a long and honest lullaby

you were a doctor of medicine
She was a nurse with no direction
oooh we are babies
i was a snake in the grass
too bad You knew
it wouldn't last...
oooh we are babies. we are babies.

These are the words a computer emits at one in the morning as a young and wanderlust mind waits for a tea kettle to bellow. "flick-flick-flick-flick" goes her mantra - thoughts weaving and intersecting in the attic, driving her to the underworld - fingers dancing across the keyboard.

Henry David Thoreau once apologized in a preface for his abundant use of first-person perspective. He wrote, and I paraphrase, that sometimes this display of ego is unavoidable, as one may have really interesting things to say but only one set of eyes from which he witnesses life, one mouth from which he can speak, and only two hands to dictate. Naturally and perhaps unfortunately, he explained, the "I" pours out, "for it is the only perspective I own."

I obviously can't help but repeat that wisdom in my own writing. Every truth I can tell is received and transferred through my individual self, not necessarily boastfully, and certainly not the same as your interpretation of reality, but it's all I have or own; that's my preface.

Here are the things I want to tell, and I hope that by the end of this, I have said them and you have understood:

1. I have been lost before, and more often than not I feel like my map has flown out the window, yet deep underneath the confusion and aimlessness, I am quite certain.
2. I am a fool.
3. I believe in scars and what those scars teach. I've learned a lot from my scars even though others can't see them, and this makes me old.
4. Every time I recognize my age, the world contracts and puts me through unexpected labor, and then I am a baby again.
5. We are all babies.

Okiedoke. Well where should my ego begin? Here: it's the super strength story I have locked within my bones and twitchy fast reacting muscles and memory, my so-called identity, which is great but very very similar to a million others.

You know how it goes, "Meredith somewhat spontaneously drove across the States with as much of her material possessions squeezed by her side as her brand new Cobalt would allow... she didn't have a job lined up, no friends in the area, and hardly a 3x5 piece of plywood to site on her new California license, let alone call home..." yadda, yadda, yadda.

Though I still don't want to diminish the courage it took to start my engine that August 13th morning, I've discovered that this courage is not singly mine. (My ego's stunned in surprise.) San Francisco seems to be a pinnacle destination for countless "lost souls" - "orphans," as they're deemed by locals - typical 20 and 30-something men and women who escape the mundanity of their lives elsewhere and found brilliant thrill in a brisk, coastal atmosphere. The City is built on hills, but the hills are built on bodies of folk who've dared start a-new. Simple real-estate for all the white-collar gypsies and me.

But more striking than my tale and theirs are the little shimmering stories of the masses, women's in particular, who've taken grand risks and fought all the odds to become who they are and who they've secretly always wanted to be. I could be referring to stories about brave women unclenching their souls from abusive relationships or about those who've embraced their personal sexuality in spite of a family or religion in denial, these consciousness-raising memoirs are certainly worthy of time and poetry, but I am actually alluding to much simpler accounts of being.

Really, I'm not sure if I can explain the beautiful, bright and bold moments I'm thinking about; spirit and fearlessness have become the taboo characteristics of a person like "queer" and "colored" and "vixen" once were, so much that I'm having trouble finding some wordy examples. But perhaps I can quote Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D., who tells about the Rio Abajo Rio, the river beneath the river, which is actually a woman, or a collection of wild women spirits, that is a state attained through the most courageous acts when one yearns "by seeking something she can see just out of the corner of her eye. She arrives there by deeply creative acts, through intentional solitude, and by practice of any of the arts."

When the Rio Abajo Rio flows, women are in touch with their creative forces by whatever medium allowed. I write. Sometimes I paint. Often I hum as I stroll. But it can be anything, as long as the do-er is acting from their deepest gut instincts and doing so with wide-eyed awareness and undauntedness.

"We are use our senses to wring the truth from things, to extract nourishment from ideas, to see what there is to see, know what there is to know, to be the keepers of the creative fire, and to have intimate knowing about Life/Death/Life cycles of all nature - this is an initiated woman."

This is about a pool of people who act, perform, and exist because they're following the currents of the river within them; I like to believe I am a part of this collection. We are rolling along, trying to find truth and meaning in our senseless, mapless worlds, and we stretch to uncharted territory just to better understand all the chaos within us.

Anytime someone changes their course or meanders around a new bend in the river because of a sudden or nagging, persistent vision from the corner of their eye, no matter how minuscule the change appears to be, it is as significant, if not much more significant than moving across the country. The brave who take a new path, with or without map in hand, are everywhere but often invisible. I suspect that the majority of people can identify with the sharp twist in navigation I am speaking of from time to time, they act via gut and aren't sure why; but a smaller portion of people choose to be governed by their instincts on a more regular basis. They still don't know why they make the choices they do... why they move from one place to another, why they accept and deny certain jobs, or why they give their numbers to certain men at clubs rather than gas station attendants... and despite the apparent arrogance attached to wandering about without clear direction, the quiet, underlying guts within these people (again, I'll include myself for ego's sake) are certain. Their guts are confident, and the intuitive knower at the centers of their beings is following a plan that cannot possibly go off course.

With all that said and as absorbed in the Rio Abajo Rio as I can be, I frequently lose touch of my instincts. As Pinkola Estes said, the one who looks to know what there is to know is an initiated woman, and with new initiation comes youthful abandonment, forgetfulness, and unintended laziness of the soul. Sometimes I make choices that are clearly not governed by the knowing river within me, but rather by a shallow layer of naive hormones and social expectations.

Know what I mean? Haven't you ever just gone with the flow, but the flow was without purpose and void of thoughtful attention? Examples: partying, experimenting with drugs, getting drunk because you're bored, acting promiscuously just because you can, sticking at the job you hate because it pays or because the market isn't any better elsewhere, sleeping in 'til noon, sitting at the computer refreshing Facebook...

I'm not condemning these behaviors - I'm not trying to say that anyone who has ever identified with these actions is a thoughtless, weak person. Well, not always. I am most definitely not above any of these examples considering they are all snippets of my recent and current life! I am trying to prove that even strong, brave, wild people lose their bearings to act a fool.

That's the irony of wisdom - I can experience the most profound understanding, and much more easily I can push knowledge to aside to have a little fun. That fun usually ends up biting me in the ass, which propels more soul searching and bubbles of truth to evade the river beneath the river, so I guess it's all works out for the best, but it's pretty ridiculous.

I have to admit on an even more personal level that I have been a tremendous fool in regards to dating. If you've read past entries, maybe you have some vague idea of how dramatic my love life has been. I would hate to consider myself a dramatic person, but I cannot deny that the relationships I nurture grow to be bravely insidious. They take on their own lives and though they're full of gaps and holes, the details burst through the seams of my heart, tearing me down as if I had no idea it would happen.

This is because I'm not thinking with my gut. I feel pressured by society but mostly by myself to find a man and create a meaningful relationship with him. I've tinkered with online dating sites and thrown out my requests for attention in a slew of directions. How many dates have I gone on in the last year? Too many. How many men have I thought would really be worth pursuing to attain a defined status? Waaaaaaay too many! I am so silly.

The last year of my life has drifted by so fast, and now on the eve of my 2 year anniversary, I feel extraordinary guilt and anger that I've allowed this to happen. I have so many interests and so much wildish depth, but I have not fostered much other than a few online profiles and weak links with dangerous, soul-scarring men. It's a self-scarring process.

Why didn't I recognize the beaming red flags in so many men before I drove in heart first? Looking back on the people I've been with, the warning signs were everywhere, too many to name. I wish so much that instead of opening my heart so rashly for the taking, I had opened it to let my instinct out for an extra layer of genuine protection. But what's done is done, and at this moment my lesson is learned. This is where Buddhism and Taoism ring true... everything that is, isn't; suffering leads to enlightenment; from life to death to life, I have rediscovered my self and my purpose because of the fool that I am.

While I prefer to look forward from here and reclaim my depth, I find that if I want to hold onto my wisdom with a stronger grasp, I need to keep my past wars and victories and battle scars close to mind. I think that by reflecting on my mistakes and departure from intuition, I will be better equipped to find my self in future episodes. Once again, Pinkola Estes writes, "It is also a good idea for women to count their ages, not by years, but by battle scars. 'How old are you?' people sometimes ask me. 'I am seventeen battle scars old,' I say.... I wonder what our granddaughters and great-granddaughters will think of our lives recorded thusly. I hope it will all have to be explained to them."

As a thinker and a writer, I am keen to this idea. I am about thirteen battle scars old.

Does that seem like a lot or a little? I don't mean to judge my own life so harshly and again demean the experiences that have made me Me, but I fear that claiming my scars is an act of egotism and self righteousness. I can't quite resolve if all this banter is part of my descent back to the Rio Abajo Rio, or if I just like speaking on these issues so I sound important, as a sharer of Truth...

If you're confused by all this, imagine how I feel! All I want is to get back to my roots and my core. I want to shed the suit of thoughtlessness I've been wearing, and I want to go naked and uninhibited through the fields sowed by gods.

Perhaps - ney - certainly this yearning is part of the laboring process; these words and thoughts and questions of my basic self must be the necessary cries a new born child makes as she enters a fresh world full of light. The world I know is contracting and pushing me, as I push myself, to new experiences and better understanding. I have the opportunity to begin again and grow strong. Tomorrow's a new job with a new family and a new environment...

Today I'll tunnel towards the light with only my instincts to clothe me. I'm not afraid, because I know I'm not alone. We are all babies. We are all humming along to ourselves, trying to understand the world so we can get to sleep at night a little easier.