Do Bold Things

The truth of this statement, if I had to sum up my life's mission right now, is all I would need to say. There is nothing like the passing of friends, especially when they are young, it's unexpected or when they are your own age, to send you into a cerebral head-spin around a few quintessential questions. "What's it all about?" "What am I doing with my life?" 

With the first friend, in this trilogy of loss, I was hit hard, very hard. Only a few days prior we had lunch together, making girly notes of her new coif, she was the epitome of her joyous self. With one single blow, that memory was knocked silly when another friend delivered the news that she had taken her own life. I've never known someone personally who made that choice and it shook me to my core. I stared at the portraits I had taken of her and combed incessantly through her social media pages looking for answers. Between the note she left (eight pages), her two brothers' crying her history of pain during the memorial service (one they didn't fully understand until after) and a quote from Niccolo Machiavelli, which I found favorited on her Facebook page, I came to understand. Mind bending.

“All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger (it's impossible), but calculating risk and acting decisively. Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth. Develop the strength to do bold things, not the strength to suffer.”

Some people feel that taking your own life is an act of cowardliness. I disagree. I have come to view it is an act of courage. My friend, whether you agree with it or not, made a bold move. When I read repeatedly Machiavelli's quote on her page, all I could think of was that she was letting us know, right there in two lines of text, that she had taken an action of risk, calculated and chosen very deliberately, not to suffer. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." With unabashed understanding and no judgment on her choice, I cast myself forward to take in all that she no longer would. In some strange way, I felt it was my obligation, more than ever, to live a larger-than-life existence, since I am still here. Bathing in the millions of colors in the sunrises and sunsets, taking the dreams of some-a-day and doing them, quitting on the things that silence my spirit, taking flight and mingling with the clouds. Doing bold and earthly things—now.

This is not where I thought I was venturing off to with my writing today. I imagine that this commitment to one year of writing is also taking a bold course of action. I've come to understand, more fully than ever, what it means to remain gifted with this life. She and the others are a consistent reminder to do bold things—in this life I am living. In loving memory of my beautiful friend, Anamarie.

What is on your "Do Bold Things," what I like to call my "Live it List?" What are we waiting for?

I Saw Me—In You

Have you ever caught a DNA glimpse of your parents, siblings or children in you? In some families I have seen that unquestionable repeating of physical pattern, yet in others—not so much. Once in a while when I look down at my hands, I'll see my mother's hands or I will look at a photograph of my children and recognize my nose or the shape of one lip as identifiably me. For the most part, however, I have found my physical self to be uniquely me—often joking that I must have been left on my parent's doorstep. And as far as my children are concerned, one born a blue-eyed blond, the other one with a copper-top, I've wondered "Where did my genes go?"

My life as a portrait photographer has offered me the opportunity, in close range, to roam the landscape of people's faces. Very intimately during the post production phase in the computer "light-room" applying what I call, "Photoshop kindness." Never pushing that beyond what feels natural, the camera not as forgiving as our eyes. Not only do we see what is in physical form, we also see with our senses, experiences and our hearts. Adjusting for the harshness of life, smoothing over the contours of skin and form, seeing below the surface and peering deeply into the "window of the soul." The eyes.

It is an occupational wonder looking into someone's eyes. I have studied my own, fascinated by the range of color, the spectrum of layers in the iris bursting out like fireworks from around the pupil. The limited category for eye-color on a check-this-box document, falling very short of what I see. I wish for more boxes to choose from. How about a box that says "Other" with a line where you would write in your own descriptive color—mine, would be amber.

My dad's eyes are blue. Baby blue. Icy blue. His features—Germanic in lineage, and up until yesterday I never saw anything of me in him—that is to say, in a physical sense. I arrived in the Latin package, wrapped in olive skin, high cheek bones and skinny legs. While we were chatting it up at lunch, I held his gaze in mine (like we are supposed to do—always look someone directly in the eyes), listening deeply when I drifted off to somewhere I had never been before. The shape of his eyes. Circling the rims sent me into a momentary lapse in listening—his eyes were in the shape of almonds. The same shape as mine. How had I never noticed that before Dissuaded by quite-the-opposite in colors—maybe? All I know is that my dad, in his eighty-something year, was sitting opposite me, and in a strangely beautiful moment of recognition, I saw something of me—in him. What I refer to as a God moment.

Whistle While You Work

My home office is toward the front of my house. It faces the ever-so-busy-with-people street; neighbors chatting, dogs walking their owners, stroller-pushers and occasionally a glimpse of the fun lady on her tricycle—waving her giant bubble-making wand along the "mountain view" drive. I love this neighborhood. From the driver's seat of my ergonomic desk chair, I can hear everything! From the conversations collecting on the corner to dogs barking their territorial reminders. Some of my personal favorite sound bites come from the neighbors giving personal tours to their friends and family of my garden and the mosaics I have created on my front wall and fireplace. This makes me happy—knowing that I have created beauty that others enjoy as much as I do. Very happy indeed.

This morning, as I was pounding away on my computer keyboard, I could hear a very beautiful tune being whistled, and by no one I audibly recognized. (You get to know these things around here.) I pushed open the drapes to catch a glimpse of a man on a bike, fashioned with an extension of small wheels, carrying his treasure of recyclables. He pedal-pushed in an unhurried cadence, something along the lines of a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park, except its Wednesday and he's in the middle of the street. There was something striking about this picture, a man collecting cans and bottles presumably for his livelihood, pedaling a bike loaded down with the weight of aluminum and glass and whistling a happy tune.

It made me wonder. Does it make you wonder, too?

Work happily interrupted, I wandered out to catch up with the man whistling a happy tune. Juan from Uruguay. I started out with English and asked if he understood. He shook his head no, explained in brevity that he didn't understand much English, even after being here for 34 years. In my best attempt at Spanish laced with awkward motions of basic sign language, I told him I heard his whistling and how beautiful his song was. I wanted to know if he was—happy. He smiled into the lines carved deeply into his face, and nodded his head with a universal "Yes." I smiled back. I was happy too.

My instincts rarely let me down, my senses very keen—I see and hear everything. And more than not, I follow the path and signs that are lit up for me to follow. As I progress through my life journey, my senses heighten and my heart yearns to mingle with more moments like these. Today I was blessed with Juan from Uruguay—whistling while he worked.

What would it take for you to whistle a happy tune—at work, or anywhere in the moment?

I'm whistling right now.

Fully Alone: In the Company of Me

For nearly ten years I dreamed, rather fantasized, of taking a road trip. You know, the kind where you throw some things in the truck, van or whatever, gas up and hit the highway. Maybe a loose idea of where you are headed, but open to making a right or left turn at the crossroad. At the "Y" choosing this way or that way—and none of that mattering, because the only purpose is to be going somewhere. "Anywhere will get you there," and in this case, that adage works.

In 2004 I bought a sport utility vehicle. The first thing on the must-have-on-board list, behind the heated seats, was the ability for me to crawl in the back, and make a bed. Just thinking about the road trip fostered the most incredible feelings of freedom. The fantasy of being a gypsy rebel hippie-type felt so right. All of that, saddled with the responsible, level-headed, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking—societally crafted woman. But know this, it might take this Renaissance woman some time to make something happen, but when she does—watch out!

I never did take that SUV out for that self-promised adventure. During my next car purchase, a compact sporty hatchback, I used the same evaluation techniques—crawling into the back to see whether I could fit in there comfortably in case I got the itch to just take off. I did fit, yet sadly it's 2008 with no heated seats—a sign of our times. I bought in anyway.

Fast forward with 50,000 miles under my treads and still no road trip. At the opening of last year I could feel a real tug, no nonsense this time, to hit the road. Sunset Magazine, three months in a row, sending me front-cover options. The Grand Canyon, Highway 101 to Big Sur and Yosemite. I held onto all of them like a bible, this was surely a sign—I only need to choose. My soul screaming louder than ever. "Just pick one!"

You know the saying, "He/she who hesitates is lost." I didn't want to be lost any more. Hesitation cast aside I commit to a trip to Yosemite—alone. Big gulp. And with it comes racing in my internal voices of reason, doubt and fear, compounded by the fears of others when they hear about my plans. "What about the bears?" "You're going—alone?" And there it was—the thing that had been holding me back, out in the open. Alone. Well, I live alone, and I've been doing my life alone. What was this all about, the idea of driving a very long distance—in the company of me? That was my fear. Who would I find during this long and seamless 400-mile drive? Would I be bored with her? What if she snores? (Obviously that was a joke.)

Here's what I found. The road trip was an amazing opportunity for self-
discovery. From the minute I rolled onto the highway, my left brain busy with the details of driving, the right side in complete creativity and awareness. Solidly present to my surroundings, and more importantly, to my heart and soul. I sang out loud, laughed out loud, laughed at myself and raced a train, making portraits of life all along the way. It was an entertaining time that passed far too quickly—such a surprise. The outward journey was also an inward journey of self-appreciation and love. They say if you can't love yourself (all of you) then you can't fully cast that love out to anyone else either. All these years living in the fantasy of a road trip, which I thought was about being away from the daily grind, turned out to be far more than that. It was about being in the company of me—fully alone. I filled up my own cup.

And I never saw one damn bear!

Is there something you've been dreaming about—that trip of a lifetime, complete with the list of why-nots to support it? If you tell me about it—I will support you in making it happen. How about now?

Illuminating the Dark Side

The bells from the Carmelite Monastery rang me up and out of my comfy bed, my bare feet hitting the cold tile of the kitchen floor making their way toward my morning brew. My eyes pried open by a glow peeking out of the twilight dawn—it's the moon! The light of the sky in perfection, I fumble to retrieve my "big girl" camera which is under lock and key—I needed to zoom in for this one. My feet still bare, pitter-patter out to the sidewalk to find Mr. Moon nearing the end of his waning cycle—the silver sliver hanging by an invisible thread in the sky, a classic cliché image—I take it anyway. It's my thing and I can't wait to share it with the world. Okay that means my peeps in the social media. Immediately brought it up for viewing on the big computer screen for processing before taking its internet flight. I could stop here with another pretty picture of the moon's face, however there was an instant connection with something more the moon was showing me, that I would have missed with anything other than the powerful optics and superior glass of my camera lens.

With our naked eye we usually only see the sunlit side of the moon, at any phase—but with the power of my lens not only could I see the full shadow side, I faintly could make out the patterns of facial-features we all have come to know and love as "the man in the moon." And I thought, "look at that—the moon, even in its crescent-sliver of illumination, has the power and presence to share its light with its dark side." I've seen this before, not my first shoot of the moon, but today it resonated as a symbol for the phases we experience in our own moods and emotions. That no matter how dark we may feel at times, there always exists a glimmer of light dangling like the moon, illuminating our hearts.

Writing For My Life

I have much to say going into my 57th year on this planet, volumes to share, but not everyone is up for swimming with me, in deep-end-of-the-pool conversations. At least not in person. Therefore I write. It is my time of contemplation where the in-spired thoughts are revelations that come up for air and out-breathed into the universe. Maybe read, that would be nice, maybe not—the intent really is writing for my life, giving it an acknowledgement and over conversation, the penned thought can live as legacy to a life long after departure.

I also have experienced myself time and time again, where during a conversation my wits of words and wisdom are not about me (not sure where they go actually), my exchange falling in short strokes of what I really had to say. Often holding my breath in depths of hope of finding my wits. I don't think they know how to swim.

Writing is a cathartic process, an artful expression of co-mingled vowels, consonants, punctuation marks and phrases. The words, paddling their way to the surface, are in no hurry. They know there are so many of them to choose from, they wait patiently along the writer's edge for their turn to dive into a verse, chapter or song.

I am—WRITING for my life, on behalf of my life, for my livelihood and FOR my life.

What are you doing that is acknowledging your unique passage through this journey called—life?

Loving Something Behind

Have you ever found a note on your desk or in a jacket pocket and for the "life of you," you can't recall why you wrote it down? So goes my note, sitting anonymously beside the computer keyboard. I looked over at the green sticky and its content of penned words: "Leaving Something Behind." My face scrunched up with a furrowed brow and mystically the word "leaving" morphed into "loving." I have no concrete idea how things like this arise, but I have learned to run with the thoughts handed down from—out there. The phrase "loving something behind," had a powerful ring to it, a positive, less melancholic chant to the idea of "leaving something behind." So here we go...

We will soon leave the Chinese Year of the Snake, and during the past year I have literally been shedding some skin. (You won't be seeing any pictures of that here!) Metaphorically, this past year has been in slithering rhythm with the anecdote of the snake. Molting away the old skin, leaving behind a former sense of self in stacked scales of sacred geometry. Each scale filled with experiences and life's lessons, and a profound vulnerability felt in that process. Letting go the people of "reasons and seasons," the layers of false faces rubbed off against the rough-rock journey—the path toward the new skin, the next layer expanded with a ready and willing brightness. The constraints of what no longer fits, happily left behind. Happily, yet not shed in the manner of running away from the past, or wiping the brow as if you dodged something. It is in the contrary context of embracing and loving all of the somethings, the somebodies and some former sense of self—left behind with love.

My dear and enlightened friend, Dave Towe, has these words tattooed on his arm: "In All Things Love." I thought of that quote this morning as I was writing, offering me additional confirmation that I was on the right side of my thoughts. If we applied the principle of love to everything in our lives, especially those experiences where we assign them with ill consequence, without fault or blame, we would simply love them for the value received. Any other way resides in the category of regret, resentment and shame. Those skins are hard to live with, and it is never too late to change "The Way to Love."

Is there something or someone you are holding onto other than in the light of love? I encourage you to take my idea into a contemplative moment, bring it into your heart and love that something behind. 

Note: "The Way to Love" the last meditations of Anthony De Mello—a transformative book given to me by long time friend Steve Alexander. It changed my point of perspective on my life as a mother, and what love is. 

Past, Present, Future

Last year I challenged my adventurous spirit to a first ever solo road trip. Destination—camping in Yosemite National Park. As it turns out, whatever fears and concerns I had for this venture, wore away like the tread on my tires. With every passing dashed yellow line, I could feel my body and soul settling comfortably into my place behind the wheel. As the road opened before me, the boundless sensations of energy and everything-is-possible thinking took over. Inhaling deep breaths of air, opening wide the portal for divine direction.

I know I said solo, however, I wasn't really alone—equipped in abundance of creative thoughts, inspired lyrics crooning from a friend's coveted iPod, road trip angels and all of my BFFs. The Canon camera twins and iBlanca II, a.k.a my iPhone.

Window lowered and rambling down Highway 41 (I’m not kidding) I caught a thought looking out the driver’s side door. The composition of the road before me, the road behind in the side/rear view mirror and the blurred highway of the present. All happening at once, not three separate things or times. Live in the present moment! A tiresome cliché—in truth the present is cuddled up right in between the past and future. No hard lines. The Taoist philosophy of "mutual arising" vignetted in motion around and within the car's mirror. From the Tao Te Ching (translated): "Having and not having arise together. Easy and difficult complement each other. Long and short contrast each other. High and low rest upon each other. Front and back follow one another." And in my own words: "The past, present and the future are interdependent and inseparable...one cannot exist without the other. It comes down to what I do with the lessons of my past, this moment in the present, and what I choose to bring forth into the future. The common denominator is me and the meaning and intention I bring to each of them." Past, Present, Future.

In-Joy!

I see my life as nothing less than a series of miracles. The signature at the bottom of my email is a quote from Albert Einstein which reads, "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." I align with the latter. Even during the most adverse situations and conditions, I have somehow managed to see the silver linings. The life lessons, clearing the way to a new level of being. This isn't to say that those experiences were easy, non-painful or non-heartbreaking. It is however, the realization of how the spirit, my spirit can take flight after the crash, to find joy again, to enjoy the miracles of this life on earth, and to be "In-Joy." Yes, here I go making up words again. Why settle for only those that reside inside of Webster?

One intention I set for myself this year, actually for my life going forward, was to increase my bright-and-shiny vibrational level and invite in the like-minded—my people. The seeds were planted during a few lunar phase rituals, and in very short order—miraculously my intentions turned to sprouts, and full-bloom in record time. Most notably is a circle-back-around friendship, meaning we have known each other for almost 20 years and during that time have crossed paths in varying iterations of ourselves—and meeting up again in this moment on this path. Me coming out of my period of cocooning (darkness and disintegration), and while I can't speak for my friend—my guess is something similar. I found him to be lighter than ever before, layers of "the unwanted" sloughed off, and offering outwardly a peace and contentment that quite frankly was/is infectious. He is the impetus for my new word, "In-Joy," and the word—trajectory for my life and birth of new wings.

Someone recently said this about me, "Her eyes have the best twinkle!" Hearing that I flashed back through the last two years that brought much sorrow, and with reverence I took the message as the outward sign of what I already was feeling inside—I'm back! Enjoying my life again, happy just being me and "In-Joy."

Note: As I take this journey as writer, it is important for me to anchor each piece with an image. Not usually of myself, but as I was looking for the right visual for this piece I came across this picture and there it was, the twinkle! Photographs are an amazing gift. Capturing a moment, a feeling and spirit frozen in time. 

ME = WE

One of my inspirations to write daily for one year, comes from Mark Nepo's "The Book of Awakening." Structured by dates on the Gregorian calendar, with 365 entries of his own spiritual thoughts and messages on being present to the life you have. Today's passage, "Not Two," was a reminder of a message I received a few years back during my own spiritual practice in contemplation on the false separateness of people. What flashed through my minds-eye was the word "ME," followed by the letter "M" doing a 180° dance into the letter "W," coming to conclusion with this short and concise statement: ME = WE. T-Shirts, coffee mugs and bumper stickers were immediately being pressed-off in the back corner of my creative cortex, quickly squelched by a whispered voice, "You tried that once, remember?" "Let's just use this as a personal mantra." My mind and angels negotiating the use of the divine gift inside this message. We are all connected, we are reflections of each other (whether we like it or not) and equal in every way. However, this concept can be challenging especially in the face of adversity or annoying people. Of course, I'm never one of them! I have another T-Shirt idea that reads, "Human: Work in Progress."

I saw the "M" as the symbol of the closed-off separate self, a stoically grounded singular entity, becoming the realization of the truth and naturalness of it's opposite. The "W" with it's open-arms toward the sky as an empty vessel, and a mirror of the "M." How with the simple rotation of only one letter in a word—or a single shift in thought can bring about change. Even if it only starts as that, the change in perception ultimately would transform our world condition, if and when put into action. If we, as humans, actually operated with a ME = WE philosophy, there would be an end to discrimination, judgement, violence, greed, geographic boundaries and war. To name only a few of our human atrocities; feel free to insert your own list here.

ME = WE™, maybe I will make that T-Shirt afterall.

In the Closet

Flickering red candles, the creaking wood beneath as you slide into the pew, quiet goes the mind followed by an inexplicable connection to...something. The Buddhist temple offers something similar, yet in stark contrast to the Catholic cathedral. The pews are pillows on the ground, bells ring footsteps to a mindful still, the space simply adorned and filled with a breathe-it-in-deep peace. And then there is my closet.

As a child I would often find solace in the space of my closet. The hanging clothes provided for a good acoustic quality, door closed and lights off—maybe it felt like a womb. I never 'thought' about it other than to go in there and meditate. I didn't know then, that that's what I was doing, and when I think back about her and the pull towards contemplative times, only proves my theory that "we don't fall far from our own tree." One of the ironic things about the closet is, at night (and this is still in effect today) if the door is even the slightest bit open, I need to close it. The child's monochromatic imagination of what's inside, peering out from behind the door ajar, just waiting to get you!

The inside of a closet also became a place of refuge during my first marriage. A frightened young woman with baby in belly would hide, literally in the womb of her parent's home, buried behind the dresses and trousers on hangers and neatly lined-up shoes. There was an enormous feeling of protection, comfort and peace in the closet, and during times like those (which there were many) I thought, "I might just stay in here," afraid of the consequences that waited outside.

Occasionally, I enter the closet in my mind, for there is not much room for me in the one in my vintage home. This place of refuge, peace and tranquility, like the open-arms of a cathedral or temple, is only a closed-eye memory away.

Living Buddha

Living Buddha—I'm not referring to someone who is living the monastic life, away from the distractions of the daily human grind. It's the man or woman who is exemplary in some way that embodies a Buddha nature in the secular world. Living Buddha or living Buddha, a double enterdre—either way it's worthy of a mention. There is a man I know—he is a husband, father, businessman, friend and a perfectly flawed human being like the rest of us, but there is something in his being that reminds me of the Buddha nature.

What of the Buddha? I recently heard a Buddhist monk deliver a dharma talk about the practice of 'no practice'—meaning, and this is my interpretation, 'being' without mind, without thought, in a pure and natural state—in complete alignment with spirit or source without effort. A profound authenticity. I have witnessed this in "the man I know" who possesses an unwaivering demeanor of joy, peace during turbulent times and above all, the public and consistent expression of love. This is the way of a living Buddha, and—living Buddha.

My Perfect Day

Started with my ritualistic cup of warm coffee splashed with hazelnut flavored deliciousness. Mmmmm. Planned my wardrobe for the various events before me (that resulted in purchasing the first layer I overlooked), and headed out for a contemplative morning with the Buddhist monks of Deer Park Monastery in Escondido. I didn't make it very far traveling toward the freeway, as I see Mr. Moon postured between two cloud formations dangling over the iconic Normal Heights sign in my village. I pass it smiling and circle back to take that shot. How could I not? I have a t-shirt idea that says on the back "Photographer: Makes frequent stops," and that might very well need to be a sign on my car too!

Next stop—to meet up with my Perfect-Day companion. Making our way to the monastery, chuckling over before-coffee miscommunications, GP-oopS', and the inevitable need for fuel we "arrive" late for the start of the walking meditation. Actually, when entering a Buddhist place you never arrive late—you simply "arrive." Deer Park Monastery—a place filled with "Peace in Every Step," perfection in silence, love, smiles and an expanse of wilderness that fills the senses and expands the heart. Breathe-in, breathe-out. We sing along with the presiding monk during his Dharma talk...I am free, I am free, I am free. With only our footprints left behind, we drive away with our mind emptied and senses filled to the brim. Time for lunch!

I usually reserve lobster for my birthday celebration—but why? Ocean views, more unexpected gloriously warm weather in January and Puerto Nuevo lobster style tacos. Happy tummy. My under-labored clothing choices for the day have me purchasing a tank top from the restaurant, and loving the message across my chest that now says "World Famous," a great "I" message to support one of my writing intentions. Remember, I am a dot-connector. Then the awaited call comes in that we have secured our spots on the sunset hot air balloon ride out of Del Mar. I had no doubt you see—going back to said clothing choices, they were all about being up in the balloon. Sometimes you just know.

Insert a quick stop at a local novelty shop, sporting everything kitschy and vintage—laughing and reminiscing our way through the signs, posters, candy and Pez dispensers—a must return, much more to see, but our balloon awaits!

Up, up, and away! A longer than expected ride from Del Mar, over Rancho Santa Fe and a gentle landing in an open field in Del Sur. Rotating 360° views, gently gliding up and down with blasts of hot air 'blissing' us across the varying landscape of San Diego. Incredible. Mingling with flocks of birds, Van Gogh inspired brush-stroke clouds and the quiet hush hovering above the land. Mid-flight we are witness to a young man's marriage proposal, on bended knee and ring in hand—he slips it on and she nods yes. It was a very quiet and sweet moment. A soft landing—coupled with a shared experience. Far more than the ceremonious checking something off the "Live It List." Priceless.

Evening plans quickly changed, dinner in the nearby village of Rancho Santa Fe with friends-like-family—bantering and the exchanging of stories, more epicurean delights, sipping silky tannins—my heart over-floweth. I'm full with this day. A contented sleepiness washed over me as I crawled under my blankets, reviewing the captured moments of this day. My soul is ahead of my body and it needs the passing of night to catch up. Off to dream land.

I woke up this morning with a question, "What makes the perfect day?" Or, "What makes a day perfect?" While yesterday was extravagantly filled with exquisite and extraordinary moments, to be treasured forever, it was the flow of friendship, being present to the moments, filling up of the senses, being open to the river of experiences and in deep appreciation of all things—my answer is, every day is perfect. When we simply choose to see it, be it and experience it in that way. Thank you...

Living into Intention

After two years of bobbing along the slow running current of my life, I decided to start the new year off with identifying the things I no longer wished to carry forward, people, habits, things, patterns and thoughts—to create a very clear and clean intention for my life going forward. The first thing instituted was writing with purpose, thus my commitment to this book of daily musings, which has already opened new pages of opportunity. I also created an intention board filled with carefully chosen words and images to remind me everyday what I have committed to this year and if that wasn't enough—I came up with a method to "live into my intentions." I'm calling it the "30 Days of—" project. It goes a little something like this: Each month of this year I am doing something everyday toward a particular intention. For January, I wasn't sure if it would be 30 Days of Yoga or 30 Days of Views, and on January 1st a very special gift came my way launching me 6,000 feet in the air with a—how can it get better than this—view! My intention, to explain, is to live somewhere that has expansive, unobstructed and Zen-like views, so what better way to get the energy rolling. Each day I take the time to seek a view that fits the intention, and it's been a wildly fun and beautiful experience. There is much written about the causal effect of doing something for 30 consecutive days, mostly along the lines of changing a habit. So why not use it for the implementation of intentions?

For February I am borrowing the last day of January and the first day of March for my 30 Days of Yoga—living into the intention of 'balanced to the core,' and so on. I have a feeling that I'm onto something here, and I share it with you so that you might try it for yourself! Living into intention feels like breathing life into the dream; dreaming followed by doing. Taking some action, and committing to it everyday—it's been powerful. 

What is one thing that you could commit to doing everyday toward an intention for your life? It's worth a shot.

When a Heart Breaks

"When a heart breaks, no it don't break even," curious lyrics from The Script band and their song "Breakeven." A poppy little Top-100 tune that had me shaking my head as I was rolling down the highway musing the lopsided thinking about broken hearts. A broken heart is—a broken heart. I just don't see it in an arena for competition. See this is what happens when you put me in a car, by myself, and alone with my thoughts!

As many times as my heart has been or felt broken, never have I thought that my pain was greater than another's. How can you measure that? We really can only know how we feel, the seismic level of our own brokenness and that can't be measured against another—we aren't them. It's an ego-mind ploy to seek extra sympathy or play the blame game. I don't need to go very deep here. When a heart breaks, it breaks. In small pieces, big chunks or wide open. It doesn't really matter, it's what comes out of the shatter, what you do with it in the aftermath. A broken heart is, not to be held up as a ticking measure of who hurts more, but more of an opportunity to pick up the pieces and mend them together with loving kindness.

The ability to love again—therein lies something to measure.

Praying for Peace

On my drive from San Diego to Los Angeles, passing the expanse of Camp Pendleton, the machines of our military hover overhead. Young men and women practicing for war. Saddened by this reality—that in our world experience, war seems to be a natural part of being human. But is it? I'm not here to debate our long history of fighting over things—religion, boundaries, politics, skin color, gender or sexual preference. This is a moment of reflection for which I have no answer, other than to be the peace I seek. I believe Mahatma Gandhi's words have been summarized and tweaked to communicate something similar, "Be the change you want to see in the world." The biggest change I would like to see is the end of war and brutality between humans, globally and domestically.

On the subject of war, most foremost in this thought, the 2005 French film Joyeux Noël (Merry Christmas)—nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the 78th Academy Awards—came to mind. Based on a true story, where in 1914 on Christmas Eve a truce and cease-fire was called in one of the trenches where the Germans faced the Brits and the French. As the story is told, the men came out of the trenches, seeing one another eye-to-eye, human being to human being. The men put down their arms to share the commonalities of their life, family and faith. The fallout from this unprecedented event was that the men in the troops were disbanded and punished for their fraternization with the enemy. I can't do this movie justice here, but you get where I am going with this—I hope.

No matter what the war is about, whether it is warring at work, with the person who just cut you off driving and sends an expletive out their window (or vice versa), or the larger ones of global consequence—it's all disappointing commentary on the behavior of our species and it's potential self demise. I sometimes think that we are a genesis experiment gone wrong. If "God" had a human form I imagine both hands coming up and slapping the side of the face with the simultaneous expression, "Oy vey!"

On my drive back from Los Angeles to San Diego, I pulled off at the "Vista Point" to get my view for the day—ocean, blue sky, sea gulls circling above and squirrels burrowing in the cliffside. Pleasant enough! From out-of-view I hear the sounds of heavy equipment, and from around the bend in cloud of dust—military machines, specifically LVTs (Landing Vehicles Tracked), seven of them noisily parading by, piled high with smiling waving Marines—practicing for war. I hope for their sake, they never have to take whatever skills they are learning and put it into "play."

As for me—I'm praying for peace.

Good Grief!

Have you ever said this? Of course your have! I said it a lot today, in lieu of the many expletives that were available to me. The full moon was in full effect—things were feeling a bit off, an inordinate amount of craziness on the roads, changes, delays—little bumps in the road. Good grief people! I find it interesting how we parrot things without question, little sayings, idioms and euphemisms. We know what they mean, or what we think they mean and we even know when and how to use them. Having just come out of a long period of grief, I was struck by the oxymoron nature of this particular two-word euphemism—good grief, and because I didn't have anything better to do, I looked it up. (Enter sarcasm here.)

The term is considered a minced oath, which is a subgroup of euphemisms, an alternative to swearing—a more polite way to say something like "Good God!" Which is precisely what, according to research, the English were doing. Expressing things with restraint and politeness, because that's what they do. By the way, those are not my words.

While the double-entendre has nothing historically to do with the state of grief from loss, it caused me to pause and consider—is grief good?

Nothing good or bad about it—it just is. A very human state-of-emotions process. And because we are humans, we also gave that process stages and names—five of them. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Are there five stages? I don't know. All I know from my own experience is that no matter how enlightened, unattached and spiritual I think I am, with the death and loss of a few good friends, grief got the better part of me. Looking at the list, I'm pretty sure I wove in and out of some or all of them, in no semblance of order. And when one round of grief seemed to have passed another loss occurred, stirring it up all over again—maybe this time starting in the middle of that list. And then another loss hit, and it felt as if all the stages were happening at once. I may have come to the point of acceptance, but you never know what will trigger a revisit to one or more on that list. The grieving experience is one that is highly personal, there are no timelines or concrete ways in which to navigate the feelings, except to accept them and simply have them. Good grief—it's natural, we're only human.

Full Circle Moment

As I drifted off to sleep last night, pondering what will I will write about tomorrow—the ideas poured in. My mind reviewing the events of the day, the pictures I took, the conversations I had, and the cherished moments I experienced. We, my mind and I, wandered over to "After the Fires," the photograph that launched an unplanned career in the world of photography. I call it my "career of divine intervention." Reliving the preparation for my first photography show in a Phoenix, Arizona gallery, I was guided to also write about the fifteen images I selected to display—my words, along with my soul hung adjacent to the carefully chosen works of art. Directly below—a price tag, and as the show opened my heart-pounded and I went outside to breathe. My son Randy, who joined me in Phoenix, came out and urged me to come back in, he said that people were discussing one of my pieces and how they were going to reframe it. Sheepishly I came back in, the room now filled with people, studying my work and with sincere interest, and they were reading my words. I sold four pieces that night, and the rest as they say—is history.

But what of a full circle moment? Hang on...I'm getting there! I had something particular in mind with the phrase, but was curious what the "books" said. I found two distinct and different meanings behind the idiom—to "come full circle." The second of which is more in line with what it means to me in this instance:

1) To make a complete change or reform.
2) To complete a cycle of transition, returning to where one started after gaining experience or exploring other things.

My last photography show, "In Living Contrast" was held in 2011. Two self-published coffee table style books, "Shadows & Reflections" (subject of my second show) and from the last show, "In Living Contrast," were birthed from the combination of my photographic images accompanied by philosophical thoughts and creative expressions. Much of what I wrote in those books have not been read—I think there is a tendency to gloss over the words and only look at the pretty pictures. For me, the words are probably more important than the photographs themselves. Enter the exploration of other things.

Today my writing has transitioned to the lead performer in my daily practice for work and as my creative outlet as a writer. I am a freelance writer of multiple subject articles for a national brand magazine, and for clients in their social media marketing platforms. Somewhere, somehow the cycle of photography and words, through the exploration of new expressions have changed positions. From where I started in 2007, punctuating photography with words, to my words, the deeper expression of self, are now being supported by my images. I see this as a full circle moment. 

Pass the Salt and People Please

It's been more than 10 years since I've enjoyed a family-style household and I have not (and probably never will) get used to—dinner for one. There is a great line in the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun" where, recently divorced, Frances Mayes' neighbor asks her what she is doing for dinner one night. She shrugs her shoulders in the universal sign for "I don't know." In only the way that Italians can, he invites Frances over for dinner with his family, followed by this pearl of makes-sense-to-me wisdom, "Frances...it's unhealthy to eat alone!"

In my experience, one of our best human-quality rituals is making connections—over food. Deeply embedded in our human DNA is, hunting and gathering, meal preparation over open flames and the best part—the community gathering around a table, round, rectangular or otherwise.

A dear friend and I were chatting about how he thinks breakfast tastes better at my house, and how I think food in general tastes better as his place. I pondered this today with refrigerator door opened wide, scanning the items on the glass shelves, shrugging shoulders and uninspired. I decided to take myself out for lunch. While not the same experience as breaking bread with friends and family, dining with strangers is far more appealing than setting a place for one. At the very least, you can chat it up with the wait staff or your neighbor if seated at the bar. I looked down at the salad on my plate and thought, "I could have made this at home, I'm a good cook." Yet for "some reason" it tasted far better than I imagined my own ingredients would. What was the missing ingredient? It wasn't the salt—or pepper, it was the people!

We are by nature, communal beings, recipients of great rewards while sharing meals—beyond the mere sustenance for physical survival. There is also the survival of the soul, the ingesting of loving ingredients—shared conversation, stories, laughter, and even tears. I do my very best to be in the moment of where I am, to "Loving What Is", (Katie Byron), and at the same time feeling a void—a longing for something that is inherently natural to being human. So...pass the people please!

Before the Street Lights Come On

Last night making my way home, driving a little blind in the heavy fog, my corner appeared under the the streetlamp's amber glow. The rays whispered softly through the branches and feathery leaves of the Jacaranda tree, "You made it home." I walked up the sidewalk to my front door and turned to face the light and follow the trail to the ground. The corner even more illuminated from this angle with blurred patterns of Jacaranda limbs below—this stirs a memory of a poem I wrote a while back. My pair of Jacaranda trees have been a source for writing inspiration on several occasions—this one I called "Jacarandas at Night", and for those of you who lived through a time when games were played out-of-doors, I hope you enjoy this little trip down memory lane.

Jacarandas at Night

The street lights come on.

A childhood reminder,

of days long gone.

Now's the perfect time,

for a game of hide and seek.

But promises were made,

that we must keep.

To be tucked in safely,

before it gets too dark.

At first a soft glow,

turning quickly to bright.

Marking a summer's day ending,

and turning to night

The Jacaranda tree grows,

beneath the streetlamp's glow.

With her branches in shadow,

as if pointing the way home.

Determination—The Little Tomato Plant that Could

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells—and one little determined tomato! It was an amazingly beautiful and warm day in San Diego (surprise), so much so that the patio called me out to dine for a late-start breakfast. Admittedly the patio is in a bit of a neglected state, with little activity since summer's end—overgrown vines, dried mounds of leaves blown over from my neighbor's yard, and the tilted artwork hanging on the patio walls. While I surveyed the landscape of a future to-do-project while sipping my coffee, I notice the remnants of a little dried up tomato plant, one that had sprung up on its own last spring inside my decorative watering can—it actually produced better tomatoes than the ones I planted on purpose. The two stalks with leaves, browned to a crunchy crisp, with something yellow and round hanging off the end of one of them. I can't believe my eyes, it's a tomato! This plant hasn't been watered since the last summer harvest and with nothing more than (we are in a drought, California) a few dewy mornings for nourishment—I'm instantly rendered in awe of this plant's power and determination to produce in seriously destitute conditions. 

Dear little cherry tomato plant, you are an inspiration. I made a commitment at the beginning of the year to write a daily blog of my spiritual and philosophical thoughts, and yesterday I started to feel the pangs of panic that a drought on words and thoughts were heading my way—then you showed up. You literally have presented yourself to me as a symbol for this word, determination, and I also got a sense that you were happy I noticed you, understood and appreciated the powerful message behind your courageous efforts—I know that I am. More determined than ever. Water coming your way. 

Life of a Dinghy

In search of a change of scenery, I made my way down to the waterfront, sat watching the moored boats bobbing to the ripples of the bay from my shady spot on the dock. My head starts filling with a melody from yesteryear, I hear Otis Redding singing, "I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tide roll away, ooh ooh. I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time."

The dock, surrounded on three sides by dinghies, all huddled together bumping and nudging each other for spaces closer to the edge. Each dinghy with its own branded character, the well-cared for ones, the one full of trash, one is hand crafted, another appears to be straight out of a James Bond movie, and yet another that carries signs of abandonment—filled nearly to the brim with water. They get me thinking about their owners and the larger boats that they serve, and the song. "Sittin' in the morning sun, I'll be sittin' when the evening comes. Watching the ships roll in, then I watch them roll away again." The lyrics I thought fit perfectly for the dangling dinghies at the dock, in their very best present moment fashion, and I wondered—what was Otis writing about?

Turns out Otis Redding, as co-writer of the song was sitting on a houseboat in Sausalito, California, where he started penciling the lyrics, reflecting on his life in Georgia and simultaneously his present moment on Waldo Point. Three days after the song was recorded, Otis died in a plane crash along with five of his band mates and the pilot. I never know where a thought or seemingly random song, that pops into my head will lead me. What I do know is, that on this day, I was living in the present moment—like the life of a dinghy, "Just sittin' on the dock of the bay." Thanks Otis.

res-o-lu-tion versus com-mit-ment

Why are the words hyphenated in the title? It means that I looked them up, researched their definitions, uses, and more importantly the energy behind them. Entering a new year—and not a big fan of resolutions, I decided that making commitments sounded better, it just felt better. I didn't know why there was more of a resonance with the word commitment over resolution, until today. I also chose to create a "vision board" this year, and have renamed mine an "intention board," that, however, will be a topic for another day. Maybe tomorrow!

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines "resolution" as: the act of finding an answer or solution to a problem; the act of resolving something. Where "commitment" is defined as: the promise to do something; an agreement to do something. While there is merit in a resolution by pure definition, for the purposes of setting goals and intentions for my year, I found the word "commitment" a stronger partner for accountability and integrity of what I say I want to achieve or have. My query discovered other jewels convincing me that stating commitments over resolutions, was a solid and bolder path to take. Resolutions can be like good intentions, you have them but something is missing—or there is an easy way out.

A commitment's structure when viewed as a trinity of components; stating an intention publicly, specifying the details, and doing the intended—the promised, invokes a solid sense of determination that seems absent in a resolution. The act of resolving something over the act of committing to something. Simple enough—commitment it is! I was already committed to my commitments, but at least now I know why.

What Defines Me?

Today as I combed through my morning "news", I came across a TEDX talk given by Lizzie Velasquez, who has been labeled the “World’s Ugliest Woman.” Lizzie, one of three known people worldwide suffers from Neonatal Progeroid Syndrome, which prevents her from gaining weight, has caused blindness in one eye, accelerated signs of aging and quite frankly finds her not fitting in with the societal “norm.” Today, this valiant 24-year-old woman is speaking out about her struggle with the outside world's perception and the brutality of descriptions across internet platforms, coming to her own sense of self and what defines her as a human being. Not her looks, not her rare syndrome, and not what anyone else thinks.

At the end of the talk she asked the audience to consider this for themselves, “What defines you?” I took Lizzie’s challenge into my morning contemplation time to examine, “What defines me?” I am by definition (mine and others), a woman, mother, photographer, single, writer, gray-haired, artist, entrepreneur, divorced, talented, short, spiritual, hippie (my fav), and...well, you get the drift. By no means is Lizzie the first person to elicit obvious responses like “Beauty is only skin-deep,” or “It’s what’s inside that counts,” but her question of “What defines you?” was just that, a question that begged to be taken in deeper, examined, and answered. At least for me—today.

It wasn’t too long before I got my answer. I was surprised however, that I had never made this particular connection—beyond the cliche, “Beauty is only skin-deep.” Below the surface of skin, labels, and definitions—what’s inside of us? What is that inside quality of our being that really counts? Our hearts of course! My heart—that is what defines me. What defines you?

Philosopher of Her Own Life

My cocooning period lasted nearly 2 years and is over. As the caterpillar disintegrates, melting into itself, it uses its own cells to reconstruct into what seems like a magical feat of transformation—the metamorphosis into a butterfly. My period of disintegration included months of introspection and shelves of self-help books, as fuel for reconstruction. By the end of the second year all of that had reached a plateau—and now felt like the time—the moment to resurface with the birth of a new pair of delicate wings. My first task fresh out of the chrysalis was to clear out my books, simplify and lighten my load. Donate those dusty novels I would never read again, and the pseudo-psychology-spiritual variety that seem to say the same thing over and over again, only they are written by different authors and therefore are delivered in different ways, themes, and words.

It was time to emerge and release the many thoughts and discoveries I made during this life transition. More than a few had already made their way out of me, onto paper, last year during early morning meditation hours, and I named them Morning Musings. With my bookshelves now empty, it was also time to bring in some new material and energy beginning with a New York Times bestseller, The Book of Awakening—Having the Life You Want by Being Present to the Life You Have by Mark Nepo. It is written as a daily read beginning with January 1st, giving me the idea to begin my own exercise of daily spiritual/philosophical writing as a commitment for this new year. I expanded on the Morning Musings idea, to include thoughts and inspirations from throughout the day into night and birthed a new blog, Morning Musings, Evening Expressions—My Year as a Spiritual Writer and Philosopher of Her Own Life.

Originally the byline read: My Year as a Spiritual Writer and Philosopher, bringing up all kinds of self-dialogue—with the most usual suspect, "Who do you think you are calling yourself a philosopher?" So for now I will live with the more narrowly defined title of "Philosopher of Her Own Life" and in 358 more days, I will have a book of my own taking flight. Migrating soon to a bookshelf near you.

The Gifted Heart

My new found friend said, "I have something for you." So I waited downstairs while she retrieved it. She returned with the most beautiful gift, a deep ruby-red heart, carved to mimic the petals on a rose. She placed the gifted heart in my hands, it took both, I was taken aback by the weight of it and the first thing that popped into my head was, "What a heavy heart." And right behind that thought, I couldn't help but attach it as a metaphor to my friend's own heart who had lost her husband 2 years ago. Did she just hand me her heavy heart? All of this is going on inside my head as I simultaneously am taking in this beautiful gift, smiling, and offering my gratitude for her generosity and thoughtfulness. It really is amazing how all of these things can be going on at the same time—isn't it? The flow of conscious thinking that is running in the background that no one other than yourself is privy.

The thought evolved from "her heavy heart", to my own heavy heart—having recently left a long period of grieving, to maybe this heart is more symbolic of a solid heart, one that had been broken open and has grown back together with even more resolve. That started to resonate more with how I have experienced her and myself for that matter. Hearts that have felt and dealt with profound loss and have turned the corner of acceptance and then even further into hearts that are blossoming like roses after a long winter. Hearts that are full and overflowing, open to love—to give and to receive—spiraling inward and outward with infinite depth and possibility.

The human heart is gifted. An endowed resource with an infinite capacity to love, a natural ability to heal, and begin again.

Courage—Begins and Ends with Your Heart

My word for this year is "COURAGE." In truth, it chose me. I have a leather word cube that I flip around from time to time, it sits on top of my bathroom mirror—a morning inspirational reminder of being. Before the end of the year I had set it to "courage", and on one particular morning I noticed that the cube with that word facing forward was teetering over the edge. I took it as a sign or more of a metaphor that I too am teetering on the brink of courage, thinking about the brave things I have in store for myself this year. That day—we chose each other.

I decided to look up the word "courage" for it's origin (a geeky thing I love to do), to see if there was some deeper meaning to that word, I had a feeling there must be more. Within a two-second Google™ search, here is what I found—by the way, to say I was excited about what I unearthed would be an understatement. 

Etymologists agree that the word "courage" is derived from the Latin word "cor" which means...wait for it—"heart." And in its true origin of meaning it has nothing to do with heroic acts or bravery, but rather “To speak one’s mind by telling all, one’s heart.” The act of being and speaking openly from the heart, sharing our true feelings, and experiences, whatever they may be. Insert "no coincidences here" as I start off my year with this "lofty" goal to write daily and share my thoughts, feelings, and experiences with the world (or whoever is reading) from the space of my heart. Now I'm more in love with this word "courage" and will honor it for its original meaning and not its present day interpretation and use.

It has reminded me of when I published my second book of photographs titled "In Living Contrast", where alongside each image are my personal life philosophies and thoughts. Those images and words were displayed publicly during my last one-woman show, and if you read what I wrote, you would know as I know now, that show was an act of "courage". There it was, my heart and soul revealed across the walls of the gallery. I remember asking my dad to act as editor for the book, which he gladly did. After his remarks for grammatical and punctuation corrections were over, I asked him what he thought about what I wrote. He said, "I think you are revealing too much about yourself." I smiled and said in return to him, "Dad, that is what I like most about me." Why stop now?

Courage—this may just be my word for life. I have nothing to hide and everything to give. If all that I do, and all that I am, begins and ends with my heart, how can that possibly be anything other than courageous and right.

Open Road, Open Mind

Open road, open mind—sounds like a familiar meditation, something along the lines of breathe in, breathe out. In May of last year I discovered during an epic first-time long distance solo road trip how the act of driving on the open road, over a long distance of concrete and asphalt and the passage of time had put me in a very Zen space. A "peaceful easing feeling" started to settle in with the drone of the rubber meeting the road, or the sounds of me happily singing along to the tunes on the iPod. Either way, in silence or not, my mind began to open up, expand, and released the thoughts of to-do list sitting on my desk back home, and all of the other out-of-the moment mind-clutter.

An open road, "the perfect way to clear your thoughts". Not only was my mind clearing, streams of creativity, brilliant ideas, and the answers to long overdue questions easily emerged—why was that? Here is my non-scientific scientific theory: There are two minds, the ego mind and the other one— the good one! When the ego mind is busy, say...driving a car, keeping track of hands on the wheel, feet on the pedals, eyes on the road, and tracking it's surroundings in motion, it has no choice but to leave your good mind alone. I think the best way for me to describe this phenomenon is to say you are, during those moments of clarity, creativity, and euphoria, OUT OF YOUR MIND!

Looking forward to more open road adventures this year. There is something to this—you might want give your mind a drive.