Opening to What Is

I've been writing the word "opening" a lot recently. It's in my prayers, it's in my journal, it's coming up as my intention for the day as I commune in the morning. And I wonder about what it really means to me. To open is be fully exposed, right? That's what happens in my head - to be totally available as a human being to what's happening in front of me. The last few days have been filled with a sense of heavy sadness deep in my chest and throat. The kind that makes me feel anchored, nay more tethered than anchored. Anchored feels like more of a grounded word. These sensations that I relate to sadness are very familiar and even a year ago, I would have called this state "debilitating" and a feeling of drowning deep to the heart of me. Typing that out feels deadening. Like the buzzy vibrance of my morning has been pushed aside for a veil much like a dusty curtain that smells like moth balls. But these last couple of days, I'm walking as if with an old friend. Would I rather be open? Would I prefer laughing and my internal sense of connected purpose constantly? Sure, but that's not what's happening and I can even be open to that. This morning as I returned home form spin class and went to cut the brisket I made in the Instant Pot (on the slow cooker setting), I opened (there's that word again) my heart for a split second. "What would I be doing if I weren't fascinated by the knot embedded in my throat? What would I be doing with my time?" The thought came instantly - learning. Learning and teaching. Which today, I view as a very similar verb.

The quarter-life crisis that turned into a third

So, months and years of failing to find my purpose in life (and thinking a couple of times to have found it), I had the nervous breakdown. I had the moment of total despair. I didn't think it fun so much so I came up with my own ideas of what life should be and how I want to achieve that. Life should be happy. Unfortunately (and fortunately), we are one of the only societies on the planet has this much time to invest in being fulfilled. Honestly, my version is pretty simple (even though it can feel really large); smile and remember that you are only an animal like any other on this big planet of ours. Yep, I said it, you're just like a squirrel. Live a life, go for a walk, enjoy a meal. Life is so much less complicated than we make it. Strive for excellence, yes, but not at the expense of mental health. Without sanity, excellence is a lot harder to achieve anyway.

So, yeah, I'm a genius, I know. Regardless, adopt a smile for the day because your life truly isn't bad. Unless your name is Precious and you've had three of your father's children. Then complain away.

New paleo recipe that I love.

So, I made a recipe on my own that I'm pretty proud of that I wanted to share. Even boyfriend liked it (and he doesn't like much).

Lindsey's Super-Delicious Paleo Meatball Soup

Meatballs:
1 total pound of both ground pork and ground beef (I bought stuff on the cheap so I had to mix my own)
1/2 a white onion, chopped very fine or grated into the meat mixture
1 egg
1 tablespoon fresh chopped (or grated) garlic
1/2 cup fresh chopped flat leaf parsley
*1/3 cup grated parmesan cheese (not paleo so the*)

Soup
1/3 pound pancetta cut into lardons (thin strips)
2 large shallots, diced
1 cup sliced button mushrooms
1 qt beef stock
1 qt chicken stock
2 cups fresh chopped kale

Preheat the oven to 350.

Mix the meatball mixture until everything is sufficiently combined and not longer. Roll meatballs in hands at about 1 inch size (or use a melon baller - cheater). Place on foil-lined cookie sheet and bake 20 or so minutes (depends on how big the balls - ha ha, balls).

While the meatballs are cooking, place a soup pot on medium and heat up. Once you can feel the heat four inches or so off the surface of the pan, render the fat from the pancetta keeping it from burning yet still rendering. Once the fat from the pancetta is rendered and the meaty portion is cooked, add the shallots. Cook until translucent. Add the broth. Bring up to a boil and add the mushrooms. Adding the mushrooms now adds this earthy quality to the soup.

Add the meatballs to the soup. Let them simmer about a half hour and add kale. Eat. Delicious.

Life is, well, life. As is death, apparently.

Some days, you just wish for the unattainable; a new pair of shoes out of your price-range to go on sale, a job that may be very out-of-reach, to marry a Pro football player (Jay Cutler, I love you). For me today (and for the last few months), I have desperately wished to speak with my grandmother who passed away in July. The woman was hip, fun, trendy, sweet, loyal, loving, strong (amongst many other things - and at the age of 76). Can we really sum up a person in a few words? No. Can I talk to her out-loud like I did when I was picking out her clothing for a funeral? Of course. Do I sound like I'm batty when I do speak to her out loud? Duh.

Thank (god, friends, family) that I can speak freely about missing her. I wonder, though, if my one-day children and grandchildren will have to go through what I am and long for me and the comfort that I give. Bottom line: amazing people are missed in an amazing way.

Merry Christmas, all, and Amma, you know.

Today is the first day of the rest of your... week.

Is it ever good to settle for second best? When comfortable works and it always feels like happiness is just around the next corner so you can't enjoy the day in which you live? A wise woman once reminded me in my quest for the right job: baby, you just gotta love the one you're with.

So, today, I have enjoyed the beauty of the Colorado scenery. I have cuddled with my puppy and told select people that I love them. I cooked dinner for a deserving few. I went grocery shopping, watched a movie and wore my favorite sunglasses. Today, I loved the one I'm with.

A New Brand of the Lonlies

So, I am going to say something out loud that I assume to be a universal truth that would have been helpful to know before my beloved grandmother passed away on July 3rd; there is a time after the care-taking, the last breaths, after the wake and the funeral and the burial and the reception. After the bulk of the grief and the numbness that comes when talking about the deceased. A time when really it seems like the unbelievable physical and emotional pain have subsided and you feel like you and your life may actually be permitted to return to normal. That is the time that you realize that you are lonlier than you have ever been. Sometimes, there are tears. Sometimes, there is anger. But, for me, it is a basic pain that settles in your chest like it owns the place. Breathing becomes more difficult and it can seem like all the good in the world has been muddled into shades of gray. I imagine this is what it feels like to have a sumo wrestler on your chest after your first love just broke your heart. Depressing? Absolutely. The end of the world? Of course not, but for a split second, you recognize that this will all happen again, only instead of knowing how to handle it because you have been there before, it will be just different enough that you will have to start at square one. Such a pity that human beings simply aren't impervious to gut-wrenching loss.

Beyond the death of a very dear friend, family member and role model, realizing that you have left your home, friends and job prospects in the familiar can alone be dismal. I always recommend the silver lining perspective of the world, but sometimes when the unbelievable courage you have been holding onto for dear life slips even the tiniest bit, it can be ok to admit defeat for a moment (if even only to yourself). Bottom line is: moving away was easy, a death can make it more difficult than anything else you can ever remember. I'm fighting feeling weak for wanting comfort and to not be reminded of the loss of a life and the absence of another life in the first place.

Wait, I forgot, wasn't I coming out here to get a job?

Huh...

As I flew away a week ago today, I was struck by million different thoughts, but what was funny was that none of them were of any consequence. The night ahead with a good friend, a glass of red wine, some quiet time. None of these thoughts pertain to the endeavor ahead or the challenges to be faced. I can't approach these with anything but supreme confidence, not out of necessity or cockiness, but out of subconscious certainty. Maybe that sounds naive or even unemotional (at the very least cocky), but I guess I feel proud of my ability to adhere this perspective despite recognition of it. In a rare moment of chaotic clarity, I have decided to take my notorious "what's the worst that can happen?" philosophy and apply it to my more adventurous side. Until this moment, I have been on the positive side of resigned. Not to say that I am unfeeling, but once I decided to change my life and it's path, the rest was easy. No task too large or daunting enough; the hard part was taken care of. As much as somethings don't seem real, neither does Denver and - happily - I have little choice or opportunity to change my mind. This could be my modern Ellis Island. Instead of political asylum or escape from lack of food or oppression, I'm affording myself and escape from the doldrums and lack of color. It's not the Irish Potato Famine or genocide, but I'll take it.