Nurturing Softness: Staying Open-Hearted to Life

Nurturing the inner muse by reveling in the enchanting photography of Misty Pittman: https://instagram.com/misty_pittman/.

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Monday late afternoon, the blues descend. The anger from the previous week that lingered through the weekend fades and reveals a sinking disappointment and heavy sadness. I prefer anger. The lividness fuels action; the sadness slows and paralyzes. The temptation is to indulgently dwell in the sadness, but a promise to be at a party pushes me to rise. I put on red lipstick, pop on an adored glittery bracelet and take off into an evening cooled by the afternoon rain.

Any remaining heaviness dissipates once I arrive to the backyard affair and am warmly greeted by friends. The gathering is of kindred spirits, sipping margaritas and beers in a free-spirited garden. The back porch holds tables overflowing with local deliciousness: hotdogs from a nearby farm, watermelon slices, fresh salads and a platter of homemade oatmeal cookies.

The conversations flow with ease around recent movie releases, podcasts, travels and politics (for once, I’m joyfully with members from my own political tribe). Beneath the melody of conversations is an indie playlist of Glass Animals, Tycho and alt-J.

There are toasts at the end of the evening, celebrating a departing friend as she embarks on her journey to graduate school. Included in this circle of kindhearted people, I feel an overflowing of joy and love. I let the goodness sink in. I revel in it; this summer evening of friends, margaritas and uplifting conversation is a balm to my heart and rejuvenates my soul.

From this space of belonging, I am able to access my softness. I connect back to my own kindness and feel such relief. My fear that I am losing my sweetness dissolves as I welcome this joyful moment. From this softened perspective, I see the past few weeks of difficulty and heartbreak are part of my growing, not my hardening.

The questions that always emerge during times of hardship return to me again: can this wounding open my heart even more to life? Can the difficulty be seen as invitation to expand and not shrink? Can I see people in all their glorious imperfections from a place of understanding and compassion, and not bitterness and judgment?

I intend for the answer to be a wholehearted yes: a yes to embracing the challenges, learning the lessons and remaining open to life; a yes to falling fiercely and beautifully in love again; a yes to recognizing that people’s imperfections are my own and we’re in this life journey together.

Recently, this daily practice of staying soft and remaining open-hearted is a challenge. The hurt seeps out into bitterness; the disappointment reshapes into sarcasm. I fear that my genuine softness is lost to the rough tides of life, but then a beautiful summer evening spent with friends grants access to the compassion dwelling deep within the core of my being.

In all my consuming anger and difficulty, I forgot the simple and magnificent power of genuine laughter and pure-hearted fun. I remember that to stay soft I must take great, gentle care of myself. I nurture my softness by surrounding myself with uplifting people, by taking sacred, steady breaths beneath a night sky. I stay soft by marveling at the universe and returning to the truth of my being, and knowing that all is going to be just fine. 

The Walk After The Rain

Dreams of the future bring me back to the paths of the past. 

***

I feel the certainty of my decision. I notice the clarity, the light-heartedness and the determination accompanying the decision. It’s a commitment that liberates. A calling that resonates in the deepest fiber of my being. 

So these days, I’m contemplating the future, strategizing the needed steps to manifest this decision into a full-fledged reality. These thoughts of the future curiously carry me back to the memories of my past. I turn the pages of the past, carefully studying the moments culminating to this dream that sings in my soul as purpose, as my reason for being.

I am led to revisiting the walk after the rain. This is the beginning of the new chapter. I see the lampposts lining the paths of the campus, their golden glow rippling soft light into the mist. I feel beautiful in this memory. I walk slowly, swaying along in a lace dress that reveals sun-kissed shoulders and in boots that click against the rain streaked pavement.

I walk with my first love. He listens to my day’s adventures, exploring a new city that is now his home: a graffiti garden, funky coffee shops, and vintage stores. Two cameo necklaces are treasured finds from the vintage stores and I proudly wear both, an over-the-top fashion decision that tonight feels right.  The cameos watch over my pounding heart, a heart yearning for a subtle sign from this boy that he loves and cares for me.

I silently wish he would reach out and close the distance between us by taking my hand. Instead, the distance is filled with conversation and a shared enchantment for a place of learning illuminated by gold tinted light.

At the time, I believe I delight and see these sights for him. I speak words of support and take the sights in twice because I want to envision a piece of his life I will not be in. I am brilliantly aware of his presence, his movements, his words, his entire being; and simultaneously, incredibly sensitive to my own presence, my own stride, my choice of words and the murmur of unspoken thoughts. I am present and removed; I watch us walk through the mist as a distant observer.

The remembered walk pulls me to the walk that follows a year later. I am alone this time. I retrace the steps of our walk not for the sake of nostalgia, but to reestablish my sense of direction in this sprawling city that is both new and homelike.

Curiosity and spontaneity guide my steps into the academic buildings, secluded courtyards, paths traveled by students now on spring break, leaving an empty campus for me to fully take in and in the company of my thoughts happily explore.

I think of him, naturally, but there is no sadness that comes with the fading photograph of us walking after the rain. Instead of the familiar pang of heartbreak, there is a deep sense of gratitude for his role in my journey. I’m thankful for the evening stroll that left me - not in his arms as I originally thought - but at the beginning of a new chapter. Now I walk alone and brave in my decision to follow a soul calling that all began to whisper my name during that one walk after the rain. 

Compassionate Attentiveness

Softening Into Surrender: A Yoga Moment Beautifully Captured by Mothwing Photography.

***

Today, I stop fearing the pause. I drive with the windows rolled down. The air after the rainstorm is fresh, soft, and cool. Evening gently spills over a darkening lavender sky.  For once in a long time, I don’t turn on the music. I have been taking shelter in loudness, in pop songs, recycled playlists, and anxiously searching for new songs to dive into and let those catchy lyrics replace the repeating lines in my head.

I’m running from being alone, which is uncharacteristic for this introvert. Typically, I revel in moments of stillness. I crave alone time to sort through thoughts and get swept into daydreams.  I delight when my seemingly full schedule offers pockets of peace, a sweet time for non-doing, just being.

Lately, though, stillness is unbearable. I am relieved by the amount of work required for my summer position coordinating summer camps. I escape into an endless stream of music. I avoid my journal. I’m afraid of turning inward. The words are not ready to be formed; the emotion is raw and tender. I wildly flee into a week of doing, busying, loud listening, and lean on discipline and sweat breaking exercise to fill the in between time.

I know this pattern. I let myself run because I trust there will arrive a time when I’ll be ready for silence.

And that time is tonight as I drive through twilight.

I dare to not turn on the music. My thoughts wander. I jump forward into the needed to-dos and prep for the week ahead. I fall back into the past. I get lost in the realm of future and past and then awaken to the sounds of traffic surrounding me.

“To pay attention. This is our most proper and endless work.” Mary Oliver’s words emerge with the stars, giving me the courage to just be in my own company.

I gift myself with my own generous, compassionate attentiveness. I come home to the breath. The breath meets me with ease, generous, full and spacious. The tidal rhythm of breath echoes the ebb and flow of thoughts, emotions, sensations: a beginning, a middle, an end, and then the cycle begins again.

I notice where my thoughts travel with a sense of curiosity: they scan the week ahead in the attempt to be better prepared for the start of a summer program. Behind the analytical preoccupation is the cooing, mournful song of the heart.

Staying connected to the breath, I brave the quiet. I feel the intensity of ache. I am present with the hurt, but I no longer identify with the emotional pain. I marvel at the depth of my emotion, my ability to love fiercely and hurt deeply, and the heart’s ability to hold the entire spectrum of emotion in one breath.

Embracing myself in compassion, I let myself feel what I need to feel.  Taking steady and slow breaths, I let my thoughts unfold without judgment. I meet myself here - in all my uncertainty and vibrancy - with wholehearted attentiveness. 

I am tempted to turn on the radio and do a few times only to turn it off. By the time I arrive home, there is only the song of wind and a rush of tires on pavement. The stars are in full bloom across the summer sky.

This is my simple act of courage: to mindfully and wholeheartedly be here in the pause. 

Courage: The Word For My 25th Year

Thoughts of courage take me back to the wild edge where Texas ends and Mexico begins.

A moment captured by Ann Sydney Taylor .

***

“You’re twenty-five now. How do you feel?” The question nonchalantly appears in a car ride conversation with my baby sister (who is no longer a baby, but a fiercely bright eighteen-year-old brimming with opinions and keen insights). It’s a polite question she poses in-between text messages to her fellow graduating friends, and though I know it’s benign, the question startles me into a panicked realization : I am indeed twenty-five and I am  still piecing my life together.

A sense of desperation frazzles my wellbeing. I abandon my personal power and shine to a projected idea of what society and those linear journeying folk define as success and it doesn’t reflect my current reality. I momentarily forget the validity and beauty of my own path.

Teetering into falling prey to the crowd of inner critics, the spirit word for my twenty-fifth year arrives just in time. Courage commands me to rise above the luring voice of the inner critic. Courage reconnects me to back to my power source, my life force, my steady flow of breath. Put to the test, this car ride moment confirms that courage is the rightful companion for my twenty-fifth year – it brings me back home to myself.

Since sparkle has taken a glittery bow, I’ve contemplated a new word to be this year’s spirit guide: a word to encompass how I intend to grow; a word to hold a vision of what I plan to manifest; a word with the power to center, positively challenge and heal; a word like courage. 

How do I feel now that I’m twenty-five? I want to feel courageous. The courage to keep on sparkling, to trust my own intuitive whispers, to say yes to what lights me up and say no to what feels like overwhelm.

I answer with “want” because fear is here, too. I’m slightly petrified of stepping out of my comfort zone. I’m afraid of failing. I fear being exposed in my inadequacies, but the fear to not stretch my wings, to not follow a calling is greater than the desire to remain complacent and content. Or as Anais Nin exquisitely writes, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom.”

By embracing courage, I also confront my fear. The fear cautions me that I’m exposing my authentic self to the world – through writing my truth, teaching yoga from a tender heart  – and the courage grants me the confidence and the softness to live and express myself from a vulnerable and true place. Fear and courage coexist, and I’ll be well acquainted with both players by the end of the year.

Courage promises to test, dare and push me; it won’t be a glittering dance like sparkle, but I’m up for the challenge.

Courage, I’m yours. Let’s see where this journey takes us.

A Year In Sparkle : Reflections On My 24th Year

Stepping into 25 with sparkly shoes. 

I’m still all aglow from a holiday weekend of yoga goodness, springtime strolls, champagne cupcakes, and a Saturday night spent sparkling up the dance floor with a tribe of fabulous friends. I’m reveling in the lingering sweetness of my 24^th year, sipping it all in like rose wine, as the dawn of another birthday approaches. I’m contemplating the year ahead – what I want to manifest, how I want to continue to grow and soften into my truest self; but before I jump ahead into rocking 25, I’m pausing to honor my 24^th year of Sparkle.

Sparkle is a dazzling fun spirit guide. She advocates for my lighthearted nature to shine – cheering for authentic and wild self-expression (tutus, sequin pants and heart-shaped sunglasses can be casually worn on Wednesdays). She defends my optimistic, bubbly spirit by whispering Zora Neale Hurston’s golden line, “Show your shine! Jump at the sun!” By intentionally choosing sparkle as my 24^th year’s guide, I’ve cultivated a grander confidence in my spunky, feisty self.

This confidence boost creates necessary boundaries. In the past, I often surrendered my shine to the quick, deflating quips from others. I hesitated and tamed my brightest creative expression. Now, I proudly claim that inner spark. I embrace that fun-loving energy and invite that love for life to shine. I happily attribute my sparkle spirit guide to glittering up this year with wild escapades, riotous shenanigans and soul mate gal friends who celebrate the sparkly goodness of life.

Sparkle hasn’t been all fun and games. Sparkle also illuminates my inner struggles : my fear of failure, my tendency to self-sabotage and my insecure habit of seeking external confirmation from others instead of relying on a foundation of internal validation. Sparkle holds my light and shadow side. This past year, when struggles and questions about my life’s journey arose, sparkle challenged me to deepen my trust in myself, in listening and adhering to my intuitive guide. The sparkling flame in the dark reminding me – and especially in challenge, heartache and confusion – to breathe and be vibrantly alive. Instead of fleeing discomfort, I’m learning to turn inward and compassionately process emotional pain.

By directly addressing emotions, particularly the painful ones when they arise, I’m in tune with the tasks, the places, and the people who feel like a no : there’s a heaviness, an instant disconnect, an appearance of self-doubt, a dimming of my shine. I say yes to the passions, the kindred spirits, the magical cities and cozy local places that brighten my shine, fill and nourish me with energy, and leave me feeling connected to purpose. Trusting my intuition, trusting my feelings – those sparkly and cautionary ones – are gifts from this 24^th year of sparkle.

As sparkle takes a bow, I find that Sparkle leaves me the greatest gift – I feel more like me. I have softened more into being, courageously embracing all aspects of self - the lightheartedness, the sensitivity, the seriousness, the flare ups of anger, the fun-lovingness – and this acceptance prepares for the journey to and through dazzling 25.

Thanks for sharing the journey with me. Wishing you ease and  sweetness for the week ahead. 

Marfa Is A Muse

Swinging toward the stars in Marfa, Texas at the Lost Horse Saloon. 

Photo Credit : Texas Wild Spirit, Ann Sydney Taylor

***

I peer into a glittering pocket of the galaxy. Spellbound, my city eyes gaze at the spectacular dance of stars emerging across the West Texas sky. I lean against the back wall of the observation deck, ears gathering hushed whispers of conversations and soft laughter.

There is a crowd on the observation deck tonight: locals greet the mountain chill with blankets; elderly couples touring the West in RVs nestle on benches; and a few photographers perch near the deck’s rail, positioning cameras towards the deepening dark sky.

We’re waiting for a glimpse of the mysterious Marfa lights. Fascinating settlers and Texas wanderers since the early 1880s, the Marfa lights are rumored to sporadically appear above a desolate plain outside of town, where the lights leap and play across the canvas of a star-studded sky.

There are scientific and extraterrestrial theories attempting to explain the phenomenon, but I haven’t paid them much mind. I like the mystery of the “Marfa ghost lights”; it gives my imagination a welcome chance to run wild. Marfa encourages this liberated imagination. The faraway frontier town gifts creative spirits with the inspiration to explore and create and I’m reveling in the artistic aura of this tiny Western town.    

Marfa’s history has intrigued me for years; I know the tale by heart. Marfa’s history is a Western tale of cowboys and bohemians and mystery lights. It’s a tale first read in the glossy pages of Vanity Fair (the subscription a present from a family friend, a delectable treat for my college self) and revisited countless times in daydreams.

Marfa is the celebrated muse to minimalist artist, Donald Judd_. In the 1970s, as part of the land art movement, Judd reawakened this former water and railroad stop town to international fame when he installed perfectly shaped  cement blocks  across a sprawl of quiet terrain previously owned by the US military. (Marfa experienced a brief economic boom in the 1930s and 40s when the US military stationed its Chemical Warfare Brigades there).

Judd purchased and reused the military barracks and warehouses as galleries exhibiting the artwork of his contemporaries and his own sculptures. Marfa soon became his home and other free spirits followed Judd’s creative trek to the faraway West. Today Marfa is a rustic bohemia home to cowboys and hipsters.    

Marfa also quietly dazzles with a claim to Hollywood fame: it’s the backdrop to the 1956 epic, Giant ( during the filming, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson resided at the downtown Hotel Paisano and visitors are welcome to purchase movie mementos at the gift store, like copies of James Dean’s room key) and Oscar awarded, There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men. Despite playing host to film stars and an avant-garde art community (or perhaps in a determined response because of it), Marfa remains true to its Western roots and retains its authentic Texan charm.

The contrasts that define Marfa speak to my imagination and I am lured to experience the town for myself. I fear that the Marfa I find will pale to the one constructed of daydreams, but my time in Marfa confirms my intuitive feeling of this place : Marfa is mystery and magic.   

Throughout my stay, Marfa surprises me with unexpected moments of enchanting discoveries: A low warehouse door slides open to the coffee shop, Do Your Own Thing that specializes in porridge bowls and is the domain of a black lab named Bear. Around the corner, I discover a bookshop of my dreams. Sunlight streams into the wide windows of Marfa Book Company, illuminating the thoughtful displays of poetry anthologies written by Marfa locals.

My friend and I tour and ponder the exhibits in the contemporary art galleries, but the piece that strikes a heart chord is by a local teenager featured at the Marfa Studio of Arts, a non-profit dedicated to providing art programs for youth.  A skeleton mother cradles her bare bone baby in one hand and firmly holds a gun in another. The young artist captures my own desire for a feminine balance of softness and strength, nurturer and protector, mother and warrior.  

There is the delightful discovery of a swing on the back porch of the Lost Horse Saloon, a famous music stop for singers and bands traveling from Austin to the further west. I sip a Lone Star beer while flying off toward the stars, wanting to catapult out into the galaxy.  

The same patch of sky holds my gaze tonight while Marfa memories dance by like those mystery lights who are shy and taking their time. The stars and murmurs of conversation cradle me and I’m lulled into following another whisper of thought.

Places resonate with us for reasons; they acknowledge and entice suppressed or unexplored aspects of our personalities to unapologetically emerge and shine. Marfa is a place that sparks an inner flame. Marfa is a muse that enlivens and enriches my creative self. In the company of writers and artists, in the presence of paintings and books, and in a landscape wild with stories, I remember my innate need for creativity and feel so recharged and alive in my imagination that I understand that writing and artistic expression are essential to my well-being.

There’s a sudden appearance of a golden bulb of light drifting along the sky’s horizon. It could be a car traveling a back road, or perhaps, it is a whimsical being dancing along the foothills. I embrace the mystery; simply being here is enough, a daydream come true and the reality is magic.  

***

Morning-sun snapshot of Ballroom Marfa .   

A magical coffee shop discovery.  

Do Your Own Thing Coffee Shop : Porridge simmers in the back, open kitchen.    

Marfa Book Company  entices with glistening good reads. 

Over the railroad track to downtown Marfa.

Marfa Studio of Arts exhibits pieces by local teenagers. This one strikes a raw heart chord. 

The Chinati Foundation :  Former military base turned into contemporary art exhibit space by Donald Judd. 

Looking through Judd’s iconic cement blocks at the Chinati Foundation. 

Dearest Reader, listen and indulge your inner muse. Travel and see the places that call to you. There’s magic waiting.