here. I want to die.” — I remember how the words felt inside my mouth before they escaped my lips like black vapor. I had been too drunk to be dramatic — I meant it.

“Come on Sarah, get up.” Kevin’s voice echoed in my head as if we were inside a tunnel. He pulled at my arms. No use — I was dead weight. The world slowed, and then, it went dark.

The next morning I woke, strewn across my bed. My hands were bloody and scraped. My jeans clung to my legs, filthy and wet. In the mirror, my arms were freckled with red and purple bruises. Kevin had dragged me home. I walked into my living room, every bone and muscle — pulled and sore. Kevin slept, with a peaceful expression, on the couch under my blue afghan. His face was soft and still and, for a moment I likened him to an angel — then, I walked into my bathroom to find he had vomited in my sink, on my floor, and in my bathtub.

When I first got sober, I thought about Kevin a lot. Before I went to rehab, we’d grown apart. Our messes were too big to coexist together. I worried for him. I often entertained the idea of leaving a 12-Step pamphlet in his mailbox. But, I never did.

A few months back, while flicking through photos on Instagram, I was greeted by Kevin’s face. Bright eyes replaced his sunken ones. His skin shone bright and pink, not the sickly, sallow yellow I remembered. He smiled, an honest smile, unlike any we’d exchanged between chugs of wine. He held his beautiful, blonde son close to his chest. Content. Happy. In the next photo — his “6 Month” 12-Step sobriety chip was proudly displayed.

Sometimes, I see Kevin in the supermarket with his son. We don’t say hello — we just smile. There were no words back then, and so it remains. It is unspoken. We both know something now that we hadn’t back then — Ease.

There will always be speed bumps. Sometimes you will trip, sometimes you will get up on your own, and sometimes you will be dragged home by the arms. But, there is a lesson in the delay. A chance to lay there with your back on the asphalt and your eyes to the sky.

It is on our darkest road that we are called to order. Listen for it. On the hard days, I can still hear him  — “Come on Sarah. Get up.”

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

A Drive To The Moon

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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

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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

 

Do The Right Thing

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Photo Jul 01, 6 48 13 PM

Good people do the right thing.

I’d tell you that I’m a good person, but, on any given day, my head and my heart disagree on the subject.

What’s good anyway? How does one – be good?

I keep getting into these situations where I allow myself to be carried away. I let outcomes that aren’t mine take me over. I completely lose myself. Meanwhile, I’m telling myself — I can do this. I’m capable. I’m helpful. I’m here, showing up — being present. The thing is though, I’m not present. At all.

Back in reality, I blatantly ignore the things I’ve learned. All these lessons I’ve been scribbling down — discounted and rejected. I ignore my inner compass because I am trying to be a compass for someone else. And then, I head over here to dole out the advice, waxing poetic on so-called self discovery and feeling like a fraud. Yup, I’m still a mess. A Big. Fucking. Mess. But, you wanted the truth, right?

Well, the truth is: I don’t always make good decisions — but — that doesn’t make me a bad person. Yet another lesson for the paltry stack I’ve assembled. My little blog of parables, collecting dust. What would happen if I actually used these lessons that I keep gabbing about? Rubber to the road muthafuckas! What if I actually did myself a service and learned one of these lessons? Because, shit man, this time, I know better. What’s the worst that could happen if I just listened to my gut?

Sometimes, doing the right thing for yourself – sucks. It’s murky. Feelings get hurt. Things will be broken or, worse, lost forever. You’ll wish you could do right by everyone. Oh, but that sinking feeling of failure is all too familiar. Doing right by yourself seems so selfish and doing right by someone else feels so noble. So, duh – we go with the noble option. It’s very romantic. But, let me remind you here — Ignoring your own needs, dismissing your gut, forfeiting your own sanity for the sake of someone else’s feelings is its own form of insanity.

Do the right thing. Be kind to yourself first. Listen to that intuitive voice that tells you when to stay and when to go. Remember the lessons you already learned. Being good — it’s not always easy. And — it’s not always possible. Find your path. Stay there. It’s when you start walking down someone else’s road that you lose your bearings. And, you can’t always find your way back when you’re not the one with the map.

I’ve been here before. I’ve hit my head against this very same wall. So what? Yeah, I ignored my heart a few times — that was yesterday. Today, I’m listening. I’m tuned in. I can step back onto my own path — even though I’m walking it alone.

Don’t talk over yourself for nobility’s sake. Good, bad, or in-between, do good by your heart.

And, dear readers, while I may choke on my words as quickly as I write them, I’m no fraud — You can take my word for it.

After all, I am a good person.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah