sam's priority list

things that fulfill me:

life-long learning
reading
music, as loud as possible
being outside
being with people who challenge me
food that nourishes me
writing
deep conversations
dancing

everything i need right now:

distinct memories:

the classroom i started in november of last year, rain pouring down the hard, plastic window, drumming against the roof, the windowsill, and the pavement below. two young girls sitting across from me: one from venezuela, the other from saudi arabia, both the same level that i started in–beginning intermediate, able to form complete sentences but with major syntax and vocabulary issues.

november. two months until it has been a year–and what a year it has been. i've learned so much about myself and the things that i believe in, but i find myself cycling back to nostalgia more often than i want to. "more often than i want to"–but really, what is that? is it such a crime to be sentimental, to be nostalgic? so many of our famous writers and musicians were sentimentalists; the majority of our oral tradition and culture comes from sentimentalism. nostalgia, though, must always be taken with a grain of salt–seeing life through a fog of beautified untruths and taking them as reality generally produces some unwanted results.

smells, sounds, glimpses bring me back to places that i loved being in. i can see the entire room clearly: my purple teacher's book, the TV connected to my laptop, keely's plants sitting in my windowsill, the whiteboard filled with grammatical terms and vocabulary words. in the morning, i have a class full of saudi arabians–20 of them, several wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, cousins–all of whom i can recall without hesitation. my afternoon was filled with a group of beginners–3 husband/wife pairs and one single man, the comedian of my class–and 2 groups of ridiculous college-aged students whose claims to fame were hanging out of a window to snapchat something ridiculous.

and now i think over the past year and i realize i can catalog the things by the students i had during the year and by the company i was keeping. i've been mostly alone for the last 11 months, with the exception of some far-off flings that i have kept at a distance because i realized that i was healing and getting better. at first, the thought of being alone was petrifying: i didn't want to have to deal with myself. and yet now, i crave the time that i spend by myself, filling it with moments and activities that i alone enjoy. i have given myself an opportunity to be at peace with myself and at peace with the world around me, and because of that, my mind is calm.

you–you were a drug addiction, dopamine anonymous. pupils dilated, heart beating quickly, sitting across a table from you at a truck stop eating pancakes. from far away, the landscape looks beautiful, but as i start to walk back through it i begin to see the litter at every step i take. you once said our love story was beautiful, and it may have been, but it isn't anymore. i'm not even sure it was ever even a love story. what about this love story now–is it as beautiful as you had ever wanted? and yet here i am, writing a love story for myself, and how beautiful that feels.

nostalgia and dopamine. thank god for the little graces we bestow upon ourselves, even when they are painful.

"yes, hello self-esteem; we shall finally be free"

the creation of a support base:

i once heard that you develop a support base by the qualities that you put forth into the world. the support group is developed by a kind of cosmic force - what you put out into the universe is given back to you (so, though overused by many people to mean cosmic revenge, the very essence of karma). sitting tonight at dinner, i realized that what i have put into the world has been given back to me: i have been blessed with a group of thoughtful, aware, politically and socially active, and intelligent friends who constantly encourage me to think and do more than ever before.

thank god for these people who have come into my life to wake me from this robotic stance i have once taken. for the first time in years, i feel alive in many different realms of my life - politically, intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. through intense debates and conversations and a lot of reaching past my comfort zone, i have fostered discourse with people who challenge my deeply held ideals about life.

we all need these awakening moments in which were are violently shook - as if a child having a bad dream - from this passionless world we're living in, this monochromatic landscape that means next to nothing in the grand scheme. being involved in causes and in ideals that are bigger than we are, politically, spiritually, and theoretically, helps us to develop and grow as human beings.

the road here, granted, has been tough, and has taken some reckoning (thanks, brene brown) with my own insecurities about my intelligence. as such, it has taken research - which i love doing anyway - and critical thinking to develop my ideas about things. from that research and that reading and that networking has come growth, and i am so incredibly thankful for that opportunity to develop.

again, i reiterate: if someone had asked me if this is where i would be 8-9 months ago, in this same exact spot, lying in bed next to an anne lamott book about writing and thoughtfulness and reflecting on conversations about politics, social justice, and immigration, i would've kindly replied that you were batshit motherfucking crazy. but that is my life, and, as a compassionate person to myself, i have to be thankful to myself for fostering those relationships in my own life while also being startlingly blessed that people like those i have in my life have taken the time to help me grow.

growth, growth, growth: painful, scary, infuriating, but in hindsight, such a beautiful thing to undertake when the end results are this beautiful.

reminders from anne lamott, or remembering to write my own SFDs:

"writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. that thing you had to force yourself to do–the actual act of writing–turns out to be the best part. it's like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really need was the tea ceremony. the act of writing turns out to be its own reward."

"remember that you own what happened to you. if your childhood was less than ideal, you may have been raised thinking that if you told the truth about what really went on in your family, a long bony white finger would emerge from a cloud and point at you, while a chilling voice thundered, "we told you not to tell." but that was then. just put down on paper everything you can remember now about your parents and siblings and relatives and neighbors, and we will deal with libel later on." 

"because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. what a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. they show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. they are full of all the things that you don't get in real life–wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. and quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. an author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. my gratitude for good writing is unbounded; i'm grateful for it the way i'm grateful for the ocean."

"E.L. Doctorow once said that 'writing a novel is like driving a car at night. you can only see as far as your headlights but you can make the whole trip that way.' you don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see you destination or everything you will pass along the way. you just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. this is right up there with the best advice about writing, or life, i have ever heard."

"writing can be a pretty desperate endeavor, because it is about some of our deepest needs: our need to be visible, to be heard, our need to make sense of our lives, to wake up and grow and belong. it is no wonder if we sometimes tend to take ourselves perhaps a bit too seriously."

"almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. you need to start somewhere. start by getting something–anything–down on paper. a friend of mine says that the first draft is the down draft–you just get it down. the second draft is the up draft–you fix it up. you try to say what you have to say more accurately. and the third draft is the dental draft, where you check every tooth, to see if it's loose or cramped or decayed, or even, God help us, healthy."

"quieting the voices is at least half the battle i fight daily. but this is better than it used to be. it used to be 87 percent. left to its own devices, my mind spends much of its time having conversations with people who aren't there. i walk along defending myself to people, or exchanging repartee with them, or rationalizing my behavior, or seducing them with gossip, or pretending i'm on their TV talk show or whatever. i speed or run an aging yellow light or don't come to a full stop, and one nanosecond later am explaining to imaginary cops exactly why i had to do what i did, or insisting that i did not in fact do it." 

"if you don't believe in God, it may help to remember this great line of Geneen Roth's: that awareness is learning to keep yourself company. and then learn to be more compassionate company, as if you were somebody you are fond of and wish to encourage. i doubt that you would read a close friend's early efforts and, in his or her presence, roll your eyes and snicker."

"what people somehow (inadvertently, i'm sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here–and, by extension, what we're supposed to be writing." 

all excerpts taken from bird by bird: some instructions on writing and life.

on drinking, or why i'm trying not to anymore:

there have been some questions as to why i'm not drinking anymore - or at least not drinking as heavily as i once did. the answer(s) to those questions require more space and time than i even have here, but for the sake of my own sanity and as a reminder to myself, i'll (briefly) post about that here.

i've recently been handed what i like to call an "awakening" moment. this moment is just the realization that something i've been holding on to in my life is more damaging than i give it credit for: distractions. we add things to our lives often to distract ourselves from things we don't want to think about - emotions, situations and stressors. for me, those distractors have always taken the shape of drinking, eating, sleeping, TV watching, or overloading my schedule.

a big goal i have been trying to accomplish lately is being aware of the things i do that i am generally not aware of and taking inventory of the things that trigger those events. one thing i've been focusing on a lot, therefore, has been my drinking. in making a list of my biggest "binges" re: drinking since i began (sophomore year of college - i was 19), i noticed a few things:

• i only really drank when something was happening that i didn't want to think about/deal with (big considerations here include the death of my first relationship, the death of my most recent long-term relationship, the stealing and subsequent totaling of my favorite car, the death of my grandfather, and the stress of my most recent long-term relationship)
• my desire to drink is usually brought on by some kind of negative emotional event - when i am feeling uncomfortable, embarrassed, or stressed especially
• the day after drinking generally results in my feeling like shit either physically or emotionally - in doing research about drinking, i came across multiple studies that pointed to the loss of serotonin in the brain during heavy drinking spells. serotonin is often linked to well-being, including food cravings, emotional well-being, and the ability to sleep. here's the thing, though: apparently (and based on what i was reading, i might have misunderstood, so i'm still reading more) drinking gives a slight rise in serotonin, which manifests in feelings of happiness and reward. after moderate drinking, however, when this drinking turns into more heavy drinking, the exact opposite happens - serotonin drops significantly, adding to feelings of anxiety and depression (which, if already present pre-drinking, results in a more intense experience with these feelings). major lightbulb moment. in thinking about my relationship to alcohol and nights of heavy drinking, i always think of the day after: feeling lethargic (no shit, sherlock, you generally only drink at night), emotionally unstable* (this is big, big, big for me - nights of binging usually resulted in crying spells the next day or feeling terribly depressed. while i always assumed that this was just because i was physically feeling like shit, i now realize that it was actually a disrupted chemical balance that affected my ability to be emotionally reasonable), and unmotivated. 
• let's be honest - drinking is expensive as fuck, and i'd like to spend my money on books instead. 

talk about major realizations here - as much as i like drinking, and i love the feeling of being "tipsy," i have now determined that a) i feel a lot worse the day after than i feel decent the night before, and b) oh shit - here's the big one - i'm typically running away from things when i'm drinking. one memory especially stands out in my mind about drinking:

it was a warm, sticky night in august of 2011, not far off from my birthday. i had a 24 pack of PBR in the fridge and a determination to drink the whole damn thing. my heart, my body, my mind were on fire - shame, guilt, and this very guttural sense of acknowledgement were booming through my bloodstream with every sip i took. the night was quiet save the occasional passing car and the chirping of crickets in the distance. one thing i knew for sure, maybe not in that moment, but later as i reflected on it: my intuition was telling me to listen carefully to what it had to say. it was warning me about months and years to come in which i would continuously push down my gut in search of what i wanted to be true, which was that you cared enough to be honest, to tell the truth. deep down i know you never did, but at the time all i could do was crack another beer open and stare at the night sky from that wooden deck painted red on woods avenue...

in realizing just how much i have had to drink over the past 6-7 years, i've had an epiphany: i have to give my body and my brain the luxury of stopping for as long as i possibly can. i'm here in this journal because i'm trying to be the best person i can, and holding on to a destructive habit like that is nothing but damaging to my progress, so here goes nothing...

the calming of the storm:

it used to be a storm
rising up in my blood,
attacking me from the inside,
bursting like volcanic eruption
from the pit of my stomach
and my response
always the same:
it's not there,
make it go away
drink it away
eat it away
it's not really there

the reality:
it did exist
and it came
to kill me
when i least
expected

months later,
a bed half-made
with poetry books
and journals strown
about its covers,
the soft rumble
of guitars, pianos, violins
moving across the floorboards
lights coloring the floor, the walls --
inside, a tranquil pool of water,
ripples meeting the surface
and back again.

these are the things that fill my soul:

1. my dog, curled amicably in my lap, quietly sleeping as if the world is not turning, is not hurting, is not crying;
2. my open window behind my office desk, dead tree limbs filling the horizon, conifers holding on to the last of their pines, some remaining leaves doing their best not to fall;
3. a book, opened in my lap, holding secrets of lives that i will never know except for in their words;
4. a steaming cup of coffee next to my arm, connected to my hand, connected to the browning pages of this book;
5. an anthology of twentieth-century poetry that is nearby, the thoughts and dreams and hopes of some of my favorite poets held within;
6. the not-so-distant memory of the laughter and smile of someone i adore, tangled in the sheets of my bed, the sounds of life rushing by us as we lie without noticing;
7. the warmth of a blanket tucked under my feet;
8. the feeling of a pen in my hand as it glides across the pages of my moleskin journal, writing the things most important to me (for all purposes, my SFD);
9. and the feeling of being alive, and calm, and sane, and happy, and myself most of all.

nostalgia recreated:

i'm starting to feel like that girl i knew years ago. that girl who felt calm while sarah jaffe and jimmy eat world and jeff buckley were pouring through her speakers, while she poured over journals and books, while her fingers grazed the smooth surface of her keyboard.

this girl - this girl is so incredibly me and i love it. i love that that's who i'm getting back to. i love that i feel so much like myself again.

more old journal entries (reminders):

...i held on to you for too long, too. i looked for closure in you even when i knew it was something you could never give me. [name removed] was right when she suggested that in your emptiness was the missing piece, but that you were so lost in your own darkness that you wouldn't be able to find it. after realizing that, i did what i had to let you go. i did what i had to to prevent you from ever infiltrating my life ever again...
at some points, you pop up from the darkness, reminders of beautiful memories or my own projections of who you were (when you really weren't). i'm getting better at seeing the situation for what it is - nothing of extreme importance. my need for control and understanding, as much as it has affected me in the past, is beginning to subside. this is part of my journey: to release my hold on my expectations of life and of other people. if anything, the pain has taught me that i need to capitalize on my unnecessary urges and, in doing so, simultaneously let them go. in the end, you have become my greatest lesson. you are the realization that i must live fully in my own reality and that i must find my own happiness. my goals from this day forward include intentionally living in the present moment and letting experiences be what they will be.
for now, though, i am enjoying life as it is - i have a booming social calendar, an amazing support group, and a job that i love going to every day. at some point in my life, my emotions revolved solely around you and us. now i feel more emotionally secure than ever, and in a way, i suppose i have you to thank for that - thank you for showing me the monochromatic landscape so i could enjoy the beauty of the rainbow.

found in an old journal:

2AM came quickly with you, writhing under your body, the freckles on your shoulders folding forward into the dips above my collarbones as you moved in tandem with my hips. the warmth of your body led me forward and back again, and as you'd run your hands over my body, you'd comment on the softness of my skin...
later that night, in the darkness of your townhouse, you'd hold me close to you as my exhaustion would result in the loss of my typically well-in tact foolishness filter. your hands - warm and small and yet unexplainably powerful - ran circles across my shoulder blades while my fingers grasped on to the stray fingers draped across my side.
at some point in our delirium, as i was fighting sleep and losing not so gracefully, i heard you whisper something - "don't go." though purposefully quiet, it felt like the words were delivered clearly and specifically just for my ears. turning over, i found your body and clasped my arms, hands, and legs around you, wishing to preserve the moment unadulterated in my memory.
morning came to shared cups of tea, criminal minds, cuddling, walking the dogs, your insistence on the "cuteness" of my laugh and the small snores i gave off while curled up next to you in bed. you'd made breakfast and warmed lunch and packed snacks for my trip. you walked me out and said goodbye...
now, miles away and two days removed, i'm starting to wonder if all of that had been reality. i'm learning to be patient, but the insecurity of the situation is terrifying. will i fall again and be met by the ground instead of your arms? i can feel myself fostering a bond that is hard to break, and every time i feel it, i push my walls back up. have i lost my ability to trust fully now? have i fallen into the void of dark expectations, of loss of more than love?
3 months from now, the fortune said. in 3 months... now only a few days away. is it you, peter pan? is my compass leading me to you? is my heart pointing to the future of road trips and good music and mornings filled with tea? or is this going to be just another phase in this journey?
and yet all i can hear is your whispering "don't go" in the dead of the night...