Living deliberately

I realized something tonight.

I have been spending so much time lately occupying my mind with love and how I risked it and it failed me, that I have been blinded to every piece of inspiration I once sought and believed in.

It's like pain and failure blur the edges of what really means something. I seek love and relationships because it was the last time i really FELT something, and i miss that feeling of vulnerability and passion. The fact is, though, that I felt vulnerability and passion towards so many things once. Not just love. But music and quotes and poetry and books and God.

After a while, the brilliant things we once heard start to sound the same. Things like seizing the day and feeling your moments, like how short life is and how blessed we are. And our hearts become hardened because we almost start to believe that we have heard it all. And instead of revisiting why those things meant something to us, we just brush them off because we have already felt them before.

It sounds so sad. Once you have been hurt it's hard to go back to that place of childlike exploration and excitement. That's why so many adults seem so hardened... it's because they have ghosts following them around. Ghosts they haven't been able to see past.

I remember being 18 and writing a journal entry about the power of teaching. And how, more than anything, I wanted to teach music so I could inspire kids the way I was inspired from it. I wanted to show them that music wasn't just something to be learned to satisfy teachers and parents, but something to be EXPERIENCED every day in a brand new way. That when life gets tough or unmanageable, music is a place to go to feel free again. And lately it is if I sometimes lose sight of the fact that the ability to do this is presented to me every day.

This opportunity to inspire has become a job, something to pay the bills and keep me warm at night, and I have let the edges of that dream blur with the passing of time and the monotony of going through the motions.But there is a different kind of warm, and it has nothing to do with security. A kind of warm that I feel sometimes when I let things go quiet, or when I watch a movie that changes me, or when I read a quote that reminds me of how brilliant things can be.

I call myself content but in reality I often realize that I haven't felt anything REAL in a long time, and that scares me and leaves me with a feeling of panic.

When was the last time I sat down to read a book instead of turning on the TV... or the last time I took a walk just to look at the sky and feel the air on my face?

It's like we get so CAUGHT UP in everyday life that we forget to live. And that's why I have been so desperately clinging on to memories of the past.

It was like when you told me the other day that I needed to create something new instead of trying to recreate my old emotions. With God. It applies to EVERYTHING and I feel like I just got that.

I want to be inspired again. I want to hear old quotes in different ways. I want to look at my life as an amazing journey (again a so called cliche) instead of waiting... waiting for something to happen.

It's just so freaking hard.

Sailing.

It is 1 a.m. and the silence of the evening is all too familiar and comforting.

Mike sent me a text this week hinting once again that we need to talk. I don't know what he wants from me. He keeps taking me back to this past that no longer exists and it infuriates me. Sometimes I feel like he uses me to remind himself of the person he wants to be. He doesn't really love me. He loves the way I used to love him.

Which, of course, is heartbreaking. Have I become an expert on unrequited love? I think of meeting someone again someday, and I know that the person I want to be with wouldn't deserve the baggage I carry from this past relationship.

So I carried on with my day, finished my lessons, came home, recorded music, and contemplated the luxury of letting someone go. Really letting them go. Sending "love and light" their way each time they crossed my mind, and then dropping it. This must be a reality for some, or the idea wouldn't exist.

I've been taking lots of harbor walks lately. Gazing out at the fishing boats listening to clanking sails, dreaming of the lives of fishermen... oh the places they must go! In other parts of the harbor, there are large cruise ships that stand tall and shining, ready for their next journey.

The majority of the harbor is mostly small sailboats with names like "Relentless" and "Wait 'n' Sea" or "Grateful"... these boats are typically occupied with middle aged men. Jimmy Buffet lazily drifts slowly into the wind, and the faint smell of margaritas and cigars can be detected. Did these men save money their whole lives for these boats and their monthly slips? Or did they simply inherit them? I often get the sneaking suspision that these men, despite their floral print polo shirts and scruffy beards, lead quite successful lives at Law Firms or Tax Shops. They have wives, children, and golden retrievers. But everyone needs somewhere to go to escape. While my current escape is the grass and sidewalks that surround the harbor, I often dream of one day escaping to my own salt-stained boating paradise. Where I can get sunburned from sailing to Catalina, or where I can fall asleep to the sounds of the waves lapping against my cozy commune.

Someone asked me today if my dream was to become famous. I get asked that often. I don't want my name in lights. I just want the comfort of feeling free, music and all, by creating a home for myself. I don't want a ton of money, or recognition. I just want to be around when people need me, and I want them to be there when I need them. I want my little town by the sea to bring me all sorts of exciting adventures in and out of the water.

One of my students said something wonderful today. She wrote a song called "True Colors". The song was about a blind girl at her school that she had befriended.

"There's this girl at my school. She's blind. We think she's so nice. Anyway. We were describing colors to her."

Me: "How did you do that??"

Her: "Well... we were talking about pink, and how it is fuzzy and happy. And then we were describing purple. And how purple was hazy, and mysterious. And then green, how it was earthy. But how the earth wasn't as green anymore cuz we polluted it so much."

Me: "That is really great you were talking to her about that..."

Her: "And then we described black. And I said black was awesome and wonderful."

Me: "Why? Black is dark. And scary sometimes."

Her: "I knew that black was all she saw. And I didn't want to say that because I didn't want her to think that all she saw was darkness. I wanted her to know black was freaking awesome."

This student is eleven. (soon to be twelve in march)

I am starting to realize forty-six students is too much. I don't have time to dwell and feel the way I used to. I don't see things as they used to be when I only had 25 - 30. It's not that I am working too much, it is that I feel like all of my kids deserve every ounce of energy and enthusiasm that I have. So maybe I am working too much. Not WORKING too much, but TEACHING too much. I am afraid I can't handle it all. Do you ever get to that point in your life? Where you're so happy you could burst? And you're afraid of becoming inadequate? At the SAME TIME?

When I worked at the studio, group lessons were easier. I threw songwriters showcases on Saturdays with ease, group lesson no problem, everything was easier. Probably because I didn't drive to everyone's houses. I don't know. Maybe because i only had about sixteen students then. I never thought it would get to this place.

What is this place?

The Letter

This was my night tonight.

I came home to find my roommates sitting in the family room with a guy we went to high school with. I can't remember his name, but I always thought he was cute in high school. I saw him on New Year, he spent the night here out on the couch. I was making breakfast for dinner and he came in and laughed. He looked at me and said " Are you making breakfast for dinner? That's freaking awesome. The smell of bacon is an aphrodisiac almost." I looked at him and said "It reminds me of childhood... but same thing I guess." He laughed and tried to make conversation with me. I became increasingly aware that he was showing interest, not necessarily flirting but trying to get to know me... asking where I worked and what I did for a living. I was so nervous I was sweating, embarrassed by my bacon that was frying on the stove... so nervous I couldn't look him in the eyes. When he left, I wondered whether or not he liked me, whether or not I should have conversed further. And I realized not only am I out of practice, but that it shouldn't be practice. It should feel natural. And then. I was watching TV later, feeling fat off of my bacon and eggs, drinking pinot grigio, when I got a text. "In the last month I've come to realize that side of me you saw and didn't like.I'm in Colorado and these mountains bring me back to the person i was with you, and woke something in me. I'm going to be that way again, but not for you. For me. I want to see beauty in the world again, so I'll leave this alone, leave you alone, even though it kills me. I know you are right to not respond to my txts or messages." Guess who. I responded with "I guess I just thought that when we grew up together we'd keep the same values. The same love for life, the same passions. For things like rain and country music and family and movies and sunsets. I didn't think we grow this far apart. I feel like I still believe in those things. And you don't. And it makes me feel lonely, and sad for you." And he responded "I still do, and those things remind me of you. Sunsets, country drives, summer rain. You have all of the best memories and I don't do those things with Alyssa But I need to learn how, and I am going to try." ... At this point it occurred to me that this is how he's kept me these past few years. Entangled in him based on this ghost of who he used to be, a ghost he says he still recognizes. And then writes this: "You don't know it, but almost every positive emotion with love is related to you. It makes it impossible to move on without becoming calloused. " And I just cried. For the longest time. What's odd is last year I couldn't cry over it, I could only complain. And this year, whenever I think of him, I cry. And sometimes I stay up until four a.m. dissecting our relationship, why I am still in love with Mike, and I cry. I cry and cry and cry because it feels so fucking real that it aches to the point of physical distress. That our childhoods were so brilliant and we experienced mistakes and heartache together... and now all we experience is reality and how we need to find others to satisfy the thirst we once had for one another. then he wrote : "What I have now, it works. we get along, we laugh and we have our intimate moments. But if she were to leave me I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't chase her. I wouldn't stay up all night grieving her until the sun came up. It is what it is." And I wrote this back : "I think first love is just really overpowering sometimes. It doesn't mean there isn't another love out there will make you stronger, or better. Maybe you have found that love with Alyssa, maybe you haven't found it yet... but we both deserve it. A different kind of love." People speak of this different kind of love their whole lives.... Falling in love with numerous people. I like to think I was in love with Sonny and Michael, that it was just a different kind of love. And who knows... maybe it was. Maybe that was the different kind of love others speak about. I know that I did love Michael and Sonny, and looking back now I am more than grateful for what those relationships taught me about msyelf, about men, about the world. I'm not afraid of being hurt as much as I am afraid of falling in love again. I'm afraid of both, but love is more scary. Because it makes you vulnerable. Hurt just makes you angry. But love makes you learn. I don't think people learn from their pain. I think they learn from the emotion that made them have the ability to feel pain in the first place. We feel anger and sadness because we had hope that got shut down... people let us down, or hurt us, or made us feel rejected. But just the FACT that we were able to feel those things meant we were able to feel love, hope, and passion in the first place. And that is kind of awesome... and I don't think I'll ever reject that again. I may be apprehensive, but I look back now and realize every hurt was worth it. Because it brought me closer to who I am today. The love that took me to the hurt made me better. And being jaded... while understandable... I think is just a lie. A wall. A shield. Apprehension makes sense, but anger and mistrust are the lies we tell ourselves so we don't have to take risks. I wish I coulda called you to say all that. Sorry for the babbling. But when epiphanies come, they come, you know??? :) I miss you, best friend. Can't wait to see you next week. You're the only one that would get all of this.

Car Crash

I recently said something I meant, but I said it to the wrong person, and I lost a friendship over it. I hate that words have that power - the magnificent power to express or destroy. How calloused can I possibly be, spouting opinions to the wrong audience, expecting understanding? It was rude, yet I couldn't help thinking how justified I felt. That spouting of the powers of destruction.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, watching it from the curb, and not being able to do a single thing to stop it. And I watched this persons eyes go from warm to cold so quickly I could have sworn I'd mistaken my own judgment. A look that sounded like splitting metal and smelled like gasoline. Hatred. Through the eyes of someone who tells me to forgive, to accept, to understand. Cold, unforgiving hatred.

And as I walked away from the argument into the violent, cold wind, I couldn't help but cry. Because I was hit with this awful realization that sometimes we can't control what we say. And we have to accept the consequences that come with that. Sometimes.

It seems that the most fatal of topics are those involving personal matters of the heart. Religion, loyalty, social politics. These are the most important topics, and yet they hurt us the most.

So tonight I will cling to what is the most comfortable - a conversation with a family member, another with a best friend, a text to a possible first date. I will watch Christmas movies through blurry eyes in the comfort of my own bed, and I will think, really think, about why safety is so important. And why it is important to speak when you think something is significant, even if it is offensive. Because that's the way you learn. By being human.

A wish.

Saturday night and cough drops.

Stringing beads on a thin wire, watching their colors blend together like a hurricane sunset.

Old friends and card games.

Midterms and makeup lessons.

Singlehood- Friend or foe? (Friend, I think.)

Not waiting for any sort of dramatic fall.

I wish it could stay this way forever. I could just stay in this bubble of twenty something, while still learning and growing, but not becoming jaded. Just safe.

I've been through the post-breakup steps. Forgiveness; of myself and of the other person. I've done all of the overanalyzing and over thinking... where did we go wrong? That stuff. It doesn't really matter anymore. I see it all so perfectly... clear as a raindrop. I am too young to know, we were too young to mature, we were just kids and still are. And how are we expected to be a certain type of love? Big love is reserved for those who can keep their minds. I don't think I've ever been in love. That's ok- I'm not afraid of that. Not as afraid as I am of not experiencing my life. I'll mess up a million times and fall in a dejected heap, but the bigger tragedy would be to never put myself out there. And I'm not just talking about relationships. I'd rather be that way than safe. But I can still wish for both.

What are facebook notes for? I never read the notes of others. They usually consist of those attention grabbing chain letters that are relentlessly popular. (I've participated before, I won't deny that.)

But blogging is different. It's a little freer, a little less advertised. It's nice to rant without a judgmental audience.

I ain't hit the roof since I don't know when...

Salmon Sunday.

A glass of white wine, the soulful smell of bonfires, the gentle breeze on my arms and face... Summer is almost over, I can feel it ending.

I was thinking today about how nothing is really my own, and I am kind of grateful for that. Sure, places can be mine, like the edge of my bed or the chair next to my window. Things can be mine, like my guitar or my computer. But everything that matters, everything that is on the inside, is shared. Opinions, friendship, love, insecurity, desire, anger, frustration, annoyance, lust, ambition, passion, inspiration. I don't need to talk about it to know the rest of the world is feeling it, too. That is strangely comforting.

I can't stop writing music lately. About God, and love (all kinds), and the little things. The ones I tend to miss when I am not paying attention. Things like smiles, and propeller beanies, and the way the salt from the ocean and the pine tree outside my window mingle together to smell like a beach forest. (Does that exist somewhere? It must.) White hair with silver streaks, and mouth wrinkles, pumpkin pie scented air freshener, yoga, and uncontrollable laughter.

Country is my inspiration, usually. Not so much the lyrics most days, but more like the banjos and the twang. And the heart you can feel through the notes. That kind of thing.


I can't get my charcoal to light. I have a three legged barbecue from Big Lots, and it doesn't want to work. I haven't dated in months, I'm on a sabbatical. (Metaphorically speaking.) And this is the first time in months I have missed having a boyfriend. Because he could light my charcoal, take out my trash, and check my oil. And I wouldn't have to worry about it. And it's almost worth the hassle of a relationship. Not quite, though. I nearly singed off my eyebrows trying to light the damn thing.

Well this was a magnificent attempt to kill time. My grill is now in working order (thank you, guy downstairs) and my salmon is ready. I think I'll make it a point to learn how to do manly things myself. Yes, I will do that.

Paige