Just simple, this life. With all the noise and craziness and business and upheaval and settling in and finding myself and sticking it out, really, it’s still a simple life.
Simple doesn’t mean easy.
They’re different.
But to me, simple means good.
there is a field. I’ll meet you there. when the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn’t make any sense. - rumi -
There was a little mediterranean restaurant in Flagstaff, AZ where I first discovered the poetry of Rumi. A beautifully illustrated translation of his works sat casually at the counter where you could pore over verse, kick back with freshly made pitas, and enjoy the bustle of mountain town traffic outside. I was in college, so it was the late 90s, I would wager to guess.
I’ve never found that exact translation, though I think of it often. Pretty much every single time I read Rumi in fact. I see the way the words as they appeared on the page, feel the summer breeze lilting over my skin, hear the creak of the screen door with each rhythmic line. I wonder if it would be so good, even if I found it? Held the book in my hands once again?
There’s something to be said for experience. Poetry, above all things, is an experience.
I think the home I look for is a poem. Something I read about in a book, a long, long time ago.
Sometimes I get a taste of it, try to catch it, think of how I could integrate it into my permanent atmosphere. Like, can I get a job there? Where would I live? And the kids would go to school…where? Would I be happy in this place? Could I earn my keep?
Resist the urge to flee?
Or would I have to be kept? Again. And again. Just like every time before.
I’m learning, slowly and in great depth, that walking into the presence of such a place is temporary. An experience. My work, I think, is to translate the visions into verse. Walking meditations. Root myself deep in belief and nothing else. Push past the ache of feeling like what I have to say doesn’t doesn’t matter to anyone but me.
I’m not sure if this is right or wrong, but it’s the path I choose.
When my soul is ready to lie down, it seems I find a place like this. A reminder to do the work.
This is Agua Linda.
And it is indeed a poem.
A natural farm located in the protective view of the Santa Rita Mountains in southern Arizona. About 40 minutes or so past Tucson.
We came here for a big time family event, an Easter egg hunt that rivals all Easter egg hunts on earth, as far as I’m concerned. The day was beautiful, the breeze divine. The children (and the mama): relaxed. There were pony rides, face painting, an absolutely delectable lunch that reminded me why mangoes are considered good.
But mostly it’s nice and quiet. Spaces are limited, which keeps it sweet. Intimate. A good place to take the kids.
I had never been to this part of Arizona, but I tell you what: I will be back here again.
This is a place that broke down deep into the ache, my heartbreak of the life I lost. Or chose to give away. My brother said the first time he came here, he knew it would be a spot I would like. That my name was written all over it.
He was right.
It’s the perfect mix of what I love about Arizona … the heat, the clouds, the landscape, conjoined with everything I miss about Montana … healthy cows, open space, a feeling of ease. People rooted solidly in their place. Belief in where they stand.
It made me realize what I’ve been missing.
A deep connection to food. To the substance of community. The simplicity and sacredness of life.
These were things I took for granted. The poetry of who we were.
If it sounds bleak, forgive me. It’s not where my intention takes space. It’s a realization. A clarity.
A bright light in the night.
And here, this is it:
“drink all your passion and be a disgrace. close both eyes to see with the other eye.”
Yep. It’s Rumi. I’ve found him again.
Right out here in the middle of this field. The way it’s supposed to be.
this is new territory.
unsafe ground.
I’m writing what I feel.
you know what? I like unsafe-ness.
it’s a trait of high risk personalities. after years-upon-years-upon-years of detrimental experience, I have learned to direct that risk into positive outlets. mostly, us high riskers do things like drugs. drink. get caught up in habits and pathways of drama.
somebody should really try to tell us that we would do well as entrepreneurs.
Here: I’ll be the one on the bridge. you: do your own thing, goddammit. fuck everyone. just do it.
cuz that’s what fits. and nothing else will, no matter how hard you try.
I promise.
when I was fresh on the pathway of writing, the age of nineteen, someone told me I couldn’t write. maybe the third in line? said I lacked the ability to attach emotion to the words. I believed her. I quit. by that point, I figured she was right.
ain’t nobody right.
I never graduated from college (though I really, really tried), but I spent seven years in therapy. learning how to feel. how to connect the words to the swings. my mastery takes form in the logic of emotion. I’ve been told I’m crazy, I’ve been told I’m not. the only ones who told me to believe I was crazy were men.
really.
I’m of the opinion that strong women make strong men. I don’t know where it starts or ends, but I do know it’s my job to be strong.
to inspire.
to claim.
to say FUCK YOU I’M NOT CRAZY.
love.
it’s the motions of the tides.
again.
there are a lot of stories that I could tell, but the words will never take shape. I guess I don’t trust you enough just yet. I still refuse to be anything but wild. walk slow. talk soft. prove you’re listening.
that’s kind of how I am. defenses released. agendas laid quiet.
I concentrate instead on the tangible details. the sensual aspect of life. the characters I’ve known.
settling down. fires bedded. embers.
bob dylan. moonlight. carefree-careless. broken bits of a wild ride.
bob dylan belongs to Rich. he was a very good man. strong. slow. he tasted like garlic, carrots, 4th Street in the dark with a daydream on the side.
I like it like I am.
honest. sometimes small. mostly myself.
I don’t wanna be anybody else. I don’t have any aspiration to be anybody better than the lady that is me.
I wanna sit here freely, glass of wine, writing happy, naked kids painting on the hardwood floor. they find my journals, paint over my words in shades of red and green and rainbow orange. I let them. their expressions are as sacred as mine.
dots. striations. stripes.
this is one of the best moments I have ever known.
memories and catapults and present tense.
and then they break it.
kick it back down to earth.
the kicking, screaming, fighting. the substance that is life.
the hispanic grocery
Have I mentioned the best part about living in the Southwest again? THE FOOD.
Jesus candles and ceramic donkey lawn ornaments at every turn.
Tortillas, made fresh.
morning readings
Waking at sunrise to peer into the clouds, penetrating the paths to passion.
Connecting with heartfelt spirits on intuitive journeys.
and I’m working on a special spread for renaissance souls that’s kinda rockin’ the house.
stepping back into myself
in the smallest and largest of ways.
what do you like right now?
We’ve been back in Arizona for about three months now. The gazes are becoming more familiar, the sights and sounds more routine. Airplanes, traffic, shades of yellow-green.
I took a walk into the desert today, my first one alone since we’ve been home. Made acquaintance with old tree friends, apologized to those I took for granted in my youth. I know these plants well, yet somehow not at all. My knowledge of the desert comes from outside of myself…an adolescence spent in shopping malls and books, adopting what I was told. I don’t know this place the way I know Montana. Not yet.
Today I stepped inside of myself, took my hands into courage, and said hello for the first time.
Saguaro. sa-WAR-oh. Kinda like the Redwoods, but a little bit different. Meaning tall, sturdy, they literally weigh tons. It takes 80 years before they’re old enough to grow an arm.
This is the only place on earth where they grow. The ones that are here in the Sonoran desert are the only ones left. The only ones that ever were.
I guess I never really understood the significance of that.
I always thought time went too fast in the desert…turns out I was wrong. It moves incredibly slow.
So I sat down and watched. Waited for the birds to return to their songs. Looked at the way things decay without water. It’s slow.
I was leery, I don’t know where the coyotes, javelinas, the bumps in the night go to rest during the day. There were plenty of tracks, signs of scuffle, evidence of critters at every turn. There’s a lot to learn about the desert. Thankfully it was too chilly for snakes.
But just right for a girl fresh from Montana, with skin eager for sun.
So the new camera takes pretty good pics, eh? I’m learning the ropes. It’s a Canon PowerShot sx230 hs. Good stuff. A little bit more money than the Flip, but it’s pretty phenomenal for a point-and-shoot. Semi-automatic settings, so I have some control over the settings and the optics of Canon, both for a really reasonable price. I got it at Target so I could take it back if I didn’t like it, but I’m sold. And you know what? That pic of the sunrise is completely untouched.
That’s what it really looks like here.
So now that we have put a little point-and-shoot in my hands, you’ll be seeing more shots of spontaneous clothing photos, like this sweet medicine bag that my mama made and hand-beaded, chock full of special meaning:
Just right for my wee sacred player of tunes.
Lookin’ fast in my faded jeans.
much love ~ miss j
For those of you who have experienced the 30 Good Days project, you are familiar with the idea of clearing clutter in order to simplify.
So here’s what happens after you clear your physical space:
You go a little crazy.
Without the distraction of all the physical stuff in the way, your mind has free reign to concentrate on the core issues that stand in the way of further progress.
You will know this is happening if you feel restless, a constant state of low-grade anxiety (also known as boredom), or you unconsciously reach for tools of self medication (drugs, alcohol, chocolate, carbohydrates).
Transition and progress requires discipline, mentally and physically.
If you find yourself spinning in mental circles, you need to do a little housecleaning. Clear out all the gunk through meditation, journaling, dancing, working with clay, painting, whatever medium speaks to you. Don’t focus on results. Let your imagination clear, allow your intuition to fully plug in.
Years ago, I was taught an exercise that involved the peeling of a hard boiled egg. In times of mental overwhelm, your mind needs gentle and focused attention. If you are peeling an egg, experience each moment and sensation. Hear the crack, feel the temperature of the egg, the weight in your hand, the smoothness of its surface. If your mind shoots off in another direction, gently pull it back to the moment of physical experience that is happening right now. A stressed mind needs direction, so physical meditations work best at this time. Take this concept and bring it to your creative process, the expression of your mental clutter.
Feel the clay in your hands. Fully embrace the sensation of the weight of the brush. Whichever medium you choose, you will be able to translate this exercise easily.
Listen carefully, express what comes up.
Carve out an hour each day for this practice, preferably at sunrise or sunset.
My friend Hannah is very wise. Yesterday, we were hanging out and she piped up with the most brilliant phrase. I think it needs to be written on my arm in curly henna script:
Stop.
Breathe.
What do I need to do for myself right now?
Yep. She’s pretty awesome like that.
To the casual observer, I'm a web based writer who will remind you of who you really are.
To those unsatisfied by the limited scope of quick definition, come on over here and sit next to me. I'm Juliana.
I like to watch things change.
