Finding My Voice

Music is the language of the human race. From classical to metal and everything in between, every musical genre moves the soul, provokes emotions, and excites and elevates the human spirit. Great musical scores infuse films, plays, and ballets with such profound emotion that one can immediately recall the associated experience; Romeo and Juliet, the Nutcracker, Harry Potter. Musical masterpieces created by Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, and John Williams will live with us forever because the music transcends differences and unites the human race; it brings out the best in who we are, filling us with unrelenting joy, passion, and ecstasy and at times fear, angst, and sorrow. Music inculcates humanity with our emotional truths.

When I was a little girl my aunt would play vinyl records in the afternoon while cooking dinner; classical music, rock ‘n roll, and lots of things in between. That’s where my love affair with music started. Classical music soothed me, rock moved me. It was the 70’s and there was no shortage of groovin’ beats to choose from. But my interest in music never really extended beyond listening until one afternoon this past November.

Nora Jones was on in the car- God how she inspires me! Her voice, that spellbinding sound, fills my soul with such fervor- that I decided I wanted to learn how to sing. The thought of doing so was almost laughable and I nearly dismissed it. But then I reasoned, You only live once. What’s the harm in trying? Maybe if someone taught me how to sing, I could do it.

A week later I was standing face to face with my newest mentor, a six-foot tall opera singer with a charming smile and a very hip hair cut. I couldn’t tell how old he was but I guessed we were roughly the same age. He was soft spoken, gentle, and kind.

The lesson started where all new students do, at the beginning; breathing, humming, scales. I was nervous, holding my breath, clenching my teeth. “Breathe. Relax,” he repeated about fifty times. But I couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t coming naturally. I focused on my breathing, told myself to relax, and put my fingers on my jaw so I remembered to open it. Thirty minutes passed. I was mentally fatigued, my abs tired, and my jaw appeared to be wired shut.

Patiently, my instructor guided me and eventually the notes started to come. Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi. My, my, my, my, my. I bent over while singing to compress my diaphragm and suddenly notes emanated from a deeper place and in a much louder voice. I could hardly believe my ears, Was that really me? Wow! We continued to move through scales and I started to get the hang of it by the time the hour ended. My instructor seemed satisfied and I was elated, so much so that I spontaneously gave him a hug when I said goodbye. He seemed surprised but rolled with it so I wouldn’t feel stupid, not that I could have; I was in heaven! I was finally finding my voice.

Talk To Me

I suspected it was going to happen, but I talked myself into believing that it wouldn’t.  I decided to be optimistic and charitable.  This is 2015 after all.  I’m talking about shopping… with a man… at an outdoor equipment store.

A month ago I started preparing for my Camino; I had a mountain of gear to buy and money to spend.  I’m a novice, admittedly, and have a lot to learn; I don’t know shit about backpacking or hiking and I certainly don’t know anything about gear.  Research on the internet only gets me so far.  I need to see the equipment, feel it, touch, and most importantly, talk to someone with expertise.  That’s the beauty of going to an exclusive outdoor store; the sales people actually know what they are talking about.  The employees are outdoor experts who get paid to share their wisdom with others… and to sell gear of course.

I walk in with my friend and we saunter through the store.  I’m starting at the beginning; base layers.  I have a lot of questions- How do I know which type of base layer to buy?  What is the difference between the cheap ones and the more expensive ones?  And of the brands that are the same price, which one is better?  And what does 150 versus 250 mean and when would I use which?  Help!  Luckily, my friend and I pause in one place long enough that one of the employees on the floor recognizes that we have absolutely no clue as to what we are doing.  He asks if we need assistance.  “Yes!”  I ask questions, one question leading to another and to another and eventually the whole story comes out.  I tell him that I am going to be hiking the Camino de Santiago in May and I’m getting all my gear together for this trip.  He’s intrigued, but he keeps explaining everything to my friend.  My male friend.  

After fifteen minutes, I’m  irritated.  I’m the one going on the trip.  I’m the one asking the questions.  I’m the one who is about to spend a ton of money here.  Why does this guy insist on not talking to me?   Finally, tersely, I say,  “I’m going on the trip, SOLO!  HE is not going, just me.”  Now I have his full attention even though I’ve mentioned this to him three times already.  My friend walks away, right on cue.  I’m finally left alone with the gear specialist and he has no choice but to deal with me and me alone. 

This will not happen again.  From this point forward, when shopping for equipment,  I shop alone, or with another woman, but never, ever, with a man… After all, this is 2015…

Adventure at Lake Mercer

It's seventeen degrees, five with the wind chill, and I cannot wait for better weather.  The snow is coming and several inches are expected.  I've got 62 days left before I fly to France to commence backpacking the Camino.   This is to be a training day and two of my closest, most adventurous friends, jump at the chance to join me.

We set off, the snow has been falling for an hour.  The roads are covered with an inch of snow before we even set foot out the door and we don't care.  It's a grand expedition on a white winter's day.  It is February after all.

Not long into our adventure we discover we cannot locate the trail head... because it's covered in snow.  It's not a well worn path so we settle for traveling beneath the power lines.  I think about cancer with every step and how this path is not appealing but we continue anyway because, what else are we going to do?  Turn around?  No.

We make a few creative turns away from the power lines and attempt to cross a nearly frozen river but think better of it, twice.  We cross a wooden footbridge, meander through the woods and find ourselves eventually returning to the damn power lines.  We can't seem to get away from them.   We arrive at a crossroads, or rather, intersecting pathways, and finally find what we think is the path we are meant to be on.  Up and down hills, through inches of snow falling and inches of snow well settled beneath us.  Two of us are over dressed.  One of us is not.  Two of us have frozen Camelbaks, one of us has a water bottle that is not solidified yet.  It must be cold.

We stumble upon a neighborhood in the distance and surmise that it might be wise to make our way there.  We do.  We continue to walk along the snow covered pavement; there are few cars, few people.  Everyone is inside and the ones that aren't eyeball us with curiosity.  What the hell are they doing?

We march a few miles more minding traffic and the occasional passing snow plow.  It's obvious the snow plows cannot keep up with the snow.  Four lane roads have become two lane roads; there is no time to clear the other lanes.  Finally we arrive at the lake's trail head.  I'm not sure how far we've walked but I'm grateful we arrived safely at our destination.

The cross wind is biting and I regret removing my balaclava.  The snow is slicing across my face and we decide to get off the berm.  We move swiftly across and discover a family sledding down a double embankment.  Mom, dad, two kids, and the family dog.  They are all there having an absolute ball.  No one else is at the lake but the eight of us.  They are missing out.

Our plans to encircle the lake were scrapped; making our way back seemed the more prudent thing to do.  We made good time on the way to the lake but the sun was beating us out.  We departed the lake and kept an expeditious pace on our way back.  We traveled by roadway instead of venturing under the carcinogenic seeping power lines; I'm not sure which path was less treacherous.

We arrived back nine miles later.  Three of us dry, two of us warm, one less so.  Piles of clothing filled the entry way as we peeled our layers.  Coffee was made, snacks were eaten, and conversation flowed. We warmed up, said our goodbyes, and parted ways; it was another adventure that won't soon be forgotten.

Our Day's Errand

Dramaturgy.  Impression Management.  The self we present to the world verses our true self; the self we are when we are alone and no one is there to judge.   Erving Goffman wrote about it in The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life.   Goffman's concepts and framework of social interaction, known as the dramaturigical model of social life, are on point and and well articulated, but I ask myself Why?  Why do we, why do I, feel a need to present myself in a different light to different people at different times?  At work, at home, with my friends, with my family; always the chameleon.  How do I rectify this seemingly innate need to role play with a modicum of self honesty? Or is it all true and there is no self-negotiation?  Sometimes the former, other times the latter.  And in the end does any of it even matter?  Perhaps the answer is, I just am.

I can posit Earth travels around the sun every twenty-four hours, but it is also axiomatic that no two twenty-four hour periods are parallel, no two experiences identical; each one singularly defined by the experiences we have and people we meet.   And those encounters affect, transform, and become us - the collective whole.

What do I choose to see?  What do I choose to believe?

Envisage a world that enchants and time is dilated by our sensitivity to the human and planetary condition; a reality in which humanities greatest attributes of compassion, loving-kindness, and love surmount being "right," being powerful, or making money at the expense of or on the backs of others;  everyone has what they need, suffering remains only a self-induced Buddhist mentality, and words such as trite, mundane, and commonplace do not exist.  Conceive giving more of ourselves than we ask for or take and understanding supersedes being understood.  Idyllic, even naive perhaps, but is it not worth striving for?  To close out each day knowing that the world might be a little bit better because that was our day's errand?

I don't know where I am going with all of this, and maybe I don't have to.  I was recently reminded that a writer writes first and foremost for themselves; to straighten out thoughts in their own mind.  And perhaps that is all I am doing; trying to find my place in the world where my contribution to the greater whole highlights the goodness that surrounds us each and every day, all the time, should we be awake enough to see it.

School Children in Malawi, Africa

Espresso Rendezvous

His grey blue eyes pierced into hers as she sat curiously in the cozy coffee shop.  It had been years since she'd last seen him and yet it almost seemed like yesterday; he hadn't changed a bit- looking free spirited and decidedly French as always.  Their coming together seemed almost out of the blue, for no one-on-one connection had previously been established, but there was a purpose in reestablishing their acquaintanceship, if only to see a familiar face.  His words danced like rhythmic movements from his lips to her ears, singing a tune filled with wonderment and awe.  Brilliant, established, professional; the embodiment of such a free-spirited character who lives so passionately could only come from the pages of a romance novel.  Or perhaps he was a figment of her imagination.  Who was this man whose called upon her to join him for an espresso rendezvous?  

The exchange between them was fluid and smooth like cocoa butter slipping off a warm, suntanned body; exhilarating, exotic, enticing; each phrase of dialog leading to another series of intimations, expounding upon mutually shared experiences and like-minded theories about life.  It was evident they were kindred spirits and this was no chance meeting; their paths were meant to cross and come together in this intimate café.  As each moment passed, the theosophical statement “When the pupil is ready, the Master appears.” rang louder in her ears.  These moments became almost surreal as she began contemplating moving forward on a dream that had, up until this moment, been a castle in the sky.  

There is something magical that happens when the right person says, “I believe in you.  You can do this if it is what you want and I am willing to help you succeed.”   And that is what happened during this humble palaver, in this snug, toasty coffee house booth on a frigid winter’s day.  A few hours later, they left their nook, stepped out into the invigorating, biting wind and went their separate ways.  She went about her day exhilarated and he went home to write; each of them somehow different, galvanized by the brilliance of their encounter and the hope it inspired.  

To be continued... 

Black Valentine

It would be so easy to just write about adventures in hiking; easy to write, easy to read, fairly superficial and "safe".  But the truth is, part of this journey of self discovery and self acceptance is writing about the stuff that sucks, like the illogical and irrational resentment I have towards Valentine's Day.

When I'm in a relationship, I couldn't care less about Valentine's Day.  The way I see it,  if I need a calendar reminder to do something nice for the person I'm with, then clearly it's a relationship I can do without.  Second, same goes the other way around.  Not to mention I prefer spontaneity.  Third, don't even get me started on obligatory professions of love and the accompanying commercialization and capitalist greed associated with making people feel guilty for not doing something sweet for their sweetheart, no pun intended.  But when I'm sans relationship, it's like a day of mourning.  Forget red and pink roses, let's just break out the black and get inked.  One hour down, 23 to go.

And then, something happens... that person you've been thinking about... that someone special reaches out and wishes you Happy Valentine's Day and all the darkness dissipates in a flash; your heart is filled with warmth and joy and in an instant, it becomes a great day.  All cynical thoughts disappear and you realize that Valentine's Day is a special day and it matters.  It's all in how you look at it, just as is everything else in life.  This 24 hours counts just as much as the next and in some ways, it's just extra special today.

To all my loved ones: Happy Valentine's Day.  May Peace, Love, Light and Sunshine find their way to you today and every day.

Freedom & Friendship

I have been known to make a few life decisions rather impulsively; re-enlisting after winning a bet, buying a house, moving across the country a few times over, just small things like that.  But the night I bought my plane ticket to Europe, impulsiveness changed to rapid strategic and tactical planning.  I was now committed to undertaking this grand adventure, and, once the excitement plateaued, the reality of having virtually no backpacking experience and flying to a foreign country to walk 500 miles solo turned into fear and anxiety rather quickly.

The best way to combat fear is to face it, straight on, so I started by asking for help; a lot of help, from a lot of people.  Day by day, my anxiety and fear dissipated as I researched equipment, sought expertise and guidance from those who've done this sort of thing before, and invested a few dollars in high quality gear.  My brother, a true outdoorsman in his own right, always says, "There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad gear."  After a few lousy motorcycle adventures where I swear I was on the verge of hypothermia, I knew this was a true statement.  The last thing I want to be is a cold, wet, bloody, blistered mess thousands of miles from home in a foreign country.  REI, here I come.

It's a little bit funny and slightly annoying when I tell people that I am doing the Camino this spring because it's often followed up by, "Oh, have you seen Wild?"  I understand the connection people are trying to make but the timing is coincidental.  Ironically, "Wild" resides unread in my backpack as part of the weight that I'm using for training.   I'll probably read it when I get back, but I will point out, oddly enough, that no one at REI has asked me if I've seen it...

The past couple of weekends have been dedicated to training; testing my gear and hiking with a weighted pack.  Each weekend I've increased my mileage and weight and made note of how my body is feeling.  Sometimes doing things wrong is the best way to learn and my body is the best gauge for that.  The first weekend I went out, my load was unbalanced and my pack was too low on my back.  Though I only hiked eight miles, my body was screaming two days later.  The next weekend, I used my Camelbak instead of a water bottle to even my load, and thanks to a few of my military friends, I learned how to adjust my pack properly, and voila, no more soreness.  Fifteen miles last weekend and no issues, easy peasy.

There are two really great things that have come to pass during these past few weeks.  The first is the great sense of freedom that I am starting to feel in doing this on my own; this is completely my own adventure, sans relationship.  The second is the profound sense of comfort and love that I feel knowing that I am not alone in this; I have an entire of team of friends and loved ones who are cheering me on.  And I am taking each and every one of you with me on this journey; You are the reason that I am writing this blog.

Friends and Family

Friends and Family,

Several months ago, I had a spiritual epiphany and realized that I needed to change some things in my life.  I shared this with many of you.  At the time, I was not sure what that would look like, but over these past four months, certain opportunities have presented themselves.   Last September I moved into a sober living environment.   I chose to move here for several reasons;  first, I did not want to be alone and I needed to feel safe.  Second, I wanted the experience of living with other sober women.  (I have seven of the most amazing female friends and housemates a girl could ask for.)  And third, I had some soul searching to do and I needed the time and space to do it.  In other words, I decided to push the "pause" button on the highway of life, pull over, and "rest." 

The past four months have been both exhilarating and exhausting, exalting and tumultuous.  I have had moments of both intense pleasure and fierce grief; it's been a roller coaster of emotions.  It has been a time of earnest self examination and reflection.  I have leaned hard on all those around me, often unable to stand on my own two feet without the support and love of those around me to hold me up.  I have had to ask for help, a lot.  I have learned to pray.   I have shed an innumerable amount of tears since I began the journey of self acceptance that I have avoided my entire life.  I want to thank everyone who is in my life and is part of my journey.  You are all very special to me.  Each one of you has loved me, inspired me, and given me hope.  Each of you are a gift to me, and even if this email never makes it to you, I am putting these words down and sharing with Universe how important you are to me.  

Every now and then, someone or something comes along and changes the trajectory of our lives; our journey of life makes a sharp, unforeseen turn.  These are the spiritual growth opportunities that come to us, though they are often disguised in undesirable packaging and can happen in a flash; an emotional, physical, or spiritual bottom proceeded by a moment of clarity, a medical diagnosis, the loss of a loved one.  And sometimes they are brought to us by angels living among us; a kind word, a gesture of loving kindness, a connection of spiritual understanding with another being.   However they are presented, there is no doubt that these things happen for a reason- there are no coincidences.  But am I awake enough to experience them as they are happening?  Am I present enough in my own life to recognize, accept, and embrace these gifts as they are occurring in real time?  Sometimes, maybe, not always. 

Throughout my life I have heard this cliché: "It's the journey, not the destination." How easy it is for me to let this go in one ear and out the other without embracing this profound truth.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in thinking about the "fruits" of my labor that I fail to fully appreciate the "labor" itself for what it is and that today is the fruit of many yesterdays.  It's like I've been conditioned to live for the marketed highs of holidays, celebrations, and the like and that the moments in between are just mundane moments of existence that I must trudge through to get to those rare occasions of happy destiny.  Thankfully, my life is full of people who remind me on a daily basis that today is all I have.  This 24 hours is the only 24 hours that matter. 

On 24 April, the day of my 9 year anniversary in sobriety, Great Spirit willing, I will fly to Europe to embark on a spiritual pilgrimage; a 5 week, 500 mile solo backpacking trip known as the Camino de Santiago.  My reasons for going are primarily spiritual in nature and it is something I must do for and by myself (though I will not be alone, and each of you will be with me in spirit.)  Each day between now and then is one of mental, physical, and spiritual preparation that is helping me stay fully present in today.  This phase is the most critical of my journey; I consider it training for how I will go forth with the rest of my life, making each day count.  Rest assured, I have asked for expert assistance in getting ready... as we all know, there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad gear and preparation, in this case, is everything.  

Much Love, Light, Peace and Sunshine

Namaste, Dani