From My Personal Universe

     The more I analyze my situation, the more reasons I find to travel. Sooner or later I come to the realization that travel is what keeps my coyote nature working. There's a difference between traveling around in my beloved desert and going road trip to neighboring states. To learn the many secrets my home has yet to reveal is an ongoing adventure in itself; to have a chance at going to what I consider a second home, Fort Bragg, California, provides context for new posts. A long time ago I knew words needed purpose behind their meaning. I want to convey a larger meaning as I did in journals past.

     At times, travel found purchase in my life through invitations from friends. I'd wake up every morning pumped in the knowledge that there was always more ground to cover and stories to be told. If I could travel full time, I might be ridiculously happy. But, as I continue living in the same place for longer and longer periods of time, I begin to notice wether or not my own story is building in meaning as I get older.

     Regardless of whether I'm writing fiction, letters of intent or these blog posts, there's a consistency I fall into when I'm traveling. Connecting the day's experiences to relative meaning is what I want. It's common, especially on the first few nights, to drive myself to sleep from writing all about what's gotten me to that night's bed. My motives shown to prove different this time around.

     One must understand that a drive from Reno to the Mendocino coast with two toddlers in the car is a tough venture in maintaining patience. It is quite possible I acknowledged the reality of tantrums peppered along our trip. When a friend asks you on a road trip, not too many things should keep you from saying no. The tension from too much time in a car (6hrs) was undeniable, but my motivation to leave Reno for a few days was made clear once we left the snowy Sierra behind. I wanted to be in the green, the mist, the salt air of coastal forest. What can I say? I have restless soul syndrome.

     My life has seen me in specific places over and over again. Fort Bragg, CA is somehow the yin to my desert yang. The Patten's and synchronicities that's led me there time after time are fascinating. From best friends underlining how much I would love it there, to the confidence I find myself shimmering in when I'm barefoot in the sand, there's a sense that something likes me learning lessons along  the Bohemian streets and Raven filled trees. Thinking about the lead up to get there, I tried not to confuse my local arrogance with the aura of confidence I emit as a tourist, a visitor from a dry and sparse territory. Simply trusting my journey wasn't enough. This trip was about making new stories to tell. The Travelodge on Main Street was where I would explore this theme. 

(Image owned by Booking.Com)

     I worked my way around three gummy sleep aids and the sound of rain outside the window once we all settled in. 

     Savage was the ocean that tried to suck in my friend's boys the following day. Although the grey beaches and cold water complimented the sage we burned, her little guys learned the value of Pudding Creek tides.

(Image owned by Californiabeaches.com)

     Something was missing, however. The discovery of an old friend's house up for sale didn't amount to much surprise on my end. Over the wet highway and through muddy back roads we drove. It had been seven and a half years since I last visited those deep green forests. We slipped from the cover of fog into an old growth meadow. The fruit stand/organic chocolate shed wasn't enough to keep me interested alongside my friend and her kids, nor was the friendly orange and white cat with the extra thumbs on his front paws. The cost for a couple of oranges and apples didn't amount to much.

     It isn't enough to say, " I went on this trip to get in an adventure and outta town for a bit." Certainly freedom and travel are universal desires. I could hear the cars winding through the mountains behind us, smell the ocean and feel the misty rain on my face behind the shed as I broke away. My driving want for a moment's peace was made apparent the more I heard croaking frogs around but not nearby. Unless I could find meaning in my pull towards the hidden frogs and green meadow, all of these experiences would've lacked my natural attachment to Fort Bragg.

     While I continued to bask in the perfect blend of unique sensory enlightenment, a pattern began to reveal itself for the rest of my time on that trip. Spiritual atonement. I discovered that my desire for spiritual security is a fact of life. Exploring through this driving want of a lens is apparent. I was able to revisit overgrown parks where I found messages carved into manzanita trees and recognize old drug friends coming out of tattoo shops. My desires for inspiration were instantly cured with ice cream from Cowlicks and lattes from bustling cafes.

(Image owned by TripAdvisor.com)

     By doing these things and making dinners for my little impromptu family in the evenings on a portable camp stove in our temporary home, I felt alive and refreshed. Some beaches were grainier than others. Some random acts of kindness even felt related whenever I thought about it. Is it so clear that I'm hungry as I walk down the street and someone offers me a bag of chips?

     Meaning was provided when I found the perfect beach to spread my grandmother's ashes and mom's hair. I could set them free. I ambled around a small river to a gnarled tree jutting and twisted from the side of a cliff. It felt somehow wrong to hide my emotions from the splashing boys and defending the solitude I needed to an understanding friend. The young ones did not hide their curiosity when I lacked sufficient explaining as to why I was crying and being vague. 

     It cut a little close to the bone as my friend shot video of my mother's hair sprinkled with ashes making her journey from land to high tide, so I cracked a joke about the videographer'' journalist aspirations. My intention was to be funny, but it was obvious some of my stoic behavior had rubbed off on her. Our friendship deepened over lunches at the Mendocino Hotel and cliffs without guard rails. I invested time in gathering abalone shells, ocean rounded glass from Glass Beach and abandoned hermit crab homes for the rest of our time together. 

     When I was ready to venture out on my own, the family took a nap to let me have some more of my spiritual time. I walked for about ninety minutes along Main Street, past an organic coffee place, authentic Asian restaurants and an outdoor clothing store. I was in for one of the most jaw dropping sights I've ever witnessed. I moseyed to the Fort Bragg Guest House Museum, which was closed due to MLK Day and visited a surprising highlight. I wished my friend and progency had been there to see it.

     Adjusting my eyes against the shadow of sliced wood, I marveled at what a logging company had cut through many years before I was even born. Standing on end a bolted to cement slabs stood a huge remnant of redwood that started growing during the time of the Roman Empire. The width must have been the size of a modern day studio. I was most impressive and made me feel not only small as a human but young in terms of my soul's true lifetime journey. It was no joke. I wanted to stay and just stare at it until the sun set, but didn't want to risk looking like a transient scoping out a place to sleep for the night. When I strolled back towards the Travelodge, watching the ocean spray misting off boulders in the sea, I was able to sneak in a call to a friend who used to live there in Fort Bragg; because I found the parallel in her living now in Nevada and my being there.

     The last great thing on my visit to the coast didn't happen outside or even in the car. After I'd fallen asleep on the night of the first full moon of the year, bright caress and ocean air lulled me awake from a quite comfy bed and fluffed pillows. My bed sat directly under the window and at three a.m the Super Blood Wolf Moon washed my barely awake form in the most beautiful moonlight I have ever known. I settled down in perfect bliss, content with this being where the Universe wanted me to be.

     We took the Hwy 1 to Hwy 5 on our way back home to Reno.
     Now I prepare for my next adventure.

Trusting the Subconscious

     Notice I didn't  say your subconscious. That's because I have no idea what you've got in there. Hell, I barely have a clue what's in my own. Why is it when doing research on the subconscious all that comes up is how to become more financially secure? Also, how come you can't spell the word Beauty without the words buy and eat in it?

     "The seat of genius," I've heard it lamented. In any case, the subconscious is there in all of us. It's a place where our long term memories will eventually bleed into our future lives. A place where we can be who we should've been instead of who we are or have become. All of our emotions trample marks into the subconscious. The habits we've formed were deeply manifested there. It's a holy place where some things don't exist yet, but where spirit connections can also develop. 

     If intuition had a sense of humor, then irony could possibly be it. I should've known, (deep inside I must have and did) that my last blog post about the Ego would be a Segway for this next topic - the subconscious. That stubborn ego is the middle man between our conscious and subconscious. Again with the hilarious irony, because the subconscious could care less about protecting the Ego. As in my last post, that's all the Ego does is protect our conscious - the identity of ourselves.

     What does the subconscious even look like? What creatures stalk those puzzling landscapes?

     "Who knows; they're your symbols," yourself says to you.

     What about when someone is "in the zone"? When somebody can write and write in a single cohesive block without stopping during one of those times writing prompt challenges, is that considered the subconscious coming to the forefront? There are longitudes and latitudes within our souls, and the subconscious knows each and every fault line of them. There's a reason why people say, "trust your gut," "go with your first instinct," "woman's intuition." 

     The developed ego still gets in the way of our inner core, second guessing the one source that we ought to trust the most - our own damn selves. There may be moments of sweat and panic as we seek a level balance. We may notice unrelated elements in ourselves. Does it end with a bang, a whimper or a thwack? Just because something's out of place doesn't mean that the subconscious wasn't exploring something significant. 

     It's about outlasting the doubt and cold constraints of logic our ego uses as a shield against the scary truths of that vast subconscious outback. If this vast unknown shapes our reality, it's very tempting to simplify such untamed wilderness. It's important to trust the subconscious. Much like putting faith into the protagonist of a story, we inherently want to trust that the hero will come up with the right answers and solutions. The subconscious is our all wise, all knowing. We respect, awe and mystify the spiritual hero in fiction. If anything, the ideas our subconscious truthfully suggest are what we do dearly want to see truly manifest.

     Letting go of control is challenging, painful and limiting in some imaginations. This isn't news. But, if we look to the great wise ones, the ones whom we look up to, they flow, they have no shields and seem to just always know. As long as we keep questioning what our connections to the symbols our minds provide, we'll be rewarded with insight. Choose curiosity. Shedding light on these oddities will make them familiar, acceptable and the trip easier to navigate through in that once inky unknown. This trust is a very personal and singular undertaking.

     Never discredit yourself until you explore why these symbols and connections might belong in your conscious reality. Hesitation is the enemy, not our well-to-do protective Ego. We should always trust the wisest part of ourselves. Again still with the humorous irony that our wisest part has been programmed by everything outside of us. 

     The subconscious mind doesn't know the difference between imagination and reality. It forces us to be patient. So, why should we trust it? Because what is felt and experienced is what we trust. 

     "I'll believe it when I see it."

     Every once in awhile something happens to us that completely punctures through our ego into the realm of the subconscious mind, causing us to re-evaluate our ways of thinking. Perhaps these moments determine the next steps along our own karmic ladders? Trust that your best self, the best and wisest part of you, knows you'll endure. Yes, trust the subconscious to keep you breathing as you sleep. Promising you'll listen to its suggestions is where the real journey begins. This part of the mind is the master organiser, it won't fail you. 

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My posts will return to a weekly consistency this month, thanks for reading!