Cherry Blossoms, A Secluded Beach, and a Lonely Lagoon

I have certain places I travel to in my head when I'm stressed or anxious. I close my eyes ...

I return to a beach in Kuta Lombok, Indonesia. It was secluded, there was no one else around, save a few fisherman wading in the water with hand made reels. The water was this turquoise clear blue I thought only existed in movies. I remember wading into the ocean, laying on my back and letting the sun beam down on my face, the waves engulf my body, letting myself go weightless. This is my paradise.

I return to a lagoon in North Fork, California where I spent a ten day meditation retreat. I couldn't speak to anyone. Being totally alone with my thoughts, I would walk to this lagoon everyday. It was summer the buzz of dragonflies and echoing of frogs was all I could hear in the silence. Purple wildflowers surrounded the murky green water. There was a stump of wood where a tree once was and I'd sit on it and breath. I needed this place. It was my place and I always go back here, listening to the subtle resonance of frogs and dragonflies to carry me through.

Sometimes I go back to Inokashira park in Tokyo during Cherry Blossom season. Bilowy pale pink petals falling in slow motion and blanketing the dirt. The perfume of the delicate flowers engulfing the city in loveliness.

I miss these places. I need these places. I'll always have them in the back of my mind and I can return to them whenever I need to find peace. I give thanks for such beautiful places and periods of my life to reflect back on.

Sometimes I wonder what exactly I'm doing in this strange city. I came here with a dream of becoming a journalist and I don't question that dream, but sometimes I question whether or not I am truly capable enough. Writing for me has always been love. It has always made me feel free but sometimes, like everybody, I question whether I am going to make it as a writer and I get terrified. I feel the anxiety taking over. If I don't have this, what do I have?

My friend today said she loves being a journalist be because it lets her see the world through other people's eyes. You get to learn about things you would never otherwise learn about. I loved that. It's so true and the reason why I love journalism. It's constantly changing. You are constantly learning.

I can't predict the future. I don't know where I will be in a years time. I just know that I will be writing. I hope I find more beautiful memories to go back to when I need to find solace from the world and from myself.

Pancakes and The Breakfast Club

I am good at some things and bad at many. Some of the things that I am good at, are in fact, bad things. Procrastination is one of those things I am best at. This is what I am doing as we speak. Instead of working on an article due soon, I am writing in my blog. I am also good at eating entire bags of Japanese snacks, like I did earlier today. Complaining, sleeping, and laughing are included on my list of things I am good at.

I'm not even going to go into the things I am bad at.

I went to Amsterdam last weekend and it was really fun. I got back last night after about fifteen million buses, trains, and planes. Me and my friend Mandana, who I went with, literally made our flight by like five minutes ... maybe less. A part of me wanted to miss that flight a part of me was overjoyed to make it. A part of me selfishly, wanted to stay in Amsterdam for a little bit longer ... That city is made for lingering. Why would anyone want to leave? It's adorable. Tree lined canals, dollar pancakes, hot chocolate with whipped cream, smoky cafes, smokier jazz bars, fries with mayonnaise, clogs, cheese--how could anyone not like these things. I for one love all of those things and that was what my weekend was comprised of.

The food. Wow, the food. I don't know what it is about the food in Amsterdam but it's the type of food I recall for years when I'm hungry, which is about every 2 seconds ... Those pancakes. Those fucking itty bitty pancakes! It's heaven in my mouth. They call them poffertjes over there in Dutch land. The reason I know that is because I am literally obsessed with them. I remember the first time I went to Amsterdam with my parents. I remember those pancakes we ate at a carousel shaped restaurant next to Vondel park and The Van Gogh Museum.

I remember being a kid with my parents, stuffing my face with poffertjes. I ate them again on this trip. They were as delicious as I remember them to be. I love them. I love Amsterdam. I love lazying away the day at a cafe with rain pouring down outside, helping you rationalize the fact that you spent all day in a cafe in Amsterdam. I love it there. I always have and I always with. Every trip is a different experience and I know I'll go back again and again.

I'm sitting here now in a my favorite neighborhood restaurant/cafe called The Breakfast club. It's 6:20 p.m. in London. There are no lights in here other than the subtle flicker of a melting candle and a string of green lights hanging from the ceiling. It's cozy in here. I'm scared to leave and be out in the rain--my shoes have only started to dry. At least for now I'm content here, sipping on a cup of rose tea, writing and trying to figure out life while the dim glow of a red candle flickers near my computer screen.

Life, An Evil Temptress

I dreamt last night that my mom was hugging me. We were in the kitchen of the house that I grew up in and moved out of when I was ten. I dream of that kitchen a lot and it contains so many of my memories of comfort and warmth. I remember its linoleum flooring, the balcony overlooking a massive orange tree--the scent of orange blossoms infusing the air come spring time. I can almost taste my mom's cooking and remember the laughter as my family and I sat around a round table in our kitchen nook and ate the home-cooked loveliness of my youth. That dream hug from my mom was the best thing in the whole world. I felt so safe, so sound, and when I woke up it was the only thing I wanted. I realize that dreaming about getting a hug from my mom means homesickness. Maybe I just need a hug.

I'm not going to sugarcoat this blog post with lies about blissful romances and sunny city days. Today didn't incorporate any of those things. I thought I was over this phase of waking up and feeling horrible, knowing I would waste my entire day caught up in unnecessary self-deprecation. I've been over-extending myself. Wearing myself out to the point of exhaustion. Too many temptations, too much fun, which means days of feeling like crap. It's not worth it.

Before I came here I went on a meditation retreat where I wasn't allowed to speak, read or write for ten days. Literally, no speaking for ten days. It was in a town called Norfolk about a half an hour away from Yosemite. I got a ride from a random guy my age living in San Francisco, ready to embark on the same adventure.

I was going through a lot at the time. My mind and my soul needed clearing. My heart needed clearing. I couldn't figure out how to deal with the stresses in my life. I was moving to London and I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn't know what I was doing with my life and I was terrified.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done. The gong sounded at 4 a.m.--pitch black outside, the group of forty or so women would make our way in silence to the meditation hall where we would sit in rows, on top of cushions on the carpeted floor. Legs crossed, and bodies still, we would start meditating to S.N. Goenka's voice on a pre-recorded tape. Two teachers sat perched in unison on top of a wooden platform--appearing like still, false idols. My mind would flood with every feeling, every sadness, every emotion I had ever felt. It would wander into dark places of loves lost, of past incidences of regret, of all the sadness I have ever countered or will encounter. It took me back to beaches in Indonesia, to happier times, to the times when I thought love would never disappear and it was all that mattered. My mind was supposed to turn clear as I focused on my breathing and the sensations in my body, but it wasn't. Until it was. And when it was, it was amazing. My body and my mind felt in ways that I never thought possible. It was mind blowing and gave me more clarity than I ever thought possible in ten days.

I would walk around the lagoon near my cabin and sit on a lonely patch of grass. There were tons of purple wildflowers growing, and because of the silence, the insects and bullfrogs resonated like an orchestra. There was a stump that I sometimes sat on, but mostly I sat in the grass and thought. This was my place. My place and mine alone. Even though I was surrounded by other people, it was as if I was the only one there. Their presence was fleeting--simple reminders that your body wasn't actually alone in the world. I felt as if I was the only one experiencing the torture and the bliss of the experience.

It's really hard having ten days to yourself. Crying was a daily ritual, followed by life-loathing, and then ultimately self-love. It was a true soul cleansing. My face broke out more than it ever has in my life, my stomach would go through phases of intense pain, and when I came home it all disappeared. I left glowing; as if life had handed me an unopened present. A new tool.

The retreat gave me the inner peace and strength to forgive those that I resented and to forgive myself for any regrets and mistakes I've made in life. There was a moment when I sat alone on my bed thinking about every single loved one I have in my life. My friends and my family--and in my head I recited every reason why I love them. It literally brought me to tears. There were no words, I wasn't allowed them.

I met a girl on our last day when we were allowed to speak, who was from London. She told me meditation would really help me when I get there. That London was overwhelming and all about partying. It's a city of temptations and meditation would help ground me. I had no idea how right she was. I haven't meditated at all since I've been here, but I recognize that I need it now more than ever. I know I can pick it up again. I remember the retreat vividly. I remember how I thought I could never get through it, how I wanted to give up. I also remember sticking through it and in the end feeling like I could do anything I wanted. Feeling like this would change my life forever. I left with a smile on my face and a fresh outlook on the world around me and its people that encompass it.

I've realized about myself that I thrive on new experiences. The one thing I've continuously committed myself too, no matter where I am in the world is my writing. It's in a sense, my meditation. My therapy. My love.

I have got to keep myself grounded. It's really hard when you move somewhere new to find that balance, to understand when too much is too much. There's always a realization in the midst of happiness, to just how much you miss your friends and family back home. As amazing as your new friends are, they just don't know you the way someone does after knowing you for 27 years. I'm hoping that I will ease myself into this city and learn to flow perfectly within its chaotic walls.

Currently Minding the Gap

I remember the last time I wrote in this blog. I was in my car waiting for my friend Chuan to get out of the BART station. The computer was perched on the steering wheel and I was writing because I felt like I hadn't written in a while and the urge was overwhelming. I was in California, wearing a sundress waiting. Just waiting to get here.

I made it to London safe but not exactly sound. How do I sum up the last few months of my life? It has been a dream of mine to attend graduate school for Journalism in London for as long as I can remember. I've wanted to live in this foggy city forever. It's weird and pretty amazing when one of your dreams that you never thought would happen, finally reaches fruition. I am sitting in my heated room, the gentle glow of my Argos lamp flickering, an empty mug with a leftover tea bag in it, a messy bed, a bare wall now covered with pictures and fliers--I finally feel like I've made it. My room feels like home. I just took a shower and took off the travel towel I still use from Asia. Maybe I should get a new towel. I look at it laying on my bed rumpled in a pile in the corner and flashbacks of Asia start flooding my brain. Wearing that towel tubing in Vang Vieng, Laos. On the beach in Vietnam, hanging from a branch in Indonesia--I miss it. I'll always miss it.

Traveling made me feel alive and it still does. London is amazing. There's so much here to explore and I find myself falling in love everyday--with a store, with a piece of architecture, a hidden street, with a cute boy at the local coffee shop, with a new bar or a new friend--London is full of nothing but newness. It's a fresh start and the kind I've needed for a long time.

I live with all students from the UK in a tiny four bedroom flat with raggedy blue carpet in the burrough of Islington. Nothing seems to work properly and I'm paying more than I've ever paid for rent. The hot water in the kitchen, the lights, the shower all failed to function at one point ... but I love my roommates and I adore the location. My room is my respite from this chaotic city. Once buried in my duvet, I feel the comfort of home. I miss my family and I miss my friends more than I can explain. They are such a big part of my life and it's sad to be separated from them yet again. Yet again. It's what I get from the life I've chosen to live. My love of exploring and new experiences means constantly saying goodbye to the ones you love most. But what I've realized about life is that your best friend could be around the corner or in your next destination. You just have to leave in order to find them. My friend Jenna said to me once when we were backpacking around Asia that you never know when you are going to make your next friend or meet a new love. Traveling provides you with those types of adventures and that beautiful outlook on life. I wouldn't change that for anything.

I've been in school for about a month now and have met so many brilliant, young, and motivated individuals. The professors have so much experience and I feel lucky everyday to be in London at City University. I'm trying to write as much as humanly possible. I'm trying to become a complete news junkie. I'm trying to be a lot of things and it's hard, but I can see myself evolving daily. Sometimes I have so much fun here that it reminds me of Barcelona. I never thought that I could feel happiness like that again--it's a different kind of happiness. A kind of understated bliss. Barcelona was never understated, it was always excess and all in fun. London is challenging. It's work, but for the first time in a long time I feel as if my brain and heart are finally starting to be understood by each other. If that makes any sense at all.

Maui Mayhem

I’m sitting in my car. The sun is beaming down on my head, forming a non-holy halo of heat. It’s hot, I forgot to put deodorant on today and I can feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I hope I don’t smell. I wish I wasn’t wearing jeans. It’s almost 4:00 and this is the first time I’m leaving the house all day. I swear, I’m not that big of a loser, I’m not sitting in my car blogging. Well, OK I am, but I’m waiting for my friend at the BART station and I had some time to kill. I haven’t blogged in a while and I’m gonna be honest, I miss it. I miss you lonely blog world.

Today, I spent hours on the computer in my bathrobe looking up apartments in Maui instead of doing any actual work, or dare I say, looking up actual apartments that I may actually live in, in London. I decided that I'm moving to London for grad school and I'm excited but have extreme anxiety ... daily. Needless to say fantasizing about living a perma-vacation in Maui was a fun little break from reality. The thought of being in Maui for any period of time makes me feel elated, at peace, and so much less depressed that I’m fairly certain I should daydream about Maui whenever I feel any sort of anxst. It should be my happy place that I go too, in my mind of course, whenever things in my head start going loco. Maui is my xanax. As I craiglist searched three bedroom apartments overlooking the ocean, with beach front balconies, and hard wood floors, that cost the same price as a studio in San Francisco, with crack addicts outside (and next door), I really started to ponder why I don’t live there. I fantasized of running around in a bikini (15 lbs skinner, of course) on the beach, and then dunking my entire (rock-hard) body in the ocean. I miss Maui. It’s been almost exactly a year since I was there for Amy and Peter’s wedding. When I think of Maui I remember eating papayas for breakfast with lime juice. I remember lazy days by our hotel pool and lazier ones on the beach drinking sangria and snorkeling. What I remember the fondest is my romance on the beach—with the perfect and hottest vacation fling man in the world. Perfect in the “you’re the hottest man I’ve ever met and you surf and you are sexy and perfect and I’m on vacation and I am fairly certain I am in love.” Perfect in that way. Yes, he was a caterer at my friend’s wedding. Yes, he doesn’t drink alcohol. Yes he doesn’t eat cake. But it was all just perfection in my head. Oh Maui. That’s what I think of when I think of Maui. No wonder it is my “happy place.”

But in reality I'm moving to London. My trip there was awesome. I fell in love with the city and as much anxiety that I have, I know the end result will be worth it ... so here goes ... off on another adventure, yet day dreaming about being on the beach. Story of my life. I promise, I'll keep in better touch blog world.

London Calling

I leave for London in four days. Four days! I'm going to go check out City University for the grad school program I might attend in the fall. It's crazy, I could be making another big move. Another move. Another city. Another life. Another adventure. It's so weird how much life can change in just a short number of months. A year ago I was working my ass off at DivineCaroline, living in San Francisco. Who would have thought that life would have turned out this way a year later--a four month jaunt around Asia and now graduate school for Journalism, in LONDON of all places.

I remember when I visited London for the first time when I was twelve. I was enchanted, in love. I remember walking through the park near my cousin's place, brightly colored peacocks wandering around aimlessly, going to Harrods, and taking the big-red-bus ... I told my self then that some day, I would live in this city. I've always wanted to get to this point. Now I am actually here. I have that feeling in my gut, that one I get before I make any major move or any major decision. It's a strange yet very familiar amalgamation of fear and excitement. It's knowing that I am about to embark on an amazing adventure. Without thinking too much about the what ifs, the what nots, the what the fucks am I doing, my heart feels like it's going in the right direction.

People close to me have told me that they are proud and envious that I am so passionate about writing and traveling that I am willing to constantly sacrifice any sort of stability to have these adventures. If this is what I love, how could I be happy doing anything else? Sometimes I'm envious of them for having their shit together. The husband, the steady job, the perfect apartment, a home, the life that I am supposed to want ... but somehow don't. Not yet, maybe not ever. Who knows. All I know that my wants change daily. Sometimes I don't know what I want. Sometimes I wonder why the mainstream, the normal, the 9-5, is what I am supposed to be content with. Maybe I just don't want to grow up and face reality, but I just want my reality to be something different. Only time will tell where I end up.

I stumbled upon this quote and I think it's beautiful. Anyone who has ever really traveled knows it to be true:

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things - air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” - Cesare Pavese

Nothing is yours except the essential ...

Expectedly Heartbroken

I'm on the plane to New York City. I sit restless, my laptop on my lap. The only thing I want to do right now is write. Just write. It doesn't even matter what I write about. Maybe, a part of what makes me a writer is that when I don't know who or what to turn to, or feel desperate in my life, I turn to writing. I write it out. Whatever it is that I'm feeling--confused, sad, happy ... lately, usually the first too, to be honest. It's easier to write when you have issues. Luckily, I always have issues and unresolved emotions. I'm human. Lately, especially lately, I have begun to realize that life is hard. I know people say it all the time, but I never really realized the harshness of reality until I graduated from college. My twenties have been a fucking mess. A fun mess, but a mess none the less. This is what I've done for the past 5 years, since I graduated from college:

YEAR 1
1) Road trip from Seattle to San Francisco with my two girlfriends, to start my new life back home. No plans. Just a room at my parents house and an able body and mind.
2) Confused as fuck, apply to random corporate jobs, while secretly wanting to be a writer and move abroad. Fed up with looking, get a job at a random coffee shop.
3) Meet my ex boyfriend, my boss--a tumultuous affair.
4) Fed up with my ex's lack of commitment and my life at home, working at a coffee shop, I apply for a job in Tokyo to teach English, something I always wanted to do.
5)Ex finally commits, a month before I move to Japan. How fucking convenient. I should have told him to fuck off.

Year 2
6) I move to Tokyo anyways. Teach English for a year. Stay with my boyfriend (perhaps, regretfully). Make new friends, fall in love with my Tokyo, find myself piece by piece, and slowly learn what it is to be happy again.
7) Eight months later, move back to San Francisco for my boyfriend. Bliss for a few months, then disastrous after.
8) Get my first writing/editing job at DivineCaroline.

Year 3
9)Ex boyfriend breaks my heart in a devastating way. I lay in bed and cry for weeks. Every single part of me felt like it was dying. I believed I would never love again.
10) Slowly move on, like a fragile bird with a broken wing ... who will eventually learn to fly on its own again. Cheesy but poetic.
11) Move to my North Beach Apartment.

Year 4
12) Have a blast in my new apartment spending time with my friends. Date multiple douche bags in a row. None of them have a lasting impact. Singledom is my game. Wake up one day and realize I am over my ex who I thought I'd never get over ...
13) Meet Denny, he tells me about his backpacking trip to Asia he's planning. I tell him, jokingly, if I get laid off, I'll come with.
13) I get laid off. Call Denny. Start planning trip ...
14) Save money for 2 months working random jobs to travel around Asia for 4 months.
15) Actually do it and have the best four months of my life. I learned life lessons, met amazing people, had some amazing romances, and awe inspiring adventures.

Year 5
16) Return home. Again for the millionth time it seems. From another trip. From another bout of running away from myself, only to find myself here ... in the same position I was in years ago.
17) Try my hardest not to meet a guy to date. My life is too uncertain to fall for someone. Immediately meet someone I really care for--the most I've cared for someone since my ex two years ago. That's a long ass time.
18) It ends ... unexpectedly, with my heart broken, expectedly. Story of my life. A recurring theme. My fate it seems. Every time I open my heart, even reluctantly, it gets wounded. How many times can a heart be broken without piecing itself back together again? Who knows. Maybe at one point, it just doesn't. It just can't and it gives up. I'm not there yet. At least, I still truly believe everything happens for a reason. Reasons unknown to me now.

Looking at my track record, one would ask .... who the fuck is this girl. She must be confused with life. I am. But then I look at it again closely and I think, I've done some pretty cool shit. Really cool shit. I've loved. I've lost. I've been sublimely happy. I've been devastated. Now, I'm just confused. I still love life ... heartbroken, but still ready and willing to move on.