The Birth of Epochs

For better or worse, each of us is born into a life that is in many ways predetermined. We are born into a skin that presents us to society in a particular way, that carries histories of oppressing or of being oppressed, that stirs prejudices in others simply by its tone and complexly by bigotry and baggage, that privileges us or disadvantages us or both. We are born with genitalia that endow us with expectations of gender and gendered behaviors, roles, expressions, interactions, shoe sizes and representations-of-self in the media. 

We are born into economic status and the opportunities and barriers that come with it. We are born into families who teach us how to be--or not. We are born into systems--medical, industrial, educational--that craft our perspectives like mad scientists, and in these systems (and against them), we construct and deconstruct ourselves every day from the moment we are born. Despite, or in spite of, or because of these preconditions of our coming into the world, we do our best to live well--even as we try to figure out what the hell that means, anyway. 

"Stephen Martin describes his practice as 'squares and dots'."

I have been brushing aside my blog for weeks now, my head filled with preoccupations about what's next for me in this world. How can I write about my experiences when they are trapped in the mind-- hypothetical? 

And who am I to bore you with such nonsense, anyway? Between doubts that reporting on my restless thoughts would amount to little more than what my favorite art teacher would have called paint masturbation... it dawned on me that what goes on in the mind is very much real and happening, even if the matter of thought has yet to be realized in any tangible way.

So such is exactly the aim of this post (and my latest project #freedesignsforfreepeople): to make physical what exists in the mind. For surely all great actions (and not-so-great ones, for that matter) have a life of their own first in the mental/emotional realm. 

Enough introduction.

The birth of an epoch is like birth itself: It does not come to be upon an empty slate. None of us has the ability to just start over, to relinquish any and all ties to a humanity so intricately defined. And who would want to anyway? Even I, a satirical victim and perpetrator of this sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, racist, male-centric global society, can find overwhelming beauty in the daily doings of human beings, not to mention the wonders that Mother Earth, the universe and beyond produce simply by having an essence.

I am at a point now where a clear shift in my lifestyle lies ahead: In 36 days, I will board onto a plane that will take me away from the epoch I have forged here on Maui over the past several months, during which time I have built relationships with others, developed roles for myself, and felt a momentous understanding of purpose--all to be abruptly disrupted by the take-off of a large flying machine. And what I have finally begun to wrap my head around, amongst all the restlessness in my decision to leave, is that in creating this new lifestyle--this new landscape for my existence on Earth-- I am not approaching a blank canvas. I never have and never will.

So, like the perplexing, magnificent Margeuax in Sheila Heti's insightful and sarcastic novel, I will begin with what I have.

This is not a new idea, as readers of my previous post know. There is a nagging voice in my conscience as of late that brings me constantly back to material possessions. This time, though, I write with a question in mind: In creating a game plan for this upcoming epoch (really a How-to-Retain-Sanity-Amidst-All-the-Excitement-of-Something-New kind of strategy), are you approaching each moment with intention and genuine gratitude for the canvas that carries the burdens and glories of your brush strokes? For me, this is the question that, like a true lover, brings both overwhelming ambition and a guilty sense of self-doubt. 

As a reminder to myself, and perhaps to clarify the quasi-cliche symbolism of my question, a key:

intention = purpose, mindfulness, goals, passion, global/universal thinking;

genuine gratitude = acknowledgement and active utilization;

canvas = resources, privileges, perspective, lived experience, context-of-being;

brush strokes = actions, non-actions, choices

Now onto "The Margeaux, With a Hint of Carrie Newcomer": 

In genuine gratitude I define my canvas:

whiteness; womanhood; youth; support of family and friends both near and far; relative economic stability; a college degree; a decent resume; a network of connections in the worlds of small-business owners, academia, organic farming, entrepreneurs, fire prevention, artists, music, not-for-profit organizations; commercial and non-commercial radio--the list goes on, I'm sure; access to internet and social media; modern technology; health care I'm not paying for; travel experience; a driver's license; US citizenship; dwindling Spanish-speaking ability; the ability to read and write; food in my stomach every day of my life; sisterhood; exposure to more than one culture; exposure to more than one household; exposure to more than one method of parenting; multiple library cards; multiple bank accounts; multiple notebooks; a bed; a blog; a dresser full of clothes...

The list goes on, I'm sure.

In the birth of an epoch, there is a balance for which the mindful search: It exists between rolling with the tide and sailing a strong course, toward a glorious destination. Perhaps, with a little mindfulness-- of the canvas in front of me, of the histories behind me, of the potential of every moment in a string of moments-- perhaps I can be as temperate as the sea herself. She is, after all, the most powerful force in nature: wild and steady and infinite.

If you care to embark on this journey with me--that is, creating a next epoch with intention and care, you'll find a graphic below that might peak your interest. At the very least, I hope, it will inspire you to create a game plan (or a How-to-Be-Utterly-Epic strategy) for your days, which are filled with moments of spectacular possibilities. Whether our lives are predestined, fundamentally flawed, meaningless, objectified, or socially defined, I maintain fixed on the idea that our brush strokes are just down-right significant. 

Print it, try it, and for the love of community-- share your thoughts about it in the COMMENTS section!


#freedesignsforfreepeople

Email me for a PDF/digital copy, or for any old reason!

We Got Spahk

This past week, I've been itching to write. I jotted a few things down here, typed up a few lines on my ipad mini there. But nothing came out of me that said, "don't stop! Someone will want to read this." I counted the days since my last blog post: six. I asked myself, "Did I live a day worth writing about today?" 

For six days, I'd answered 'no' to that question by not writing when I felt the urge to. So, I thought, something's gotta change. And since I don't see anyone following me around with a pen, I'd better get to it.

Friday morning, I ate my cereal quickly and hopped in the car with Jeana when she left to take Lei to preschool. She dropped me off at Marilyn's house, with whom I make soap and frozen pizzas and run errands and whatever else she feels like doing on a whim. Her husband Ricky dedicated his morning to helping me find a car, as my own search has been slow and unrewarding, mostly due to my passivity and denial that one won't just turn up in the driveway one day (yes, I'm realizing how much I really take for granted my handy, generous mechanic of a father).

We arrived at Ricky's friend's car lot, who was willing to give me a deal on a Honda Civic he thought was running just fine despite its cosmetic quarks. We test drove it up Haleakala Highway-- the big test: It ran great! We stopped back at Rick and Marilyn's house for a moment before starting it up again and-- nada. "No spahk" was Rick's catchphrase that day, with his Haliimaile-born pidgin. "Noo sparhk. Buhmuh."

To distract ourselves from the hunk of metal blocking the driveway, we turned around to face the '88 Nissan Pathfinder he had laying around (Ricky buys cars from auctions and fixes them up-- a common side-job on the island, and elsewhere I imagine). We replaced the starter in that car, and wouldn't you know it: "Nooo spahk. Buhhmuh."

We tried this and that, this again and that again on this car and that one. By 3 that afternoon, we had returned to my Honda with a new distributor in hand. Looking down at the old one under the hood, I was worried about not knowing how to line it up right, considering I didn't know what a distributor looked like until that morning. We both hesitated a moment, until Rick smiled:

"We ain't no scaredycats. The one thing I ain't is a scaredycat. Too many people have fee-uh, ya know what I mean? We might not get it right, but we ain't gunna have fee-uh."

That said, the old distributor came right off. We rigged the fresh-out-the-box toy where we thought it might go. I'm not sure how much Rick knew what he was doing-- "I've never had luck with distributors," he said once and again. I certainly didn't know what I was doing. But we did it anyway. One 4pm lunch--and a fight with some plastic piece that has something to do with connecting wires--later, we cranked the key and-- "Ha. Noo spahk." 

Wow, was all we could say, over and over, totally defeated for the day. "Well we got some hands-on experience," we tried to redeem one another. "Rough day," we joked. It wasn't really funny, but we laughed anyway. We cleaned up, with a bit more tinkering in between sighs and jokes. When we were ready to start pushing the Civic to get it out of the driveway, that smile of Rick's returned. "What if it starts!" he said, smirking. One foot out the car door, he cranks it: Vroom. 

"What!" was all I could say.

We had spahk. In fact, we had more than spahk. That thing got us all the way up Piiholo Road--2,000 feet of elevation packed into 3 miles of windy mountain turns.

When I walked in the door that night, I said I'd be in the office the next day, "since I didn't work today. Today I was a mechanic." 

Ha. Hardly.

I didn't buy the Civic. I don't know if we really fixed anything, or if we got lucky when it ran for us that night. But we didn't have fee-uh, and I did have a day worth writing about.