I’m a newbie traveler. The kind of newbie traveler that’s traversed back and forth from the Pacific Northwest and tropical Cebu, Philippines so many times its become my 2nd home, visited Canada once when I was too young to remember, and saw India for the first time January of this year. I’m not sure if you can really call that a newbie traveler, but it feels like it sometimes. I haven’t seen beautiful African sunsets, backpacked through Europe, or trekked to Macchu Picchu. But already, this taste of adventure has got me hooked for more.
I’m falling off the deep end. Wondering when my traveling adventure will end and finding myself not wanting it to. Dreaming of being a professional nomad. The kind of nomad with no permanent address or place to call home. Who only sets foot on American soil as a visitor, or for that matter, anywhere, as a Visitor. Who weaves in and out of people’s lives with no sense of permanency. Then I think, that’s crazy, and what am I trying to run away from? Or what am I trying to run *towards*? It’s a valid lifestyle for some people, but is it the right lifestyle for me? The further off the deep end you go, the harder it is to find someone worth sharing your adventures with. I might as well call it early and claim my Spinster role. I won’t be joining the monastery, but in the name of Feminism, I’ll reclaim the Spinster! Except, I don’t want to be a spinster. Not really.
I think about how I want to be part of community and a family. That can’t be right because they’re two opposing lifestyles. The dilemma that has always been my dilemma is my contradictory nature. This brash, black and white thinking that leaves me all sorts of confused and unable to decipher what the hell I really want. Probably, somewhere half way. Meet me in the middle in the shades of gray. That sounds cheesy and poetic but what I mean is I want some sort of compromise. I don’t want to give up my wanderlust, but I don’t want to hide from possibility and potential, either. I don’t want to quit before it can even start. So, I don’t want to be a spinster.
What I’m talking about is commitment. Attachment. Detachment. Maybe the long-term nomadic lifestyle isn’t about commitment-phobia for some people, but I know it would be for me. At what point does travel become an excuse to ignore commitments? Not just love. Certainly, love. But the “real world”, student loans, work? Travel, for me, cannot come from a place of hiding, running away from, whatever it is I want to avoid. Because, as they say, “wherever you go, there you are.”
I’m constantly evaluating myself and my motives. I don’t want to run away. That’s not what this is all about. I want to run towards and confront who I am and who I’m meant to be. I’m discovering my Authentic Self. And with all of the potential and possibilities right within my reach, I owe it to myself not to quit. I can’t. I’ve barely even begun. The moment travel becomes about avoiding commitment, I reshape my motives and change it. That doesn’t mean flying back home… It just means taking the plunge. Whatever it may be. You have to have some faith. Trust that everything will work out and do everything you can within your control to shape it, guide it along the process. Trust the process.
Reclaiming the spinster is quitting on love, and I don’t want to quit on that, especially. I’ve been burned before but it makes me appreciate love more. Appreciate my teachers (read: exes) and lessons that I’ve learned. There will always be “failures” but that just leaves more room for success. The more you fail, the closer you are to success. With anything.
The best way to deal with commitment-phobia or paralysis of any kind is to simply commit. Do the work. Write 800 words a day. Meditate daily. Practice yoga 5x a week. Be creative. Love someone. Whatever it is, do it. Do what you’ve committed yourself to doing. Don’t hold back. Don’t judge. Shut-up your inner critic and commit.
Realize that it will be hard, and that’s normal. Realize that you will want to quit, and continue doing it. Pushing through the disillusionment will take you to the sweet spot of awareness. That’s where Truth starts to happen, and you can journey closer to your Authentic Self.
100 whacks across the
Austere metal
Kitchen counter
Strong hands wield dough
Masculine and ear splitting
Decimals vibrate my eardrums
Meanwhile
Twisted fingers
Gently pinch close
Supple yeast filled dough of
Chinese siopao bun
Inside: yellow camote
Like pleated white rose petals
Ready to paint
Blossoming and feminine
Delicate yet strong
II. We had a poet come in to speak the other day, followed by a cooking session on how to make Chinese siopao, a steamed bun with filling. Typical siopao usually has some sort of meat combination and boiled egg, but here at the monastery, we cook everything vegetarian, and for the most part, vegan! Siopao was the last meat item I ever ate, on March 29th when I first journeyed to the temple by way of bus and ferry. It was gross and disgusting to me. I like vegetarian siapao much better. Just for fun, we played around with words while we learned how to make it. Mostly becoming sensual in nature. Who knows what you’ll get when depraved young adults admit themselves into a monastery, especially when it comes to buns. “I’ll make a poem out of this!” I ass-ured.
I used to write poetry. Like a lot. I was on fire with the thoughts and ideas flitting about the pixel page. My muse entered when I newly became single. Lately, it seems to have died. People told me I was a good poet, which I never believed about myself and never associated with the label. It was hard to wear a new hat as “poet” considering I don’t even get poetry or read the stuff. It’s still hard to consider myself a poet, especially when my muse has been quiet. I’ve been frustrated with this blog and on writing, wondering what the “direction” is and where to take it. I don’t really know what to write anymore, lacking inspiration, and feel this, and maybe by extension, my life, a waste of space. There, I said it. You caught me in one of my funks. I fear this, I, me, is a waste of space. That’s silly, of course, and I know I’m better than that but let me just acknowledge the imperfections of my day-to-day.
I used to go to poetry slams, where I used to live. Back before my life turned completely nomadic, and was only semi-nomadic by way of 1) moving out of a house that I had co-owned with an ex (bad idea) in Small Town, population: 10,000 to Big Town population: 85,000 2) Joint move with two gay roomies (the most gloriously wonderful bearded gay couple ever) about 8 months later across town to Downtown (a wonderful spot). Downtown was the place to be. I only lived there four whole months but it was bliss. A sushi restaurant I never did get around to trying just across the street to the east (the novelty of the option to go there was enough for me). A health food store across the street to the south that I often frequented for bite-sized meals. A billiards lounge and fancy martini bar with a fabulous $5 menu and to die for red velvet cake southeast and… I could go on and on. The point is, I used to go to poetry slams, and right in downtown, I could easily walk there. And, the not so other point is (if you can read between the very obvious lines), maybe I miss that place.
The poetry slams were mostly a spectator sport. I came to watch poets, not to be a poet. I remember one particularly sexy poet named Trabajo. Who knows if that was his real name, because if you don’t know (and you should, because that’s one of those easy words that EVERYONE should know like ¡hola!), that actually means work in Spanish. Trabajo had the most beautifully toned and natural biceps I’ve ever seen, and he probably knew it too, by how he always wore sleeveless shirts, even in Autumn. That accent… It was a mix of Latin lover and Exotic. The kind of yummy accent that rolls on your tongue and maybe even melts in your mouth. Scrumptious. I wondered if it was possible for poets to have groupies, and if I could be one. But Trabajo soon left for Jaimaca, and bigger and better things than the town of Bend had to offer. There are just some people that outgrow their surroundings and Trabajo was one of them. Maybe I was too.
Someday, I guess I’d like to be a poet. I mean, not just any poet. A poet up on stage, slamming. I guess I should put that on my bucket list. #82 (I’m just picking an arbitrary number): Join a poetry slam. Who the hell am I kidding though? I’m not a poet. Not a real poet. And certainly not the kind of poet who can speak in front of crowds, rapping rhythms. Which probably makes it just the kind of thing to add to my bucket list. Who says I can’t? Who’s stopping me? Nothing short of Fear. The ever constant companion.
III. I joined this thing. This creative challenge thing. It’s over on my sidebar and it’s purple. You can’t miss it. Every day for 21 days, I’ll write 800 words. This can be anything from blog posts, business plans, poetry, personal journal entries, stories, anything. 5x a week, I’ll be doing yoga. And there’s a whole community of bloggers doing this. Creative challenges are for lazy-asses like me who can’t do anything on their own. I’m always up for a good challenge. Especially if it involves writing + yoga. Love.
It was a brisk, autumn night, and the sky was clear. The soft rustle of autumn leaves dragging across cement like gentle whispers reminded me that things change. Jen and I walked past bars and a late night middle eastern restaurant before deciding on a place to eat. From a distance, straight ahead of us, I saw him. He was alone and walked slowly. He seemed to blend in the autumn air; a mirage. I wondered if he sensed my presence behind him or heard my voice speaking about who knows what, but speaking about Not Him.
That night, we were at a show. He had a way of deciding what to do that was exactly what I’d want to do as well. Having the same music tastes means you’re soul mates, after all. If, by soul mates you mean broken and if by broken you mean fragile. He wanted to go alone, he said. So I decided to go with Jen.
I crunched on an autumn leaf. It was my favorite childhood quirk; stomping on autumn leaves just to hear the crisp sound like a seasonal fanfare, announcing my presence. How could something so fun and enjoyable remind me of something so heartbreaking? I thought of the eggshells I walked on, remembering how I got to this point.
Maybe I was overextending my stay; crowding his space bubble. Maybe I shouldn’t have even been there. That night, there were no fanfares, and my presence seemed uninvited. So close yet so far away. Was he trying to avoid me? Was I trying to avoid him? Not one of us said a word. I tried not to look at him, let alone make eye contact. The proximity of the intimate venue was almost unbearable. Unbearably awkward. From my periphery, I could see him sitting to my left. Up on stage was Laura Gibson, an indie artist from Portland, Oregon.
She lit up the small crowd with her voice. Told us this was a participatory song and that we needed to sing the lines with her at the end. Her voice, as tentative and soft as my heart, carried me, lifting me out of my depression.
“This is not the end,” she sang.
“This is not the end.”
“This is not the end,” I joined in with a faint smile and dulled senses. If my life were a movie, this is the point where I’d cry, but I did not. All I could do was sing. And through this singing, the night didn’t seem so bad. As the crowd joined, gathering strength and energy, life didn’t seem so bad. The once tentative-sounding voice now sounded like a quiet strength.
I thought about the significance of these simple words at that exact moment in time. It was as if she was singing directly to me; reading my mind. My emotions were numb, unsure how to take it. The experience, shared with my ex yet so far removed, was completely surreal. I bought her album, waiting in line while he walked right beside me. The air between us shifted a light breeze. We were two strangers.
I listened to that song on repeat for days, weeks, months. It became my break-up mantra which encouraged me, carried me, and covered me with hope; giving me warmth from the cold of my loneliness.
This year, there will be no autumn leaves to crunch in my tropical paradise. Things change and seasons roll on. My heart has mended now, and my spirit stronger than ever. But I am indebted for this song that got me through. This is not the end, and it was the start of my beautiful beginning and becoming.
I lost my muse. She left as soon as I became Myself again. Equalizing heart-body-soul in an equilibrium. I never considered myself a poet, but for a brief moment, the words soared. Burst out of some shell I didn’t know I had and offered hope and understanding. My muse is a nurturer. She provides. She gives. She comforts. And she helps me create. Like a baby being born. Poems take on their own shape. Their own sense of life. Let me give birth to this poem. Love it and care for it and feed it. Poems don’t come when the storms are calm. This isn’t a poem, after all.
* * *
It was Elizabeth Gilbert on a TED talk that first made me think of creativity as something that we tap into rather than something we internally possess. Many creative writers, musicians and artists have been tormented with creative “genius” that often leads to a fine line between sanity and madness. Madness comes when internalizing your genius causes you to hold on and take root. Soon, creativity isn’t something that you control, but something that controls you. Think of Michael Jackson, Virginia Wolfe, Vincent Van Gogh and Sylvia Plath. All of these famous figures were geniuses in their art but were also plagued by madness. As an artist, you have to learn to let go.
I remember when words flowed out of me like poetry. I didn’t know I had it in me, but it was after a rough patch of my life. Creativity flowed through me like never before. It was as if this dry well that I had been trying to fill up with creativity was suddenly overflowing. Although the words and thoughts were mine, the creativity was a source that I had somehow tapped into. Years of searching for it, wondering why I wasn’t an “artist” anymore and all of a sudden, it all came back to me. This time, instead of paint and paintbrush, through words and keystrokes. I learned how to reclaim the artist in me. I learned not to berate myself for no longer being an “artist” just because I haven’t picked up a brush in years. The artist in me still lives on.
Sometimes, I still get jealous of former classmates from art school. The ones who look like Suicide Girls and have model pictures and tattoos. The ones who have accomplished a quirky, artsy and independent lifestyle and are self-published writers, artists and filmmakers. The grass is always greener on the other side, even when I’m having an Elizabeth Gilbert-esque Eat, Pray, Love adventure of my own.
I lost my muse and she disappeared when criticism, judgment and perfectionism stepped in. When your heart is hurting, you live life in a more raw existence. This allows you not to pre-judge anything. What you get is pure raw emotion. On paper. On canvas. The conditions are ripe for creativity. When I get jealous of other creatives, what I’m doing is only keeping myself further away from creativity, by letting judgment set in.
All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. – Picasso
We all possess creativity, the problem is how to tap into it. I think of creative source as a consciousness. Creativity can be described as a “Gift from God”. We all have the ability to tap into it, but some seem able to more than others. Empty your cup. Let all prejudice and judgment go, and creativity can begin again. Give yourself permission to make bad art. Give yourself the leniency to explore and take your time. In time, maybe I’ll find my brushes again.
Here’s the dillio (Dealy yo? Who says that anymore!?) Imagine me. Nineteen years old and fresh out of high school. A little bit punky. A little bit riot grrl. And maybe a whole lot of emo. I had a boyfriend I wasn’t really into but was too afraid of being Alone. Picture the kind of mental instability that is your teens and early twenties, a bundle of un-confidence and raw emotion; a wanting to push status-quo, with my short pixie spiked hair and Chuck Taylor exterior, and a not-so-brave interior. I wanted to shave my head then. Own my non-conformity. I wanted to prove to myself that I could “pull it off”. But, I couldn’t do it. Would I look ugly? Would people think I was a lesbo? Dyke? Butch? Oh, the horror!
The Butch-y Buddhist
Eight years later and I am living an ascetic (as I’ll ever be) lifestyle at a Buddhist monastery for four months (3 left, and counting…). I have always wanted to shave my head at least once in my life just to try it. Why not? Consider it on my bucket list. What better way to finally shave my head than living monastically (loosely speaking) and studying Buddhism, right? Right. I mean, sex and sexuality are so beyond my current plane of existence that I might as well be little buddha (unenlightened folk don’t deserve capital letters).
The implications of a shaved head in normal society are a cause of concern for many. Butch! Dyke! Lesbo! My classmates say I look like a little boy, butch, lesbo, GI Jane, a hot lesbian (at least I look like a hot one!) and my personal favorite: Mulan (heck yeah, she kicks ass!). Shaving my head is a personal choice to detach from my hair, from the concepts of beauty, from social norms, and from the status-quo. It takes a certain kind of confidence for women to shave their head. Confidence in their sexuality; enough not to be bothered by social expectations and implications. Confidence in their gender and gender roles; enough not to be bothered by the androgynous look. The decision and outcome is completely liberating, and at least for me, completely mind blowing.
For me, sexuality is fluid. I’m more straight than gay but not quite straight, either. That’s entirely natural and entirely OK. Eight years ago, I wouldn’t have been comfortable with “what society thinks”, but now? I couldn’t care less. Buddhism has taught me the power of non-attachement. And finally being comfortable in my sexuality is mind blowing (note to self: stop thinking about the blowing part now).
If Britney Spears Can Shave Her Head At Her Worst, I Can Do It At My Best
These days, I feel (figuratively, and now, literally) lighter. Happier. More joyful. Maybe it’s this simple routine here. The meditation. The healthy, vegetarian meals. Everything and Nothing all at once. Eight years ago, I would have never done what I am now unafraid to do. It takes courage. It’s mind blowing. Exhilarating. Liberating. Heartening. And while I know that this happiness is not permanent, I’m enjoying each and every moment while I can.
There’s a sort of craziness that happens when you’re at peace and at one with yourself. Not the Britney Spears manic kind of crazy. Not the get-your-life-together-you’re-so-messed-up sort of crazy. More like a life-is-so-beautiful-and-you’re-talking-to-yourself-and-singing-like-your-life-is-a-musical sort of crazy. Or sensory overload with 11 other people who are just as crazy as you are 24/7. Or just laughing a lot for no reason, talking to bugs to say you didn’t mean to hurt them, or dancing crazy to Bjork sort of crazy.
Or you know. Shaving your head sort of crazy.
Vanity
Despite the detachment to hair, beauty, or social norms, I am still vain. The paradox of myself. I still want to be able to “pull it off” when I shave my head. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think I look like a boy, or a lesbian and think this probably isn’t the best look for me. Other times I look in the mirror and think “damn, I’m sexy!” I had a whole photoshoot full of pictures that I will share out of simple vanity. The semi-bald yogi.
I am part of Matt Chevy’s Life Without Pants project, The Epiphany Moment! Check out the other videos on his website.
* * *
I recorded this video 5 months ago and it’s funny what can happen in nearly half a year:
I got fired from a job that I hated. I was planning to quit anyway, due to my travel plans, but they fired me a month before I had planned to throw in the towel. I have never gone into detail of this moment in my life because I didn’t want to write about my work life in a negative manner. The situation is far enough removed from my life now that I feel I can elaborate more. As a graphic designer, my career path has been shaky. I felt that I wasn’t utilizing my degree and wasting away in a dead-end job worst than Kinkos. It’s a bit like designing the Yellow Pages, except I was “designing” hospital forms. In addition, I was managing a one-woman print shop for a good portion of a year before the company hired on an assistant. I learned administrative duties, bookkeeping and customer service; I did it all, but as a graphic designer, I felt I was severely lacking on portfolio building work. In retrospect, I am glad to have had the experience because as often is the case in the corporate world, it helped set me up for my next stage in life as I attempt self-employment.
I made a (more or less) career switch. I am now self-employed, and loving it! I am a social media writer/blogger updating Twitter and Facebook accounts and blogging for company accounts. I don’t consider myself “successful”, in the traditional sense of the word. I make enough to sustain myself in Asia but less than half the amount I made at my previous job. I see myself less as an “entrepreneur” and more as a “hustler” at this stage of my career but as soon as I can get more clients things may change. I’d love to tie this all back with my design skills somehow, but right now, I’m enjoying my time as a writer.
I moved to Asia. I didn’t end up volunteering in the Himalayas of India like I had mentioned on the video. Last minute organization changes with my volunteer program had me placed in and around New Delhi, India, but I have loved every second of it. I currently live with my family in Cebu, Philippines. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to get out of this whole experience, specifically, but that’s the fun in the journey. I hope to travel to other Asian countries during this year, but have no formalized plans. I hope to live a sustainable, location independent freelance career by the end of the year, and have enough money/income by the time I return to the states to move to San Francisco (ish), California!
If you can follow your heart, you can do anything, and I am proof of that. Dream big, and live the life you want, right now!
There’s really no other way to write it. Dozens of half starts, half thoughts and half remembrances. Halfway through this early morning. They say you find yourself in India. They say, wherever you go, there you are. You can’t push your problems aside. You can’t run away. At the end of the day, you’ll always have yourself. That’s the short version.
Travel is a road to self-discovery. Of pushing your boundaries and identifying your strengths and weaknesses. This cultural musical chairs is designed to keep us aware of the only thing we know best when everything else is so foreign; ourselves. Amidst the language barriers, in a country where hardly anyone speaks English, there I was. I found myself in India. The thought blew my mind even as I walked the ground, breathed in the shifting smells of dirt and garbage and smog, and felt the dust grind between my toe nails.
“I’m in INDIA!” The thought gathered in unison as my fellow travel peers and I bonded over first experiences. Time loses its grasp in this strange land. A day feels like a week and then a week starts to feel like a couple days. Three weeks wasn’t enough, but I know I’ll be back.
Navigating my emotional landscapes, I know that I am finally myself for the first time in a long time. This is what drives me to push forward, to keep on going. I feel stronger now, more independent. I feel like I’m being reborn and taking steps for the very first time. I feel like I have finally found myself. Old remnants of him no longer matter. The past is a bore that I don’t care to replay. The present is all that I ever have here, anywhere. Each new day is a new adventure. It always is, but travel makes it even more apparent. Look for the beauty in each day and you’ll find yourself there.
Jeremy is a talented illustrator and artist at jeremytheartist.com. As “creative types”, we hit it off pretty fast on 20sb. His creative process involves hand inking cartoons, scanning them on the computer and then coloring through photoshop. It’s a bit different than the digitized wacom tablet process and I appreciate his merging of traditional with digital techniques. As someone who finds it hard to channel my passions, I have much respect for people who have such obvious focused passion… Enjoy!
The Walk So Far
So my journey has been somewhat of a bumpy ride, but who hasn’t had their share of bumps eh? I definitely think I still have awhile to go before I am bountiful in material wealth, but I like to play with the notion that I’ve learned a thing or two along the way so far..
I included a drawing for this post that might carry my story along a bit better than I can. Each “panel” is marked with a number so it goes as such:
I was a fetus. And as you can see, I was wearing my first pair of glasses.
As a small boy, I drew a lot, ranging from dinosaurs to monsters to family members to family members on dinosaurs eating monsters. You think I’m kidding.
“The Band Years”. ‘bout 6 years there where the only “real” drawings anyone saw were my banners I made for the different instrumental sections to put in the band hall. That, and a couple t-shirt designs I made my senior year of high school.
Me at the present time. “The Man With The Talking Head”, “Jeremy The Artist”, “Jerms”.. “Sexy Pants”…though I don’t really prefer to be called the latter.
I like to think myself an artist most days. I take considerate joy, especially in the art of cartooning, a career I am grateful to have started a few years back…
My father was the cartoonist for his collegiate newspaper and it is something I’ve always taken great pride in…telling all the other kids that my dad could draw was something I cherished…one of the great things growing up was looking at all his doodles in this scrapbook that he kept, of all his cartoons he did for the paper…
That went to the top of the list in my head as far as what to do when I enter college. Sure enough, one of the first weeks of my freshman year, I found the collegiate paper and asked to be the cartoonist…it was one of those “heart thumper moments” ya know? “Hi, I am interested in drawing cartoons for the paper?” *tha thump tha thump tha thump*……. “sure.” …… “ok”…leaving the office, I thought to myself…how the hell…do I draw an editorial cartoon.
Little did I know what that would blossom into…a 4.5 year career as the Editorial Cartoonist…in which time I am proud to say I learned a small portion of what the hell I was supposed to be doing, even receiving 1st Place Editorial Cartoonist at a newspaper competition event I went to my last year..the whole Editorial Cartoonist experience is something that I will always treasure, for both the lessons I learned and the people I shared it with.
In that time, I can definitely say I grew and understand more so the dynamics of cartooning. I began to study the Sunday newspapers and any other comic/cartoon strips I could get my hands on…studying their specific compositions, styles, transitions, etc..
Cartooning, before college, was something I had enjoyed but not necessarily considered as a serious career. Drawing those editorial cartoons every week, and then eventually launching my own comic strip for the paper, I began to understand more about what making a cartoon is all about.
I compare cartooning to doing comedic stand up…it’s the greatest thing for someone to walk up to you and tell you how funny your cartoon was in last week’s issue. ..knowing that you made a person laugh, chuckle, smile or even a small smirk just makes you feel great inside…and you work your hardest to make each and every cartoon you do that much funnier and enjoyable for your readers.
I’m currently applying for my masters in Graphic Design, but cartooning is something I carry along with me next to my heart…I know it will be something I will do until the day I leave this earth and I am content with that knowledge, regardless of any other variables that will be affecting my life.
Cartooning is my passion, makes the walk so far a lil’ bit easier to tread.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
If Britney Spears Can Shave Her Head At Her Worst, I Can Do It At My Best
Jeremy is a talented illustrator and artist at 
