Archives for the month of: September, 2013

Ready To Fly?

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did so. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain


MlookingnextWant to hear something insane?  Something so ludicrous that I can’t even believe that I’m thinking it, let alone giving it the light of day within the written word?

I don’t want to be settled in.

OK, a little back story… Almost eight months ago we have this kooky notion to uproot ourselves and move away from my hometown, where all of my family lives, and where I own a business, rent out our house built by my grandmother and move across the country to a town we’ve never even seen.  I detach from the business, we give away the majority of our possessions, and we say good bye to our comfortable life that we had worked for years to build.  Last month, we climbed onto that plane and we didn’t look back.

Now we’re here, in California, the other side of our world.  School is in session, boxes are unpacked, swimming lessons are scheduled, drivers licenses are on order.  There is still the novelty of waking up in a new world – remembering where the post office is and trying to figure out just which neighbor said ‘hi’ to you today – that is exciting, but the newness is fading.  The adventure is becoming routine.  We are slipping back into comfortable.

I don’t want to be comfortable.  I don’t want to forget to be present in every moment because now that moment is easy and I can just glide through it.  I don’t want to fall back into step with the expected path, the easy path, the comfortable path and pick my head up years later and think, “How did I get here, again?”

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not one of those martyrs that LOVES the drama and the crisis.  I used to be, but that shit is exhausting and doesn’t get me anywhere.  Fun to whine about, ultimately a complete suck as to actually moving through life.  I’m so over that.

I’m talking about sucking the marrow out of life, becoming an adrenaline junkie for actually living as opposed to just phoning it in.  And let’s be clear, I’m no idiot.  Swimming lessons still need to happen.  There is a modicum of traditional life, of existing within the routine and the mundane, that must be fulfilled.  I’m into that.  I’ve learned to look within the ordinary to find the beauty that exists.  But I’m not about to sit around and curate the Museum of Ordinary.  Way too many others willing to step up for that job.

I have an itch and it is not fully scratched yet.  Moving across the country was just the beginning.  There is more coming, and although I have no idea what it is, I know that I have to trust that it will all be sorted out.  But I am an inpatient person, in an instant gratification obsessed world.  Can I remain uncomfortable and aware or will I succumb to weaving a cocoon of familiar routine?

A beautiful and very missed friend reminded me today that we are exactly where we are supposed to be.  I guess for today I’m going to learn how being patient and satisfied to be right here is all the adventure that I need.

I just hope this shit doesn’t take forever.

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I’m a sucker for religious art. Might have something to do with turning the metaphysical into the physical. In any case, I’ve been itching to paint something… which says something because I don’t paint.

This is the Hand of Fatima. In Islam, the Hand of Fatima is named for Mohammad’s daughter, Fatima Zahra and Christians refer to it as the Hand of Mary, for the Virgin Mother, yet the symbol predates both Islam and Christianity, back to Mesopotamia. The Jews also subscribe to the symbol referring to it as the Hand of Miriam, referring to the biblical sister of Moses and Aaron. The symbol of the open right hand is also a mudra (or hand posture) of teaching and protection of the Buddha.

The symbol represents protection particularly against what is known as the ‘evil eye’. I happen to know something about the evil eye because my Italian grandmother would spit on us occasionally to remove such things.

Not sure what is drawing me to this image now. I first saw it when traveling in Turkey and Morocco about 20 years ago, but never really cared for it. Now, I’m trying not to paint it on my front door.

Mystical message or moving neurosis? You decide.