New Website!

Hello!  If you're reading this - then thank you for following me throughout the years.  I have a new and improved site where you can catch up with me and all things woodsy.  I have moved, and it feels like a new chapter.  So, new site.  Check it out!

https://thewaythroughit.com/

I will be writing more frequently in hopes to stay in touch with my loved ones and followers more closely.  Change is afoot, and together, let's find a Way Through It. 

~ Cheers
Jaime

Courage Under Fire

I did a crazy thing.  I left my friends and family and moved 3 hours east to Tuolumne county.  I loved my apartment in Oakland.  I had a nice sized 1-bedroom with a view of Lake Merritt, under rent control.  Just by leaving, I allowed another affordable housing unit to become "market-rate" which is more than I could even afford.  I can't believe that this December will be 10 years that my baby brother will have been gone.  Sometimes just when I think the grief is past me, a TV scene at Dover hits me like a BB in the eye ball (or if you're a guy, the actual balls).  It will knock the wind out of me and I am instantly reduced to a sobbing mess.  Tonight, while watching Madam Secretary, that very scene flashed across the screen and it all hit me.   

I was reminded that since my brother has passed, my life has taken on a new meaning.  For a few years in the beginning I chose to deal with my grief through escapism.  I drank and partied my feelings into numbness so that I could buy myself some time to get a little bit farther away from the rawness of it all.  10 years ago things seemed like they were in shambles.  The country had just voted for a black president and I was terrified they would assassinate him.  2 years later my cousin was killed by an Amtrak train.  It hasn't been an easy road, but always in the back of my mind, is this drive to live a higher purpose.  My brother Ben made me promise to never stop writing, and that is a promise I intend to keep.  I also made him another promise (posthumously); to be brave and to have courage, like he did those years ago in Baghdad.  Even if I feel like the state of the world is hopeless, or the state of our future as humans on this planet is a foregone tragedy, even if I feel beat down by opposition around me everyday, I carry this promise with me; to live my life with purpose.  Ben may have died young, but his life was still remarkable; and in his honor, I have to choose the braver path so that I do not waste mine. 

So, I moved to the woods.  Up until now, I have struggled with mixed feelings about everything I might have been running from.  There are plenty of reasons I could list - Oakland, the Bay Area, the many friends who have moved away - as to why I left.  Up until now I couldn't reconcile that I was running away from something.  Even though I knew it intellectually, I finally realized that I am actually moving towards something.  Anyone who knows me is aware that I have always wanted to live in the woods.  Many of you reminded me of that when I announced that it was finally happening.  I waited so long to make the move because I suspected that moving to a small town would greatly reduce my dating pool. This past summer I dated a man I really saw a future with.  After 6 short months he ghosted me while I was on vacation.  He simply vanished and refused to take my calls or break up with me in person.  This was a breaking point for me.  I decided to stop hinging my life plans on finding a husband first. Many of you expressed how proud you were that I would do this brave thing on my own, without a man, and without knowing a soul out here.  There were some that also expressed extreme disdain and judgment that I asked for financial help to do it.  I had to remind myself that anyone who takes risks, has to expect some opposition.  I was not prepared for it, but repeated shaming and judgment is one of the reasons I felt it was time to leave.  There were enough incidents, failed relationships and closed doors to seal my conviction.

This whole move felt like it was happening at me, or to me, not something I was really driving or having to push too hard to make happen.  It all went so fast with very little work on my part.  From the time I put in my application to the time I moved took only 3 weeks.  After 12 years living in the same apartment, I could have hung on forever perhaps.  However, I was tired of waking up wondering if I'll still be in the same place in 20 years.  The fear won out and I decided to just get on the train.  I have truly felt some greater hand is at work here, and tonight I realized what it was.  

All my life I have struggled with fear, self-doubt, second-guessing every move I make and definitely, DEFINITELY self-sabotage in fear that success will be disregarded (because it has in the past).  My father always encouraged me to be brave, to venture into the great wide unknown and figure it out.  He was not someone who would hand-hold for very long, and you were expected to at least try things on your own.  He promised he would be there when we fell, and he always has.  For Ben, I suppose I choose to take risks, to follow my true path like he did; fear be damned.  My brother died a hero for this country 10 years ago this New Year's Eve, and he will never be forgotten.  His bravery encourages me every day to live my truth, and to forge onward despite the many who may not agree  with my choices.  Ben encountered many who opposed his choice to join the Army (it was 2008, and we were at war with Iraq...) but he did it anyway because he needed to follow his path.  He joined because it was what he had always wanted to do, and certainly because the country needed him too.  Perhaps it was this brave choice that led me to make mine.  Because of him, I do my best to combat all of the fears - being alone out here, fear of some wild animal attacking me or my tiny dog, or simply just the possible madness of loneliness.  

I didn't run away from a life that was becoming small and insignificant in Oakland.  I chose to take the opportunity that was handed to me because I felt like some higher being was ushering me in that direction.  I felt like it was time, and I had to take this chance now or I might never leave.  Despite fear and opposition, I have to follow my path.  I am out here seeking a deeper understanding of my spirituality, and of the power I have experienced in the great outdoors.  I am seeking that little girl inside that used to be so curious and imaginative and was never afraid of being outside.  I am seeking the innocence I once had about life and the future and to find new ways to be brave instead of giving in to fear.  I am seeking refuge from all that has made me feel broken, unlovable, rejected and denied the basic courtesy of respect.  There are a million reasons I needed to be away from my previous environment; but I'll leave the past in the past.  The only thing I carry forward with me now, is the memory of my brother who always made me laugh in the most dire of moments.  Ben was one of my biggest advocates, and he always stood up for what was right.  To me he is a hero, and my brother.  I know I can never live up to his memory in bravery, but I can at least try to live my best life in choosing a path that is true.  

RIP BOTMFC

"Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway" ~ John Wayne

Great Expectations

I am leaving the city, and moving to the woods.  It's been a long time coming.  For the last 5 years or so, this life in Oakland has started to feel like it was coming to the end of a chapter.  A great friend reminds me often that everything changes.  Everything cycles.  If it sucks right now, it will change eventually.  There is no shortage of amazing stories to tell about this city.  Oakland has cradled me in her arms and allowed me to make mistakes; she has fostered abundant creativity, and made very clear that only the tough will survive.  Oakland, will show you who you are. 

Despite what it might look like, this is not running away to hide.  This is not leaving under a cloak of darkness and disappearing like the unfortunate trend of ghosting.  The last year forced so much change that it became too uncomfortable to stay.  Pouring your soul into relationships, operating under the guise that an expected reciprocity will occur, is an exercise in gut-busting heartbreak.  A lesson not easily learned these past thirty-eight years. It only took one year to reveal its painful truth and for change to become the evident solution. 

Despite what it might look like, this is not holding grudges or burning bridges on the way out of town.  Despite experiencing heartbreak several times over, there has been some healing, at least internally, yet there is sadness and mostly disappointment.  A cycle has changed, so must I, or perish.  Friends have moved away, gotten married, began the life-long project that is procreation, and nothing will be the same again.  There is no reason to stay if the offerings of the locale no longer appeal. 

Despite what it might look like, this is not depression or a rash decision.  Lives change, and people don't.  Instead of continuing on through another cycle of adulthood where expectation is fostered so that somehow, via some validation, a sense of worthiness and relevance is felt; I am choosing another path.  For a while, the circumstances of being a single gal well into adulthood, meant that the biggest social events of the year were holidays with family.  It became very clear that I might be alone, with a tiny dog, renting an apartment, in a city, forever.  Making peace with that prognosis was tantamount; becoming UN-single (at least for the long haul) is actually very grim in the Bay Area.  (Just a simple google search gave me this article and this map to prove it).  All of that extra energy and livelihood I have that my married-with-children-peers do not have, is spent putting copious amounts of expectations into relationships that are remaining, that seemed fine when left to surface interactions; but when expectations take hold (and other distractions didn't), cracks will show.   
There are events that occur in relationships that sometimes break the shell it lives in for good.  It doesn't mean it cannot be placed back together in some way; but it takes a while, and it will never be the same.  It can even be strong again, but the shape is different.  There were already fissures in the shells before; but put back together many times over.  This time, the house has crumbled in several large earthquakes, and so it's time to find a new house.  

Despite what it may look like, this is not an attempt to isolate or a plea for empathy.  If anything, the goal is to make a new community in the woods; a way to start over.  There are a lot of outside opinions about this move;  which feels as though my sweater snagged on a zipper while I was getting undressed to put on a new outfit; and the more I move the more the sweater unravels.  The alternative to moving, looks like a bitter old dog lady, with too many chihuahuas who wanders the neighborhood in a housecoat yelling at the kids to stop skateboarding, who spends all day crocheting and watching PBS.  Honestly, I already am that lady.  It's not a cute look.  So when the opportunity presented itself, the choice was clear.  At the very least, there will be stories to write about.  

Who knows how the story ends however, or how the characters will end up and what shape the relationships will take.  There's a growing up happening here; and it feels like the right time.  This year has been ramping up to a climax; fraught with relationships falling apart one after another. Earthquakes are not overnight sensations.  They are years in the making.  Many, many plate tectonic shifts and sometimes small rumbles break loose the rubble a little at a time.  At some point, the Big One happens.  It is expected, by many who pay attention.  Earthquakes shake out the truth, and expose everything until it is bare and raw.  The gently put together frame burst apart and I fell out; it couldn't hold me in that shape anymore.  When everything seems lost, except the truth in your heart; you grieve - and then you move on.  You rebuild.  


So, this is rebuilding.  The earth has shaken and now the horizon is different.  Starting from ground zero, the future looks bright.  The only expectations will be to learn something.  So, onward, to meditate and pray in the woods and to find a new level of spirituality that I hope will be lasting.  Bikes will be ridden on the wooded roads that ripple through neighborhoods of quaint and idyllic homes; a commune with nature that never seemed possible is at the top of the menu.  The trees are a reliable source of happiness because they have been consistently standing in the same place for centuries. I feel visible among the woods.  Not, as it would seem, invisible.  Somewhere in childhood, I discovered my home amongst the trees.   Something is waiting there, like the beginning of a new story in this short book of life.  The only thing that kept me away so long, was expectation.  

Invisible ≠ Unworthy

A few months ago I wrote about something very vulnerable; sexual assault.  In the time since, Time magazine has named all of the whistleblower women, Person of the Year.  The shockwave of celebrities, politicians and CEO's who have been outed and dethroned has been almost unsurprising to watch unfold.  Of course these men are abusers of power.  Women knew it.  We all knew it.  This has been going on since the dawn of time.  The social construct of subservience by way of vagina was born with the first birth, bolstered by religious teachings and perpetuated by institutions.  

But this is not a post about misogyny. This is about feeling invisible.  Despite my own very personal experience of rape, I found myself minimizing it amidst the sea of female fists in the air rising up and saying, "Me too."  I am just one in a billion fists, therefore, not very significant and shut up about it already.  Societal messaging embalmed so deeply in my conscience, that I, am even shutting down my own voice.  

When I was very young, my parents were very young.  My brothers were very young.  For some reason, I felt as though I needed to be very old.  Indeed I was a very old soul and remain so today.  At 6 I dreamt of being 30, and at 37 I dream about being 90.  I remember changing diapers and doing dishes and worrying about having enough money for lunch that day.  I  would fret over asking for new shoes or jeans because mine were from Kmart and I simply couldn't stand another day hating myself.  But I knew what the answer would be and I didn't want to put my mother through the pain of having to say no so much.  I did ask, but I knew I'd have to settle for the cheaper things my heart wasn't after.  They were material asks, but it was worth I was looking for.  

I have struggled my entire 37 years to feel... seen.  To be really seen by someone who loves who I am despite my faults, fears and acne scars.  I was born with a German nose, terrible cystic acne, early breast development and a chubby round belly.  As if my shame of poverty wasn't enough, I also felt heinously ugly and fat by the 7th grade. When I turned 30, I decided that my body is what it is, and I could spend the rest of my life hating myself, or I could just learn to love the skin I was in.  The day of my 30th birthday, I felt no one could ruin it.  I was on cloud 9 and I didn't care what anyone thought or said.  I felt like I had finally come into my own.  That night, two friends and I dabbled along Bourbon St. in New Orleans.  I chose a gay bar where I got to judge a strip contest that my drunk friend decided to enter and make a complete ass of herself.  I still was delighted to be alive.  A gay gentleman danced with me and told me that I should wear more flattering dresses, and then I'd be adorable.  I couldn't be happier.  My drunk friend picked a fight with me and demanded to follow a tweaker around all night then blamed me for a horrible evening.  I still went home feeling alive for the first time.  For a while that feeling stayed with me.  

But as time has pressed on, despite my best efforts at self-help, years of therapy, 2.5 years of sobriety working a hard 12 step program, I remain; unchosen (by a man), unseen and terribly lonely.  Don't get me wrong, I've had moments of clarity where indeed I choose myself.  I have built the best life I know how where it is full of fun, laughter, wonderful friendships, travel and more hobbies than I have time for.  I outsource my most unbearable chores, work hard at my job and buy almost anything I need.  I want for nothing material.  However, inside I still feel like that kid who doesn't necessarily need LA Gears or Guess jeans; what I need is to be told I'm beautiful anyway.  That I can make Pro-Wings so cool the girls would be jealous.  I don't think I ever really knew what I was worth; because it certainly wasn't a pair of jeans.  

When I was assaulted at age 15, I had no one to tell.  No allies that I trusted and no sense of safe place to land.  This isn't about bashing my parents or their lack of tools available to them at the time; this is about finding out who I am in spite of that.  Today, I struggle so deeply with feeling loved and valued.  Every micromanaging boss, every man who doesn't seem interested, every lonely night I spend cuddling my tiny dog like she's my only friend; I feel... invisible.  Unloved.  Unworthy.  

Until recently, I believed that last one to be true.  Indeed, feeling unloved does not mean I am unworthy of love.  If I were the last human on earth, truly unloved by anyone, I would still be worthy of it.  The two are mutually exclusive.  I am worthy of being loved, because I am a child of the universe.  A purposefully created creature with a mind and a voice.  I was given hands and feet for good works and a brain sharp with wit and the intelligence of an autodidact.  Lately, I have been caregiving and running amok being of service to others.  In this space I am usually very happy and free.  Feeling useful and needed brings me immense joy.  Perhaps this is because, for a moment, I am not invisible.  Through the giving, I feel seen.  

Like so many other nights in my life, I lay crying, depleted.  Alone and cold on a blustery December night so near Christmas; I cry because my heart is just broken.  I still struggle with worthiness, and because of that I settle for boys who pay no mind, I dye my hair blue and yet obsessively wear camouflage  as if to say "Look at me!" but "I'll still remain invisible; here I'll do it for you."  I pray to a higher power that usually makes me feel loved and comforted and generally it's enough.  I have been blessed with so much I don't deserve and yet my soul is restless for change; for more.  I think the yearning has more to do with being able to stand in my own body and say, "Look at me. I am worthy."  Until that day, I remain in struggle and conflict with my own face; my own internal battle with acceptance.  

May you find your own worthiness, and feel loved and seen this winter holiday season.  

It's Not Your Fault

When you're a teenage girl and you're growing up with the advent of the internet, and you don't have any experience with boundaries around dating, you might find yourself in trouble.  I didn't know what I was worth, or if boys even liked me, or if I was a goblin with a big nose and should take what I could get.  I didn't know if I was a rather fetching young lass or if my early developed breasts were all boys wanted.  I didn't know that none of these things mattered, and that I absolutely was worth respect and deserved to be treated nicely by boys.  I thought if I said No, they wouldn't like me and there would go my chance at love.  I cringe to even type that today.  

There was a viral post going around the internet today encouraging women to speak up and claim, "Me Too", in regards to being a victim of sexual assault.  If millions of women stood up at the same time around the world and held their fist up in the sky, would it darken the sun?  I sure hope not, but sadly that image seems possible.  

I didn't learn what feminism really was until I was 21.  I didn't have language for what had happened to me over and over again until I read my friend's Women's Studies books while I was hiding out on their college couch at UCLA having just escaped an abusive situation. I didn't have any way to relate what I had experienced and believed that indeed I was a piece of garbage and that man was the best I was going to get.  

Years later, I have made so many strides in other areas of my mental health, self-esteem, and self-confidence that I couldn't escape the continuing pattern of inappropriate men I have chosen to date.  The abuse hasn't continued but I still can't seem to shake this idea that I should just take what I can get.  That isn't to say these men aren't appropriate for someone else, but rather that I seem to settle for that which I really do not want.  

When I was 15 and 17, I was raped by two different men.  There have been countless sexual harassment episodes since; too many to even remember or count.  I am probably sexually harassed at least once a week.  I've become so numb to it that I can't internalize it anymore.  I actually get annoyed at women who claim that every room has misogynists in it and cannot deal.  I get annoyed at women who are angry all the time and fight against every holler, every comment, every slander and every compliment.  I also recognize that by my ignoring it all and allowing it, and flirting and waving off the boys will be boys, I am only enabling and encouraging and failing to recognize the ongoing damage.  I am failing to deal with my own trauma.  Perhaps my own trauma has been too much for me to bear until now.  

All these years I have just owned the incidents as my fault.  It seemed easier at the time to lay claim to the surrounding circumstances than to announce to the world that I had entered into a sexual situation and was then violated.  It turns out that being a victim of circumstance might have been a shorter healing process than being held prisoner by my own guilt.  Perhaps my experience will help another woman have the courage to come out and say what happened to her regardless of the immediate consequences.  

The first time I was raped at 15, I was also drunk for the first time.  It turns out that later I would be an alcoholic, and that night I found my first solution to my first consequence to my solution.  In other words, alcohol made me feel alive and confident, which also landed me in the lap of a cute boy, who ended up raping me, but at least I was drunk and didn't really feel any of it or know what was happening entirely.  I did not feel I was able to tell my parents at the time that a) I lost my virginity (but did I?) and b) I was wasted at a party with no parental supervision.  My father yelled at me when I called and asked him to pick me up because it was 2 a.m. and I was supposed to be at a friend's house.  I couldn't deal with any of it.  So I got angry.  I stomped around high school with my hood over my head, combat boots and a hippie skirt and just played Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's album "So Far" on repeat through my sophomore and junior year.  I protected my best friends from boys who harassed them.  I yelled at women at concerts who blocked my view and screamed obscenities at them.  I did drugs.  This was what coping looked like.  

Later I dated meth addicts and hardened criminals who cheated on me repeatedly and gave me double kidney infections.  I dated emotionally unavailable men.  I dated alcoholics with no jobs or cars or homes.  I am so tired of feeling like I am not worthy of someone worthy because I never end up with someone worthy.  

Slowly, over the last few years, I have begun to learn that I am worthy because I am alive.  I am learning that my worth does not lie in the man I am with, but from within.  It is through spiritual healing and growth, that I am able to walk this path without drinking or using drugs.  I suppose my coping strategies got me through the years without completely losing it.  My coping tools today are to look at it squarely in the face and say, ok, what happened here and how can I unravel this messaging I've acquired from society, my parents and myself?  

It's not my fault.  It's not your fault.  I believe you.

https://www.rainn.org/

   

Summer of Love

This summer has been one for the books.

I started the summer here at Pine Grove, with two of my closest friends.  No matter where we three go, we laugh till we cry and pee our pants.   And now, this late summer weekend in September, I am staying in a cabin at Pine Grove again, awaiting the masses that will come to hopefully experience a campout that is both fun and memorable.  I'm so excited to have come full circle, in a place that has already made a huge impact on my life, and one that I feel will continue to for a long time.

Pine Grove Resort #6.  My magical home for the weekend.

This summer has been filled with belly laughter, camping trips, concerts, roller skating, love and travel.  There has also been gut-wrenching heartache, soul-searching lessons, tears of sadness, triumph in self acceptance and finally, total surrender.  I have learned the difference between physical sobriety, and emotional sobriety.

"Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you" ~ Walt Whitman

The peak moment where all of these emotions culminated in one cauldron of soup was around the lunar eclipse in late August.  It was a solid two weeks of just watery emotion that didn't make sense, felt very heavy and yet I somehow managed to stay out of bed.  I had already been at the gallows begging for mercy just one month before so I guess I felt I could still pull up my big girl boots and trudge through the thick cosmic air.  Perhaps, watery times are my jam.

I am a Pisces.  I am a dichotomous woman who goes with the flow while equally swimming upstream.  I very easily fill the space of my surroundings like water and instantly lose myself in the moment of who I am with.  This trait has left me heartbroken and confused more times than I would like to count, and this summer was no exception.  I found myself on the painful end of losing several trusted friendships when I didn't see it coming.  These friends seemed to have my best interest at heart yet left me feeling totally empty, destroyed and betrayed.

This experience of loss in friendships made me question myself more than anything.  I suddenly didn't trust my own judgment of character which had always been reliable as old faithful.  I usually know who you are the moment we meet.  When I look back now, my first instincts were correct.  However I prefer to focus on everyone's good qualities, and ignore the faults.  This season has been more about learning to believe in myself, rather than judging others' character.  I have learned to love myself through radical self-acceptance as a result of rejection from others.

"In a society that profits from your self doubt, 

liking yourself is a rebellious act". 

~ Caroline Caldwell

This summer I also fell in love.  It had been 3 years since I last gave my heart to someone.  I was certain that this time I was choosing different, therefore it would work out.  He seemed to have everything I wanted and yet, I was blindsided by a sudden and random end.  I simply couldn't understand it, or let it go.  This experience taught me that I have to learn my true worth or I will repeat this vile experience again and again like I have my whole life.  I have always chosen men who weren't really available for what I need.  And sometimes they leave before I realize it, because they realize it first.  

I don't know what hurts more; the heartbreak of a lesser man leaving you, or realizing that you're heartbroken over a lesser man.

These emotional ups and downs of the summer cracked me wide open.  Desperate and vulnerable, I went on a truth seeking mission to figure out what my problem was (because let's face it, when people keep leaving you, the common denominator is YOU).  I discovered that just because I stopped using drugs and drinking, my coping skills with relationships still needed some sobriety.  For me, self knowledge often affects change. At least, I become willing to change once the truth is witnessed.  

Hitting an emotional bottom brought me to my knees.  I could no longer tolerate the self-pity, shame and self-flagellation; I had to surrender any ideas I had about who I am or what I want for my life.  I still struggle with the post-WWII concept of success imprinted upon me by my parents.  As a modern, single woman living in an urban environment for over a decade, I always find my ideals at odds.  Today, I have decided to put everything I want or believe in, on trial.  

But I am not the final judge.  In the act of surrendering the chaos of my watery brain to the greater universe; my life has launched into an 80 mph thrill ride of service, surprises and pure joy.  The joy has come from getting out of my own way.  

When I decided to give up any expectations, I was relieved of disappointment.   

The more that I am other-centered, I find that everything I am responsible for happens magically.  My life simply just works out.  As soon as I decided to throw myself into being available for women in need, and putting my talents to good use for many in my immediate community, I was handed the love I was looking for.  It didn't exactly show up in the form I would have expected but it is exactly what I need.  

Today, I put my higher power at the center of my life, and my life becomes about altruism and my higher power.  I used to get completely knocked off my spiritual game when a man was in my life because he would become my higher power.  When you make another human responsible for all of your well-being you only get disappointed and hurt.  I was forced to find a way to be ok alone before I could allow relationships to flourish organically and without so much pressure to fill my God-shaped hole.  Today, I am keen to keep that spiritual path at the center of my purview.  Magically, I go to bed every night feeling loved, satiated and secure in myself.  I need or want for nothing.  I have more than I ever could deserve.  It is only my honest joy to give it back.  

"It is in the giving, that we receive" ~ St. Francis Prayer

I have no idea what the future holds, in love or in life, but I do know that right here right now, is all that matters.  As I begin to put this epic campout weekend to rest, I am beyond grateful for the opportunity to put this newfound emotional sobriety to test.  The response from this weekend has made my heart so full; bursting in fact, with love, peace, joy, gratitude and serenity for the massive connection made up here.  In getting out of my own way and just showing up where I felt called, people were able to step up and serve in their own way too.  As a Type-A Perfectionist, it is not my normal instinct to allow others to show up authentically.  This is the miracle I experienced this weekend, no doubt as a result of the lessons I learned over the summer and in the last 2.5 years of sobriety.  

Peeling back the onion layers of my soul has never been so painful, but pain breeds desperation and only in that space do we tap out and try something different.  I ran through my tool kit of coping skills and allowed my higher power to just take the wheel.  As evidenced by the results, I can assure you this method is way better than whatever my plans or designs might be.   

The real beauty of not being numb all the time, is that I get to experience all of life's emotions, not just the deeply sad ones or the inebriated ones.  The joy of sobriety and service is way more powerful than any drug or drink I've ever taken.  The power of being useful in the world creates a new sense of confidence and ease I have never experienced before. Experiencing true joy and contentment is a gift I cherish so deeply, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  

~*~       shine on you crazy diamonds       ~*~

Freedom from Bondage

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about expectations, hope, future-trippin', self-will, and finally acceptance. The state of the world, the country, the government, the police-state, the nation's healthcare and basic human needs remaining unmet (see: housing crisis) has me wanting to control something. If I just moved to the mesa in New Mexico and built me an Earthship, everything would be right. If I just hurry up and get married, have babies and start a life with my partner, everything would be perfect.

If I just... If I just...

Restlessness is a beast of a burden and immensely uncomfortable because in my experience, restlessness left untreated with tools of a spiritual nature lead to escapism; self-medicating, self-destruction; wreckage. Let's face it, we live in a world that wants us to die, unless we're über-wealthy. And if you're blessed enough to be in that category, you're wealth only buys you freedom within a social construct designed to oppress others.

Escapism. I dream of lost, large open spaces where the only noise are the sounds of crows scavenging for mice. The simplicity of life and death is stripped down to it's most basic display and reminds me that death and birth are a continuing cycle. In the rat-race city life my own mortality is hung before me like a marionette on a stage made of bills, FICO scores and consumerist ads. Puppeteering not-so-behind-the-curtain are the wizards of corporate banking you can never seem to escape.

Freedom. All I want is freedom. Freedom from bondage of these racist, insufferable, illegal, repugnant and utterly demoralizing agendas under which many more than I are directly under it's thumb. I am fairly certain, that my late brother did not die so that my neighbors, friends, countrymates would be homeless, sick and dying with no healthcare, deported, and stripped of their basic human rights to travel freely about the country for which they stand. My brother did not die for this. My brother died for his brothers in arms. My brother died for his son. My brother died for his country, for which he swore a solemn oath to protect. That man in the hot seat in the big white house swore a similar oath, yet has only protected his own.

This is not a post about politics. This is a post about action. Sitting and stewing in anger, resentment, fear; is a choice I cannot afford. The action laid before me is one of passive action; the choice to lay it all down. I have no control over the past, or the future, but I can throw my hands up and be grateful, give thanks and help my fellows. I can make tiny ripples in a vast sea of humanity, if only touching those closest to me.  I can't, but a higher power can. Today, I will give up my self-will and honor my brother, my family, my friends and loved ones, with the surrender of all my controlling nature. Politics cycle and can incessantly fatigue ones sense of urgency to let go and let God. What's more, is that news these days cannot be trusted anyway, therefore the only trust I bestow is that in my closest loved ones, and a power greater than myself.  I surrender.  Throw in the towel. I have been broken enough over the course of my life, and today I choose to be in this moment, and love as much as I am able and serve those in need around me.

Evidence of past actions has proven this to be the most effective relief of restlessness because in the moment I am surrendering and trusting God, I am not in fear. And fear is the birthplace of all things destructive in my life. I choose a life of freedom on these terms. That, is what my brother died for.

I hope you find your own freedom too.

Sober Journey

Today, I have 2 years of continuous sobriety.  This is nothing short of a miracle.  Since the age of 15 I either smoked weed, drank like a sailor, took copious amounts of party drugs or I was ingesting psychedelics all while creating a long line of wreckage behind me.  I did not end up in the gutter, or homeless, or in jail, but I came real close.  After I went to rehab at age 17, I thought I had a pretty solid grip on my using with the tools I learned there.  I would always pride myself on "having my shit together" despite my reckless antics.  Compared to most of my friends, I did have my shit together.  I had a great job, my own apartment on Lake Merritt, a car and enough money to party with.  But by the end, I saw my life getting wobbly.  2 years ago, I was on a birthday bender that lasted 5 days with little to no sleep.  I was incapable of even dressing myself, and I was so looped I remember begging the guy I was with to just save me and take me away from here.  

In other words, I wanted to die.  

3 days after that bender wound down, I finally sought help.  Most people who get sober have a lot of wreckage to clean up.  I am so incredibly grateful that most of my wreckage was with myself.  As soon I made the decision to leave my self destructive ways at the door, my life got better.  And it continues to get better. In the last 2 years,  I have traveled to New Mexico, Arizona, LA, Disneyland, Wisconsin, Tennessee, and most recently, Iceland.  I have found a wonderful sober man to partner with in this crazy new journey.  In a few months I'll be travelling to Canada to witness an old friend get married.  When I was drinking and using, I was lucky to go camping once a summer.  I simply couldn't afford to take trips like this.  My boyfriend and I are planning much more international travel for the future, and I have no doubt we'll do it all!  

Rio Grande Gorge, NM

Sobriety isn't just about fancy vacations though.  For me, it's a multi-layered journey that unfolds a little bit at a time.  I work on myself in different areas at different times, and each new encounter I receive wisdom about how to be a better human, and learn how to be more authentically myself. This past year I started to see a glimpse of who I was before I started using drugs.  Back when I was a young teenager, still a bit innocent and before I got really angsty, there was a girl in there who loved Black & White films, standards and jazz, playing musical instruments, writing, and reading.  That last one has hit me hard this year.  I have read 5 books alone just in the last three months!  I remembered that I was intelligent, full of promise and capable of doing anything I wanted if I just put the work in. 

Sobriety today means that those possibilities are still true.  I no longer beat myself up about the things I never accomplished.  I relish in the fact that anything is still possible.  I have confidence that I can do anything I want.  I have faith that through prayer and meditation I will walk the path that is meant for me.  Best of all, I love myself today.  I have hope, that others close to me who are still suffering will find the solution for their lives as well.  

Coronado National Forest, AZ

No one really wants to admit they are an alcoholic or an addict.  There is a strong stigma attached to that label, especially for those who come from Christian backgrounds.  I felt judged and ostracized from my youth group leaders back when I went to rehab at 17.  I didn't feel comfortable talking to them about my problems because they didn't align with the teachings of the church.  This colored my spirituality permanently.  Today I can understand why I felt judged because it's really hard to understand why people poison themselves despite knowing the consequences.  Addiction is a disease.  A DIS - EASE of the body and an obsession of the mind.  Through a new found spiritual practice and by working a solid program I can safely say that anyone can recover from addiction, despite the crippling shame and judgment from others.  I am living proof.  

Djupavogshreppur, Eastern Iceland Fjords

There is hope, there is a solution and there is kindness, joy and laughter outside of the "party".  It's really easy to believe that life will not be as fun without drugs and alcohol, but I can assure you, what I was doing was not fun compared the real joy I get to experience today.  Hangovers? Crippling shame and self-hate? ... yeah, real fun.  The thing is, we use drugs and alcohol to numb pain.  Whatever it is that's plaguing us about living life on life's terms seems only to be relieved through self medicating.  However, self medicating doesn't just numb pain - it also numbs joy.  What we might feel as representing extreme fun or that shot of adrenaline or seratonin, is quite fleeting and only drops us into a deeper hole upon the come-down; causing us to need more and more substances to experience that same high.  And on the merry-go-round we go; over and over until drugs stop working, at which point, most people either get help, or die trying.  

Today I have money in the bank, pride in my work, great relationships with friends and family, and a chronic illness that causes fatigue and pain daily but I don't have to drink over it.  I care for myself today, and most importantly, I get to be a useful and caring human being for others in the way they cared for me when I was new to sobriety.  

I am so incredibly grateful to be alive today and not want to die.  I am so blessed that the loving members of my family and community have shown me what trust, faith and real love can look like.  Today, I am happy, joyous and free.  

Glacier Lagoon, Eastern Iceland

Thoughts on a Tragedy

During a time when tragedy hits Oakland, I think of how much I miss the old days of hanging around my kitchen table with friends, chain smoking and drinking wine.  Ideas were forged around that table.  Self-confidence, respect, and admiration was concocted from the many Tarot readings and cheese samplings.  We were young, finding ourselves and reveling in the fact that I had my own apartment on Lake Merritt, where the sounds of geese, trumpet and Bart trains linger in the background.  I've been in Oakland 10 years now, and seeing those young and hopeful faces who tragically perished in the Oakland fire reminds me that my experience is valuable. I have an obligation to contribute back to the community that which embraced me when I was young. 

I used to be an avid raver, attending many underground parties in Oakland in the late 90's up until a few years ago.  In fact I've attended one of those parties at the Ghost Ship.  I was mesmerized by that space; the rampant collections of old trinkets, pianos, books and furniture.  It was a complete maze in there and I felt, a strange sort of energy - like something or someone could pop out from the dark corners at any moment.  I remember thinking, "yah, this place is a tinderbox".  When I discovered news of the tragedy, I couldn't keep my fingers off the pulse of the internet.  Reddit, major media, Facebook, twitter... I needed to know what happened.  Since the search for bodies has completed, I am left feeling disgusted by how the story was portrayed by journalists only out to scoop each other.  I myself was bombarded by the Chronicle at the vigil on Monday night.  It is with great worry, that I fear the news cycle will turn the focus on the murder charges, investigation, blame, fault and character assassination.  Most of all, the victims and their families and the now destitute survivors will find only silence while the focus changes.  As a sibling survivor of a fallen soldier, I can only attest too much that down the road, it's gets fucking lonely.  People forget, or they simply move on - but your life is forever changed and often some of the deeper griefs only come later when you've had time to let it all sink in.  I hope Oakland never forgets these people; those left behind.  

I have been disheartened by Oakland as of late.  I have this incredible sense to hurry time up so my boyfriend and I can move in together somewhere else and "start" our lives.  Events like this completely pull me back and plant me on my feet where I look out my bedroom window to see the old Tribune building after resting a flame-less candle at the altar on the lake and realize, this town is sacred.  It holds all of my formations.  It hold all of my worries.  It holds all of my fears.  It holds space for my jubilant joy, and my laughter too.  It holds a mirror up to us all forcing us to realize that societal norms are not always kosher.  It tells us that diversity, valuing creativity and art and underrepresented communities are in dire need of saving and supporting.  Oakland is the harsh mirror to what must be done not only in this community, but in the world at large.  It is not always pleasant, but it is always truthful.  

Oakland gets under my skin all the time, because I am older, I am sober and I am restless.  But the noisy streets, potholes and corrupt PD is a tiny, minuscule price to pay for the kind of love, acceptance and life-saving friendships that I have only found here, in this town.  There are no other communities like it.  There are no other cities with 40 different AA meetings to choose from everyday.  There are no other cities that hold space for a vibrant Poet community or embrace every damn color, gender and sexual orientation on the spectrum let alone hold space for every kind of artist sanctioned by the city once a month.  There is nowhere else to go if that is what brings you life. And isn't it?  What is life without art or freedom of expression or lifestyle?   

There is always a price to pay, however.  The cost of inclusivity is not going to the artists, it is being paid by them. The marginalized and underrepresented populations are flocking to Oakland because of our vibrant culture of acceptance and creative fostering atmosphere - and if we as a society are unwilling to put our money where our mouths are - the result is tragic.  Art fades, creativity lost, and lives paid.   I am wholly inspired to follow my own path of writing, as it has nagged at my soul since youth.  I do not think dying for one's art is a price anyone should be willing to pay, but until society begins to value it with their own pockets, remaining silent is allowing those poor, beautiful victims to have died in vain.  I'm tired of senseless, tragic, death.  Death itself is inevitable, but mass, senseless and needless death is unacceptable.  Those poor souls keep screaming in my head.  This is a wake up call.  I sure hope I have the courage to heed it.  I hope you do too.

To donate to the victims' families and survivors of this tragedy, go here. 

Be well.  

Jaime

For Ben

The air is changing.  The season is deepening.  The tides are turning.

Another year is soon to be exhausted. Another year without my brother and I feel the empty space he left behind even still. He would have been 30 in a few days. The last time I saw him he was still a boy, but he quickly had become a father, a husband, and a soldier in the short span of his last year of life.

As I too am getting older, I wonder what will I make of this life I have been given?  I read a quote this morning.

"What you are is God's gift to you, what you make of yourself is your gift to God".

(Insert whatever Higher Power you subscribe to in place of God, but it's still incredibly poignant.)

As I begin to reflect on the year, I recognize a lot has changed, and yet, there is still more work to do. The work we do to better ourselves, our planet, our community, our way of life, our government; is like peeling layers of an onion. To really understand this metaphor, one has to assume that we don't peel layers of an onion to get anywhere. The entire onion tastes the same, but the beauty of it's stripes and colors can and will astound you with each new layer. There is no there there. It's a metaphor illuminating the beauty of just enjoying this new layer and that more has been revealed.

This is a post about doing work. Work on oneself, work within our communities and work with others. This is a vibrant and electric time. The dynamic energy we put into ourselves and our fellows is paramount to growth as a species. I see you out there, changing us. I am wholly inspired by love lost through death and sacrifice, tragedy among my peers and the pain they've endured and survived, and through my own ability to painfully peel back one more layer and realize so much is possible still. Though times may be uncertain, scary, harsh and unjust; going through it with courage, honesty and service to others will ignite the spark in the next person to prevail and keep fighting, and so on. It certainly has done so for me.

Peace and Autumnal blessings to all.  May you find the charge to your march.

"When you're going through hell, keep going" ~ Winston Churchill

It's Time... Part 2

Oh, the journey of life.

As trite as that begins, lessons of life sometimes are as well.  I left off some months ago at the beginning of a big transformation.  A good start on sobriety, a purge of my life and all belongings, and a readiness to cut my dreads; summarizes, only a tiny fraction of what this journey has offered so far.  

I did cut those dreads, and I did purge a lot of my belongings; both tangible and intangible. My past is visibly in the rear view; emphasis on the rear.  I have remained continuously sober for over 16 months and I have completely redecorated my apartment; and, the top of my head. 

I went from this...

To this....  [note the maniacal stare of pure unadulterated WTF IS HAPPENING]

Not so sure... I was trying to own it... but couldn't wrap my head around it... har.  

Ok ok... we can do this... 

to... PWNing it.  Finally.  

It was all pretty traumatic and stressful at first.  All change is.  In the midst of my transformation, I also discovered I have Fibromyalgia (FM).  

Fibromyalgia Wiki

There's nothing like getting sober so I can still feel like hot garbage.  The crazy thing is, FM has taught me how to take impeccably good care of myself.  Obviously that's a worthy endeavor anyway.  Between a clean diet, acupuncture, meditation, daily prayer, exercise and a new mattress - I feel about 90% great, but 150% spiritually awesome.  For the first time in my life, I am taking great care of myself, I love myself, and I have deep self-respect.  I am useful to other human beings, I am available to my friends and family and I know how to ask for help when I need it.  I have healthy boundaries and I feel confident, content and joyous in my own company. 

As Liz Lemmon would say, "What the what"?!?  Even with chronic fatigue, pain and alcoholism, I'm kind of killing it.  Not to gloat too much, but I do feel grateful for the struggles because they have taught me to thrive.  They have taught me to let go of toxic baggage and resentments that just drag you down.  Through building new friendships, facing the truth and getting honest with myself, I am finally a whole woman in my own right.  I have found a way to face adversity on life's terms.  Through service, prayer, and letting go - I am free to begin the next journey.  

As a way to physically document this journey, I've collected a few of these in the last year as well: 

My woman.  Higher Power.  Goddess of the Earth.  Right hand to Father Universe.  This was a spiritual experience while sitting under the gun for over 11 hours.  I was elevated, mindful, and drawing the energy of the earth up through my artist's hands.  We were symbiotic and connected and the work definitely came out as such. 

 https://www.instagram.com/jessicazedtattoo/

An expansion of a memorial piece for my two lost brothers.  Well, one is a brother in the form of a cousin, but they were brothers to each other and to all of us.  Two families, intertwined by sorrow.  Two apples, fallen from the tree as cited by the filled in circles on the trees.  Each of them, halos within their own right.  

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boys.  

When I was a child, a very young child, I had a scary dream where a large bird was flying over mountains and woke me when it flew in my face and squawked.  It never left me.  I am of Scandinavian descent, and in ancient Viking mythology; the god Oden had two daughters who could morph into ravens; Oden always had two ravens next to him.  In Greek mythology, the raven's "Craw" is spelled "Cras" which means "Future".  Ravens are also able to speak; thus thought to be prophetic future tellers.  *See Game of Thrones.  Last year, I went to Taos, NM.  Around there, Raven symbology is everywhere and so are the birds.  I had a prophetic experience myself with two huge ravens when I was walking my dog along a path on the Mesa.  A few weeks ago, I ventured back to the Southwest, this time to Tucson, AZ and decided it was time to claim my right to this symbol.   Ravens represent wisdom, prophecy and change.  They also eat dead things.  Out of death, rises life, and a new beginning.  *See the common Phoenix rising out of the ashes.  

As a single woman, I feel I cannot ignore the fact that this transformation has been largely about healing the wounds of relationships pasy.  There's a LOT of pain, abuse, and unrequited love back there, but it's ok now.  I love myself now. I'm beautiful, happy, excited for the future and whatever adventures may come.  I might be single, but I'm not alone or lonely.  I am living and loving life, continuing to build enduring life-long friendships with strong and beautiful women, honoring my family and it's many tricky bits with love and grace and last but not least, expecting nothing and yet thankful for everything. 

What the what?!?!

It's Time...

About the time I finished my 4th step, in the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, I started to have neck pain.  The 4th step reads as follows:

"Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."

The physical process of doing one's own moral inventory involves listing out resentments of people, places or even things, writing out the individual resentments of each person, place or thing, then writing how you were selfish, dishonest, self-seeking and afraid of each of those resentments.

It is not uncommon for this to take a while.  It took me six months; I wanted to be thorough.  Out of investigating and dragging up old feelings of my past, came a deep urge to physically inventory my external self as well; my apartment.  When I discarded all of my shame and bitterness onto paper and recognized my part in things, the shame and filth of my own surroundings became painfully unbearable.

I began a process of purging, planning, organizing, reshaping, and moving furniture.  What was originally planned as a simple spring clean and maybe light dusting and a room change, has become a complete overhaul of my entire apartment.

I have lived in this unicorn of apartments for ten years.  10.  A decade.  A LOT has happened between these walls, and it showed.  Carpets are destroyed, and my couch has been privy to more private parts that I probably even know.  I have been fortunate enough to live alone, in a large apartment at Lake Merritt for all these years, and it has been home base for me and my after parties for just as long.

So, my hallway continues to be lined with Goodwill loads, and my pinterest boards are full of inspiration.  I've read the Magical Art of Tidying Up and it's companion guide Spark Joy.  I have made a lot of progress, but like my 4th step, inventories take time and processing.  There is resistance and a distinct sense of procrastination and a keen death grip on the order in which I do things.  I've even made a legit project plan.  There will be contingencies, and I've definitely met some milestones.

As I am nearing the end of the purge process, I have already begun to repair some of the damage.  Even though I have been sober for over 10 months, started eating healthier, seeing a chiropractor, taking different and more effective supplements, my neck pain continued if not worsened.  I noticed the discomfort mostly when trying to fall asleep.  I have this sense of needing more support under my neck, as if there is this slight pull happening from the top of my head.

I bought a new pillow.  That didn't work, in fact it made it worse as it was too fluffy and my head was cocked too high.  I noticed my mattress was sagging so I bought a pillow topper; memory foam with cool gel.  Not cool.  The sag still existed so I sacrificed an old pillow to fill in the gap.  That seemed to solve my back pain but the neck still aches for support, or just some relief.

It has occurred to me that there is still a very vital part of my past that lingers.  My dreadlocks.  My hair is the product of struggle, of damage, of self inflicted armor that I created as a means to wear my survivorship as a badge of honor.  Death, grief, divorce, breakups, loneliness, shame, pain and heartbreak.  All that weight is bearing down on me and my poor neck.  It's gotten so long that it's brilliant to look at when I artistically shape it into poofy pony bundles, and the odd day I wear it completely down it's below my breasts.  These are the dreads you dream of when you decide to start the journey.  It seems funny that when you arrive at your destination, it's time to turn around.

I've been aware of the "It's Time" moment for a while now.  I've been holding on I guess, procrastinating and hanging onto the old stuff just a little while longer.  Afraid, that cutting them won't actually relieve my neck pain and I'll still battle my bed every night like the insomniac I've always been.  I want to sleep so badly, because now that I am sober, sleep is more sound and rejuvenating.  I'm often tired at a normal bedtime hour and have the will to heed it's call unlike so many nights of dread, avoiding the final task of the day in fear of doing it all again tomorrow.

I want to be free to soar to new heights in this magical life I've been given.  There is so much I want to do, and am planning to do, but something, this aching, is enough to drive me mad.  I am not that old and should not be in this much pain when simply trying to rest.  Sobriety hasn't been that difficult for the most part, but perhaps it's the letting go of the past that ties me up.  This idea that I am not worthy of total freedom, or maybe it's the FEAR of ultimate freedom that I must explore.

Perhaps it's simply the fear of the awkward bald phase.  Will I still be beautiful?  Will I put off men for months until I have hair again?  I probably need a few months to reinvent myself after releasing that garbage anyway.  I guess it's time.

Nov. 2010

It all started here.  I dyed my hair half orange as a means to get wild before I thought dying my hair would be more difficult.  It wasn't.

Jan. 2011

Phase 1.  Distinct lack of combing.  It was big and fluffy and I loved that.

Late Jan. 2011

Phase 1.5.  Tiny dreads! I remember wishing it would stay like that forever.  My hair is normally so thin and flat and fine, and this was full of body and life.  I knew I was onto something.

July 2011

And then I took the plunge.  It was not cute, and it got really short.  Full blown sections and backcombs and palm rolls and the unfortunate mistake of using beeswax.  Oh how much I would learn in the coming years.

Aug. 2011

And then this happened.  The process of making synthetic hair dreads was tedious to say the least, and I overshot the mark a little.  These were totally huge, unsustainable and I was so frightened that they would actually be this unwieldy when my real ones grew out.  I wasn't far off, but these made me feel like a mermaid.  

Jan. 2012

Then I got right sized and made the most majestic synthetic dread extensions ever.  I tried to recreate this color palette later on with hair dye, but nothing really quite did it like these.  

Nov. 2012

Ta-da! First time out in the wild on their own! They were finally long enough to see the light of day.  

Dec. 2013

Mom didn't much care for the dreadlocks, and I still don't think she does.  I remember this early stage taking forever to gain some real length.  They felt this short and awkward for what seemed like forever.  

April 2014

Majestical.  I remember feeling like I was coming into my own at this time.  Dreads, myself, everything.  I was hitting my stride. 

Nov. 2014

This trip changed my life.  I returned to Humboldt and it's beautiful coastline; the place where I had originally done dreads many years ago.  It felt like a homecoming.  

Feb. 2015

Length!  I finally had the dreads I was looking for.  It only took 4 years. 

July 2015

Nov. 2015

This is about the time I started to contemplate the end of the journey.  This photo embodies a lot of that sentiment of changing times.  A friend who was the catalyst for starting my dread journey, and a friend who will see me through the next while she also embarks on her own.  

To be continued...