As arbitrary as new years can be, I love the opportunity it gives to sink in and sit with what’s come before and what I’d like to see unfold.

For the last few? couple? years, I’ve been poking around at the #8foldpath and finding joy/meaning in my life and work. A lot of it is pretty standard fare (hello, awareness of mortality!) and a lot of it feels like the dovetail of what my experiences bring to bear and what I’m meant to do with this odd little life of mine.

This is a bit of a continuation from my last post and a bit random ramblings (as I do).

Every year, my Sifu asks us to set a training goal. And for many years, it’s been about sinking deeper into the art and finding joy. There’s a way in which I can rush and get caught up in the little stuff and miss the journey and the moment. So much is challenging to me (I am the perpetual white belt) — and so much distracts me (ohai shiny objects, can I haz?) — that my learning is often not as linear as it perhaps should be. There’s something in this about discipline and focus being part of my lifelong lessons. But/and…if I can let that go (or try to) and just keep showing up…there’s so much I get out of the doing of the thing.

It’s interesting being a recovering achiever. Don’t get me wrong, I take pride in my #workethic and my desire to improve. That’s not something I’d like to keep. But** when you step away from chasing accolades or external approval (work in progress, yo), the good stuff happens. Over the last couple of years, I’ve been noticing how many things I do just for the sheer joy of it. And how many things I do just for my own personal joy. My lizard brain rages at how poorly I play ‘ukulele (sucha dabbler!), how infrequently I use my SUP, how much I blather on when I write (ohai!), how much better I’d be at painting if I’d just apply myself, how small my design studio remains (some of this is intentional), how my design studio has primarily been the cumulation of accidental good fortune...

And. And all of these things bring me such joy. And maybe that’s enough? (Shaddup lizard, I’m busy.)

So. I’ve been sitting with all of this and talking with folks and trying to find words — alignment (external and internal), embodiment (feels incomplete), connection — to capture my training/practice goals for the year.

Going back to the #8foldpath, the last few years have been rich with the opportunities to practice mental development (right mindfulness, concentration) and ethical conduct (right speech, action, livelihood). Still very much a work in progress, but I can see how that was the crux of my work and where I needed to focus (and will continue to focus). Sitting at the start of this year, I’m noticing my focus shifting toward wisdom (right view, intention). Not because I’m particularly wise (I eschew that ish). But because I want to practice that muscle. Especially this year.

There’s more I want to chew on wrt the #8foldpath, and it’ll likely be the source of more musings. But let’s tie things up a bit as I’m admittedly procrastinating and need to get some work done.

Sinking into what I do. Finding joy. Alignment. Being in my body. Connection. These things all loop back to anchoring me into now. That seems to be the rub in all teh things. There’s a way in which the things I love bring me more fully into the moment. You know that thing? When you’re so completely into a thing that you can remember the texture and smells and sounds of everything around you while you were doing that thing? That thing when you’re so in tune with other folks that your every movement, even your breath, is in time and in alignment? How you can get completely lost in music…and be absolutely feeling everything in your heart well up to meet the sound?

You know how that is?

Words are inadequate, but I’mma settle on #flow to sum this up. And I guess that’s it. That’s the goal for this year. To do all the things as a practice and way to get to that #flow. There’s more in there about equanimity and noself and who knows what else. And. This is what I’m here for this year. To sink into all the things, find joy (love, even), and to bring it all together so I can do my part, no matter how small. Cuz it’s all hands on deck, yo.

___

*But do feel free to veer away from the rivers and lakes that you’re used to…
** But == but/and, ok? kthx :-D

Flow was originally published in Wordy Wrappinghood on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(Posting from Sept 1, 2016… and leaving unfinished, cuz #busy.)

There are plenty people who go harder, have more skill, are much better/faster than I am. This has been a year of building, as I’m hoping to use what I’ve learned this year to get even better, faster, smoother in the next season.

But before then, my first big race in Hawai’i waters. The Pailolo Challenge. Twenty-six miles crossing the channel between Maui and Moloka’i. Ten paddlers, water changes, bigger water than I’ve probably ever paddled.

Yes, I’m scared outta my mind.

The season is winding down, our local races are done, Catalina is in a little over a week (not going this year, reasons). And it’s been a bit of an arduous climb to get to this point.

Generally speaking, I’m not an athlete. Before college, I did sports badly, and only because I thought I needed it for my college applications (be well-rounded, they said). In college, sports were mainly about camaraderie. Well that and drinking. (Though, to be honest, both could describe all of college and adult life for me…)

Somehow, I’ve managed to carve out a life that requires a surprising level of physical exertion for a nerd such as myself. And despite getting older and its resulting entropic processes (i.e. stuff falls apart), I’ve consistently improved my overall fitness over the last decade or so. It’s interesting to be in the best shape of my life, just as many major functions are starting to show signs of wear and tear (moment of silence for the connective tissue of my youth…).

So I’ve never really understood what it meant to sacrifice for a sport. I mean, I thought I did. I’m tough, I know about persistence, and I have a reasonably good work ethic.

And even the stringent requirements of my belt tests, the months of training, the hours of study, the learning how to learn, and then unlearning the chaff. Even that wasn’t the same as this year has been. I thought I knew about laundry, focus, showing up. And I did. But my god, the laundry when you’re paddling 4–5 days a week. My house is draped in gear in varying stages of stinkiness 24/7.

The interesting thing, the thing I didn’t expect, was the solo-ness of this particular team sport. This is a group where I stand out like a sore thumb (I was on my way to an old lady race, and was mistaken for a young boy…kinda awesome, really), I certainly don’t fit in with the majority of my teammates (white, cis-female, mostly straight).

It was hard to realize, and to persist in spite of this, that I was working somewhat in isolation. Many of my non-paddling friends just …

(EDIT: not sure what I was about to say, but gonna let it mostly trail off here for now. I will say that Pailolo ended up being one of my fave races of all time and I’ve made a lotta peace with othering/belonging on and off the water since I started this post…mebbe I’ll come back to that in a diff post.)

#16days until Pailolo was originally published in Wordy Wrappinghood on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s definitely monday, sitting here with my coffee, looking yearningly at photos from the weekend. Knocked out a few things this morning, but starting slow this week. Watch out, I’m feeling a rambly post coming on.

Not that I’m complaining about slow. At all. Before last week, I was running full-tilt, fueled primarily on fumes — deadlines plus extra training/practices/rehearsals for PAWMA made for some pretty intense sleep deprivation (note to self: martial arts camps are fun, but don’t qualify as a relaxing vacation). I came back happy, but even more fried/exhausted than before my vacation.

Took about a week to get back into the normal swing, followed by a blissful weekend of rambling, hanging with people, and legend of korra marathons. Even got in a tiny bit of yardwork for my poor untended darwinian experiment/garden and washed my disgustingly dirty dogs (they hated it, but it made snuggling during tv-marathons much nicer).

And since I’m feeling bloggy and retrospective (and since #ello has become my little pocket of navelgazing that I’m assuming no one’s reading)…

Turns out it’s been about two years (soon) of being single (for the first time in 20 years!). Most of you have been around for enough of it that I can leave it at the tl;dr version — it’s been a tough but good couple years and I’ve learned a lot about myself and life and dating.

But oh yeah, dating…I can’t honestly say I’d dated much before this jaunt. At some point, after I got far enough up Maslow’s pyramid of needs (re-learning how to eat, remembering how much I hate eating alone and getting over it, feeling stuffs till the gray fog lifted, finding my way — mostly — back to sleep), I kinda applied my usual spastic work ethic to dating.

I won’t give you numbers or stats (yes, I do have some, mostly in my head, no charts as of yet tho), but it’s been a fun trip. My motto’s always been crash and burn, get up, repeat. That works particularly well with dating. (I’m reminded of a phrase someone told me about dating (men) in Alaska — the odds are good, but the goods are odd. Applies online doubly so.) At this point, I’ve given up any pretense of being anything other than the awkward geek that I am. And it’s had mixed results. Luckily for me, people have generally been pretty nice, even if they never intend to call me (might help that I’m generally pretty friendly and have a real penchant for buying drinks). My new slogan might be, “if I can do it, anybody can.”

But the amazing thing has been how revealing dating has been about me (yep, all about me…yusurprised?). Everyone’s been astonishingly pretty nice and interesting to get to know. The flow/mesh factor with people is a trip in all the best ways. You just never know what’s under the surface, and I love getting to see how who we are is/isn’t reflected in the ways we walk in the world.

Not at all sure what happens next. Tho things feel like they’re moving, and tho I do love coupleness in all its nauseating splendor, I’m also feeling super protective of (to mis?quote Warsan Shire) the sweet solitude I’ve fought hard to cultivate.

Originally published at ello.co.

Sunday #funday paddle around Alcatraz was originally published in Wordy Wrappinghood on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(Just sitting here publishing old posts…this one is from January 2018. #mightdelete)

After the demise of my previous longterm relationship, among the things I mourned was the loss of family and home we’d created.

My queerness is relatively lacking in subtlety (some might say this is true for more than just my queerness…). And so part of my path as been figuring out how to create home and family within and without the narratives I’d ingested all my life.

One of the things I mourned was the apparent loss of the possibility of children in my life. Long ago, I decided it was better to err on the side of caution and not attempt parenting until I was sure-sure. I still hold that to be true. And unlike many of my friends, I don’t have a particularly strong biological urge to pass along my specific DNA (there’s plenty more where I come from, both my folks are from big families, and my sister has produced a pretty awesome nephew, so I feel somewhat covered wrt the gene pool).

There’s also a part of me that conflates children and puppies.* So I guess I always imagined that if I were meant to have kids in my life, it’d happen. And so, even as I mourned, I also decided. I decided that I wanted to have kids in my life. I decided that I didn’t know — that I didn’t need to know — what shape that might take.

Fairly immediately, I started noticing that I was frakkin surrounded by the little buggers. My friends have been somewhat prolific in populating the queer universe. (And yes, it’s good looking and smart.)

There’s something about being a #badanty that is easy and wonderful. I get to fill up the creatures with sugar, hand them back, and return to my relatively less chaotic adult life. (Oh man, how much do I love the wide expanses of quiet I get…) Part of me still has huge anxiety with all of this. It feels so much more tenuous and sometimes lonely. There’s always a risk and a sense that I’m not anyone’s primary familial relationship. I don’t own anyone, nor am I owned by anyone. Which is good, really. I don’t want relationships based on obligation and ownership. It’s also not what we’re taught (blood is thicker than water, etc. etc. etc.).

It’s strange. In a lotta ways, I’m a traditionalist. I like monogamy; I like the reassuring nature of traditions; I like putting down roots and creating a home. After a moderately itinerant childhood, I love that I have been in the bay for over half my life. I love — and am so unbelieveable grateful — that I’ve been able to call #bellyp home for over a decade now.

And. I love that I have to, that I get to, create new narratives. I love choosing the people I love, and also knowing that I’ve also found a quiet solo happiness that isn’t dependent on family/relationship structures.

True. I’m still not sure who’ll take care of me when I’m less able to go it on my own. (No lie, I already know which nearby SNF I’d want to live in, just in case.)

___

*As a matter of fact, I got my first dog as an adult to prove to myself that I could parent another living creature without passing along too many of my flaws/traumas/negative narratives.

#badanty status was originally published in Wordy Wrappinghood on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Or how I finally started writing again…

Honestly, I’m supposed to be working. My to-do list is out of control, and I’ve been a little bit behind for so long that friends are now starting to say that maybe I shouldn’t meet up with them for drinks.

It’s a sad state of affairs.

[Note: I started this 6 years ago, and thought I’d pick it back up…]

Funny how true it is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It’s now 2020 and I’m in my pjs (#pantsfreelife), trying not to freak out about the slow bits between projects, and trying to keep my focus on the tasks and bits of work (plenty and overwhelming) that need my attention.

It seems like the end of every year gains momentum in leaps and bounds, leaving me sprinting to just stay caught up with the moment. And the beginning of every year seems to afford me a bit of time to catch my breath and sit with what shape I’d like things to take in the coming months. As much as I’m wigging out at the open-endedness of my days, I’ve also learned to love this time (in between moments of panic).

Been finding myself sitting, reading, writing, and painting/drawing/doodling nearly every morning.

Feels like the height of luxury (and causes much clamoring/guilt) to spend my mornings in swathes of silence, building a practice out of whatever creative/contemplative activity fits the moment.

Probably the fact that I’m staring down a milestone birthday (so soon!) is also making me assess/reassess all teh things. In many ways, everything is so much different than I’d imagined. There are a million things I haven’t done. And, if I’m honest, there’ll likely be a million things left undone after I’m gone (this milestone is forcing me to be on friendlier terms with my — constantly — impending mortality). And, if I’m brutally honest, I’m unlikely to become an astronaut or solve for cancer or anything else I’d imagined I’d be doing. My life is spent making enough pixels of light do a thing to try and communicate with other hoomans. Nothing that’ll help cure cancer.

And somehow, the last decade hit me over the head with enough that I’ve kinda sorta become relieved by all of this. Mebbe it’s slacking (bad azn kid!), but I’m super happy embracing the B+ student that I am. I don’t need to be #1, just in the top 6–10 so I can make it into the canoe. (Speaking of which, one of my goals is to get better at getting into the damn kanu this season… #waterchanges). I’m not as interested in achievement…I mean, it’s nice to get recognized and my ego is here for it. But/AND, lately I’m loving the doing part of the thing. Even if I do it with no mastery (check me out on my ‘ukulele), there are things that make my heart leap, exhale, and flutter. I’m here for that.

So writing. Idk. Figure I’ll dust off this medium (pun intended), let myself ramble beyond 140-ish characters, and not really worry about the why of it.

Here’s to meandering toward things that make our hearts leap in 2020!

What I learned from neglecting my dog…

[This is an old post — possibly from 2013? — I decided to publish…Sharp eyes will note that the dog above is not the dog mentioned below…]

There’s a whole uninteresting post on the ways in which life threatens to overwhelm me. There’s nothing heroic in any of it. Piles of domestic disarray, looming deadlines and my penchant for procrastination, even just the glut of choices I’m privileged to have access to.

Lately, my life has been defined by finding my way on my own after losing my partner of 7 years (no, she didn’t die she just up and left, so don’t feel too bad for me).

Most things get sorted out, somethings for the better (why yes, I will let the dogs on the couch to eat bon-bons!) and somethings for the worse (for fear of getting too emo, let’s not dwell here).

My bigger dog is a bit special. Not short bus special, but definitely a bit peculiar. She likes rocks. Or at least I think she does. When given the chance, she’ll spend a lot of energy chasing them around and barking at them. (No idea what she’s saying, but I’m guessing it’s something like: “ROCK! ROCK! ROCK!”)

For some reason, she hates feet. More than once, she’s gotten a glimpse of my foot too close to her, and she yelps and looks at me balefully. I try and explain that the walkies she loves are made much easier by the existence of my feet, but that just makes her sigh and glare at me more.

This perturbing behavior includes her feet—not that she’s surprised by them, thankfully she seems to understand that they’re part of her and a good thing. But tending to anything on her feet (nails, nicks/cuts, etc.) has always been a little tense at best, and a full-on scream-fest at worst. (She’s got a flair for the dramatic.)

As you can imagine, this makes trimming her nails fairly contentious. It used to involve at least a couple hours, drugs, and one person distracting her by massaging and cooing continuously (imagine peeled grapes and a full doggy spa treatment).

Now that I’m a single (dog-) mom, I don’t have the time for that, and as supportive as my friends are (really, they’re amazing), it isn’t really a normal request to ask of someone. (Not that my life or requests are always normal, but I’ll save that for another post.)

And with all the other emotional and physical buffetting, I completely forgot/refused to deal with my dog’s nails. By the time I looked, the dewclaws on her back paws were overgrown, and one was starting to become pretty seriously ingrown.

Oy, bad (dog-) mom! Bad!

There’s something that happens when enough shit subsumes me…my give-a-shitter breaks. Which is finally what’s been happening. There’s just so much stress milling about in my brain that I finally couldn’t keep up.

And therein lies the magic.

Somehow, I decided to just start dremeling my 70-pound rottweiler’s nails. Without drugs (it was a spontaneous decision, and I didn’t want to wait the hour for the drugs to kick in), without anyone else to restrain the dog, without really any plan.

And it worked! Well. Mostly.

For whatever reason, the big dog let me dremel despite what must’ve been significant pain/discomfort. She grumbled and flinched, which made me grumble and flinch. The dremel ran out of batteries again and again (which made me grumble and order a corded one). But eventually, I managed to whittle them down to manageable-ish lengths. She’s not going to win any dog-hand-model contests, but at least she’s no longer suffering from self-impaling.

So what did I learn?

Don’t do drugs.

If you need to do something, break your give-a-shitter first.

If you’re going to be a horrible mom. Get a dog. At least they can’t write a book about it. And you can blog about it for the free therapy.

Despite eschewing the crassness and compulsively false veneer of #vday, and despite the cold block of frozen water that passes for my heart (kidding! I know I’m a hopeless sap/softie)…I do have a soft spot for it in my own, weirdo way. (And if you unplug from the bs, I kinda like the exhortation to have random displays of love and affection.)

And, as with all my most long-winded ramblings, it’s mostly cuz of my mom.

We’re not an especially mushy people. But somehow, she’s always been the kind to celebrate — and send cards — for every conceivable hallmark holiday. I’d get these cards, with bits very firmly underlined multiple times (“TO OUR BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER” or something). And they would have nothing written in them other than “Dear Eliza” and “#loveMomandDad.”

So I’d look at them. And, sanctimonious in my youthful knowledge of all the things, I’d groan “uuuugh, whyyyy doesn’t she just *write* something, instead of sending these stupid cards?”

Of course, now that I think about it, must’ve been that she read every card in the store, looking for exactly the right one that conveyed just the right level of ham-handed Christian messaging (walk the straight and narrow, or else!), but also love (that beautiful daughter stuffs that never quite sat right with me). Sifting through all the corporate hallmark drivel to find exactly what she wanted to say, and how she wanted to say it.

(Tbh, gotta admit, this is pretty much exactly me every time I repost a bit from #nayyirahwaheed or anything on fb, tw, insta...)

Add to this the fact that my mom once sent me an entire seven-layer chocolate cake via fedex.** And considering that a very large majority of all the chocolate I’ve been given (on this day or any other), has been from my mom, it’s hard to be too mad about #vday.

So, here’s to reclaiming the saccharine and finding the poetry — or at least the #noms — in it along the way. ❤

___

** Tho that was small compared to the home-cooked thanksgiving dinner, including sides, that she sent me. For all that we aren’t a huggy people, we get the food is love part right in our fam, for sure.

Vday, chocolate, and hallmark moms was originally published in Wordy Wrappinghood on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The last in the series are more aspirational than successful, but since it’s destined to a life covered in baby drool, I’m doing my best to let it go and just be glad for this little bit of distraction from the chaos that the Alt-POTUS Trump (no, I’m not avoiding his name, this ain’t no Voldemort) and his evil GOP cronies are attempting to foist on us.

And so, dammit, Q is for all things Queer!

Here’s to all my weirdo/never-quite-fitting-the-mold (and realizing the damn mold is beneath us anyway) freaks and sweethearts. I see you. And I look forward to a lifetime of resistance and love and joy that doesn’t fit into any goddamn boxes.

All love y’all ❤.

Font based (messily) on Garamond Premier Pro Regular with a wishful nod to this glyph.

— — —
The whole dang block series:
N is for Narwhals!
Y is for Yoda!
U is for Unicorn!
O is for Oakland!
Q is for Queer!

Q is for Queer! (Also: queerfam and queerlove!) was originally published in Less Wordy on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Block number four…had to bring in the #baylove. New bay bridge, because the old bay bridge trestle is hard for me to remember, so it won’t even be a thing by the time this little is gnawing on these blocks. And of course the cranes because, well, I just love those damn cranes.

Hoping I have it in me to do one more (tho not tonight…). I’m a little struggling for inspiration…I want to do “Q” and I even have the font I want to base it on, but how to draw queerlove/queerjoy?). Might do “J” so I can draw a buncha jellyfish, but not sure yet.

Font based on Same Old English. Mostly.

— — —
The whole dang block series:
N is for Narwhals!
Y is for Yoda!
U is for Unicorn!
O is for Oakland!
Q is for Queer!

O is for Oakland! ❤ was originally published in Less Wordy on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Third block down. As much as I love ’em (and spent my youth drawing horses), I don’t find unicorns easy to draw…

Font based (kinda, sorta) on Gibson Bold.

— — —
The whole dang block series:
N is for Narwhals!
Y is for Yoda!
U is for Unicorn!
O is for Oakland!
Q is for Queer!

U is for Unicorn! (duh) was originally published in Less Wordy on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.