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.
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.
So remember when I said I “wasn’t Buddhist enough”? Through a delightfully random and last minute turn of events, I have the opportunity to join a four month retreat to study Zen, practice meditation, learn Mandarin Chinese, garden, cook and eat all vegetarian, and generally live a minimalistic, simple way of life. This will be four months of seclusion at a Buddhist temple, all expenses paid for during the program, monthly allowance money given to up to 15 applicants, and an amazing chance of a lifetime for personal growth! The only expense would be my transportation to and from the retreat.
It’s funny how the universe provides when I have a “problem”.
Problem #1: “I’m not Buddhist enough!”
In high school, I began to think about philosophies which aligned to Buddhist thought prior to having read anything about Buddhism. One of my friends even remarked, upon a discussion we had, that I was talking about concepts she was reading about in a book by the Dalai Lama. That was one high compliment, and then, another friend I met likened me to a Bodhisattva (Enlightened being that chooses to reincarnate to help others through their journey to Nirvana. Basically, a teacher, helper and giver.). While I’m far from being Enlightened, or even a sage, both compliments have really stood out to me throughout the years. Although my philosophies naturally align with Buddhism, I choose not to label myself as Buddhist because I simply don’t feel “Buddhist enough”. I’d much prefer taking concepts of Buddhism and Christianity and what have you and apply them to my life in constructive ways. The focus is in living a good life, rather than a good Buddhist life. Despite all this, I could certainly learn more about Buddhism because my grasp of the philosophy is basic, at best. When I say I’m not “Buddhist enough”, days later, the Universe (or you know, the internet) provides me a solution.
Problem #2: My family
As a Westerner, and as an American, it has been a complete culture shock and frustrating to realize that I can not do anything or go anywhere by myself. Every decision isn’t my own decision, but a family made one. If at age 26, my family disapproves of an activity, I am not allowed to do it…
I’m the solitary panda. I’m used to hopping on a bus, or the subway by myself. Walking down the streets of Portland in Old Town, Burnside, Skidmore… the “Bad” side of town without worry. Always keeping on my toes, and my wits about me (a lesson learned through martial arts training), but still not worried nonetheless. I came here to learn about “community” and “family values”. I know that. But the stimuli has been overwhelming at best. For someone solitary, not “getting” family values in my normal life, an only child, and (as much as I hate to say) a somewhat spoiled American, this is unreasonably ridiculous and bizarre. I feel like I’m 16 again, and a rebellious 16 year old at that! If my family doesn’t “approve” of this retreat because it’s different than Catholicism, they can NOT stop me. I’m the outsider looking in and a traveler. I love my family but I have been looking for a way “out” to experience more of the Philippines islands, to travel. It’s funny that my solution for “getting out” is by signing in to a monastery where I will have four months seclusion at two Buddhist temples and no allowance for “going out” and roaming outside the quarters. Despite the intensity, and strict code to simplicity and routine, I think it will be an amazing experience!
It is good to point out that none of these problems are really problematic. With a little perspective shift, they become different things entirely, and always an opportunity for learning and growth.
My first dose of zen came about in book form. The same friend who had likened me to a Bodhisattva recommended me what is now one of my favorite books: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values. If the title in itself is a handful, wait until you read the book! I first picked it up my freshman year of college. It was by happenstance that my friend and I decided to randomly wander into an old local bookstore. The kind of old bookstore with a cat, and woman with the “librarian” look. Sure, maybe Zen and the Art of.. is relatively popular and no one wanted this tattered used thing, but there it was when I wasn’t even searching! Immediately, I bought it and read 300+ pages of thick philosophy in under a week; loving every page! This book floored me, changed me, and made me feel alive.
Never, in a million years, would I think that I would ever get a chance to join a monastery, or even feel interested in such a thing. In just about two weeks, I will have a little more Zen in my life. I can’t think of a better way to feel so Alive. I look forward to every (present) moment.
I write a lot of how to articles as a freelance writer. Stuff like how to finger your girlfriend, how to run a 5k race, and how to french kiss. Oh what? Yeah, I write for a men’s website. So when the topic of fluency at Sunday Scribblings came about, I automatically started writing a how to…
It’s no surprise that learning a language in your adulthood is a lot tougher on your memory and brain than learning a language in your childhood. It takes extra work and determination but it can be done. The best thing is to acclimate yourself in the culture. It’s not enough to be in the country, because talking in English and hanging out with ex-pats isn’t going to do the trick. Acclimation means conversing with the locals, and trying out conversational language so you can learn words and sentence structures.
Growing up in the USA as the only Asian kid, it was easy to learn English as my second language. Unfortunately, that meant forgetting my Filipino dialect, Cebuano. My mom spoke English in the house and I quickly had no use for my native language. All that I learned in the first four years of my life was gone.
Visiting the Philippines has helped some. In the six times that I have come to visit, for five to eight weeks at a time starting at the age of eight, I have picked up vocabulary. I’ve always been too shy to make a fool of myself by trying to actually speak the language so the words that I picked up never went very far. Each time I visited, I’d learn new words and seem to remember the ones I already knew.
It is exactly one month that I’ve been in the Philippines, and I am staying here for at least a year. Already, I am conversing in full sentences and understanding more than not. My sentences are getting easier but I am not fluent. I still have to think more than I would speaking English, but I am trying to speak as much Cebuano as I possibly can. Similarly, my family talks to me mostly in the dialect.
Best of all, it no longer seems like I’m making a fool of myself when trying to speak in Cebuano. Slowly, but surely, I’m getting it. And when I come back to the states, I’m making my mom talk to me in Cebuano.
Learning a language in adulthood takes practice, repetition and dedication. Being able to converse every day will help your language comprehension improve greatly. With tenacity and a willingness to learn, you can pick up a language and become fluent in a couple years.
I am a walking contradiction. At times, I say that I embrace the unknowns. That I am comfortable in insecurity and no longer scared of impermanence. Lately, its been more about that pit feeling in my stomach. That longing to have someone cheering me on. Someone to be my rock. Because I am out of my comfort zone and everything seems topsy-turvy. Because I just moved to the Philippines to be with my family and even though I’ve been here many times on vacation, I have never lived here for an extended time since I was three, which almost doesn’t count. Because I feel awkward here, a Fil-Am (Filipino American) expat in her own country.
I don’t know if this is homesickness or lovesickness or a bit of both. When my life plans seem so unstable, I long for other areas in my life to fill the void. I long for love. Simply put, what I’m feeling is a kind of unconfidence about my work life and freelancing that makes me feel unconfident and wanting in other areas of my life. Or, I could just be missing my friends, new and old. To fill the void–any void–by relying solely on others is unhealthy. I’ve made it a goal, particularly knowing that my stay here is impermanent, not to get attached to anyone. This year, I live life solo. I don’t need anybody. But that still doesn’t stop me from feeling a little lost, and a little lovesick.
What can I do to fill my void?
I already know the answer. It’s just a matter of having the confidence to do them.
Meet new people. Make new friends. – Because even introverts need contact.
Work on my portfolio site. – You know, the one that isn’t up yet.
Design a business card – Marketing #2 for point #1
Easy as one-two-three, right? Not necessarily. Not when you lack confidence in your abilities. Not when you feel it’s hard to assert yourself in such a community based Asian way of living, where I am part of the family unit first and foremost. Despite traveling alone with a one-way ticket, I knew I wasn’t coming here to live independently, and it’s a culture shock that I am definitely still getting used to. Delving into my family and community of friends, as well as taking the steps to establish myself should help my feelings of lovesickness.
I’m an anxious person. It might not seem like the trait of someone who travels and moves to a different country, but I am anxious. I’m anxious about my future. I’m anxious about yes, love. I’m anxious about what my career will look like and if I’ll ever be where I want to be with a business. I’m anxious about starting a family, and if that’s even in the cards for me, at all. I’m anxious about what this year will be like. I’m anxious if I’ll even live it up. I’m anxious that there will be a natural disaster while I’m here. I’m anxious of turning 27 this year and what that “means” in society and that I don’t live up to my age. I’m anxious of this thing on my blog that says travel, culture, art, and erotica and that I don’t live up to that.
Eastern philosophy and “living in the moment” has really interested me because of how anxious I am. Meditation can help calm me down. Rarely do I show my anxiousness to anyone, or even on this blog. With barely anything to grasp and center me, it’s hard to fight my feelings of wanting someone to hug me and tell me it will all be OK. Someone who has full support of what I’m doing. Someone who can help rationalize my mind when I’m going crazy (also, this could just be that time of the month). Someone who can love me even if I’m being crazy (because lets face it, it comes with the boobs and estrogen). I’m anxious that all this talk about wanting kids and being “lovesick” means that nature is telling me to nest when I am so anti-settling down NOW or possibly EVER and that turning 27 is making me kind of a little weird. I am anxious that this post isn’t good enough and my writing is crap, boring, trying too hard, or unfunny. I am anxious that I have no idea where this post is going because I had no idea I would even go off on an “anxious” tangent that I even had to change the title. Will my anxiety ever stop? When pigs fly!
Obviously, this post doesn’t know where to end! So *poof* end.
If Britney Spears Can Shave Her Head At Her Worst, I Can Do It At My Best
