A bumpy ride

As a child looking at my future self, I don't know what I saw myself doing. I think I thought it was going to be easy and that I would be married by now and that life would just flow without being difficult or confusing or crappy. I think I wouldn't have necessarily viewed the future as I see it now. Living in a shoebox in a shithole apartment, eating overpriced pizza and worrying every time I used my atm card that it would get rejected because of lack of funds. I guess I didn't necessarily see myself struggling to make something of myself in the profession that I love and hate at the same time--always feeling like I had to prove myself and always feeling like I wasn't doing enough even when I don't know how to do more. I didn't see myself struggling to get down a beer on a date, struggling to get past date 2, past a kiss, past whatever comes after and somehow into something meaningful. Something meaningful is impossible to come by.

Sometimes I feel like i'm just in the waiting line for something miraculous and amazing and life changing to happen. When am I going to feel like I'm on the right path. Fine, I may have the occasional bout of de ja vu, but does that mean I am going the right way?

I do think that in life everything has a way of working out how it is supposed to and I know I'll look back on my life in London as something beautiful, hard, and life changing. So why now, do I only feel like it is a struggle? How long will I be struggling until I feel like I'm in the right place? So many unanswerable questions. I don't want the status quo. I don't want to feel like i'm going to poor for the rest of my life. There are moments of clarity and laughter in between nights of contemplation. I feel guilty for complaining when I know that life is beautiful. I know. I know it is. And despite all the struggling, it is worth the feeling when I get something I am proud of published in print. That feeling, in and of itself, is priceless. It's worth it when I meet that person that makes me weak in the knees ... as hard as he is to find. It's worth it when despite living in a tiny shoe box with three others, I realize I have met amazing individuals because of said shoebox. Life is full of surprises. I guess all we can do is keep breathing and stop waiting in line for something, anything miraculous to happen, and rather enjoy the ride. Cheesy? Maybe, but true. Thus, I am done complaining from now on. I wish that was true. I have a hard time just enjoying the ride because I'm always worrying about my future. Is that the curse of being a twenty-something going through a quarter-life crisis? Perhaps. Everything is temporary and I think it is important to remember that when I am feeling down about a current situation. Maybe even, try and enjoy it.

I wouldn't have loved any less

I know it's been a while. In journalism school they constantly nail it into us that we have to be present all the time twittering, facebooking, sending our stories to everyone and anything that can read and I think it frightened me a little bit. So much social media and so little privacy. So much attention to things that don't really matter.

Someone once told me that writing was cathartic to them but they didn't actually want anyone to read it. I am beginning to understand that a little more than I ever have. I always used to think the point was to get your work out there, to get it published because then it becomes some sort of accomplishment. Because it means that your words are somehow worth something if a magazine or newspaper wants to publish them. It matters so much to the ego whether some random person we've never met wants to pay us for our work. But why? I wonder if all the rejection is worth it? I mean that as a general question about life, not just writing.

When putting myself out there 90% of the time ends in rejection. Does it make that 10% worth it? yes, but sometimes that 90% starts to weigh heavy on my soul. With writing with love, with relationships with trying to be who I want to be. Is all life a series of rejections in the midst of a few defining moments when we actually feel redeemed?

I've applied for a million jobs it seems and pitched a thousand stories. Most of the time I hear nothing back, but for the ones that I have, I would never say it wasn't worth it.

I've loved with all my heart and I've given all my heart to someone. Twice. Only twice in my twenty seven years and both times I ended up in a pile on the floor with a deadening feeling in my chest and unmeasurable amounts of mascara running down my face. And after these two experiences would I have done anything differently? Maybe, but I wouldn't have loved any less. And I would do it over again in a heartbeat.

It always feels like I am never going to love again. Like falling in love with someone else is impossible and I am incapable of it. My love for this man is too strong to ever get over. It hurts too much and that feeling of devastation never gets easier to appease. I go to parties and the boys that I used to think were cute are just potentials for heartbreak, potentials for rejection and nothing more. I want nothing to do with them.

It's the smallest things that break my heart again. A missed phone call. A waiting text. A photograph. I still have hope for us, but I know that hope will someday soon turn into heartbreak at the realization that I am only fooling myself. Some day that hope I have in him will turn into hope of finding love with someone else. A love where "I love you" is not just three words, but actions.

Bike Rides in the Snow

As I rode a bike through the snow last night, following my Estonian roommate to an undescript party of his friends, I smiled, realizing this is why I love traveling. The unexpected. The random roommates, friends, and characters you meet on every step of the adventure.

I'm in Amsterdam for three weeks doing a journalism internship at a city magazine. I live in a beautiful apartment footsteps away from a snow-veiled Vondelpark. I take the tram everyday to work in a stunning high-ceilinged, wooden-beamed office with huge windows overlooking a frozen canal.

As I followed my roommate into the dark--snow and wind pierced my scarf-covered face with every blast of the bike petal. As my boot slipped and I almost did a swan dive straight into the concrete, I recalled all the times I've ridden bikes on other worldy adventures.

On a tropical road in Luang Prabang, Laos surrounded by orange-robed monks and shimmering temples. Stopping iradically at food stands to pick up grilled fish on a stick or drink the occasional Bintang.

In Siem Reap, Cambodia--getting caught in the sunset--the salmon pink infusing into darkness and enveloping the city in black. Sweat dripped down my brow as I raced Denny and Daniel through the garbage-laden roads, swerving near motorbikes and cars, the smell of grilled beef infusing the humid air.

In Ubud, Bali--the weather unbearably hot. I pushed myself a little more only to linger near the surrounding rice fields encapsulating me like a dream in a whirlwind of beauty, heat, and greenery.

In Ft. Lauderdale, Florida during a hot spring night on a hot spring vacation. Following my two friends on bikes, my sundress flowing through the warm breeze, stopping near the beach to climb up coconut trees and wade our feet in the warmness of the Atlantic.

I love riding bikes in new cities. Amsterdam is my first in the snow. This city is like a fairytale. The canals that wind in and out of the city urging you to get lost and find your way again. The pancakes, the cheese, the Stroopwaffel! I hope last night was the beginning of many more Amsterdam bike rides.

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.