Empowered Spirit

Like many fellow humans, I am not sure what to make of the recent attacks around the world. I know that I feel infinite gratitude for life, but I understand, too, that all our of lives are threatened. There is fear everywhere - whether is be by the American police or the growing group of the Islamic State. Or the fear that the media is perpetrating. I sit in Oakland and think about all the anger, unrest, uncertainty. How can we live in a state of such... in my backyard and across the sea. I find solace in the sunshine, my gentle community, and the opportunities I've had to succeed. People are being displaced. People have ALWAYS been displaced. Where is the (human) in humanity? Then again, I'm displacing. Young, white, educated female. Always trying to grasp my place in this colorful world, this maze of a place. At a quarter century, I'm grateful for life. I'm grateful that my parents, although unsure about the love that was built between them. They decid

As children, our schedules are created for us. Maybe they're not even created intentionally. Our parents (or caregivers) guide us though the days - nursing us while we are young, swaddling us into cozy balls, introducing us to team sports, bringing us to school. This "regular" schedule (often based on the school day and even stretching as far as the school year schedule... why do people feel like they should work less come Summer? maybe it's all the sunshine...) is ingrained in the mind of a western individual. Now I am guilty of this sense of "normality" when it comes to a "job" (I think i'm quoting because I feel like these are constructs of society). Now, after being pushed and pulled through the academic system (for better or for worse), I feel unsettled with my lack of 9-5. I feel an intrinsic guilt when sitting in coffee shops mid-day, attending late morning yoga classes, or running along the Bay at any hour I please. Yes, I do have a j

Are you a pusher or are you a puller? Bouncing around (t)here back to the Bay with the San Francisco lights burning across, lingering in the backdrop while buried in the hills of Berkeley. I pull the weight towards me. Dead weeds, sucked dry as we pass by without eyes. I drink another espresso and peddle forward. And I lack the zest of a lemon, looking forward. Stretching into my core, I release. With the songs in my head, seeking for what's next. Unless I have a woman pushing me.

Your CDs don't work, as I drive West. But the podcasts keep me company, as I peer out on the Minnesota land. The Mississippi River shines below, and South Dakota says hello. Great places, great faces - into an unknown abyss. Shiny purple rocks in Lake Superior, linger in my mind. The land of 10,000 lakes behind, I used my compass to guide me home. Your CDs don't work, but I can find more to consume. Sylvan Esso and the Shins, too. Mostly This American Life. Badlands and the Black Hills, a juxtaposed South Dakota scape. Blissed with cloud coverage, and sunsets on lakes. Coffee shops look all the same, all the different. Caffeine. Spearfish, where am I? Smiles fill the room, chatter. Your CDs don't work, and you push me away, and we argue and embrace. colors of my face. I continue West to the mountains, where I can get lost in the trees. alone, it feels good. so just let me be.

It wasn't until I hit the Canadian border that I realized I was actually entering another country. Oh yeah, roaming. Oh yeah, no USD.  Oh yeah, French street signs.  As I wondered to a free electric festival in downtown with some Quebecers, I realized how French of a provence Quebec is. However, once at the fest, there was a moment when I was in a circle with: a woman from Columbia, a woman from Jordan, many French dudes, a few Quebeccers, and a woman from LA. Then I see a man with a San Jose Sharks hat on, standing on a platform about 10 yards away. Soon after, I see he is wearing a Sharks sweatshirt too. He was asking for me to talk to him. I run up to him and ask him if he's from San Jose. "The East Bay," he responds. Small world. Francophone or Anglophone wasn't a concept I was too familiar with, although aware of its existence. Now I get it. I'm in awe of this scenic place, with a canal lined with greenery AND industrial derelick buildings. E

A beautiful Vermont town,  tucked away near Lake Champlain. True to its name, a real Green state, With the most voluminous cumulus clouds. A multitude of brews,  Beers for days and bikes, too. A natural market like the rest and good-looking friendly folk. Ascent to Sterling Pond,  with Heady Topper on the mind and a cute Beagle to keep us company, then the rain appeared. Wet smells, fresh air -  and a surprise snake with a mouthful of frog. The view at the top, and cool water on my body. A simple rainbow,  a double one to grace our presence! Just appears, effortlessly.  Hello! I like this place.  It's like a lot of other progressive towns:  Santa Cruz, Madison, Portland.  People impress me. Saratoga Springs then here, then there. Many unknown stops, unfamiliar to familiar faces, August light.

And I'm not referencing the Lemony Snicket child book series. These last months have been tumultuous. Mostly the last couple weeks. Not in the worst kind of way, but just in a way of disarray and craziness. Throughout it all, I am: 1) grateful; 2) pleased; 3) looking forward; 4) scared shitless. I have thought about a million topics I wanted to write about. I have stretched, wrote poems, wrote about conflict, learning more about gender identity (or letting go of identity), friendship, lovers, adventure, and hardship. The hilarious 72-hour escapade: - locked my keys in my car in Island Beach State Park (where is my bottle opener? oh...no...) - got soaked in a wondrous humid thunderstorm on the beach, with my beautiful friend Arianna - ran to the car. disheveled, sand everywhere, partly dressed. - pulled over by the "Berkeley Township" police - barefoot. seriously, I was speeding through a state park. My bad. Got out with a city ordinance. thank you. -

I can't identify my feelings. Why am I always aching to identify? To classify? To understand? To define? Recently, chaos has erupted in a more vivid light. Injustice has taken the ropes and we are left baffled by the corruption. What is it? Racism? Classism? Police brutality? A corrupt political system? Power system? Capitalism? Sexism? Everywhere. Ferguson, Baltimore... this is just the start. Catatonic creatures seeking justice, equality. "We are a culture that refuses to dance," - woman on the dance floor. "Yo, let's dance!" - I'm probing. Will we make changes? Can we rise up? Take the reigns? I feel lost, unsure of my place within the unrest, injustice, anger. Rekia Boyd was shot by a police officer in Chicago in 2012, and the officer was acquitted of the manslaughter of this unarmed woman. On the day that the hearing was released, about a dozen women were gathered at 30th Street Station. As I pulled up to the light, I was stopped by th

Screaming, moaning for more. dancing at those tips, as the latissimus dorsi swells, and you thrust from the earth. I watch the beauty, the flawlessness, it's magic to my eyes -- rhythm, i ache. and the colors fill the the canvas. splayed, splashed, with brights and neutrals your brush, your stroke, creates an epic display my eyes dilate, pounding my corazón.  and crash! the cymbals, and the bass echoes  with a bead of sweat that falls,  your head, to the beat the set feeds, you feed the set. synergy.  an orchestra to the Soul. my right side is eager crying, desperate -- for more, for change. our destiny is in our hands, our souls. with movement, a stroke, a sound --  it's alive,  we're alive.

Maybe I'm in denial that I'm still living on the East Coast, so I decided to transition west -- to West Philadelphia. Moving out of a home with loving friends and a cozy feeling, stimulating conversation, and a communal presence was a tough decision. But with most other things in my life, I find myself bouncing when I get too comfortable. With the move came new thoughts around community, and more significantly what I want my community to hold. The importance of diversity, surrounding yourself with large trees, backyards, food variety, mixed peoples, and porches. As I am feeling accepted in a new place, as a white face, I see that my neighbors are different than they have ever been. Not only because of race but because of their ability to actually talk to each other. What a thought. Smiling faces and lots of "How are yas?" as you walk down the block, with kids all bundled ready to topple over into the brown snow. And this is in the winter! I can feel a difference