Thoughts from the Deschutes River.

(Notes from a fly fishing trip on the Deschutes River, a three-day trip my father, brother, and I take every year in October around our (my brother’s and my) birthdays.) [Author’s note: posted in November, though I wrote most of this before I actually turned 30.]

Day One.

We awoke before light appeared in the sky, dragged our tired sorry asses out of bed, filled up on a hot continental breakfast (a real unexpected treat), then off to drive down to the river to meet our river guide. We've worked with the same guide for multiple years now, it's always good to see his friendly, annual face. We hit the river by 7am.

Within moments of casting off from the shore, the rain started, ranging from a niggling drizzle to an oppressive downpour, and essentially didn't stop for the next 12 hours. Even with all our waterproof gear, it was still an unpleasant experience, defending my cocoon of dryness against the attempted breaches by Mother Nature. Everything around you is wet: your bags are wet, the seats are wet, your snacks are wet; every time you remove a glove to do something with your bare hand and stick it back into the glove, some wetness infiltrates, compromising the zone of warmth you had set up for yourself. The steelhead salmon remained elusive throughout the day, though that’s par for the course for these fish that are infamously difficult to catch. Standing out in the river fishing through a spot, there’s no evidence that they’re even present: we’re a bunch of anglers praying at the alter of the Fish. I can’t help but lose interest or hope after a time, so my mind wanders.

During this trip, my thoughts have been centering on relationships lost. I'm rapidly approaching my 30th birthday and I still harbor a deep, inexplicable, and unshakeable fear that reaching my 30s and still single means I will die loveless and alone, and it's my fault for this situation and I chose this path to destruction and gave up some perfect opportunities for long-term happiness. Standing out here in the frigid waters, feeling the heat leech from my body, there is precious little to offer distraction from these thoughts. 

A lack of action in fishing, the insufferable weather, and my melancholic humor combined together to make a rather quiet, withdrawn day. By the time we reached our campsite, all three of us were ready to be done. "Thank god," I thought to myself, "I'm not sure I could take much more of this.” We were all similarly exhausted. It’s strange, thinking about how we were willfully engaged in an activity that we were *relieved* to be done with at the end of the day. Wandering around the camp grounds did treat me to some lovely views, which offered me a welcome respite and a reminder of part of why I make this trip every year.

 Day Two.

If yesterday was the day of rain, today was the day of wind. While I generally find wind to be beautiful and awesome, it is profoundly frustrating to attempt fly fishing on a blustery day. Casting with a fly fishing rod is a delicate art of timing and finesse, a subtle dance that the wind bowls over like a ogre. Despite the impeding weather, we did at last get confirmation that steelhead were there, with my dad and I each landing one within a couple minutes of each other. 

I quickly descended into the same ruminations as yesterday. I don’t know why I obsess over such things, or why 30 is considered a critical checkpoint by which I should have settled down with a partner. It’s been a chief concern since high school, though at that time I was focused on finding a romantic partner who would play video games with me. We’re in a new era where “30 is the new 20,” but unfortunately my expectations haven’t caught up to match, so my gremlins keep telling me 30s is when my prospects of finding a person start to dwindle rapidly. It’s annoying how intransigent they are: I have plenty empirical evidence in the form of so many amazing people in my life, people with whom I’ve formed connections of many styles and forms, which should indicate that I’m going to be just fine and I need to be patient.

I suspect much of my anguish stems for a belief that I nearly secured for myself that desired future (and blew the chance, my gremlin would append). Up until last year, I was happily moving forward with my life, unconcerned about this goal on the horizon, until I met a person that gave me concrete hope in turning that dream into reality, unleashing a bunch of hopes and dreams I had tidily locked away. When that relationship came to an end, my hopes ended with it, leaving me alone with the fears. I still miss her, a lot, I dream (literally and figuratively) of sharing space with her, I’m still hooked on that imagined future I created with her in it.

Admitting it brings on feelings of shame: I should be over it by now, I’ve been grieving for longer than ever before. I judge myself because there have been other impactful relationships in my past and it feels like I’m disrespecting them by being more heartbroken over this one than any other. I don't understand why, and it seems incongruous with my reality of how profoundly I've been affected by others, how much other relationships have meant to me. 

All this hurting certainly confuses the fostering of new connections, as I find myself blindsided by a flashbacks that grip my heart, even when I'm sharing space with other people and being wholehearted. In my last post on this topic, I wrote, "The challenging part is accepting the interleaving of moments uplifting and crushing.” I am just feeling that so hard right now.

Part of healing is finding new love, and yet it’s hard to welcome in that love to heal you when you’re still hurting, and that catch-22 makes the prospect of getting over someone feel impossible. Do people normally carry past loves with them for so long, always aware of those paths unexplored or curtailed? I have a hard time sitting with this reality, for that other path feels like it was ripped away from me, I was stripped of control and had to accept a new harsh reality that I didn't want to accept.

As the night carried on and I poured my thoughts onto the screen, sitting by the river with the rush of the water in my ears, I slipped into a woeful downward spiral, recounting many of my past relationships, recalling their highlights, and feeling increasingly sad about the loss of them. Eventually, I forced myself to sleep in order to break the cycle of derisive and destructive self-talk. It was one of the worst spirals I’ve faced in several months. I had been doing relatively well for quite some time, I guess I had built up a lot of sadness to release all at the same time.

Day Three.

A short and sweet day, and a decently uplifting ending to a rather physically and mentally demanding fishing trip. The rain and wind relented and my brother, whom the fish had eluded for the first two days, at long last hooked a steelhead on our first stop. (As if in a way of cosmic apology, Nathan landed yet another fish later on as well.) In the process of taking some action photos of him, I tripped and fell into the river, flooding my waders with icy water. I fortunately had a spare change of clothes and the weather wasn't as wretched, so I wasn't shivering all day. Even so, it broke my resolve to keep fishing, so I was very glad to see the landing ramp that signaled the end of the trip.

Now it’s off to home, a quick dinner, and then a drive back to Seattle. It’s going to be a busy week — my birthday is Thursday, my 30th birthday weekend shindig gets underway Friday evening, with many logistics still to handle. This pace of life, swooping from one activity to the next with little downtime, is par for the course, and one not maintainable forever.

I’m slowly trying to shift gears toward being more locally focused. Having a place of permanent residence certainly helps. My calendar is not nearly as packed as it has been in the past, and while I’m still traveling a great deal I have been getting a lot out of being home in Seattle. It’s hard to say “No” to opportunities for travel, for visiting new places and old. I see a conundrum in wanting a local partner to build something with, but not spending enough time locally to foster that possibility because I’d rather travel when I don’t have a partner to be with. But as I enter this new phase and learn from the past relationship, I seek ways to create space for something more permanent and rooted. It can be hard to maintain hope that such a person will come, that I will eventually meet someone and I haven’t “used up” all my luck, and I guess that’s just a struggle I’ll always be living with.

As I prepare for this thirtieth trip around the sun, I certainly didn’t want to be flying solo, but such is the way my life has unfurled, through a meandering sequence of decisions and events that have brought me to this moment. Reflecting upon each turning point in my life, each career decision, each relationship started or ended, it’s unclear whether this reality is my own "fault," if I made an error along and now I am reaping what I sowed. I branch off from each place into an alternate universe where I took a different course, forecasting a rose-colored life where I’m somehow far more happier than I am right now. It’s a useless, unproductive habit, and one I can’t help but indulge in from time to time. At the end of the day, there’s not a thing I can do to change it: there’s only one way to travel the river of life, and that’s downstream. 

Thought of You.

One year ago on the last Tuesday of June, I (re-)met a person who instantly gave wings to my heart. I had found a Soul Mate and was granted the greatest gift on Earth to call this person my partner. I was convinced that I'd spend the rest of my life with her. I had never experienced passion on this level, or such confidence that we would happily grow old together and experience rich and sustaining lives.

Six months ago, I was blindsided by the partnership coming to an abrupt end when she called it off. The reasons were legitimate, we both had stuff to work through. It was out of my control. I was beside myself with grief.

Four months ago, I began to work through what I wanted out of life and love and partnership, and reflected on how to be a better, more attentive partner. I've grown into a new phase of life centered around roots and family and focusing energy on one person. These changes occurred organically, through a natural coming to certain realizations about myself. It resolved conflicts at the root of our breakup, but tragically it was too little too late.

Today, I woke up with the whispers of a dream about her fading from my memory, my heart aching, thinking about everything she has meant to me. I watched the animated short "Thought of You," missed her with every fiber of my being, and cried uncontrollably.

I strive to live fully, open-hearted, and in the present, but damn this is hard. I can still feel utterly alone and adrift. I have a brilliant life filled with amazing people and dancing and adventure and growth, for which I'm so deeply grateful, and yet sometimes all I can think about is that she's not in it. Every time I hear her name or see her face in memory or on a photo or in person, my heart squeezes. It's a squeeze made exquisite with a mixture of excitement (here is this person I love so deeply!) and anguish (here is this person I love so deeply and don't get to fully express and live in that love!). 

When I feel this heartache this intensely, it raises internal concerns that I’m hanging on, not letting go, not processing completely. It’s easy to view the breakdowns as signs of weakness, of being incomplete or not fully healed or not “over them,” but the reality is more nuanced. It could mean that processing is incomplete, or it could signify being present with a deep and real sorrow, a loss that can never be recovered. That kind of sadness doesn’t disappear, it stays with us; we just come to accept it as a part of our existence. I’m reminded of the last half of Taylor Mali’s “Time and Tears Enough”:

If all of this were happening...

If this were your first Christmas alone...

wouldn't you expect broken glass to bloom at your feet?

Little flowers of destruction

bursting like the blossoms of shattered flutes

sown in the springtime of a hardwood floor.

Wouldn't you expect chaos for a time?

When things break,

the jagged pieces draw blood.

This, at least, makes sense.

But there is time, and tears enough.

So you wait and you cry,

and you cry and you wait.

For as long as you want.

Or as long as it takes.

The breakdowns will happen, and they make sense. The challenging part is accepting the interleaving of moments uplifting and crushing. Being present in this way is hard because there are so many conflicting experiences of life. I may be surrounded by caring, wonderful friends who make me feel appreciated and cherished, and at the same time I want her to be in that room with me. I may flirt with some beautiful and interesting and talented people over a dance weekend, and at the same time I desire nothing more than to be with her. These feelings seem conflicting on the surface, that they can’t both be genuine and occupy the same heartspace. But that’s the curious things about hearts: they’re quite adept at genuinely holding conflicting emotions. My only choice is to continue being present with my emotions, the elated and the downtrodden, the hopeful and the despondent, the confident and the insecure. I must allow them to flow through me and trust that they’re all in due course. 

My relationship with her induced cascading realizations about what I wanted in life and what were my priorities. Our breakup gave me the space to take a long hard look at myself and how I want to operate in a relationship. As we grow, we grow in random and unexpected ways, heavily influenced by the people in our lives. We’re like a mosaic, where each diversely colored piece is an experience. Every once in a while, falling apart into a million little pieces allows us to begin again with a clean slate and take all those same learnings to assemble into a more coherent, elegant whole.

We all carry remnants of past relationships that touch our soul, they help form the pieces that form the mosaic of our being. In losing it all, we can choose how to put those pieces back together, we get to determine what kind of art we wish to create. That is a tremendous benefit, coming at a devastating cost. When in the depths of despair, when a life of being solo seems inevitable, I can take some comfort in knowing that I am actively reshaping the entirety of my being. 

Blues Garden.

Last weekend was one of the most wonderful, magical, and loving blues weekends I’ve attended in many years, called Blues Garden, which takes place in Gothenburg, Sweden. The organizing team, “the gardeners,” infuse their warm character into the event and sprinkle magic everywhere. Here were some highlights...

The Prelude.

Not part of the actual event, I arrived in Gothenburg a couple days early to help adjust to jet lag and not roll into the event super exhausted. On Friday, I joined a dear friend for a jaunt about a nearby wilderness park, where we had the pleasure of seeing all sorts of Nordic wildlife.

I've never seen a penguin in real life before.

Hipster goat.

On to the dancing!

The Musicians.

Listening to Christoffer Johansson perform. He’s without question my favorite living Blues musician. I turn to putty every time I hear him on stage. He captivates the audience, puts them under a spell, so that people can be at a dance event and spent part of his act just listening and swaying gently, transported to another dimension. I’ve never heard anyone quite like him. Part of his power is the genuine emotion with which he shares his music. Even when they’re classics from a century ago, he connects with him in a heartfelt manner and sings the songs as authentically as when they were probably first formed.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

You can’t help but empathize with him and feel your own wellspring of emotion stir in response. It actually came to a point of comic climax during one of his songs. He just finished a long, sustained note/wail in the middle of a song, a note filled with such anguish the room was utterly silent in its aftermath. I, feeling a surge of feeling in response, couldn’t help but groan/growl/grunt (some weird mixture of the three, probably) in response, but it came out way louder than I anticipated, so that everyone in the entire ballroom heard me. In the microseconds that followed, which felt like minutes, I wanted desperately wished for the ability to retract my primal utterance, but it was too late, and I feared the worst. To my astonishment, the floor of over 200 dancers erupted into gales of laughter that lasted at least a minute, completely derailing everything; even Christoffer broke his stage character, cracked a smile, and laughed. Happily, my dancing partner took it in stride and found it equally amusing rather than mortifying. 

The attendees of Blues Garden were also treated to repeat performances of the exceptionally talented Gothenburgers Mattias and Hannah. Mattias is a freaking wizard on the piano, able to improvise the most incredible Blues songs with a musical deftness that rivals (in my opinion) Gordon Webster or Josh Fialkoff. Meanwhile, Hannah treated us to her dulcet singing voice that never failed to delight. She also sings a convincing muted trumpet, complete with a handy (hah!) pantomime. They put together a 30-minute set in roughly 10 minutes, and it was nothing short of fantastic. The attendees relentlessly tried to keep them on stage with ovations. 

The decorations.

Their venue was transformed into an enchanted wonderland at night. Flowers adorned all the staircases and door frames. There was a space for communally crafted poetry. All the fixtures were properly dressed to cast warm, diffuse light. Inside the main ballroom, the space was converted into the Enchanted Forest straight out of Narnia, complete with the lamppost in the middle of the dance floor. The brought in real trees from the forest and decorated them with flowers and fake birds. The only thing missing was a snow-dusted wardrobe. I’ve never seen decorations before in all the events I’ve attended; Blues Garden is simply unprecedented.

Note those are flowers that were manually affixed to the tree. 

The food.

My god, the food. It’s a Swedish tradition called “fika,” and I think it’s the best tradition ever. It involves making delicious food and serving it with coffee/tea at dances for a nominal fee. And by “delicious food,” I mean “hand-made just-cooked-in-the-kitchen” food. Salads with myriad toppings, all sorts of gourmet breads and cheeses, more desserts than I could bear to sample. It makes such a difference to maintain a steady blood sugar level, especially as the hours wear on. 

I didn't capture any photos of the fika, but as a case in point about Swedes and their food, here's a "simple breakfast" according to them.

The people.

No dance would be worth attending without the dancers. Blues Garden manages to attract like-minded people: warm, friendly, open-hearted. And so many of them are fantastic dancers. I had more quality dances than I can remember to count, on par with some of the largest Blues events in the world, except experienced in a quaint and homey regional event in Sweden. While at some events I find myself being placed on a pedestal as a teacher and everyone wants something from me, here I felt like one of the crowd, and people wanted nothing more than to connect with me as human beings, to share recognition of one another. 

This is something where I always wish I was taking more photos. When I reflect upon my travels, I often think of the people that were a part of it, yet so rarely I photograph them, or me with them. Mostly because it's awkward, it kind of takes me out of the moment. But then, I look back and see a woeful dearth of ways to remember all the lovely people I spent time with. Sometimes I quietly wish that I had a full-time photographer following me around at these events, surreptitiously candid photos of me so I can remember later. My memory is a sad thing, generally spotty and quick to log moments into archival storage, not indexed, and only retrievable when someone asks specifically for that memory. Photos serve as the way to jog my memory.

My words cannot capture the love and positive energy that coursed through this event. It felt like a huge family reunion, minus the uncomfortable family interactions. Nothing but smiles and laughter and heartful conversations. I cherish these kinds of events, the ones where everyone comes ready to participate, to give rather than consume. It creates an incredible atmosphere, a gift economy of love, where everyone is constantly giving and thus also constantly receiving, but in gratitude and humility rather than expectation. The Gardeners clearly set a pathos for the event, one that attracts like-minded people who want to grow together and celebrate this brief shining moment. I was so floored by the energy at Blues Garden, it is without question the most vulnerability-encouraging event I have ever attended in Europe.

The teachers.

Gas and Alba, Vicci and Adamo, and Annette. (And me.) I respect each of these teachers for myriad reasons, and I think we formed an excellent teaching team. We all brought something different to the table, but always presented with humility and love for dance and respect for the event. There were no egos here, nothing but eagerness to share and inspire.

The leggings.

Knowing about the enchanted theme of the weekend, I came prepared to dress up in a different way on Saturday night: leggings and a collared shirt reminiscent of a pirate’s costume. What I didn’t realize was that no one else would dress up in masquerade. Everyone dressed super nicely, but in the traditional sense. I was the only person to look fanciful. The moment I stepped into the dance space, eyes were falling upon me. I felt out of place, dressed garishly and vulnerably, form-fitted and with little to hide behind. I had gone all-in, dove head first, but as I jumped I realized I was diving into an empty pool. People would be overtaken with laughter upon seeing my leggings and teased that I looked like Peter Pan — not maliciously, but due to my rapidly developing insecurity it impacted me harshly. Immediately the waves of embarrassment began to crash over me.

You’re dressing outlandishly to get attention.

You couldn’t pull off those tights anyway, joker.

You’re being inappropriate.

You’re making people uncomfortable. 

You should change yourself. No, not just your clothes.

I knew there was a showcase that night that I was to do with Annette, and suddenly I felt terrible for dressing this way, thinking I would make us look bad. I had been irresponsible and unprofessional. There were multiple times that I wanted to run away, to go back to my host’s place to change into more traditional clothing. But it was too late, I had already committed, I might as well stick with it. So I swallowed my pride, tried to ignore the countless comments and stares received, and performed the showcase (a medley of seven different songs and styles).

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Even though the night went off without a hitch, even though I slowly overcame my crushing embarrassment, even though people were on the whole very nice and a few genuinely complimented my costume, my physique, and my willingness to just go for it, my heart sank to my toes when I saw this photo for the first time. I look like an idiot, I thought to myself. 

Shakespearean fool or no, I left quite the impression. People were talking about it constantly. During a panel discussion on Blues dancing the following day, one person asked, “Are tights the new trousers?” The room exploded into raucous laughter and applause.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

As part of the feedback form for the event, one question asks “What was your favorite part of the event?” A few people put down “Andrew’s leggings.”

At the end of the day, I am able to laugh about it, but I went through an unexpected range of emotions to get there. I have a curious relationship with being in the spotlight. All my life, I tend to exist on the outskirts. I’m not the life of the party, I’m not able to hold the attention of large groups of people, I don’t like to draw attention to myself. In fact, I can be a bit judgmental of those who I deem to be “acting out” for the sake of receiving attention. Dressing up in this way, I subjected myself to that same criticism.

The irony is not lost on me that I, a person who habitually avoids the limelight, fell into a profession where I exist in that light constantly.  Perhaps it has to do with the “teacher cap” I put on, the metaphysical costume I drape over myself when I step into the role of Teacher and beneath which I can hide. I, Andrew Smith, am not occupying the center of attention, this is Teacher Andrew. But that’s not entirely true anymore, that I protect myself in this way: over the course of the past several years I have learned to more often remove that guise and just be Andrew Smith, a person who is also a Teacher. Northwest Blues Recess in 2014 was a pivotal moment to that end, where I was unabashedly myself and also the recipient of a lot of focus and awareness. Still, it’s a learning process, and it can be downright scary to share in this way. (Yes, I realize I do the same through my blog, but for some reason it feels even more real when I do it among people in real life.)

There was one quote I recently encountered while reading The Art of Asking, by Amanda Palmer, which has given me valuable food for thought:

        There’s a difference between wanting to be looked at and wanting to be seen.

        When you are looked at, your eyes can stay blissfully closed. You suck energy, you steal the spotlight. When you are seen, your eyes must be open, as you are seeing and recognizing your witness. You accept energy and you generate energy. You create light.

        One is exhibitionism, the other is connection.

        Not everybody wants to be looked at.

        Everybody wants to be seen.

I think it has helped frame my thinking about people giving me the gift of their attention and awareness. I always feel undeserving of it, yet I am so humbled and grateful to receive it. It is simply being seen, but by a lot of people. And that can be quite unnerving. But I’m kind of a connection junkie.

Cleaning house: reflections on love, partnership, and loss.

This post started with wanting to write about being single on Valentine’s Day. Over the past couple weeks of reflecting and writing, it has evolved into something much more.

When I departed for Australia, it felt like pretty much everything in my world was falling apart. Professional life abounded with stressors, I was still devastated from a breakup from a couple months ago, and then the day before I departed I went through redefining a (different) partnership to be a friendship. The only thing I had left for stability was an amazing community: all else was changing out from under me. The situation contrasted sharply with the past summer, when it felt like everything was on the up and up: amazing job with flexibility for remote work and a budding partnership to which I quickly assigned dreams of marriage and family. Now, I found myself irrevocably, painfully single. Part of the reason I embarked for Australia so ill-prepared was that I'd been preoccupied with all these other events. In many ways, going on a grand adventure to Australia was the *last* thing I wanted -- my chief desire being to crawl into a hole. 

On my trip over, I set an intention for my journey Down Under: to maintain an open heart. I, of course, wanted to turtle, to withdraw and never again expose myself to the abject dangers of falling in love the way I did last summer. Following through on such reactive impulses would, of course, only further hurt me, trapping the pain inside by putting up a wall between the world and me. So I promised myself to be wholehearted and honest with myself and others. That’s a tricky position to maintain, particularly when your heart is laden with grief and you sound like a broken record from a bad Country artist (it was so good back then, it was all my fault, now I’ve lost everything, yadda yadda); it’s hard to not think that being in my company would begin to pall. It’s not something you want to ever show to another living person, lest they judge you for being feeble, for appearing vulnerable, for indulging in self-destructive thought patterns. In a world where we are trained to always and only present a well-rounded, carefully put together persona, being wholehearted like that can be downright terrifying. Of course, as my past two years of growing in the learning from Daring Greatly has taught me, leaning into the discomfort and allowing myself to be vulnerable is the best course of action.

In practice, it feels forced, this process of putting myself out there; in my moments of insecurity, all I want to do is feel sorry for myself, all I long for is to be with her. The connection we shared was all-encompassing, a soul mate connection, giving way to moments that would leave me breathless, exhilarated, and deeply grateful to be with this person. The loss of this bond makes all else feel dull by comparison, dimming the brightness of the world: no one else will be her, and forming new life experiences reminds me she’s not a part of them. When I mentioned in a previous post about being withdrawn on the Friday of a dance weekend, it’s because I was in the throes of missing her and couldn’t be bothered to find interest in anything else about life. This mindset is so unproductive and equally impossible to escape, impervious as it is to reasoning.

When a relationship comes to an end, you lose more than the other person: you lose the dream of what a future would be with them. Part of what has made this breakup so particularly overwhelming — despite lasting for a relatively brief duration — was how vividly I could imagine that future with her. I easily envisioned all the aspects of life that I wish for one day: adventures around the world shared in the company of another, building a home and community, raising a family. The future has been a hazy and far-off concept for the majority of my relationships, but for this one it felt like it was right around the corner. Losing a dream that ties into deep-set beliefs about fulfillment in life has brought on such emotional anguish. It has brought me to the uncomfortable realization of how strongly I tie self-actualization in life to finding a mate.

One sagacious friend pointed out that I may have lost the possibility to fulfill the dream with that person, but the dream in the abstract (marriage, family, community, etc.) still belongs to me. Excellent advice to be sure, but it’s hard to be comforted by it right now. The mind latches on to the details, it likes concreteness. An insubstantial notion that one day I might find a mate and have an enriching life-long partnership pales in comparison to the evocative imagery I built up surrounding a future with this person. I endeavor to redefine my dream to not include her, but my mind refuses to let go. It is exceptionally difficult to replace a broken dream that involves a specific person with a complete dream that involves no one in particular. 

In lamenting to friends that I'd never meet someone else quite so amazing and that I was sure to die alone (a classic siren song of my internal gremlins), some joked that I'd probably meet that person in Australia. I replied that I surely hope not, because Australia is simply too long distance. But more seriously, I’m not ready to find someone else, as I have work to do: I need to learn from my previous experiences and discover how to be a better person, both in a partnership and solo. 

I’ve been thinking a great deal reflecting upon what I actually want in my life, what lifestyle I believe will be most enriching, and where my priorities lie. I’ve begun to question whether perhaps, like many other parts of my life, the relationship model is an aspect on which I’m flexible; that I have leanings, but am happy to go with what fits in the relationship for the right person. I’ve realized how easily I fall into a pattern in a partnership and stop being fully present, no longer offering the same level of love and attention that person deserves. My time here in Australia has helped me find clarity around where I want my life to head in the next five years: finding a long-term partner, beginning to settle down, and laying the groundwork for raising a family.

I’m grateful for these realizations, because it means I’m learning more about myself, but it’s also a direct trigger to a downward spiral starting with the thought, “This sure would’ve been good to figure out BEFORE that relationship ended.” I can’t blame myself too much, I suppose: these questions are deep, complex, and impossible to answer solely through reasoning. We have no choice but to live into the answer, and in my case the timing on this evolution of understanding meant I still lost a profoundly important relationship. The predominantly nomadic lifestyle I’ve adopted, necessitated by my path in teaching dance professionally, has been unquestionably rewarding, but it did allow me to fall into a holding pattern of never setting down roots anywhere.

While I have spent a lot of energy deconstructing my relationship dynamic, I have also spent time aimed inwardly. If we went with a metaphor of a house representing each one of us, I have an unfortunate tendency when in a partnership to focus solely upon building a new, shared home. I stop going back to my own house so often to perform regular upkeep. It’s been two years since I was last single, and now the kitchen of my house is a complete mess and there’s some science experiment growing in my fridge. I have to remember that my house is still my life force and I need to care for it, so it’s time to start cleaning. To that end, I’ve spent time and energy being with myself, being at peace with the world around me, being comfortable with being alone. I need to remember what brings me inspiration, what fills me with joy (aside from the obvious, which I can’t have), what helps me grow as a person. Essentially, I’m learning once again how to date myself, something I haven’t done for far too long. Clearly, I have a long way to go, but at least it’s progress.

I’ve done my best to allow other people into my proverbial home to visit, even while I’m cleaning house. This occurred once while in Melbourne, when I connected with someone on a romantic level. We met at Cider House Blues and then proceeded to spend several days and evenings together during my week in the city. We were both in a place to be able to appreciate the casual but sincere connection without attachment, and parted ways (on V-day, naturally) on excellent terms with much gratitude in our hearts for the brief time we shared.

The path to being open-hearted while brokenhearted is fraught with jarring juxtapositions of joy and sorrow. Take, for instance, the way I actually spent our final day together, wandering around St. Kilda Festival, a huge music festival that transforms much of the St. Kilda suburb. We enjoyed good food, gorgeous weather, and sharing playful, creative dances at a Salsa music stage and, later, at a bar playing classic soul tunes. I was swimming with delirious happiness, drunk on dancing and warm summer weather. Then I began to get hit by these sharp pangs of remorse as a memory would surface: one of meandering an arts festival on a beautiful day with my former partner, dancing in public, perusing the wares of vendors (predominantly of charming home furnishings) and daring to imagine crafting a home together and populating it with such accoutrements. It’s like my brain is determined to feel sad, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, will repeatedly bring to my attention evidence of why I should be the saddest person ever.

It is natural that my brain would offer these reminders. We identify strongly with painful situations; our brains are trained to make extensive notes about circumstances that lead to pain and then raise the alarm for future events that bear any resemblance. As a species, we are served well by an aversion to pain. The pain even becomes part of our identity, in a way. In those moments of downward spiral, I am impervious to any uplifting words, for my identity then is: I am Failure, I am A Lost Cause, and so on. It’s so hard to let go of that all-consuming identity, to let it coexist with more positive self-identities: I am Wholehearted, I am Loving, I am Talented, etc. It’s a perverse inclination, to self-flagellate in this way and be defined wholly by the negative, and yet it’s bizarrely satisfying because it feels so real. It leads to unproductive inner dialogues: “I’ll never find anyone like her again,” “I’m not worthy of someone like her,” “It’s your fault the relationship ended,” or “What if I had done this thing differently, maybe it would’ve worked out.” These internal dialogues perpetuate the cycle and keep us dissociated from the present, as we wallow in this toxic environment of self-abuse. The anguish of believing you’re unworthy is so intoxicatingly present; in the face of these dark forces, the forces of light dwindle and plead for a space to shine.

Much of my life feels like an endless struggle of forces, an uncomfortable coexistence of opposing emotions. My adventures in Australia have been exceedingly wonderful, filled with sunny days and warm weather, adventures in nature, entertaining times with friends new and familiar, and dancing to other dance styles (Kizomba, WCS, Salsa). Through all of these heady times, I carry a black hole of grief in my heart, one that can activate at any moment to absorb all positive energy that comes near me. Repeatedly, I encounter moments of staggering beauty and all I can think about it how desperately I wish to share it with that person. Sure, such is the Human Condition: to have complex emotions, to be both happy and sad, but I guess my point is that I never feel it so acutely as now when grieving over a terrible loss. The contrast can be so severe that the practice of going out and deliberately making the best of my time here in Australia feels disingenuous when given the context of my deep sadness.

The dream world offers me little reprieve. At least a couple times a week, I will wake up with a vague sense of missing something; occasionally, I am less fortunate and the dreams are more vivid, only to be filled with loss as those ephemeral details fade to nothing and I realize it was entirely a fabrication. It's only through force of will and habit that I drag myself out of bed to take on the day. I press through the thick, dull feelings of sadness — so non-specific and inarticulate in the mornings, as if my inner dialogue is still waking up and figuring out how to berate me — with a cup of tea and some treatment in the sun, or writing in my Morning Pages, or diving into my work. As long as I hit the day with a running start, I can usually get on top of my emotional state for the majority of daylight hours.

It is quite challenging, in those moments, to find the wherewithal to go on adventures. For all of my globe-trotting, I'm quite the homebody and it can require a lot of energy to motivate myself to go outside. But I do it anyway, I force myself to head out the door and off to visit a friend for a walk in a park, or to explore a museum on my own, or exercise, or to head down a street in search of food and await what moments will come. I do it because I know it's the right thing to do — exactly the opposite of what I want to do, which is to lie in bed and drown my sorrows in mind-numbing activities. It helps that I’ve systematically eliminated said escapist activities, such as watching TV or playing video games, so that if I want to feel sorry for myself I have little choice but to be present with my emotions, which can offer rather poor company when feeling down. Once I get over the inertia, it's relatively easy to keep on rolling along, but boy it is a battle to get the process started.

While on my adventures, I'm still prone to being completely sidelined by some thought that sucks dry the joy from the present moment, when all I can do is keep walking and trusting that one day it will get better. I remind myself of the sage advice from Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece Meets the Big O (I’ve never been so emotionally moved by a triangle and a circle), that I must be complete in myself. I focus on journaling, adventuring, learning, spending time with friends, exercising, being alone, dancing, teaching, speaking with friends about my sorrows, and sitting quietly with my thoughts. It's a hard path to walk and right now I still can’t shake the loss; I’m still tormented by uncertainties about the future, and still get blindsided by grief. I don’t yet truly believe in a bright future for myself, but I keep progressing one day at a time, because it’s the only way forward through life.

Dealing with failure [redux].

The link I provided previously was incorrect -- copy fail! It’s now fixed.

I wrote (what turned out to be) a short essay about an experience at Hack Reactor. It was an emotionally powerful experience, one that shook me up but ultimately proved valuable. Hope you enjoy it.

Dealing with failure.

Thoughts and discussions welcome as always.

A rare opportunity, a new adventure, a return to San Francisco.

Einstein once said, "Time exists so everything doesn't happen at once." I think he got it wrong, and I submit as evidence the past several days of my life. It has been a rollercoaster of emotions, the result from a confluence of several events that have challenged my groundedness to the breaking point. While all the threads are too much to follow in detail, I will focus on one that has been the source of greatest fluctuation.

On Wednesday evening, I received an offer for a summer sustainable engineering internship in San Francisco. This offer was the result of 30+ hours to assemble an entirely new cover letter, resume, and interview prep in response to a job announcement that floated through my inbox. Stanford is pretty good for that -- you receive a steady flow of job and event announcements; if you're smart about fishing in that stream, you can nab some real gems. (That was also how I discovered the internship that took me to Nigeria in 2011.) No doubt competing with many other highly qualified applicants, I somehow rose to the top and caught their eye. It was a major victory.

The question of "What am I doing with my life, really?" comes up at least every other week. Always the tug-of-war between engineering and dance. When I came across this internship, however, the path seemed perfectly clear. This was a job I could get behind with all my spirit, even if it meant some sacrifices in the world of dance. It's been a long time since I've had that feeling. Most of the job searches I've done in the past were honestly half-hearted: applying to construction companies where you're just a cog in the giant machinery of human development, where you can't make a difference really, where 95% of the work you do isn't related to sustainability anyway. 

This internship was a perfect for me. The company performs energy retrofits for existing buildings to make them carbon neutral. They even provide measurement and verification to prove that the building performs as expected. It's a small startup with passionate team members whom want to make a difference. Sounds right up my alley, right? 

The internship involves three main projects: build a database for tracking equipment, research innovative and cutting-edge sustainable building technologies, and revamp the teaching process for incoming engineers. A combination of programming, sustainability, and teaching. What could be a better fit? I have never seen a job opportunity that exercised so many of my diverse skillsets. Further, it was the perfect amount of commitment for me to keep involved with engineering without forsaking future teaching plans. 

The internship was a dream job, exactly what I wanted, and now it was right there in front of me.

There was one catch, however -- a number: my compensation. It was lower than I expected, for various reasons. It dampened the elation over receiving the offer, for now I had to decide if it would still be worth it. Despite the best intentions, the negotiation subsequently broke down and I was informed they would look for another candidate.

It felt like a dope-slap upside the head. I suddenly realized how financial concerns (over a summer internship, no less) caused me to lose sight of the tremendous value this internship offered as an experience. (I'm glossing over a number of details here, for I think it would not be professional to discuss them here.)

I descended into a full-on shame breakdown. My mind buzzed with dark, negative, self-critical thoughts. You've really messed things up now, you're a total failure. Thoroughly dispirited, all my insecurities about my life path surfaced. My stream of thoughts soon turned despairing: you'll never achieve long-term happiness, and you don't deserve it anyway because you're a failure and overly pushy.

As I have mentioned before, I struggle with shame. I am really, really, really good at shaming myself when things go wrong. I have spent the past several months developing awareness and working really hard to deal with it. But, it will always be a battle, and here I lost that battle to maintain a constructive thought stream.

I reached out for help, verbalizing my shame tape. Buoyed by encouraging words, I did not allow all hope to disappear. (And, as it turns out, sometimes all it takes is for another voice to shout back as loudly as my shame tape.) Rallying once more, I finished my night with a final response. I acknowledged my mistake in allowing concerns to estrange me from what I truly valued. I thought asking to reconsider the negotiation might make me look weak, but it was worth a shot. I'd already messed it up, there was no hurt in trying. 

All of the next day passed without word. The quieter moments -- sitting on trains, for example -- brought me back to a similar state of despair. It was fortunate I had a lot of work booked that day (5 hours of teaching in two cities) to keep me busy. When I was teaching, I was fully focused and in the moment. The Lindy workshop in Fribourg went splendidly, working with a wonderful batch of students that were a lot of fun. People were much closer by the end and all had seen dramatic changes in their movement. Everyone was blissed out on the endorphins of dancing and discovering new and better movement. We all went out for food and drinks afterwards. It reminded me of why I absolutely love teaching in small scenes: the intimacy of classes, the passion of the students, the obvious change seen over a workshop, and the eagerness to connect as humans. I went to bed thoroughly exhausted from the day, too tired to hold any longer the mixed emotions.

The following morning, I received a reply at last. Remarking upon my dogged pursuit of my mission, the offer was once again extended to me.

The storm clouds have parted, and the sun is shining bright. Nothing but blue skies ahead. (Figuratively and literally: the weather that day was fantastic in Switzerland.)

I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the universe giving me a second chance. Gratitude for learning an important lesson without suffering the dire consequences. (Even though it turned out alright, I recognize that I made a mistake in that negotiation.) Gratitude for the support I received, being talked through my shame meltdown, being challenged to think constructively and not give up, and being encouraged to write that final email. If not for that support, I would have gone to bed that night a mess, never would have sent that email, and the internship would indeed have been lost.

While I stand by my original opinions, I see the opportunity cost as worth it to me. This internship will be an amazing experience, I will learn a lot and contribute a lot; all in a field that I deeply care about. That is worth a brief stint of living cheaply. (Good thing I have a lot of practice in that regard.)

I do not walk away from the table empty-handed. I have been granted some leniency to work remotely. I also get flexibility for my hard commitments; they are allowing me to stick with most of my summer plans. That means PBEx, Nocturne, MLB Choreography, and Winnipeg are still happening.

It does mean changing soft commitments and shuffling around a lot of flights. I will likely pay ~$1,000-1,500 in change fees / extra airfare to make travel work out. I'm okay with those changes, however. They're expensive both monetarily and experientially, but the benefits certainly outweight the costs.

My internship begins end of June. One month away. In one month, I will be working an internship in San Francisco where I get to leverage my background in sustainable engineering, programming, and teaching. I will be able to do so while still taking time away to teach dance and train, and not give up my fall tour plans for Europe.

w00t.

Challenges with vulnerability: or, Questioning the "Suck It Up" philosophy.

Here's a familiar feeling: sitting on a train bound to a new city, reflecting upon the beautiful moments and great trials of the past couple weeks.

It's nice, this taking of time to order my thoughts, to catalogue my experiences, and to share with all of you. While I (ideally) do three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing to dump mental overhead, I find that blogging / journaling exercises a different part of my brain and serves a separate purpose. These periods of quiet, where I can sit in my world of words, listen to music, and just acknowledge the many things of my life are such a luxury. Fortunately, I have deliberately reduced the intensity of my travel schedule for this time period compared to last fall. That should leave me more space to keep up more regular entries.

I arrived in Switzerland last Tuesday and headed straight to Lucerne for Forwards, the pre-Sideways camp taught by Brenda, -topher, and Catherine. I noted that Zurich airport and the Swiss transit system has become second-nature to me. Entering the country or traveling from one city to the next is no longer a big ordeal; I may or may not look up train times and I can breeze through the computer ticket tellers.

I was surprised by the number of familiar faces at Forwards. A good sign that Europe is increasingly becoming a community that I'm a part of, much like the United States. People whom I am genuinely excited to see and enjoy spending time together.

I was also surprised by my introversion over the first couple days. Tuesday was particularly intense. For some reason, I could hardly meet anyone's eyes, I had no inspiration to speak up in groups, I felt very small and withdrawn, and that I wanted to get smaller because I was taking up too much space. Was it because I felt like I was being treated as a special teacher, even though I was a student like everyone else? Was it because I was so severely sleep deprived and exhausted, with all my barriers lowered, that were anyone to actually reach into my eyes they would find a swirling messy pool of mixed emotions, and the thought of being known in that moment was terrifying? Was I not ready for the eyes, the attention of a large group of people without first putting on the teacher hat?

I'm reading this book on vulnerability by Brené Brown, Daring Greatly. It's been making the rounds in my circles, thanks to her presentation on the topic at a TEDx conference going viral. The book first appeared in my life back in October, where it sat on my shelf for many months. It resurfaced in February on a couple, independent occasions, which I took as evidence that it was time to read it. Having already packed it away in storage, I bought a new copy to carry in Europe. 

Since then, I have spent a lot of time thinking about vulnerability, how I handle it, and how could I do better. I have always thought of myself as being an open person. I communicate well, I connect easily with others, and a speak from the heart. But I'm finding that there is much I hold hidden from the world, family, and lovers. There's a poetic dramatic irony to the situation, in that I used to fancy myself the more vulnerable person in my relationship with Lauren, and yet here I find that I am almost as equally guarded about my feelings and fear the thought of discovery, of being known.

The reasons for avoiding vulnerability are complex and intertwined, but here are a few I have identified recently:

1. I do not share my inner thoughts because I fear judgment from others or their negative repurcussions. It makes me naturally diplomatic, and also indirect. I do not want people to know my struggles, my frustrations, my judgment of others, my disappointment in myself, my critical mind. There are people whom are not on my favorites list, yet I still appreciate having them be some part of my life, so I play politic and enjoy a life of shared limited vulnerability. Does that hurt me in the long run? 

2. I fear that I am unworthy of love. If people knew the real me, they would distance themselves. They would think less of me, trust me less, spend less time with me. So I try to keep the negative, the sad, the downsides of my character contained and hidden. I work actively against this fear (as do most people whom live "wholehearted" lives), but I must acknowledge that it plays some role however infrequent or small.

3. I do not want to burden others with my Self. I am programmed to take care of my own demons. Man up, suck it up, don't be a wuss, don't be a bother, don't be co-dependent. Males have this one particularly hard, since self-sufficiency and strength are reinforced societal norms. If I unload my worries upon someone else, does that make me weaker? Do I become annoying by sharing my fears too frequently, I become a downer? Once I had been advised that you are ready to share the burden with another if you don't need to share it; that is the marker of a healthy independent strength. But how can you really know if you don't need it? And even if you don't need it, is it not unlike training that part of your emotional toolset less intensely? Further, what exactly do I get out of sharing with another person that I can't just process on my own with the many tools at my disposal? What's the point of it all, really? Do I get anything out of verbally processing a situation with another person? How deep does it need to go?

These are questions that float to the surface of my consciousness with some regularity. Just recently I had such a situation with Nicole. I had to wake up early yesterday to do several hours of work, despite staying up late and being destroyed from the weekend. The details of why are beside the point… and also, I don't feel comfortable sharing them in this space (guards against vulnerability rearing their ugly heads again). The point is that I had a lot of work to do and a host of emotions, stresses, and anxieties about the situation. I considered intimating this, since it was on my mind and affecting me, but there was a voice that said, "She doesn't want to hear that. We all have stress, don't put this on her, she doesn't need it and you don't need to unload it. Sharing is just seeking an excuse for not handling the situation well, it is stripping your agency and allowing you to play victim to your situation. Be tough, contain it, compartmentalize it and deal with it in the appropriate time and place. Git 'er done." Eventually I settled on providing an abbreviated version, but it was abundantly clear that I was only letting her see a glimpse, like an FYI statement rather than an invitation to dig in. It was… unsatisfying. I keenly felt the wall I had erected between us in that interaction. Yet it did allow me to keep the emotions contained, to not have them pollute our shared space. In an alternate universe where I did end up sharing a deeper side, would that have been any better? Would I walk away feeling better, more secure, more capable to handle the situation? Would there be a net positive effect? I'm not clear as to the answer. 

I did not go into the blog post expecting to write about vulnerability. It came out on its own accord. I suppose that's the beauty of writing, isn't it? One minute you're very aware of what you're writing, and then you look up and it's suddenly thirty minutes later, you have been scribing constantly and are only vaguely conscious of what came out.

Well, the train ride is almost done. For those whom made it this far, thanks for reading.