I haven't written for some time and I am choosing to write in a non-ordinary to me blogging environment because I am moved to share what I am witnessing. I am sitting in Peet's Coffee as I wait for a meeting and utilize their Internet, soy white chocolate mochas, and hazelnut blueberry muffins. It is impossible to not be aware of the other patrons as most of them are speaking in tones so loud and abrasive that I try to will them to lower themselves. This behavior crosses gender, racial, ethnic and generational lines. The common denominator seems to be the desire to be heard and the competitive...I can't even get the words out because the voices are so damn loud.
My horoscope for this week said that I am to use my intuition to observe my society and share these observations, leading to a deeper level of creative understanding of their functions. I remember this as I listen to these people. I practice extending compassion to them as a redemptive function. I do not wish to allow myself to be upset my their lack of awareness. It's a cafe, I think. Folks should be talking, sharing and learning from each other in such an environment. Yet, why are they so loud? Are they trying to drown out existential, non-ambient noise, including machines, each other, closely situated seating? Who are the minority who talk quietly amongst themselves? They do not exist in this space. The people who are alone are absorbed in some task-reading, staring into the black abyss of their cell phones, talking on their phones.
Most of the people who are listening in conversations are intermittently staring off into space. I've picked out my favorite-the elder man in the cap and MIT sweatshirt, reading a new release physics book, talking about travails or taravails to his partner in conversation, who is staring off into space. The speakers are unphased by the listener's lack of attention, indicating their primary need is to be heard, to be seen. I think of the title of this blog and my memoir, 'To Be Seen' and am aware of how the being seen that I am talking about is miles apart from the physical function of seeing something, say with one's eyes. I am talking about seeing something or someone (including oneself) with your heart and your soul that enables the receiver to state, "I feel seen by you". The type of perception and listening that requires one to get themselves, their needs and their judgments out of the way long enough to glimpse into who another truly is and to accept such.
I am seeing these people in this cafe and I am accepting them for who they appear to be, who they may be. I may not like how loud they talk, or what they have to say, but I can still respect them as human beings with love. I guarantee you that before I leave, at least one person will approach me and ask me a question of some sort. This has already occurred four times today. Why wouldn't they consult the employees of this establishment, you might ask? I believe it is because they get that I hold this love for them and gravitate to a person they intuit will actually help them. And they will tell me how rare it is that a stranger would help them and actually give them helpful, accurate information. And I will sigh and wonder why folks are this way these days. Not because I am depressed and think negatively of my fellow human, but because I sincerely want to know.
I want to know how I can help these people and how I can help our society as a whole get along better. I want to inspire someone who asks me for help to help another, as we continue to spread kindness and concern like wildfire in a desert of apathy and despair. I want to encourage individuals to connect with each other in person, in real time and be unafraid to present and be whom they truly are. This allows all of us to see and be seen so much more easily. There are no masks needed to guise a soul who lives in truth and encourages that of other. Underneath the feelings of lack and fears of not being enough which we all endure, there are all the people in your life who truly love you and support you living in your highest truth. Those who do not, do not belong in your life.
This is a simple compass I use to determine who to spend my time with and environments to spend my time in. While places like Peet's Coffee can be mined for sociological observations and generalized freak shows, they are not organic farms, beach sunsets, dew-drenched redwoods, and music-filled natural amphitheaters. The concrete jungle does not hold the negative ions that moving water and nature do, no matter how we try and no matter how enticing a city might be. That is not to say that a balance of varied environments is not excellent fodder for creativity and genius. The point is that, all too often, nature is removed from the palette and similarly in places like Half Moon Bay, city trips are desperately needed to balance the hill billy credo. The point is: balance is needed, plain and simple. These are not new ideas, they are merely the pondering of my mind and the product of Peet's Coffee in Half Moon Bay and the feelings that induces.
There is gold in these hills and it is spiritual in nature. It can only be minded by the esoterically rich and only in one place for so long. So, keep moving, keep your compassionate lenses on and allow yourself to get out of the way long enough to truly see another and yourself. There is no need to speak so loud when what we have to say is the product of silence and contemplation.
Be well in your love,
Tara
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Seventh Post of the New Blog:
Here I am in the writing incubator created via dark Peet's organic hand pressed coffee, rice milk, double creme brie and heritage crackers, Matt Costa Pandora radio and no other name drops. Feeling scattered and unmotivated, I re-read the first 10 pages of Dave Eggers' 'A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius' and was left with the energy I was looking for-oh yes, this is the written word that is worth its weight in page. Honest, microscopic, humble, unassuming, raw, real.
And with this energy I begin to write and see how the music carries the words as I begin to bob my head and tap my toe and match the tap of the keyboard to the drums and piano. Even the space space and then I don't want to stop, not for a contraction or a....................song's over.
Next. Jack Johnson, skip. The Shins...yes-never trite. Too mellow, depressive? No, calming, requiring focus. Good for zeroing on in. My mind wanders enough to trace my body's aches and pains and wonder why the hell I hurt so much and only remember the past days spent constantly in a hot tub being massaged by jets and the alpine strong sun of Tahoe. Of a long lovely snowy Donner Lake walk with Jennaji and the many years we have traversed with one another and how we have watched each other grow in our Geminian wanderlust and quest for all things truthful and gay. Of choices that we did not recognize as such at the time and of which I largely still do not recognize as such and appreciate the awesomeness of being present and the beautiful lives it sews. Like Irish lace.
Like the finest Varanasi silk of the type we hand-picked as we sipped chai in tiny cups and smoked bi-dis and drew embarrassingly simple drawings of the Hindu peasant prayer dresses we wanted. And the look on my face when I was presented with the alfi, which I thought was a bharfi, and kept referring it to as such to the insanely naturally amped up master sewers and spinners in the hole in the wall shop down that endless alley in the fantastical back alleys of Varanasi. The disbelief I felt when the dress I had designed resembled a potato sack of raw rose pink silk to be worn over Indian pants of whose name I cannot remember. And of how it hugged me in all the wrong places and the pockets that were so low but how almost instantly I fell in love with it, loaded my roodrock malas over it and a sadhu I did make.
I decided I would wear it every day and thought I would throw the rest of my clothes away in renouncement and because the alfi was all I needed. Somehow some of the other clothes lasted the rest of the trip but the bharfi was the second skin. It made it back to the states, I married some friends in it, participated in numerous women's gatherings in it, maintained the feeling of connected grace I felt in India in it. I may have given it away a few years ago in one of my particularly dis-attached moods, in an attempt to let go of all religious, spiritual, non-existential thought....the very thoughts that had led me to the alfi making. I just decided that I am going to start arranging paragraphs by subject rather than some format standards I don't believe in. Stop.
That was the last drop of the mud of the coffee mug. One of four of a set I bought at Peet's when I worked down the street at Midpeninsula Citizens for Fair Housing on Emerson Street in that historic mansion that housed all things good and non-profit. The grief group, the peace and justice center, the anxious church-landlords next door. In the end on our wing, myself and one volunteer/unpaid full time employee from Stanford whom I recruited and trained after all the other employees were fired and I inherited a non-profit of one and taught her everything she needed to know to run the ship in a minute's notice. Of which she did. Of how when I started out there I worked in an office the size of a small walk in closet and spent most of my time rearranging it for the optimization of space when I wasn't sending testers out to pose as potential renters at properties I had received housing discrimination complaints against and calling attorneys we worked with begging them to take these poor folks' cases.
That was when I was not conciliating myself which I prided myself on and then, everyone else was gone and after this intern and I single-handedly cleaned out the basement of this creepy mansion where achieves of cases were stored since the organization, the first of its type in California, was founded, for the purpose of giving space back. All we were left with was old letters from MLK and the moth-ball encrusted responsibility of keeping this organization and its legacy alive. The Stanford intern/protegee and I and we did it with pastries from the French bakery down the street, a lot of coffee and the Peet's yellow and blue-flowered coffee mugs who were joined by the creamer, sugar jar, pitcher, tea pot, and cookie jar at this point. Now, how the cookie jar that was filled with hand-made macaroons years later was accidentally stolen by the county mental health worker when it was brought to a clinical supervision weekly dreaded meeting as a peace-keeping function and assumed to be hers, therefore bereft of its collection, is another story altogether.
One that will be saved for another day as I am reaching that expiration point where the desire to walk outside and take in some of this brilliant sun that begs me to continue with the memory-making that never stops, even in its reminiscence. Not a therapy to be guided but a basic human function that allows each of us to enjoy how we have spent our time while inspiring us to create more new memories that it does not matter if we-we will-forget one day because the importance of enjoying our time here is so very pressing.
'Love It All' by The Kooks comes on and its the isn't it crazy how these songs match my mood feeling but I know I have created this station and I am not surprised but more grateful for the choice of that which feels good and supports the betterment of a mood, a time, a place, an attitude, a desire and a courage to reach for something else. Back to the tap tapping of this snappy song as my words trace the mood of these songs. Up and down, all over the place, organized by the beat and the refrain. The chaos is organized and it is beautiful. Thanks for reading and listening to the ponderings of my mind.
Where is your cookie jar? Is it filled? What are the treats you will find today? Build them in, please, for the sake of fun and frivolity and the power of enjoying your life and loveliness.
May it be everlasting!,
Tara
And with this energy I begin to write and see how the music carries the words as I begin to bob my head and tap my toe and match the tap of the keyboard to the drums and piano. Even the space space and then I don't want to stop, not for a contraction or a....................song's over.
Next. Jack Johnson, skip. The Shins...yes-never trite. Too mellow, depressive? No, calming, requiring focus. Good for zeroing on in. My mind wanders enough to trace my body's aches and pains and wonder why the hell I hurt so much and only remember the past days spent constantly in a hot tub being massaged by jets and the alpine strong sun of Tahoe. Of a long lovely snowy Donner Lake walk with Jennaji and the many years we have traversed with one another and how we have watched each other grow in our Geminian wanderlust and quest for all things truthful and gay. Of choices that we did not recognize as such at the time and of which I largely still do not recognize as such and appreciate the awesomeness of being present and the beautiful lives it sews. Like Irish lace.
Like the finest Varanasi silk of the type we hand-picked as we sipped chai in tiny cups and smoked bi-dis and drew embarrassingly simple drawings of the Hindu peasant prayer dresses we wanted. And the look on my face when I was presented with the alfi, which I thought was a bharfi, and kept referring it to as such to the insanely naturally amped up master sewers and spinners in the hole in the wall shop down that endless alley in the fantastical back alleys of Varanasi. The disbelief I felt when the dress I had designed resembled a potato sack of raw rose pink silk to be worn over Indian pants of whose name I cannot remember. And of how it hugged me in all the wrong places and the pockets that were so low but how almost instantly I fell in love with it, loaded my roodrock malas over it and a sadhu I did make.
I decided I would wear it every day and thought I would throw the rest of my clothes away in renouncement and because the alfi was all I needed. Somehow some of the other clothes lasted the rest of the trip but the bharfi was the second skin. It made it back to the states, I married some friends in it, participated in numerous women's gatherings in it, maintained the feeling of connected grace I felt in India in it. I may have given it away a few years ago in one of my particularly dis-attached moods, in an attempt to let go of all religious, spiritual, non-existential thought....the very thoughts that had led me to the alfi making. I just decided that I am going to start arranging paragraphs by subject rather than some format standards I don't believe in. Stop.
That was the last drop of the mud of the coffee mug. One of four of a set I bought at Peet's when I worked down the street at Midpeninsula Citizens for Fair Housing on Emerson Street in that historic mansion that housed all things good and non-profit. The grief group, the peace and justice center, the anxious church-landlords next door. In the end on our wing, myself and one volunteer/unpaid full time employee from Stanford whom I recruited and trained after all the other employees were fired and I inherited a non-profit of one and taught her everything she needed to know to run the ship in a minute's notice. Of which she did. Of how when I started out there I worked in an office the size of a small walk in closet and spent most of my time rearranging it for the optimization of space when I wasn't sending testers out to pose as potential renters at properties I had received housing discrimination complaints against and calling attorneys we worked with begging them to take these poor folks' cases.
That was when I was not conciliating myself which I prided myself on and then, everyone else was gone and after this intern and I single-handedly cleaned out the basement of this creepy mansion where achieves of cases were stored since the organization, the first of its type in California, was founded, for the purpose of giving space back. All we were left with was old letters from MLK and the moth-ball encrusted responsibility of keeping this organization and its legacy alive. The Stanford intern/protegee and I and we did it with pastries from the French bakery down the street, a lot of coffee and the Peet's yellow and blue-flowered coffee mugs who were joined by the creamer, sugar jar, pitcher, tea pot, and cookie jar at this point. Now, how the cookie jar that was filled with hand-made macaroons years later was accidentally stolen by the county mental health worker when it was brought to a clinical supervision weekly dreaded meeting as a peace-keeping function and assumed to be hers, therefore bereft of its collection, is another story altogether.
One that will be saved for another day as I am reaching that expiration point where the desire to walk outside and take in some of this brilliant sun that begs me to continue with the memory-making that never stops, even in its reminiscence. Not a therapy to be guided but a basic human function that allows each of us to enjoy how we have spent our time while inspiring us to create more new memories that it does not matter if we-we will-forget one day because the importance of enjoying our time here is so very pressing.
'Love It All' by The Kooks comes on and its the isn't it crazy how these songs match my mood feeling but I know I have created this station and I am not surprised but more grateful for the choice of that which feels good and supports the betterment of a mood, a time, a place, an attitude, a desire and a courage to reach for something else. Back to the tap tapping of this snappy song as my words trace the mood of these songs. Up and down, all over the place, organized by the beat and the refrain. The chaos is organized and it is beautiful. Thanks for reading and listening to the ponderings of my mind.
Where is your cookie jar? Is it filled? What are the treats you will find today? Build them in, please, for the sake of fun and frivolity and the power of enjoying your life and loveliness.
May it be everlasting!,
Tara
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sixth Post of the New Blog:
Oh dear...I am listening to Matt Costa's 'Oh Dear' and it's upbeat Beatle-like pop noise is frighteningly loud yet purposedly so. As if, I am trying to wake myself up and it, the dark soy milked coffee, the blazing sun, and the new moon buzz tell me that I am waking up in such a natural way. The strong sun is like a ray of gold in an otherwise cloudy sea of season-changing brilliant greens and blues. I recall saying that I felt like I was in the video game Paperboy this morning as I swerved to avoid a derelict herd of sheep who were taking to field, squinted through layers of fog and God knows what else as I wondered where yesterday's sweltering heat went.
As I try to remember how to skip lines on this thing. Shift enter comes to me. Shift enter? What is this crap? Pause for ridiculousness. Where was I? How is it that I can notice the music and not my own thoughts? Maybe it is the cutting of the beat, and the fact that I was going to write the word rhythm, which I just got, and couldn't remember how to spell it. A former excellent speller, a former expletive that held on so tight to order and function until they failed and all she was left with was the music and the joy of everything that felt good again and again and didn't let me down. These became my values and my world and now they are the background music to the visions of my life. Minute Maid Mojo Meter or something-I just heard on one of those pesky Pandora commercials. Thank God it is followed by Matt Costa's 'Heart of Stone'-a personal theme song. I recall the countless times I ran down the beach signing this song at the top of my lungs, on the bridge over the river in the cold winter breeze, at Riff Raff beach, in cars driving to Tahoe and God knows where else. Always thinking about how I must keep my heart open to the love alive all around.
The music stops and I want it to start again rather than listen to the pondering of my own mind which I spend enough time audiencing. There's that red line. I was thinking about that word audiencing the other day. About how much it described and how theatrical the modern human is and speaking of theatrical-I am understatedly-another one of my favorites, shocked by the whole Osama drama. When I tried to do some of the things I told myself I should before I started writing, without success, I figured I should write to be "productive" and because it was something I actually wanted to do. I thought about the Osama episode. I have to interrupt this with 'Darkness Between the Fireflies' by Mason Jennings. This song is absolutely perfect. The perfect beauty of a really good song is the redemption for every annoyance ever announced. Ever. Yet there is more conversation-making than music-making in this world and I heartfully believe the reverse would alter our societies with profound reward. The transcendent function of the lyric and the melody is everlasting grace. Period.
There's that shift enter again. But now I don't care because I am feeling so good that I am willing to accept it. Reminded of Risa's sharing of the meaning of forgive: "to give for". As a sacrifice for the greater good, as a contribution to the whole. This I love. To love and be loved. To forgive and be forgiven-something to talk about. I never did research 'the forgiveness project' but I know enough of my own experience to know that one of the polar opposites of love is hate and that in my mind, anything can be forgiven. How else would we go on trying, in fear of committing a mortal sin so great that we could not be forgiven for it.
This is all I am going to say about the Osama debacle. Yesterday Venus opposed Saturn retro or whatever it was and the theme was about forgiveness. And I got to thinking: I think these Americans think they had to kill this man to forgive him. I mean: why else would you feel the need to kill someone to forgive them, avenge them, bring about justice in a non-just manner. Prove a point to a man from such a different culture that the two could literally not understand each other. Wouldn't you employ an interpreter and if it was deemed that the situation was unmitigatable, would you not call a truce to avoid more suffering to anyone? I will save my analysis of Times Square. It tells me that some aspects of evolution are on serious delay and that the status of how modern humans are communicating with and relating to each other is circa 1700 on a psychological level.
As touted, yesterday was the anniversary of the announcement of the death of Hitler. History and her archetypes repeat themselves over and over and over until the cycle is broken and this only happens when enough people solemnly cry: "No more!"
No more writing for me. Time to create something else before I am blessed to go for my walk/yoga/sunset session on this new Taurus moon and join in a 6 pm meditation for the new moon festival. Living close to the Earth, staying in tune with her pulsations and matching mine to the same, keeping my eye on what is really real to me...I am sending this joy and gratitude to this planet and its lovely inhabitants who are each learning how to love and to forgive themselves for being exactly who they are and realizing how beautiful they truly are, as they are. As we are. As I am. As I break into song...
In love,
Tara
As I try to remember how to skip lines on this thing. Shift enter comes to me. Shift enter? What is this crap? Pause for ridiculousness. Where was I? How is it that I can notice the music and not my own thoughts? Maybe it is the cutting of the beat, and the fact that I was going to write the word rhythm, which I just got, and couldn't remember how to spell it. A former excellent speller, a former expletive that held on so tight to order and function until they failed and all she was left with was the music and the joy of everything that felt good again and again and didn't let me down. These became my values and my world and now they are the background music to the visions of my life. Minute Maid Mojo Meter or something-I just heard on one of those pesky Pandora commercials. Thank God it is followed by Matt Costa's 'Heart of Stone'-a personal theme song. I recall the countless times I ran down the beach signing this song at the top of my lungs, on the bridge over the river in the cold winter breeze, at Riff Raff beach, in cars driving to Tahoe and God knows where else. Always thinking about how I must keep my heart open to the love alive all around.
The music stops and I want it to start again rather than listen to the pondering of my own mind which I spend enough time audiencing. There's that red line. I was thinking about that word audiencing the other day. About how much it described and how theatrical the modern human is and speaking of theatrical-I am understatedly-another one of my favorites, shocked by the whole Osama drama. When I tried to do some of the things I told myself I should before I started writing, without success, I figured I should write to be "productive" and because it was something I actually wanted to do. I thought about the Osama episode. I have to interrupt this with 'Darkness Between the Fireflies' by Mason Jennings. This song is absolutely perfect. The perfect beauty of a really good song is the redemption for every annoyance ever announced. Ever. Yet there is more conversation-making than music-making in this world and I heartfully believe the reverse would alter our societies with profound reward. The transcendent function of the lyric and the melody is everlasting grace. Period.
There's that shift enter again. But now I don't care because I am feeling so good that I am willing to accept it. Reminded of Risa's sharing of the meaning of forgive: "to give for". As a sacrifice for the greater good, as a contribution to the whole. This I love. To love and be loved. To forgive and be forgiven-something to talk about. I never did research 'the forgiveness project' but I know enough of my own experience to know that one of the polar opposites of love is hate and that in my mind, anything can be forgiven. How else would we go on trying, in fear of committing a mortal sin so great that we could not be forgiven for it.
This is all I am going to say about the Osama debacle. Yesterday Venus opposed Saturn retro or whatever it was and the theme was about forgiveness. And I got to thinking: I think these Americans think they had to kill this man to forgive him. I mean: why else would you feel the need to kill someone to forgive them, avenge them, bring about justice in a non-just manner. Prove a point to a man from such a different culture that the two could literally not understand each other. Wouldn't you employ an interpreter and if it was deemed that the situation was unmitigatable, would you not call a truce to avoid more suffering to anyone? I will save my analysis of Times Square. It tells me that some aspects of evolution are on serious delay and that the status of how modern humans are communicating with and relating to each other is circa 1700 on a psychological level.
As touted, yesterday was the anniversary of the announcement of the death of Hitler. History and her archetypes repeat themselves over and over and over until the cycle is broken and this only happens when enough people solemnly cry: "No more!"
No more writing for me. Time to create something else before I am blessed to go for my walk/yoga/sunset session on this new Taurus moon and join in a 6 pm meditation for the new moon festival. Living close to the Earth, staying in tune with her pulsations and matching mine to the same, keeping my eye on what is really real to me...I am sending this joy and gratitude to this planet and its lovely inhabitants who are each learning how to love and to forgive themselves for being exactly who they are and realizing how beautiful they truly are, as they are. As we are. As I am. As I break into song...
In love,
Tara
Friday, April 29, 2011
Fifth Post of the New Blog:
The wind whips through the open windows as Jose Gonzalez's 'Heartbeats' plays on this Pandora Matt Costa station I have listened to so many times. Bringing back memories of feelings and emotions, visions and dreams. I have five minutes between tasks I've assigned myself after reading something today about the inability to control the mind in these accelerated times and the importance of flexibility. I spy the new chaise lounge I received for free which makes me feel like a queen.
Reading Risa's piece today about the importance of royalty as a manifestation of the divine from olden times and the English American relationship, of the English function of order and the American of leading towards the light, makes me thankfully see the romanticism of our current entanglements. What a joy to behold! And of my horoscope this week asking me to look for the hidden value in all. Talk about a sweet way to see the world. It reminds me to look for the love and magic in the mundane.
Today I saw it in the local postmaster who took some political fliers off my hands in the most reasonable way. I see that I am running short on time or time management skills or is it time to go? Yet today it is Friday and I don't care. I'm going to get more fliers delivered, go for a sunny beach walk/yoga/sunset session, cook dinner for my love, maybe play some guitar later. The sun is shining brilliantly on the bright green fields, the wind whips, a guitar is strummed. All is well and simple here. I am looking for the love, the sparkle, the grace. Low and behold, I am finding it everywhere. And it is such a joy. Such a joy is this almost May Day, pastel coated loveliness. Yes, I will bake gingerbread cookies tonight and make May Day baskets to deliver to kind souls who will continue to be kind. We can support the love that we are in every way and what a joy it is to behold! Like the lily of the valley.
Merry Beltane,
Tara
Reading Risa's piece today about the importance of royalty as a manifestation of the divine from olden times and the English American relationship, of the English function of order and the American of leading towards the light, makes me thankfully see the romanticism of our current entanglements. What a joy to behold! And of my horoscope this week asking me to look for the hidden value in all. Talk about a sweet way to see the world. It reminds me to look for the love and magic in the mundane.
Today I saw it in the local postmaster who took some political fliers off my hands in the most reasonable way. I see that I am running short on time or time management skills or is it time to go? Yet today it is Friday and I don't care. I'm going to get more fliers delivered, go for a sunny beach walk/yoga/sunset session, cook dinner for my love, maybe play some guitar later. The sun is shining brilliantly on the bright green fields, the wind whips, a guitar is strummed. All is well and simple here. I am looking for the love, the sparkle, the grace. Low and behold, I am finding it everywhere. And it is such a joy. Such a joy is this almost May Day, pastel coated loveliness. Yes, I will bake gingerbread cookies tonight and make May Day baskets to deliver to kind souls who will continue to be kind. We can support the love that we are in every way and what a joy it is to behold! Like the lily of the valley.
Merry Beltane,
Tara
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Fourth Post of the New Blog
Passover:
I stuff the heating pad closer to my stomach as I rest my elbows on my thighs
To type on a removable keyboard on a chocolate ottoman that I rest my hands on
When I pause to catch up with my thoughts or answer the phone as I just did and
Wonder where I was. Breath. It is stuffy in here in a heated, crouched, down low
To the ground, basic fashion. The cool sea breeze blows through the jewel toned
And plaid curtains. A rooster crows. The fridge buzzes. A motorcycle rolls by this
Iconic country road that has seen so much and I wonder if my Dave Pine For
Supervisor sign is still there or if the good ole boys from the county have taken it
Hostage again. The power of a sign to mean, convey so much is fascinating.
An affiliation, an endorsement of someone's opinion somebody trusts of varying
Degrees, of the company we keep, of the judgments cast on one's perception of
Whom they think the other is, but not for certain of whom one perceives themself
To be and I for one say, I do not know who I am and I no longer care to know.
After a lifetime of desperately seeking myself, it is more important to me
To feel my way through this life by enjoying the sensory...what is that sound?
Wind chimes, a hollow drone, birds chirping, cranes, many different types-
I could listen to them all day...
The animals and sounds of nature call me back to the Earth. The calm overtakes me.
Pescadero, CA
I stuff the heating pad closer to my stomach as I rest my elbows on my thighs
To type on a removable keyboard on a chocolate ottoman that I rest my hands on
When I pause to catch up with my thoughts or answer the phone as I just did and
Wonder where I was. Breath. It is stuffy in here in a heated, crouched, down low
To the ground, basic fashion. The cool sea breeze blows through the jewel toned
And plaid curtains. A rooster crows. The fridge buzzes. A motorcycle rolls by this
Iconic country road that has seen so much and I wonder if my Dave Pine For
Supervisor sign is still there or if the good ole boys from the county have taken it
Hostage again. The power of a sign to mean, convey so much is fascinating.
An affiliation, an endorsement of someone's opinion somebody trusts of varying
Degrees, of the company we keep, of the judgments cast on one's perception of
Whom they think the other is, but not for certain of whom one perceives themself
To be and I for one say, I do not know who I am and I no longer care to know.
After a lifetime of desperately seeking myself, it is more important to me
To feel my way through this life by enjoying the sensory...what is that sound?
Wind chimes, a hollow drone, birds chirping, cranes, many different types-
I could listen to them all day...
The animals and sounds of nature call me back to the Earth. The calm overtakes me.
Pescadero, CA
Friday, April 15, 2011
Third post of the new blog
Here is the third post of the blog, written while I have the energy to do so. Why I think it takes energy out of me is another story, altogether. The good news is that I am listening to 80's UK Rock on Soma.fm and this music is such unabashed self-truth, yet not obnoxiously so. Oh, yes-this is a good mood. One in which I wish to stay. I remember whole years of my life where my sole purpose was to maintain this state as much as possible. Not in a hedonistic, bratty way but in a-why wouldn't I-type of way. I feel like I am writing to myself because I haven't built a readership yet, at least an acknowledged one. Though I have yet to minorly advertise these actions, there is something in me that resists doing so. As if to do so somehow would corrupt my attempts at honesty and integrity. Low how the perception wonders. These concepts of reality and perception I no longer believe are illusions but more the fantasy life of our dreams. And why not delve into this sphere rather than the ordinary, tangible worlds which are all too talked about? Do we all not search on some level for the extraordinary, for the unassuming yet painfully clear genius of a liberated mind? Liberated, in the sense of one feeling free and ignited by what lights them up. The transfer of focus from self to other for a moment long enough to feel the power of oneself, not squashed by other, but completely independent of other. Self-focused in a way in which is not vane. Hard to imagine at times but clearly possible.
That's all I have for now. The sun beckons-come soak in me and go beyond your thoughts, words, impressions, the desire to share such. There is so much everywhere-in the mind, the Earth, the other, the whole. There is no differentiation in the space of all that is, in the deer I saw on the side of the road today or the dolphins I spied playing in the surf. The Earth is alive and magic is afoot. That phrase never grows old and neither do we.
All the love,
Tara
That's all I have for now. The sun beckons-come soak in me and go beyond your thoughts, words, impressions, the desire to share such. There is so much everywhere-in the mind, the Earth, the other, the whole. There is no differentiation in the space of all that is, in the deer I saw on the side of the road today or the dolphins I spied playing in the surf. The Earth is alive and magic is afoot. That phrase never grows old and neither do we.
All the love,
Tara
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The second post of the new blog
This is the second post of the new blog. I decided not to edit the blog any more, which I don't usually do at all other than basic spelling and grammar to maintain a certain semblance of integrity. Or so I think.
It has stopped raining now and I'm listening to Graham Patzner's 'The Greatest Flood', the chorus tells me as I struggle for the name. I notice there is a chill in the room, now that it has cooled off and the vapors of the fresh rain have seeped into the room. I gaze out the window and gaze upon an open gate to a Kelley green field, blooming Japanese maple and cherry blossom trees. A small shed off in the distance, a saddle on a fence, a eucalyptus-lined skyline and the faintest periwinkle trying ever so hard to break though the clouds.
The music is over, colder still. Time to play something else and turn on the heater. It reminds me of when I used to automatically write in an effort to literally interpret the landscape as much as possible. That anything less what false. Now, I'm not sure exactly where I am but I do know that I...need some music. Pause. 'Brother Jim', the next song plays. It reminds me of something but I'm not sure if this is because I am repeating the album I just listened to, because I know the song or because of the feelings it evokes. "I said: take everything from me". There's that chill, that one felt like a blend of cold and psychic chilling. Everything is a blend, even these words. I am compelled to sing. Oh how good it would feel I imagine to have everything taken from me. I recognize that this is the mind of someone who holds freedom above all else. The desire of the human spirit to be, at any cost, truly free.
Wow, wow...this next one's loud. Assertive in a I feel the need to stand up for myself kind of way. I stand up to turn it down because I cannot hear my own mind. It's better quiet-I can hear the words. Like a Dylan-Lennon hybrid. It sounds like it is time for me to make some music or dance. I will torture you no more with this tracing of this album, landscape, place in time. The moment is good and the mind fulfilled. Thank you kind reader for taking the time to entertain the thoughts in my mind. If anything, they are at attempt at communicating my experience in the most honest way I know how. Head lifts to the espresso machine and the organic neighborhood blood oranges I have cut for myself. Back to the heater and then again the music, a violin being plucked. Such are we. It could be any place in any time and the rhythm of the mind and the music would never change. They are the constants which ground and sustain us like the food we eat. I am reminded that writing is therapeutic for me. I hope it is for you too.
With gratitude,
Tara
It has stopped raining now and I'm listening to Graham Patzner's 'The Greatest Flood', the chorus tells me as I struggle for the name. I notice there is a chill in the room, now that it has cooled off and the vapors of the fresh rain have seeped into the room. I gaze out the window and gaze upon an open gate to a Kelley green field, blooming Japanese maple and cherry blossom trees. A small shed off in the distance, a saddle on a fence, a eucalyptus-lined skyline and the faintest periwinkle trying ever so hard to break though the clouds.
The music is over, colder still. Time to play something else and turn on the heater. It reminds me of when I used to automatically write in an effort to literally interpret the landscape as much as possible. That anything less what false. Now, I'm not sure exactly where I am but I do know that I...need some music. Pause. 'Brother Jim', the next song plays. It reminds me of something but I'm not sure if this is because I am repeating the album I just listened to, because I know the song or because of the feelings it evokes. "I said: take everything from me". There's that chill, that one felt like a blend of cold and psychic chilling. Everything is a blend, even these words. I am compelled to sing. Oh how good it would feel I imagine to have everything taken from me. I recognize that this is the mind of someone who holds freedom above all else. The desire of the human spirit to be, at any cost, truly free.
Wow, wow...this next one's loud. Assertive in a I feel the need to stand up for myself kind of way. I stand up to turn it down because I cannot hear my own mind. It's better quiet-I can hear the words. Like a Dylan-Lennon hybrid. It sounds like it is time for me to make some music or dance. I will torture you no more with this tracing of this album, landscape, place in time. The moment is good and the mind fulfilled. Thank you kind reader for taking the time to entertain the thoughts in my mind. If anything, they are at attempt at communicating my experience in the most honest way I know how. Head lifts to the espresso machine and the organic neighborhood blood oranges I have cut for myself. Back to the heater and then again the music, a violin being plucked. Such are we. It could be any place in any time and the rhythm of the mind and the music would never change. They are the constants which ground and sustain us like the food we eat. I am reminded that writing is therapeutic for me. I hope it is for you too.
With gratitude,
Tara
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The first post of my first personal blog...
Firsts. The culmination of a first is always significant to me, denoting a maturation point where something is ready to be birthed. Today it is the first post of my first personal blog.
I decided to embark on this experiment for the following reasons:
1. To encourage myself to write for an immediate online audience
2. To build a readership for the memoir I am writing and to build an online component into it
3. To support my life coaching and consulting business, Bradley Consulting
4. To connect with other bloggers and readers who care about the written word
5. To give voice to my viewpoint and share it with others who might find it interesting
Previously, I have only blogged for political candidates to support their election campaigns, such as Hillary R. Clinton and Barack Obama. This blog will focus on the process of writing my memoir: 'To Be Seen: The Art of Seeing Yourself' derived from 52 journals I have kept over the almost 36 years of my life. It tracks my development from wanting to be seen to the art of seeing myself as a vehicle for such. It includes such gems as living in squatter cabins in Alaska, to a spiritual journey to India, to the fruitful outcomes of political and civic action. The focus of self-perception and self-realization, particularly within the Eastern perspective, are laid against the Central Coast Californian landscape that inspires the continual integration of these aspects every day. A truly organic work in progress!
It will also include my day-to-day living processes, helpful links, political and holistic action items, my writing, pictures, paintings, music, Bradley Consulting life coaching and consulting offerings, and existential musings. I will attempt to be as authentic as possible and am open to feedback about all aspects of this blog. Rather than post an extensive bio about myself, I'd prefer to say that I am a human most interested in enjoying my time here on Earth and helping others who seek to, to do the same. I will also be processing and tracking my transition to an increasingly self-sufficient permaculturally-based lifestyle in Pescadero, California amongst other artistic/mythical undertakings, known and unbeknownst to me. And of course, engaging in a certain level of social commentary informed by everything I have ever known. I will make a sincere effort to transcend self-absorbed pontification but rather to provide content and context I myself find most inspiring.
Now for a sample of my writing. In this moment I am pulling this from a deteriorating journal that had been misplaced until a few weeks ago from the page I opened to.
"Bows and arrows are aimed, ready, fire
Young Eskimos play Indian, content in combat
One pair of blue marbles escape the kill
Precise and playful they are a balanced circle
They sing a song of chance and freedom
Their reward is a peaceful warrior's journey
A moonlit sled ride, a picking and a playing
They ride the crest and stoke the fires of compassion
They are the sparkling eyes of the world
Son of midnight sun and brother to all."
-November 22, 1996 Fairbanks, Alaska (Age 20: for a friend)
That's it for now. Here's to firsts and today's setting sun that is calling me to the beach, as always, to move and breathe and to transcend my mind.
Thanks for reading,
Tara
I decided to embark on this experiment for the following reasons:
1. To encourage myself to write for an immediate online audience
2. To build a readership for the memoir I am writing and to build an online component into it
3. To support my life coaching and consulting business, Bradley Consulting
4. To connect with other bloggers and readers who care about the written word
5. To give voice to my viewpoint and share it with others who might find it interesting
Previously, I have only blogged for political candidates to support their election campaigns, such as Hillary R. Clinton and Barack Obama. This blog will focus on the process of writing my memoir: 'To Be Seen: The Art of Seeing Yourself' derived from 52 journals I have kept over the almost 36 years of my life. It tracks my development from wanting to be seen to the art of seeing myself as a vehicle for such. It includes such gems as living in squatter cabins in Alaska, to a spiritual journey to India, to the fruitful outcomes of political and civic action. The focus of self-perception and self-realization, particularly within the Eastern perspective, are laid against the Central Coast Californian landscape that inspires the continual integration of these aspects every day. A truly organic work in progress!
It will also include my day-to-day living processes, helpful links, political and holistic action items, my writing, pictures, paintings, music, Bradley Consulting life coaching and consulting offerings, and existential musings. I will attempt to be as authentic as possible and am open to feedback about all aspects of this blog. Rather than post an extensive bio about myself, I'd prefer to say that I am a human most interested in enjoying my time here on Earth and helping others who seek to, to do the same. I will also be processing and tracking my transition to an increasingly self-sufficient permaculturally-based lifestyle in Pescadero, California amongst other artistic/mythical undertakings, known and unbeknownst to me. And of course, engaging in a certain level of social commentary informed by everything I have ever known. I will make a sincere effort to transcend self-absorbed pontification but rather to provide content and context I myself find most inspiring.
Now for a sample of my writing. In this moment I am pulling this from a deteriorating journal that had been misplaced until a few weeks ago from the page I opened to.
"Bows and arrows are aimed, ready, fire
Young Eskimos play Indian, content in combat
One pair of blue marbles escape the kill
Precise and playful they are a balanced circle
They sing a song of chance and freedom
Their reward is a peaceful warrior's journey
A moonlit sled ride, a picking and a playing
They ride the crest and stoke the fires of compassion
They are the sparkling eyes of the world
Son of midnight sun and brother to all."
-November 22, 1996 Fairbanks, Alaska (Age 20: for a friend)
That's it for now. Here's to firsts and today's setting sun that is calling me to the beach, as always, to move and breathe and to transcend my mind.
Thanks for reading,
Tara
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