Sometimes I wonder why I try to share anything
A week in Amsterdam is too much to squeeze into my body/mind let alone a screen.
Every time I try to share my work and what I do it feels the same so often I’m defeated before I even begin.
But I remind myself:
Just share one detail.
That one word or thought often unfolds into some billowing thousand petaled blossom of its own.
I could share an entire dialogue of ecosystems between me and the grey-green landscape buzzing by outside and window as I’m simply sitting on the train, transferring to Berlin, typing this.
There’s something sacred in limits.
Boundaries.
Egos.
Time.
Edges that define.
Stories that can’t and will never wrap God or the liminal and nebulous mysteries
But we try.
And in the trying is the art.
The life.
The dying.
The love.
Telling stories,
sharing random but select parts of my life, simply living,
often feels like constantly giving and receiving an over abundant package.
Great and full but sometimes heavy and chaotic.
Like my suitcases now splitting at their edges from trying to predict what a person might need for a month in Europe.
Like my purse now spilling out after so much coconut flavored Gouda from the magical chocolate-tasting-air-windmill-farm-lands of Zans Schans.
Like the decadently dark coats on the dried sugar dusted mangos strips from the chocolate bou-fucking-tiques on cobblestone street corners across from amber colored canals.
Like we can only feel, sense, think, say, do, BE share so much and it’s overwhelmingly beautiful and devastating all at once.
Because I’m both feeling connected and afloat.
“Rooted but flowing” #woolfe
One-with and all alone.
And it’s truly a unique flavor of this truth that I’m tasting again this time in this transformation.
But we are always in it aren’t we.
They say Loneliness is often just the lack of someone to share with.
I think of service and how much it fills us up just to have a moment of loving connection where otherwise we might have thought not of it.
What would I do, how would I feel without my work, my passion, my services to share? It’s a golden thread that stitches me back when I fall apart.
I think of art. The connection it brings. The stories it tells. The museums I visited getting glimpses into artist’s ways and worlds. Lives and deaths. I wonder if they feel glimpsed. Or perhaps a new wave of loneliness emerges. It seems they are not separate. Loneliness and visibility. One would think being seen is the antidote, but as far as I can tell there isn’t one. Except the integration of the realization you are both always.
You are all ways always.
Typing here gives gratitude for these magical devices that help us connect from rare areas on this earth. And simultaneously I seem more disconnected from most I’ve known than ever.
I don’t make the rules;)
I may feel detached in so many new ways but as I walked the alleyways of Amsterdam with my gracious air-bnb host being introduced to his friends and community, strangers in a strange land strangely connected some other parts of me previously disconnected.
So
It seems
We sew
And weave on
And
Off
And let some other unknown “artist” do invisible undefined magic in our lives
Making sense of a previously unknown part that was likely lonely before
And now
Maybe
It feels seen
And sewn
Into an ever evolving tapestry
We call life.
And even though I don’t have any “one person” to share deeper moments with, I’m glad to have an entire world like Amsterdam sharing itself with me. And this little screen to share a little smidge with you.
Both connecting
And not.
What a weird wild hell of a heaven we live in.
I’m here for it.
It’s here for me it seems.
Thanks for being here with us
Too.
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