Unless You Wildly Believe

Twenty minutes late on the first day of class, the sound of my painting professor's leather boots clapper a top the studio floor that's stained with years of student splatter.

"Let me tell you how you can succeed in this class..."

Professor Klank pulls a stool into the middle of the circle, luckily facing my direction, and begins on an hour-long speech that will convince me that this course just might change my life. He hands out our syllabus and proceeds to explain that it is a "non-syllabus" because this course should be fully participatory, and therefore equally discovered rather than dictated.

His hair is bright white, yet spiked as if he's 24 in an extreme rock band. He is petite, but in no way docile--this guy definitely works out at 60-odd years old. And the bright white line of facial hair no wider than a pencil that traces from the bottom of his lower lip to the end of his chin goes far beyond original to the territory of distracting. But the sweetness of the permanent lines he's engraved across his temples from his smiling eyes has the power to pull me back to that place from which his soul speaks.

In a slow but demanding voice, he says to a class of 20 students, "Do not place your canvas upon the easel to lay your paint strokes down unless you wildly believe that what you're about to create will set the world on fire."

Klank catches the spark of intrigue on my face, and his icy sky blue eyes pierce through his silver lashes and stab me like a syringe filling my lungs with oxygen.

"Of course, your ability to reason will remind you that, in fact, you will not create a masterpiece. But your rationale, your reasoning, must not stand in the way of your belief in yourself to do something master-full. The belief itself is the most radical masterpiece there is. And what you ultimately create is no where near as important as how you ultimately create."

At this point, I'm completely hooked into what this guy is saying, and I glance around the room expecting to see other faces as excited and transfixed as I am. But that's not the case at all. What I see instead is clusters of women sorting through the syllabus for some kind of tangible directions, or rolling their eyes at the strangeness of this wild professor's words.

And that's when he makes the jab.

"There is nothing I detest more in this world than mediocrity," he says in a matter-of-fact yet non-smug way (as hard as it is to imagine).

"Without wild belief in yourself as wonderful, master-full, and potentially brilliant, who you are and what you make in this world will never escape the bounds of mediocrity. And that goes not just for art, but for whatever you do in your life."

He goes on to tell us a story about wearing a fur coat to his in-laws house and the disaster that ensued (tangential, for sure)...and continues babbling for another 15 minutes about his family life. I admit this guy didn't give us hardly any direction about what we'd be doing in the class (a bit challenging for me, especially--the only non-art major in this advanced painting class), but who cares! How often do you meet a person, let alone a professor in college, who truly wants you to expand your boundaries of self-love and wild authenticity?

Maybe I'm not supposed to be in this class to learn more about the technicalities of painting. Maybe I'm supposed to be in it to learn how to call myself a painter. How to believe that I'm an artist. How to grant myself permission to feel certain that I am master-full. And how to believe that just maybe, my work will set the world on fire.

Finding your Magic Juice

me: "caitlyn, i want to tell that cute guy in the flannel that i really love his beard! but i'm scared!"
caitlyn: "but you're carrying that juice..."
me: "yeah, so?"
caitlyn: "well, anyone who carrys around a hug jug of lemon, ginger, and i can't even pronounce that last word..."
me: "echinacea (ECK-UH-NAY-SHA)"
caitlyn: "yeah, that... anyone carrying that juice can say whatever they want to strangers."
me: "really?!"
caitlyn: "yeah!"
me: "...you know what, yeah! you're right!."

so with my palms sweaty in nervous anticipation, i walked right up to him, leaned over, and gently said, "i really love your beard." to which he replied through a humble simple smile, "thank you." i smiled back and said, "your welcome" then walked out the library cafe doors, heart thumping with the thrill of following my spontaneity, the bliss of saying "yes" to my inner voice of adventure.

the most coincidental part is there's a promo i have down pact for this juice i'm obsessed with and always carrying around. after someone asks me, what's that huge jug of juice your drinking? i answer something like this:

"why, it's my MAGIC juice. it has all the essential roots that will cure all your bodily ailments and keep your from getting sick. AND, it has the power to make your heart do silly things--like pump to a more true rhythm. want to try a sip?"

little did i know how comforted i would feel, how much power i would grant myself simply because caitlyn reminded me of my own silly claim: this juice is magic, and therefore, i am magical carrying it.

have you ever felt like you have magic powers because of something you carry with you? a pair of awesome rain boots? a bright yellow jacket? that simply fantastic scarf?

i'm convinced that with or without the cape around our necks, we each hold magical powers inside of us--ones that if we dared, would reveal to the world our deepest soulful selves...the selves that unashamedly compliment the cute stranger across the room.

what do you say? what magic is brewing inside of you these days? and what ways do you grant yourself permission to let your magic shine for the whole wide world to see?

sharing is...

today was the first day everyone of the 10 students in my poetry class including myself was present. mary, our professor, requested that we come to class ready to share something about ourselves that would help everyone get to know eachother better... something sort of personal and vulnerable but not too vulnerable.

i knew, for me, this would be a great time to mention that i'm--bisexual? interested in women at the moment and who knows whats next?

still i found my heart pounding so hard that i think the zipper on my zip-up sweatshirt was bouncing up and down. i kept turning different phrases around in my head of different ways that i could start...

"i fell in love with...." no, too personal.

"i'm questioning..." no, too broad.

i felt so happy to be able to go back to elementary school. my claim to fame is being the only white girl in my class--something people in the northwest who don't live in some inner-city somewhere (and even there) have trouble even comprehending! You can count the number of black students that go to Lewis & Clark on your hand. So this seemed like a nice starting point?

Then there's my family background, my father being a pastor and now a famous author.

Then there's me, going to college, exploring my sexuality thinking i might be "bisexual or--" i don't say the word "lesbian." i can't handle that word it feels so heavy and full like giant breasts with a painting of a man and line going through his body on a pin on a leather bra. Female on female porn, butch women, the erotic poetry heather and i perused in the sauna (such a great thing to do by the way), the woman i told i loved this morning... where do i carve out myself, of what clay was i the product? how much of this identity is just draped over us like earrings or jeans? how much are we capable of creating ourselves?


I want to be myself, truly, inside and outside, turned on and turned off. i want to grant myself the greatest pleasures and survive my biggest disasters. i want my heart full and for its overflow of water to turn the mill in my brain. i want to get all my nourishment from the ever-flowing forces of love. god's love, friend's love, men or women who have learned different ways to love, teaching me now new things about love as i teach them how to love me.

all this boiled down to an introduction. take your time, but its short. who are you today?


we are daring for sharing the right amount of so much. my heart slows down, quieter and quieter til i can no longer hear it pounding. the next person talks about a small town near train tracks. And i feel at ease again. for the diversity of the energies we bring, and for letting mine exist today.

the most incredible things about 2008

living in italy.
beautiful bohemian hippie loves.

the sound of train tickets being punched.
the ache of a backpackers back.
miracles with jodi in sicily.























the cows and mountains of switzerland.
























bebop music club. the songs, laughs, flirtations, friends and beers.
chianti red with dinner. and long after dinner.
ruined boots from cobbled stone streets.
letting go of my hair.


the view from via dell'oriuolo.
























8 canvas paintings.
santo spirito capuccinos and conversations.
motocycle rides through the hills of tuscany.
the mess they led to.
admitting messy truths.
again and again.
sore calves from the hilly siena streets and the first real word i knew in italian. "macchina!"
feeling like a real secret during carnival in venice.
a week alone in the rain of torino.
swimming in the deathly cold blue grotto.


biking through killarney national park.


a 6 hour conversation on a plane that turned into an awesome job offer.
ranman's big 6-0 surprise.
perfect-fit thrift store jeans.
my heart cracking open in philly.
sleep walking and then waking up.
nudity in ann arbor.
if i were my own best friend.
latin american history.
mikey graduating from something he loves.

barak obama and dancing in the streets.
a shared purple bedroom & laundry basket.
cuddling to sleep.
growing deeper into love.

accepting complexity.
finding clarity.
never shaving my legs.
a holiday season of giving time and thoughts over gifts and money.
and not one single argument!
a tinfoil extravaganza new years party.


thank you from the bottom of my heart. what a privileged yet challenging year it's been. i'm wondering how 2009 will shape itself, with such an expansive platter of options on the table. i doubt it will be any less eventful than 2008. i have a feeling that 21 years old doesn't lend itself to uneventful unless you make it so. and that's certainly not the way i roll! :)

the drops that let themselves go

last night i lay myself to sleep
in fear
of the dark
that imagination
painted--
the dark
that became my
straight jacket canvas
my steel caged cell
the bars, my head
could not abandon

tonight i rest my head
with trust
in the light
that drips through
my midnight ceiling--
the light
weightless paint drops
of white
and gold starry
abondonment

the drops
that let themselves go
from the dark
that imagination
painted

the true you

i've been on an old-home-videos-kick ever since my dad converted tons of footage from when i was a little kid onto DVDs. i've been spending far too many late nights with the television glow pulsating against the bedroom walls, refusing to shut my eyes and end my peek into a long forgotten past. the thing is, i'm hooked to what my two-year-old-self is revealing to my twenty-one-year-old-self.

behind my two-year-old blond frizzy ringlets, in my deep brown eyes and quiet concentration, i see a self who slowly reflects on the world around her, and shares only her most processed thoughts (save the silly ones--she loves to share those). as my two-year-old-self rips the paper off a big christmas gift box, and proceeds to get excited about all the things she could use the box for, rather than the kitchen that's inside of it, i see a self exploding with imaginative thoughts and dreams unavailable in a tangible world. as i lay on the couch and my 5-year-old-brother explains to me that "Y" is for "yolk" and i unashamedly ask "what's yolk?" four times before i finally comprehend, i see a self full of curiosity, humility and eagerness to learn. a self so willing to be taught.

as i watch my two-year-old-self pounce, ponder, play, and pout, i watch with a feeling of pure, accepting love. look at that beautiful child, i think. look at her being HER, i giggle. what a joy. what a gift to be 2 years old and not yet weathered enough to reflect on flaws and shortcomings. to feel not enough.

i'm hooked to these videos because of the chance they give me to love again. to re-live unashamed curiosity, wild imagination and quiet concentration without judgement and without fear, but with complete adoration and acceptance.

look at that girl, i think to myself. the true you. i love her. and i know in the most honest and brave parts of my heart, that the love i feel for my two-year-old-self is the same love i can harvest for myself today.

coming in

i'm trying to think of how this whole gay rights movement can continue forward. being possibly lesbian/bisexual myself, these sorts of things come to mind. what can i do, what can others do to bridge the divide of understanding and equality between the ever-ranging spectrum of sexuality? while it seems like we're closer than ever to seeing gays as human beings with equal rights, it still can be so tricky to figure out how to navigate identity in social situations with strangers, family, and friends.

we often refer to the process of revealing ones non-heterosexual sexuality as "coming out." the closet was the metaphor for the secret life homosexual people had to live around their non-accepting peers. to come out is to open up about ones sexual identity or history. if we refer to the platonian model of the myth of the cave, coming out of the closet could be like emerging from the cave of ignorance into the light of truth, knowledge, community. this process could be purely enlightening for all, leaving the darkness for the openness, breaking down the door.

but the idea of the closet itself is problematic for the closeted and the outsider, because non-acceptance is assumed. because our society has been so ignorant about gays in the past (and continues to be), the gay person is afraid to come out, and the other person is also accredited and perhaps justified in allowing the wall to exist in the first place.

still this process really places the person who is coming out in center stage. they are being watched, judged, and monitored on their delivery, their timing, their story, their history, their complexity. once the closet door is removed, the focus is on the person walking out. we're now in the same space as the others who were born without closets encapsulating their sexuality, but we're new additions to their lives. our whole history is morphed under a new lens of this alternate identity, and people begin to wonder--is that why he or she hated PE class? is that why they broke up? is that why you got in fights with your family? suddenly, a detective game begins, where did homosexuality intrude? was it there in the nursing infant? did it come about because of tv shows? did another individual trick someone into sleeping with them? what has happened here, and there? and why has this person been hiding? (have they been aware they were hiding?)

everything begins to be searched for evidence. the clothes people wear, the make up one does or does not apply, the height of someone's shoeheel, the length of one's hair, the shape of one's face... styles are formed, subcultures are created so that communities can be formed, people can feel part of a group of others who are like them and accept them. but really, these fads are no different than other fads, they are expressions of a people with a common interest. yet within that group united by a common interest are so many different stories that cannot be boxed into a uniform, style, or identification system.

what i'd like to reclaim are the views of the gays who have or have not decided to come out. i'd like to explore what happens when people come into the space that occupies our deepest identity? what happens when we come into those places within ourselves? i think in some ways coming out is like turning yourself inside out. with all your deepest instinctual inner patterns exposed and the tough skin tucked backwards, one loses a sense of protection. with practice, perhaps this process can feel empowering, but in order for us to feel comfortable and strong i think we need to develop a new layer of skin. this new skin layer is a patchwork of identities, styles, elements of subculture which make those who do not feel like they belong have a sense of belonging. but instead of creating unity, we end up divided like gangs in our separate code-language choice of clothing and hairstyles, giving off vibes of our territorial identity in order to protect our deepest instinctual selves in the power of numbers, names, and stereotypes.

before one finds this community, this subculture, how can one come out into the world, timid and afraid without shriveling in the sun? without roots connected to a well of nutrients and water, the dark moist cave is far more safe than the dry vast desert. we need to belong, but how does that process begin when such bold lines are being drawn around to distinguish one subculture from the next?

before i knew there was a such thing as me identifying as anything but heterosexual, before i had discovered the depth of my sexuality, i had no concept of the closet doors enclosing my body. it wasn't until i closed my bedroom door to the outside world so that i could discover what its like to love, that i could even sense a sliding door closing, with little slits in that i could look out of, but no one could see in. it wasn't until everyone started asking if i had a boyfriend, that i found it so hard to say i had a girlfriend instead. and when i shielded the truth, i stayed put with the outdated clothes and unfashionable shoes keeping me company in that dreadful closet i began to learn so much about.

but when the questions disappeared, or when my lover reappeared i felt like the power of my love could bend fields of wheat like waves of wind, with no boundaries to keep it in. so how could this tight closet space be applied to my ever-expanding concept of love?

perhaps the closet is bigger than we think it is. this is what i started to realize.

when i got all my friends together, gay or not, and spoke openly with them about my sexuality among other things, it was like we were lighting candles in the dark, or pressing walls backwards with our numbers and our knowledge and support. the roles even start to seem like they are flipping, so that people who do not accept gays seem to be in a closet of their own ignorance, keeping them from experiencing the world as it truly is: as a place with all forms of love roaming present and increasing positive energy in the universe. how could they be so closed off?

its up to them to come out of their closet, as much as its up to gays to invite people into theirs. ultimately its not about boxing either side in, but about working together so that these four-sided patterns can disperse into whatever space one wants to create for themselves in any given time. i don't want a closet. i want a field. i want to be naked. with those who are unafraid to shed their patchwork, and let the darkest places be warmed by the truest light of acceptance.