.westward, again.

I landed on the west coast, again yesterday. The past few months have seemed like a blur of plane rides and beds and places and 5 outfits (ha!) and I have only just started to find a rhythm (or the beginning of a surrender) to all this transition. I'm back in my home state of Washington for a few weeks while I share space with my sister who is awaiting the arrival for her first baby. 

The past month has felt frustrating. I felt like I was waiting on people to tell me what to do or where to go or how to spend my time and then I realized I was frustrated because I wasn't making any decisions for myself. I was projecting that frustration of not choosing myself upon others. Realizing this perspective totally changed things for me about 2 weeks ago. I started to actively choose myself by making small tiny decisions. The small tiny decisions started to open up new and old joys in my life, my journey. I started running into and reconnecting with old friends and found that beautiful excitement in the studio that I haven't had for such long time. I met with a friend I hadn't seen in months for coffee and our creativity talk inspired me to keep showing up for jewelry to find my discipline to my craft again. To invest time in it no matter what the inspiration or motivation (or lack of!). A few days later I found a new opportunity for myself in December! Yesterday I left Boston at 6am feeling groggy and a little unsettled at all the things I could've done before I left for Washington but as I sat in the window seat of the plane and watched the magic of the changing landscapes pass me by I couldn't help but feel so grateful to have this moment - this view - this freedom. 

I read this poem (one of my favorite poems) on the On Being blog this morning and was grateful for this gift of this reminder - thankful for all the small gifts that are right in front of me all the time.

"The Journey”
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations —
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.