What A Long Strange Year It's Been

The year started rough around the edges, but smoothed as each month passed through the seasons, setting me on course and setting me free. 

Winter: Death and Rebirth

My year started with Death--the death of someone I'd tried to shake from my life for years, now shaken from me forever. 

Weeks go by and I speak to no one. I hardly leave my hut. Am I even real? 

From my windows, jungle vines strangle houses and trees and land. How can anyone breathe on an island ten million miles from anywhere? Even the ocean recedes as far from it as possible, leaving nothing but a barren, sandy landscape and a glassy mirage on the horizon. 

I hop a flight to Chiang Mai and gasp for new life. 

Spring: Sensorial and Experiential 

Sprouts spring from the decay of winter. My island days are numbered, and all I want is to feel, see, taste, and experience every bit of it. I immerse myself in cooking classes, hiking adventures, ukulele sessions, and as much human connection as I can get. Because I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. But the center cannot hold. It never does. 

Friends leave or ebb away, classes end, and the season winds down. After two years on this small, tropical jungle island, I pack my life and move back to the north of Thailand. 

Summer: Growth & Renewal

Back in Chiang Mai, all the things I want to be here waiting for me aren't. It lures me back and only gives what I need, never what I want. This time, nature. Lots of it. Mountains, waterfalls, fertile ground, lush growth. Miles of land in every direction. Motorbike adventures and exploration fill my days. 

Stifling heat gives way to thunderstorm downpours, misty atmosphere, and a sense of renewal. I jog up the stairs to Wat Doi Pui and gaze over the rooftops to the expansive valley beyond the village. A cool breeze cuts through the heat. On top of a mountain, on the brink of change, anticipation stirs in the air. Smoke curls from the distant homesteads and thick clouds darken the sky. Thunder sounds. My cue to take action. If I linger any longer, I'll never go anywhere. 

Fall: Liberation

I ride the Mae Hong Son Loop, and I suspend in a timeless freefall of darkness and stars. I lose my job of the past five years and relief washes over me--a kind of relief I haven't felt since I left California. I shed the complacency that has grown in me like a disease over the years. I've all the time in the world to take mindful steps forward. And so with intention and vision, I do. 

In midst of stepping in new directions, Ted Chiang flips my literary world upside down. Most of my favorite writers have. Breaking rules and changing the way I think and see the world through story structure and experimentation. If we cannot turn what is known on it's head so that we can peer between the lines to see the unknown, what is left? What else is there to live for in this world? 

Spiraling back to winter, one foot in front of the other, I walk onward from where this year started. I have no expectations for what the coming year will bring or how it will unfold. But I have a direction and that is all that matters. 

What did you shed in 2021? How do you plan to show up for 2022? 

Kismet

It wasn't long after we met that you told me you had dreamed your entire life as a child. Well, how did it turn out, I'd asked innocently. I don't remember, you'd said, with a prick of irritation in your voice, turning your head away. 

At the time, I believed you. 

I don't anymore. 

I'd first heard of Ted Chiang on some NPR radio show back in 2013. I don't remember the story or conversation around it, but it must have struck me as significant because every time I'd go into a bookshop, I'd look for his book. Not once did I come across it until this past August. And I didn't just find the one book, but a second book and a movie adaptation to boot. 

After reading the book, I tracked down the movie. I was curious how they turned such a mind-bending literary story into an academy award worthy film. There are few books and even fewer movies out there that have impacted me as much as this one. Spellbound and speechless, I watched it twice. I've not been able to stop thinking about the book or the movie since. 

"The physical universe was a language with a perfectly ambiguous grammar. Every physical event was an utterance that could be parsed in two entirely different ways, one causal and the other teleological, both valid, neither one disqualifiable no matter how much context was available....We experience events in order, and perceived their relationship as cause and effect. They experienced all events at once, and perceived a purpose underlying them all." Ted Chiang, Story of Your Life

Not long ago while clearing out some old messages on my phone, I came across one of the last ones you ever sent me: Remember to thank yourself for seeking and finding you. I don't recall receiving this message at all, sent just after my last birthday. But seeing it now, a year later, I'm haunted by the thought that nothing is avoidable. 

Much like language, the perception of time is slippery at best, dangerous at worst. It can work for you or against you, completely relative to your perspective. In Story of Your Life, the perception of time is tightly woven into language. It plays on the idea of linguistic relativity--that the language one speaks informs ones thoughts and how one perceives the world--how language shapes our reality. But Chiang's story pushes this theory one step further--language determines how one perceives time as well.  

It's not lost on me that our story began at a place called the Catalyst and that one of the first tips you left me at the bar was a gift certificate to the very place where our story would end. Clearly, the clues were there the entire time. I just wasn't attuned to seeing them. 

Perhaps things turned out the way they did not because of all the specific causes, but because they were kismet. All those unlikely miracles unfolded not because any specific event caused them, but because they were already interwoven into the underlying purpose that is the story of my life. And the story that was yours.

Of course, this opens the entire can of worms that free will is only an illusory byproduct of linear time. The book and movie touch on this. I will not.  

Despite the fact I am human and hardwired to experience time as linear in this life (multidimensionality aside), I, like character Louise, do not believe in beginnings and endings. Life is far too mysterious and beautiful and interwoven to think it only travels in one direction, from point A to point B. But like Chiang points out, the universe is an ambiguous grammar, both views are valid regardless of context. 

At the end of the movie, Louise tells us: "Despite knowing the journey and where it leads, I embrace it and I welcome every moment of it." 

If you knew your entire journey and where it would lead, would you want to change any of it? Or would you embrace it and welcome every moment of it? 

Winding Roads

It's the first week of October, and I'm standing on a ridge that overlooks a small village somewhere in the northern mountains of Thailand. The sun is setting behind the distant peaks and the evening chill pricks my skin. I pull my beanie down over my ears and put on another layer. We are still a couple hours away from the next village where we plan to stop for the night. 

Riding the winding backroads to the outskirts of Doi Inthanon after dark--the cool mountain air, no moon, and the milky way cutting through the sky--the world falls out from under me and the lightness of being is all that is left. 

I conjure memories of crisp air, pumpkin patches, smoky bonfires, and an electricity in the ether that is unmatched by any other time of the year. Marked by Scorpio season, my birthday, Samhain/Halloween, thin veils, and witchy vibes--autumn has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember. 

I conjure memories of winding roads into the past--winding roads down the PCH to Big Sur for a midnight soak in the cliffside hot springs at Esalen, winding roads up through Napa and Lake Counties, where Konocti looms over Clearlake and small vineyards and quaint wineries scatter the landscape.

That Halloween we drove to Oregon because I thought we were visiting your dad. That Halloween we moved into the cliffside studio and I kept having out of body experiences because my so called real life felt too much like hell. All the haunting Halloween decorations around every turn didn't help. 

Coastal pumpkin patches, apple cider, and flannel jackets. Hot chocolate whiskey on the hood of my car watching for meteors. 

Our group stops to rest near the entrance of a desolate temple, ornate and silent. I shake the cold. I shake the memories. Where am I?

It's well after dark before we pull into Mae Chaem. I shower and try to finish the piece of writing I'd started that morning--our third day on the road, our third day of winding through mountains. My friend Monika is outside the room with our other traveling companions and I hear her laughing and laughing and laughing. I have no idea why she's laughing so hard, but it doesn't matter. Joy, in its purest form, cannot be contained.

My birthday falls exactly one week before Halloween. I've never been able to separate them, nor do I desire to--birthdays full of chilly mornings, early sunsets, and fallen autumn leaves, faeries and witches and Ouija boards, costume parties and pumpkin carving, an effortless magic.

Effortless magic. Sometimes I forget how to surrender. 

Back in Chiang Mai under a waxing crescent moon on the rise, gliding past Venus. The day settles over the horizon, spilling out in tones of burnt orange. My gratitude spills out too. What an experience, this life. 

What a month--two road trips, a birthday, and lots of hot cocoa. And it's only mid-autumn. What does autumn mean to you? What memories does it conjure? How do you surrender to its magic?

Glimpses of Enchantment

Mid-June. I arrived in Chiang Mai on a Wednesday evening and accidently fell into a fast. I awoke one morning unable to eat so I simply drank water all day...and continued to do so for the next three full days. Now on day 70 of a new combination of breathwork, energy work, walking/hiking, and lots and lots of water--more veils lift. What is this strange new experience?

With a new clarity and eyes wide open in wonder, it hits me that I'm back in Chiang Mai. Each time I return to this city, it takes me by surprise. What arises is never what I imagine, but something entirely new. All those things I thought would be here waiting for me this time around faded away in misty light. But that's the nature of this city. I should know this by now. It never gives me what I want. It gives me what I need--for growth, for peace, for creativity and the path I follow. 

Monsoon season stirs up mist and bubbling anticipation, that something exciting lurks just beyond the fog, over the ridge, on the other side of everything that I cannot see. A familiar feeling. I disappear into the mountains on the regular lately to hike fairy tale jungles where a surreal wilderness of wonder explodes in greens and blues and muddy tones of earth. I'm grateful I've found friends eager for adventures and connection. Adventures and connection, whatever those mean to you, are what make this human life worth living after all. Or maybe that's just me. 

When I'm not off on hiking or kayaking or exploring adventures with friends, I take long drives up into the mountains to Doi Pui to explore the quiet village, wander the garden trails, and breath cool, refreshing air. I sit in my favorite coffee shop that looks out over the vast valley to write and watch the children play in the streets below. Smoke plumes rise from small fires. Distant temples and villages seem to float above the low valley clouds. An overwhelming sense of enchantment catches in the wind and moves over the land. It brushes against me and lingers long after I've said my goodbyes and make my way back down the winding, mountain road. 

Back in the city, hints of it still surface. I catch glimpses of it walking through my neighborhood at sunset, listening to the voices and laughter of passing strangers. It swirls in the air, dances over the city, and expands in every direction over the horizon. 

Two months have gone by since my last update, and I almost abandoned this project completely. Life is quite a bit different than it was back in 2016 when I was updating every ten days. Over the past (nearly) six years, I've revisited many of the same themes over and over again. There are so many posts for readers to visit and explore I don't really need to keep driving in circles. And as much as I've wanted to take this blog in a new direction, nothing has really stuck. What to do? 

Here are some new questions that I've been asking lately: How does literature/fiction play a role in one's mental health including my own? What would it be like to teach at a University? How would daily ukulele practice change my relationship with music and creativity? What could I learn from taking up a new hobby like astrophotography? And where would it lead me? 

What stories would these new endeavors spark? What glimpses of enchantment would they bring to my life and those near me? And what kind of ripple effects would they move through the world? 

What are some new themes or ideas you'd like to see me explore here? 

Of course, travel and adventure experiences are my favorites, but I'm open to exploring more esoteric and mystical/cosmic topics too. Send me your ideas!

Other Honorable Mention Adventures from the past couple months: Adventures in querying agents! Adventures in condensing a complex novel synopsis to 500 words! Adventures in structuring a new novel! Adventures in being a beta reader! Adventures in planning road trips! Adventures in planning future research travels! 

Take care, dear readers. Here's to a new era of inspiration and enchantment!  

All Things Sacred

"So I pack my things, nothing precious, all things sacred." ~Alanis Morissette

I. Some Notes on Stillness

It's Tuesday night and the wind is blowing viciously and the waves are crashing on the boulders that line the cove. Quite the contrast to the glassy stillness that had been encompassing this island for months--the kind of sweltering energy that stagnates everything, the kind of energy my life had slowly dwindled to over the past few months. When the air and water stop moving, so does everything else. 

My friends and I sit at the ocean side restaurant and talk about the strange lingering energy and how it's manifesting into folks breaking down, dissociating, and mentally collapsing. One of them is a trauma therapist, fully booked and taking emergency sessions on the regular lately.

As the world around me stilled, so did I. Cultivating stillness calms the mind, clears channels, strengthens intuition, and allows steady movement through a world of chaos. It allows softness, the rise and fall of all things without such intense gravity attached to them. Perhaps, with the stillness of the island, comes an inner stillness that many are resisting, and instead of harnessing it, it's pouring out in erratic and strange ways. 

II. Some Notes on Staying

When I first visited Koh Phangan back in 2016, I knew I would live here one day, and for the past two years, I have. My original plan was to stay one year, but when borders closed last spring, I stayed. Life here has been an incredible blessing, and I'm beyond grateful for the experience. 

For the past two years, I've been living in a small house on a hillside in the jungle. And if you've ever lived in the jungle of a tropical location, you understand that walls are an illusion. The jungle encroaches on you until you are one with it. It takes some getting used to--the heat, the wildlife, the thickness, the rugged landscape that led to my front door. 

But it has been in the ever morphing experiences and connections that have made these two years unforgettable and eye-opening--the Koyopa community, kirtan nights on the beach, Osho dynamic meditations, rebirthing breathwork, Mooji satsang, early morning self-inquiry meditations, write nights, improv nights, cooking classes, and of course, all those incredible jungle hikes, night time rides, and ocean swims. 

My first post after moving to the island was how I'd reached some kind of pinnacle of existence, and I think, at that moment in time, I had. I mean, how can moving to a tropical island to finish writing a novel not be a pinnacle experience? But that novel is finished and entering into its next phase. And so am I. 

III. Some Notes on Change

When the pull to leave began back in the fall, I knew the end was near. I fulfilled what I came here to accomplish. With that project complete and new ones on the horizon, the need to immerse myself in new energy and surroundings grew. 

If you're into numerology, you might have guessed, my life path is five--a path of change and freedom. My soul number is four which represents stability and discipline. My life is one of finding stability and discipline within a world of constant change and, at times, chaos. I don't struggle or fight this way of life; I thrive in it. It takes discipline and stillness to understand how to move with the energy of change, to know when it's best to move on from whatever place or situation I've temporarily grounded into. Without the stillness, the change and movement would devolve into a kind of chaos, a compass without function. 

The world is quietest just before sunrise, Amrit Vela. Your channels are clearest, your senses are sharpest. It's the best time to explore the places between, where the biggest mysteries lurk, and where, when all else falls away, the unchanging, undying part of us can always be found, ready to move with this sacred life and all its magic and wonder. 

How do you find stillness in the chaos of life? How do you find equilibrium between change and stillness? Do you have a tendency for one over the other? How do you see them reflected in your life? 

And on that note, island life is a wrap...for the time being anyway. I've been back in Chiang Mai for two weeks, and I'm already spilling over with stories and insights to share. Because without contrast, life would not be near as dynamic or interesting or surreal. 

Experiential Moments of Wonder

I.

As I desperately clung to the boulder for my life--steep drop offs on either side of me, blood running down my leg, tears stinging my eyes--I became paralyzed with fear. My friend glanced back in my direction. "Don't be afraid," she said. "You're not going to die. You have so much more to accomplish in life." This was not a comforting thought. When I asked her to take me to the viewpoint that over looked a remote part of the island, I was not expecting such an extreme experience. But these are the moments that change us forever. They are the moments that ultimately define everything on the other side of them. 

II.

It was after we crossed the rickety bridge, walked through a cluster of abandoned, dilapidated bungalows, and ducked through a rip in a barbed wire fence, that I was sure we were on the right track. We wandered aimlessly through a grove of fallen coconuts and dead palm fronds until we saw the path that squeezed between two half-standing, graffitied structures. Roots tangled at our feet as we made our way down the ridge to the beach to meet our friends--the most tucked away, hidden beach I've yet to find on this small island. Waves crashed against boulders, the sun warmed our bodies, my heart exploded in awe that places like this still exist in the world. 

A week later I went back to the hidden beach cove. This time the water was glassy and smooth and quiet. A fisherman sat perched on the ledge of one of the abandoned bungalows balanced precariously on stilts over looking the ridge, his fish spread over the rocks, drying in the sun. What a life. My friend and I waded out into the water as far as we could go. When I turned around, the most surreal, tropical scene popped into focus--the beach, the coconut palms, the abandoned huts, the fisherman on the ridge. Years ago, in another era of my life, I had written on a scrap of paper how I'd one day live on a tropical island and write books. Words are magic spells. Use them wisely. 

III.

At the edge of the entrance to the barren, dirt road, the desert like landscape stretched around us in all directions. The jungle, the ocean, the lushness of the tropics fell away. I didn't know where I was anymore. We cut through a property of makeshift shacks and low voices hidden behind walls. Drug dealers, my friend whispered. Information probably better left unsaid when traipsing through unknown, desolate land. 

The path gave way and spread over rocks full of giant tide pool like crevices. I'd never seen anything like it. We're at the top of a waterfall, she said and pointed into the distance where boulders gave way and disappeared over the horizon. A chill ran up my spine despite the heat. I glanced up at the cloudless sky. Threat of a downpour would mean certain danger, I was sure, but not today. With no clouds or shade of any kind, the only escape from the scorching sun was to immerse ourselves into the pools of water. Tiny fish nipped at my skin. An eerie silence filled the space between our words. Water, Sun, Rock, Dry Heat. All the elements fell on me, heavy and fierce. 

IV.

We were on the mountain, somewhere in the jungle, halfway between Coral Bay and Bottle Beach when the thunder clapped so hard I swear the earth shook under us. It had been rumbling in the distance since the moment we hit the trail. We all picked up pace. The last thing we needed was to be caught in a jungle downpour full of muddy trails and slick rocks. The sky remained ominous, the air muggy, but the rain never fell. Eventually, the trail dumped us onto the beach--clear, blue sky, and cool stormy water. One scene gave way to the next like an artist painting a landscape of emotion. 

V.

I might have turned back had I not already made it so far, had I not been so determined to make it to the top. Ukulele strapped to my back, bright sun in my face, I gripped the boulder and pulled. My exposed skin scraped against the rough surface. At the top, I crawled along the rocks until I reached the cliff edge where the fear dropped away and the world expanded in shades of blues and greens--sky, jungle, ocean, remote and terrifyingly beautiful. 

VI.

Throughout April, old and new friends filtered through Koh Phangan whisking me away on adventures, lively dinners, and nights out. Though life has slowed and stillness settles over me again and I fall into a steady rhythm, the lingering energy remains. This life is an exploration after all, and to fully experience the world around me, I need to keep my sense of wonder alive. I continue to explore through writing and daily practices, through reading and learning. I chase dark sky and full moons. I dig my feet into the sand, listen to jungle sounds, and feel earth energy move through me. I weave stories from experiential moments of wonder. 

How do you fully experience the world around you? How do you keep your sense of wonder alive?

I am

The news of his death arrived on a Friday morning in late January. I let the words sink in and waited on some sort of emotion to emerge--relief or sadness or anger. But there was nothing. My indifference startled me more than the news itself. I hung up the phone and went about my day. Later that morning in meditation, I remembered. I remembered that I had mourned losing him years before his physical death. Tumbling toward the inevitable, I'd always suspected how and why. It was only a matter of when. 

Two days later was when the fear began to creep in, not in some sort of overwhelming way, but in a slow, permeating way that left me spooked and sleepless for over a week. As though residual darkness from those years was resurfacing--energy that I thought I'd released long ago. Of all things I thought I might feel, I was not expecting this. 

I stretched myself across the floor as my friend, the healer, stood over me. If the seer is right about me and my journey, then how and why did I ever get mixed up in something that became so dark and twisted? I asked. 

A futile question, really. It was a spiritual sickness, a dis-ease of his soul. It never had anything to do with you, she said. Look at what you learned from that experience. Look at where you are now. She placed the singing bowl on my chest, and the vibration reverberated throughout my body. 

She was right. I had spent those last couple years in Santa Cruz mindfully learning the art of forgiveness and compassion and gratitude. I learned how to believe in miracles. I learned how to dance with life. But, in the weeks following the call, a strange, uncomfortable fear I hadn't felt since those years had come unwedged and resurfaced, and it wanted out. My friend slid her hand under my neck and pressed. The pain that had been building there over the past week vanished in an instant. I'd never felt lighter. 

When a void is created, be mindful what goes into all that empty space. 

Mid-February. I left for Chiang Mai at 5am on a Monday morning. After the long, exhausting journey north, I ended the night in the most unlikely of places--a small local dive bar covered with string lights and a tarp. I met with a friend, and we caught up on life and talked until well after closing time, until they finally kicked us out. Over the next two weeks, I connected with all my Chiang Mai friends, spent hours writing in cafes, hiked through the jungle, explored markets and classes and new neighborhoods. I filled the empty space by being present, by filling it with light. 

At the lake's edge, I sat with a student of the seer (one of my first Chiang Mai friends) and asked too many futile questions. Don't ask why, he told me, then paused and smiled. And stop asking questions you already know the answers to. Continue creating your path. Enjoy your journey. What's next? I asked. He laughed. Whatever you want. 

Illumination rarely ever strikes me like lightening. It drips slowly until I notice it, like it's always been there. Each season of my life unfolding like a story, it has no distinct shape or arc, but unfolds as an exploration of various facets of this life--some yin, some yang, some shrouded in darkness, much of it full of lightness. I'd written in an old post that 'why' was the most useless question to ask. What's important is the dance with life and how we move with it. Am I listening to the changing seasons? Am I allowing? Am I leaning into trust? Am I living the story that lights me up? Am I? Am I? 

I am. 

What about you?