Why I Am Traveling

Last Monday, I took the train down from San Francisco to Los Angeles on the famed Amtrak Coast Starlight route.

The trip took 12 hours total--a temporal investment that could have taken me to New Zealand by air. The experience was, I'm sure, a mere shell of what it once was; the cars smelled like green bean casserole reheated one too many times, and the staff was unresponsive and sometimes outright rude. My travel mates were mostly white-haired retirees, leisurely sipping their cocktails, reading their newspapers, and nibbling on their roast beef dinners in the dining car. The train stopped often and seemingly without reason.

So why take the train? To stretch out the distance from A to B. I snuck up to the lounge car early in the trip, with its floor to ceiling windows and outward-facing seats, and set up camp with my books and my Moleskin. There, I watched the scenery change from backwater city suburbs to green and yellow pastoral scenes to sweeping Pacific vistas. Rolling down the spine of California in a self-contained glass tube gave me the space and time I needed to just be. Nothing to do, nowhere to be... just ride.

My reasons for traveling through India and Southeast Asia next year aren’t much different, but I've struggled to find the right words. When asked, I shy away from answering outright, hiding behind vague explanations or deflecting jokes. My questioners tend to react in one of two ways: oversimplified envy or skeptical confusion. The former group has romanticized views about what long-term travel entails, noncommittal dreams about doing it themselves one day, or regrets about not having gone when they were my age. “Good for you!” they say, patting my back heartily. “You’re going to have such an amazing experience!”

The latter group grills me about logistics and the long view: “What are you going to do for healthcare?”, “How will you make money?” or--my favorite--“What do you plan to do when you come back?” They want to know how this trip will fit onto my resume, build on my prior achievements and contribute to my future career. Behind their eyes, I see the real questions flash: What are you running away from? Are you one of those going off to “find themselves”? Good luck.

I know these questions all too well. They kept me from quitting my job months before I should have. They still wake me up in the middle of the night from time to time.

The truth is, I don't have all the answers, but I do have real and tangible reasons for trying to do what I'm trying to do.  I shy away from answering honestly and openly because I'm afraid of sounding like a cliché or being misunderstood. I'm nervous that I'll write checks with my mouth that I can't cash, or worse--return to California in three months with my tail between my legs.

If posting this blog has taught me anything, though, it's that being vocal and honest about your intentions and expressing them to the people that will hold you accountable can be the difference between a false-start and a real undertaking. So, without any disclaimers or deflection, let me for once answer the damn question: Why am I traveling?

In short, I’m traveling for space and time. Space and time to:

1. Reflect. My life to this point has been driven in large part by action for action’s sake, chasing the next award, grade, trophy, diploma or promotion. I want to stop the hamster wheel for a while and do something without any extrinsic rewards, reconnecting to the ‘why’ behind the 'what'.

2. Struggle a bit. At Google, my every possible need was taken care of and attended to. Though it might sound crazy, I know I quit in part just to feel challenged again, to be forced to figure my own shit out. Don't worry--I've already had all the romance sucked out of this idea for me by having to navigate the healthcare marketplace and figure out how to get my unemployed ass health insured in the US and abroad next year. It’s not pretty, but it’s a new challenge, and I’m learning a lot about different types of health coverage and how they work (Post on travel logistics & prep to come). I’m traveling, in part, to put myself in places and situations like these where I have to face new challenges, develop new skills, and reemerge more complex than I was before (See post: “Post-Fear”). This includes having to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with myself when I come back.

3. Be alone. I spent quite a bit of time alone abroad in my father’s homeland of Denmark growing up. From an early age, I had to learn how to cope with homesickness and language isolation on my own, rely on myself for comfort and inspiration, and test my boundaries now and then to meet new people and do new things. It helped me cultivate peace and enjoyment in solitude, seeking out the company of others only when it fostered growth. In the past several years, I’ve let life in the fast lane pressure me into believing that being alone is sad and pathetic. I want to rediscover the peace and joy in solitude I’ve felt in the past.

4. Study mind-body connect disciplines. I have loose plans to study yoga in an ashram in India, meditation in a Buddhist temple in Thailand, Tai Chi with a master in China, and possibly some others. I would love it if I could eventually find a way to use this knowledge to help move us away from the abstract materialist view of health we have here in the West towards one that acknowledges and honors the mind-body connection. That’s about as specific as I can get on the “career plan” front.

5. Read. I’d love to continue digging into some of the great spiritual texts (Bhagavad Gita, Bible, Tibetan Book of the Dead, etc) in the way that only wandering allows. I also want to dive into some of the individual works of the saints, heroes, sages, artists, poets and madmen that I so admire: men and women throughout history who went against the grain and claimed their own truth (this entails a reading list too long to include here).

All of this is subject to change as I keep adjusting to the present moment on the road, staying open to unknown possibilities (See post: “Always Something Else”). I don’t know if I’ll be back in 6 months, a year, or more. But at least for now, these are my reasons.

Pinball

Andrew sat next to me in homeroom, and I learned almost nothing all year. Every time the smooth blonde hairs of his forearm brushed up against mine, I lit up like a Christmas tree, tingling from the tips of my toes up to the top of my ponytail. One week, when Mrs. Carlisle came around to collect our spelling quizzes, Andrew looked over at my sheet and casually pointed out that I had forgotten to write my name at the top. My tongue went limp in my mouth. I stared back at him blankly, eventually managing to gargle out some nonsensical noises and look away in horror. On the long bus ride home, I came up with sassy retort after sassy retort: Well, maybe you wouldn't have known that if you haven't been looking at my quiz! The opportunity never arose to try them out in real life.

...

Stephen gave me my first kiss, though it was more about checking something off a list than Stephen. We were at camp, and the preteen girls and boys all huddled into a second floor common room on a rainy afternoon with a bottle to spin and havoc to wreak. His mouth tasted like the tropical fruit Starbust he had just finished chewing. I tried to picture the faces of the girls and boys circled around us whooping and giggling as he probed around my mouth with his tongue, looking for something.

...

Connor was a soccer player and disarmingly funny. I wanted him to be my first. After a night of strategic stalking and ample drinking, we stumbled back to my dorm room. Once I had managed to unlock the door, he pushed me in with one hand and flipped the lights off with the other, a little too confident. He pressed the full weight of his body against mine, smothering me with urgent kisses and hasty groping. When he pinned me on the bed and began tearing off my belt, my dress, I felt my eyes well up with tears. Reaching for the wall, a solid grip, I managed clumsily to push him off and send him home. He left apology messages on my voicemail that night and over the successive weeks to which I never responded. I took long walks and laid in fields with tall grasses hidden, staring up at the changing cloud formations.

...

Sean lived down the hall from me sophomore year. He was older and much more experienced, and I fell like all the rest, weak under the light of his gaze. The feeling wasn't mutual, and my heart broke a little bit each time he came home with a different girl. Late one Saturday night, as I passed Sean's room on my way to the bathroom, I could just make out the sounds of mattress creaking and heavy breathing on the other side of his closed door. I felt my feet slow to a halt; he's not alone. All my senses withdrew save for my hearing, which sharpened dramatically, registering the soft moans of a female voice.  I lingered there motionless, drinking in the intoxicating sounds of their love-making like a creepy ex-lover. Someone could come by, a small voice in my head called out from a distance. You’ll be caught here like a deer in the headlights. But my feet wouldn’t move. Awash in a combination of horror, envy, and curiosity, I voyeured into a world of intimacy I hadn’t yet experienced.

...

Adam taught me what love returned feels like. Our first night together, he lay with his head in my lap in the rooftop garden of a friend's apartment, venting to me about his estranged father, the pain of their relationship. I listened intently, stroking his hair and smiling as he moved on to his dreams to one day open a whiskey distillery, start his own brand. He sat up suddenly, looking at me tentatively. “I'll never forgive myself if I don’t kiss you right now," he ventured. I let him, and we tumbled willingly down the well. Back at his loft, we rolled around in his crisp, white sheets, laughing and kissing. He pinned me down with his long, tattooed arms, threatening to sleep right there on top of me. “I want to make sure you’re still here when I wake up,” he teased, smiling down at me with drooping, love-drunk eyes.

It ended badly, and months later, memories I had buried deep surfaced with alarming clarity, interrupting the most unsuspecting moments of my day. Walking to class or in a conversation with a friend, I’d suddenly black out to world, enveloped in the unmistakable cigarette and licorice scent of his breath on my neck, the warmth of his arm resting in my hip crease as we slept, morning light flooding through the skylight in his room. I’d sit down on a bench until the vertigo passed and reality loomed back into view.

...

Eric gave me the stability I craved. He was a good boyfriend, and did all the things good boyfriends "should" do: planned out our dates a week in advance, checked in with me at night, introduced me proudly to his friends and family. When we had sex, his face twisted up like a mechanic contemplating an intricate machine--searching for the right buttons to press, the right words to say. I'd squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed by the effort. Four months later, I faced the insecurities that drove me into Eric's arms and left him for my quiet nights alone.

...

Will and I worked together in the same dead-end job. In willful ignorance of his long-term girlfriend, we escaped into each other at work for over a year, flirting and wasting time together just to brighten our uninspired days. One quiet evening alone at home, I settled in to watch what I thought would be an easy film: Drinking Buddies by Joe Swaneberg. For two hours, I watched my relationship with Will mirrored back to me in excruciating detail through the story of Luke and Kate, coworkers at a Chicago brewery who spent all day drinking and flirting, and returned home wasted each night to their significant others. I felt sick to my stomach watching Luke and Kate wrap themselves in layer after layer of denial, drinking constantly and copiously to dull any sense of guilt or responsibility their actions might prompt. I sat there stunned for nearly twenty minutes after the credits stopped rolling, then stood up abruptly, grabbed my keys, and stormed out of the house. I marched through the dark like a madwoman, searching for something, anything to get me away from Will. I came across a 'Help Wanted' sign in a local coffee shop and immediately went inside for an application. I sat alone at the bar in the nearby pub, filling it out and chatting up any man that dared hit on me. Three months later, I left our job, and his girlfriend became his fiance.

...

I’d like to think I’ve learned something from all these misadventures in love and sex and attraction--that I’m somehow stronger for having lived through them, but I'm not so sure. In many ways I am still the gangly, insecure girl I was in middle school, Russian-dolled deep down into the layers of my self. I’ve never fully processed or recovered from any of them, and the ghosts still haunt my dreams from time to time.

I've been forced to conclude that whatever lessons there are to be learned, they are the kind that must be relearned again and again and again. I know that no matter how many times I fall into the pit at the bottom of this pinball machine, it's only a matter of months before I'm going to be shot back in again, as unprepared as ever, barreling towards inevitable collision with some new character... hoping he doesn't join my collection of ghosts.

Inspired by:

Why You Should Not Read This

What happened to that book you bought a while back? The nonfiction one on that subject you are genuinely, intellectually curious about. Or maybe it was a classic novel you set out to conquer before the movie version hit theaters. Is it collecting dust on the bookshelf? Buried under accumulated miscellany on the bedside table? Perhaps it fell into that crevice between bed and wall where all forgotten things go to die.

Did you find it? Good. Where did the final stand take place? Does the bookmark still lay where it fell on page 50 or 75? Where did the pen markings succumb to blankness?

Now, try to recall how you felt when you bought that book. Did you feel pride in choosing to spend your hard-earned money on something meaningful to you, rather than a cocktail or a cab ride? Maybe you felt a sense of serendipity at having found this book and it having found you at this moment in time, a chance opportunity to start a new chapter. Perhaps it was a surge of intention in having deliberately looked for and found something worth pursuing for the sake of itself, not for any extrinsic rewards.

I felt all these things a year and a half ago when I walked out of Dog Eared Bookstore in San Francisco with Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in hand. Frustrated in my research of psychology grad school options, I felt empowered by this small act of ownership--of taking the material that interested me into my own hands and diving in without any promise of degree or title change. I knew the book’s content was right up my alley. So why, a full 18 months after my purchase, am I only 84 pages in?

The short answer is agency, and my incredible knack for handing it out for free to everyone around me. Oh, I’ve had great help. Social media has opened up a million tiny portals into my psyche for the funneling of all kinds of irrelevant bullshit by anyone that’s ever known me. But I can’t blame Facebook. Every epoch has had its own mediums of distraction. And every generation has had its creators--those able to deftly navigate these obstacles and reclaim their consciousness--and its consumers, drowning in the noise. There has always been a choice.

I've finally got around to reading Csikszentmihalyi's book and, if you’re still with me and haven’t returned to your own neglected book, I’d love to share his notes on the subject. Flow draws a similiar distinction between what I’ve just called the creators and the consumers: those able to focus their limited attention “intentionally, like a beam of energy” and those who “diffuse it in desultory, random movements.” The first group, Csikszentmihalyi explains, has the ability "to focus attention at will, to be oblivious to distractions, to concentrate for as long as it takes to achieve a goal, and not longer.” This he calls “the mark of a person who is in control of consciousness.”

Why is it so important to be in control of consciousness? In short, because we can only experience so much. According to Csikszentmihalyi's 1990 calculations, the human central nervous system is capable of processing roughly 185 billion events in a lifetime--a finite amount. Therefore, “the information we allow into consciousness is extremely important," he goes on; "in fact, it is what determines the content and quality of life.” In other words, we create ourselves by what we consume and where we invest our attention. So, if you are unable to intentionally invest your limited attention in this way, and instead consume whatever content is placed in your path, you are allowing yourself to be made by the people and external forces operating around you.

Unless you woke up this morning with the clear and purposeful intent to read my weekly blog post, this rant has probably caught you in a moment of distraction or escape. Maybe you’re bored at work, killing time in the bathroom, or staving off sleep in those least inspired hours of the evening. The point is, you’ve given me--for whatever reason--control over your consciousness for this short period of time.

I’m obviously grateful, but chances are there’s something else that the most inspired, alacritous version of you would have purposefully chosen to consume. Something that you are very naturally drawn to and probably better programmed than the rest of us to process and understand. It is even possible that you were born to be an expert in this thing.

For the love of god, stop massaging my ego and go read that book. Do what you need to do to rise to the challenges posed by this age of distraction. For me (and I struggle with this every day), I have had to reduce my permeability and accessibility via the internet. That means unfollowing all the people on Facebook that derail my intention with Buzzfeed articles, endless photo albums, and linkbait videos that I just have to watch right now. It means resisting the urge to open Instagram or Snapchat accounts, despite pressure from everyone around me, because I don't need another flood of visual input into my day-to-day. It means not following friends on Twitter, and instead following only my contemporary heroes: people already doing things I want to do (travelers, authors, psychologists, yogis, artists, etc). It means constantly tweaking and adjusting these things every day to stay selective about who I am giving sway over my attention.

It’s hard. It’s definitely harder for us than it was for our parents. But that’s not an excuse not to try. And it makes the act of reclaiming consciousness that much more admirable and rewarding for our generation. Start with your biggest time-sucks; they are different for everyone. Unfollow me if you need to. Do what you need to do to take your life back. We’ve got to rise to the task if we want to add any value or say anything new.

Post-Fear

I have always been a fearful person.

As a child, I feared physical danger, real or imagined. On weekend trips to the Santa Monica Pier, I’d refuse to get out of the car in the pier parking lot. Peeking out the backseat window, I’d look down and freeze, transfixed by the swirling mess of ocean and pillars and angry, white spray just visible through the gaps between the pier planks. And those gaps! Vast, human-swallowing abysses (at most an inch or two wide) through which I could fall to my watery grave at any moment! When my dad did manage to coax me down from the backseat and onto those planks, I’d hop with extreme care from one to the next, dramatically re-balancing myself after each to avoid the “perilous” slip.

As I grew older, the fear of falling through impossible cracks was gradually replaced by the terror of being alone. I dreaded invites to slumber parties. When I could convince myself to accept, I went and generally enjoyed myself... until the lights went out and the last teenage girl collapsed into her bowl of kettle corn, leaving me alone with Mulan and Mushu as they attempted to save Imperial China. I’d lay awake all night scanning the ceiling, counting the ticks of the grandfather clock--too terrified to close my eyes. Eventually, I'd get up and tiptoe around the strange and unfamiliar house, doing my best to pass the hours until daybreak.

As an adult, I fear rejection, awkwardness and discomfort. I feel it most when I contemplate ‘putting myself out there’ in some way--inquiring about a job, speaking in front of a group, posting a blog, asking someone out. I blame my Scandinavian genes (Janteloven. Look it up).

Ever since I arrived back in LA, I had been feeling this fear whenever I thought about going surfing by myself. I learned to surf as a teenager but never went often enough get beyond basic competency. And it had been years since then. I feared the judgement of the regulars at the popular surf spots...Would they laugh at my ability? Call me out? Tell me I’m crowding the waves? I went to Malibu Surfrider Beach my first week back just to scope out the scene, assess the quantity and caliber of the locals, and try to judge if I could handle it. Three weeks later, my sister’s longboard still sat unused in the attic. The ocean, so close and accessible, glared at me each day as I drove along Pacific Coast Highway into town.

Last week, I finally resolved to go. I brought the board down from the attic the night before, loaded it into the car, and laid my wetsuit alongside my bed, removing all potential roadblocks or escape hatches. No excuses, Anna. You’re doing this.

When my alarm went off at six the following morning, I blinked awake to total darkness, instantly regretting my decision. I rolled myself out of bed and began inching my sister’s reluctant, 10-year-old wetsuit up my ankles and calves, praying that it would be too small or break. Damn, I thought to myself as I easily zipped up the last inch and closed the velcro strap around my neck. No way out. After a Clif Bar and some coffee, I was on the road.

I dialed my sister from the car’s bluetooth, a thousand nervous questions racing through my mind: Are you sure the board isn’t too old? Do I need to buy wax for it? Do you think I should go further north to a less crowded beach? The phone rang and rang and rang going straight to voicemail. I was in this alone.

As I turned off Sunset onto PCH heading north, “Stay Alive” by Jose Gonzelez came up on my Spotify shuffle. The song was featured in the 2013 film The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, and an image filled my phone screen of Ben Stiller speeding down a winding street on a skateboard, surrounded by majestic, volcanic mountains. I felt something small just below my ribs light up. It grew branches, sending warmth and light out to my extremities. My breathing slowed and I sat back in my seat. Just keep going. You’re right where you need to be.

I surfed for maybe two hours. All the anticipated Laird Hamilton’s, Stacey Peralta’s and Josh Duhamel’s showed up in full force, replete with long sun-streaked locks, chiseled torsos, and the casual confidence of experienced pros. And what happened? Absolutely nothing. I paddled my little heart out for about 40 waves, caught at most 3 of them. I made an absolute fool of myself falling in the shallow reef and--even worse--popping up too soon, which left me standing atop the surfboard on flat water, the wave crashing just out of reach. No one called me out, laughed at me, told me to go home. No one paid me any mind at all. I sat out past the break shivering but smiling to myself. An occasional dolphin fin broke the surface of the blue silk all around me as the sun rose over Los Angeles.

I’m so glad that I am a fearful person by nature. It gives me the opportunity to use fear as a tool for growth and expansion. And the feeling that follows an act of courage? Sheer limitlessness. A total body high. I felt it last Thursday driving back along the coast with sunscreen in my eyes and wind whipping through my saltwater-matted hair. I laughed aloud to myself about nothing, turned the music up and sang at the top of my lungs, called people I haven’t talked to in a while, set hundreds of goals and resolutions. (It should surprise no one that I am an extreme morning person).

The experience was a reminder that I don't need to be halfway across the world to start living. Big changes and dramatic exits can be intoxicating, but life is lived in little acts of courage, tiny steps towards rather than away from what scares us. I'm thrilled to start my travels in January, but there's lots of "self-dares" I can take up in the meantime to make my time here count. And what can I say? I've become a bit of a junkie for that post-fear feeling.

Always Something Else

I am hesitant to give this blog a title and an agenda, at least for the time-being.

I’ll explain why with a story.

I went to a party last Friday night. Having holed up in the mountain refuge of my parents’ home for a week with no cell service and little exposure to the outside world, I thought it might do me some good to get out of the house and interact with people my own age.

The party--more of a Burning Man-esque soiree--was held in the backyard of a large, run-down home in a residential neighborhood near Downtown L.A. I was greeted at the door by a thin, bearded man with a broad smile. He wrapped me in a tight embrace, planted kisses on both of my cheeks, and invited me to “Be welcome.” A petite, brunette woman covered in ancient tattoo inscriptions immediately began “smudging” me (showering me with sage incense). “It clears you of bad energy,” she explained. I filled out the sign-in sheet, noting in particular the column for listing any “talents or special skills you’d like to share.” I scanned the entries above: tarot cards, ecstatic dance, Qigong...just a few of the skills already listed.

I stepped in through the back gate and found myself in a modern hippy wonderland. Costumed acrobats practiced their partner yoga on Persian rugs strewn casually throughout the yard. A blonde, dreadlocked DJ spun ethereal, electronic beats amidst a fortress of white cubes. In a corner, a group of painters worked collaboratively on a superhero, goddess-like peice taking shape on a large canvas before them. Strangers hugged and smiled like old friends. At some tables near the entry, bronzed and yoga-toned hosts offered us “superfood” snacks and “mocktails” (it was a dry event).  Business cards advertising tarot readings, fire dancing, and “enlightened party-planning” floated around like confetti.

(Below: A friend showing me how to use my new GoPro at the event)

A small, nerdy-looking white man in a wolf headdress and a large, beaded amulet invited my friend and I to join a Japanese tea ceremony. He introduced himself as Barnaby, and laid out seven cups, six for those of us present and one for ‘Buck Nana,’ his brother from a past life. In an intermission of sorts, he treated us to a 15 minute solo performance of his sitar-strumming creations.

I floated through the party amused, but disengaged and slightly aloof. This may seem perfectly normal to those of you averse to this particular vein of spiritual/artistic exploration. But it wasn’t the subject matter that put me off. I am very interested in alternative, holistic health, and both teach and practice yoga and meditation. On paper, I should feel very at home in this group. But something held me back.

It took me a good 24 hours to put my finger on what exactly this was. Though I shared their initial spark of interest, there was something ‘put on’ about the performance. Something contrived. Their words, dress, tattoos, and business cards all declared unquestioningly: “I am this person...this enlightened, open being. Are YOU?”

Well, yes and no. I have moments of creative insight and enlightened calm, but they are few and far between. I wake up most mornings with fear and confusion, overwhelmed by the abrupt reality of the world around me and my total vulnerability to it. I swim through whirlpools in my mind--racing through to-do lists left unfinished, mental footage unreviewed from days prior, nervous forecasts for the days to come. It takes a couple of hours to find dry land and stand solidly on my two feet. Only after a cup of coffee and some meditation or yoga do I begin to re-inhabit my body, calm the incessant circling of my thoughts, and have a shot at moving through the day with some inspiration or intention. Some days, I never get there.

Even when I do, the vast majority of my day is still spent in the unsexy in-between: brushing my teeth, preparing food, setting up appointments, commuting, taking care of responsibilities, making lists, struggling to get everything done. It requires a very deliberate and conscious effort to reach a place of clarity and perspective, let alone creativity and “enlightenment.” And it’s an ongoing and repetitive process; a process of peeling back layers and layers of fear and self-doubt, of identifying and shedding automatic mind patterns over and over and over again. I never “arrive” at any final destination. And that's ok--it's what makes me real and relatable and human.

I was overwhelmed by the self-assured sense of “arrival” I felt from those I encountered at the party, the self-definition they so confidently projected. To me, it undermined a world of vulnerability, self-doubt, and constant evolution that we all undergo every day. I couldn’t connect because I couldn't find the real people behind the performance.

Towards the end of the evening, I fell into a conversation with a man named Carl. Carl was of medium height and olive-skinned . He had grown up in Austin, though his family originally hailed from Greece. For several minutes, Carl took me on a full tour of his tattoos: the olive wreath around his bicep, the Zen symbol on his shoulderblade, the Hindi aphorism over his heart. He asked me if I had any. “No” I replied. "I thought about getting the Sanskrit word ‘Satyam’, which means ‘truth’ or ‘seeing what is’, at the base of my skull a couple months ago.” I had been studying yoga at the time and Satyam is one of the restraints in the eight limbs of Raja yoga. “But I never did," I went on. "I just realized that anything I would have chosen three or four years ago, even if it felt like absolute truth at the time, would be irrelevant now.”

I doubt that truth and honesty will become less important to me in the coming years. But “seeing what is” in that moment meant seeing that I am not a solid, defined entity. I am born every morning and die every night. Every thought, experience, relationship, and passion of mine has had a lifespan. And all of it--the clothes I wear, the company I keep, the art I consume, the interests I pursue--will be swept away in a few years to make way for the new. I want to be open to this unfathomable new, to be curious and free-flowing towards it. And as soon as I define or create an identity out of the things I surround myself with, I lose that openness and spontaneity. I lose my willingness to be wrong.

I read a book a while back on the Tibetan Buddhist practice of Lojong, which aims to increase compassion. It was written by Zoketsu Norman Fischer, an American Soto Zen roshi, poet and Buddhist author (I told you I was into this stuff!). In the final pages, Fischer leaves us with an admonition: "Don't expect applause,” he advised, “don't expect scorn, don't expect anything but the unexpected. Because that is always what happens, even when you expected it. If you look a bit more closely, it's always something else."

I have not titled this blog beyond my name and a lose intention to be 'alive', because I want to expect the unexpected. I want to stay ever open to becoming "always something else."

Love is not the Point

Am I the only woman out there tired of supposed "heroine" stories that end up devolving into love stories?

I recently watched the 2011 film remake of Jane Eyre starring Mia Wasikowska.  I read the book for the first time at age 14 and absolutely devoured it. I loved Jane, the unlikely heroine. She was plain-looking and poor but smart, brave and self-possessed. Despite her miserable childhood, she learned early on how to swallow self-pity and move through the world without anger or regret. Throughout the novel, she seeks, through trial and misfortune, to live a full life true to herself. And all of this in early 19th century England (the book is considered proto-feminist and, for many reasons, very ahead of it's time).

So why, when watching the film yesterday, didn't I feel any of the admiration I felt for Jane as a tween?

The short answer is: Jane hasn't changed much, but I have.  At 24, I am now a fully-formed 21st century adult with some experience  under my belt. And I can't forgive Jane for returning to Mr. Rochester at age--what, 22?--to live out her days at his side, tending to him and looking after his household. Not when she had the opportunity to go travel the world and explore the horizon, a longtime dream of hers, with St. John. Her reason? Her heart was with another.

It's not that I look down on Jane or her creator, Charlotte Brontë, for choosing love. I understand that it often requires great sacrifice and courage to choose love and relationship over adventure and novelty. I simply resent this instinct, this gravity we as women feel towards love as the ultimate end, the desired denouement of all our "heroine" stories. My 14-year-old self couldn't have been happier with Jane Eyre's ending, and I'll admit that a less rational part of me loved it yesterday too. But I'm angry at this part of me...of Jane Eyre, of Charlotte Brontë, of all the women who continue to consume this romantic literature in all its forms. I'm angry at the whole institution that keeps producing it.

Here's the thing: romantic love is beautiful, euphoric, life-affirming...yes. But it is not the point. We are here, just like men, to contribute, to create, to add value, to improve upon or at least attempt to heal the world we have inherited. While Jane may have had her era to hide behind, we in 2014 are just as prepared, qualified and capable of doing so as men.

So why do we still have books and films today like Eat, Pray, Love, Bridesmaids and Obvious Child--all featuring smart, modern, even romantically-skeptical female heroines--that still somehow manage to turn into love stories? Is the gravitational pull being felt by the female authors as they write it? Is it us, the female consumers of their work, swaying the market towards our tastes? Why, with all the strides we have made in the last hundred years, is love still the point?

I don't want to sound like a cynic. I want to love and be loved deeply as much as anyone else. But I want much more for myself in this life.  By the end of it, I'd like to have given something of myself, changed something, expressed something in a new way, uncovered new truth. And I want to be inspired by the stories of women (and there are many!) who have done and are continuing to do this in the world, with or without a tear-jerking love story chapter.

Here's hoping I have the courage to live my life like I wish my literary heroines would.

Embracing Awkwardness

Every once in a while, I like to sit down and watch Before Sunrise or Before Sunset with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy. There are a lot of ways to dismiss these films as "chick-flick"s or "light." And that's fair, I suppose. But, on a basic level, each film is really just a conversation between two educated and emotionally-perceptive human beings. And in that respect, I think there is something for everyone in them.

Anyway, there is a lot of wisdom in the dialogue, and sometimes I catch myself writing quotes down and referring to them again and again. One of these comes from a fortune teller reading Celine's palm in the first film. She gives Celine a piece of advice that resounds enormously with me:

"You have to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others."

There is something so profound about facing and accepting the "awkwardness of life." That, no matter how hard you try, you can not ride smoothly and cleanly through this roller coaster. I went to an extremely competive all-girls school in Los Angeles from 7th-12th grades and am now a senior at Stanford. Competition and perfection have been the driving forces behind everything I have done for the past decade. And, now that I'm poised to go out into the world with a clean profile and impeccable resume, I find myself wholly and utterly unprepared. My greatest challenges and struggle lie in simple, regular human interaction, humbling myself before others, making myself vulnerable, putting myself out there, taking chances. Interaction, I have learned (in my short experience) is messy and thrilling and shocking and hard. It is also more rewarding and enriching than any formal educational experience I've had.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that, while I've spent so long working on my perfected image, the resume I'm going to put out into the world next year, its my scars, the flaws and imperfections Ive accumulated over the years, that I identify with most strongly. These are what make me interesting, a person worth knowing. And I've only come to know them through interaction and experience, putting myself out there awkwardly and blindly. And failing.

Life is awkward. And I don't think thats something we need to fight against. All of our color and our fire comes from our failures, and the best relationships come from sharing those failures with others. This summer I am embracing my failures and my flaws... wearing them as readily on my sleeve as my accomplishments and points of pride. I'm ready to know myself, and share that whole self with others.