Late night howls, early morning purrs.
The sound of our heartbeats, the core of our love
Late night howls, early morning purrs.
The sound of our heartbeats, the core of our love
NaNoWriMo was always one of those things I wanted to do with all my heart, with all my conviction but I never got around to doing it.
It wasn’t because I couldn’t sit myself still long enough to crank the words out, I just couldn’t commit myself to a plot, a storyline, a set of characters, or anything that remotely resembled a novel. My thoughts were intense, focused and scattered. My words were powerful, intentional and sometimes dangling off cliffs.
When I realized it was the first Monday of November I thought a few things:
I haven’t thought about NaNoWriMo in years. I’ve tossed it aside as I’ve tossed aside a lot of writing and ambitions over the years. But it seems that a part of me is stepping into the light, dusting off forgotten things, and turning “I can’t”s into “I absolutely fucking can”‘s. One of the best parts about getting older is that I’ve been torched with confidence and self-assuredness. I still have tremendous fears but I don’t allow them to hold me back. I’m always struck with the fear of what I want to write versus what I think I should write, what this blog should be versus what this blog shouldn’t be.
Maybe it’s the start of a new month, and reminder of Nanowrimo. Maybe it’s this sunny morning and the prospect of a great breakfast ahead of me. Maybe it’s because I’ve come to see vulnerability as a sexy, beautiful, brave thing. Maybe it’s this pre-workout and this comfy t-shirt but I’m ready to step into the light. I’m ready to write.
There’s nothing alluring about being a distant vixen. If I am going to assassinate you I want it to be with tenderness and pleasure. I’d rather be charming and warm and full of light. I’d rather be a breath of fresh air, affectionate, soft and enveloping. I wanted to draw you nearer, I wanted you closer. I didn’t want the distance and I couldn’t keep you at arms length. I wanted you to see me as I am, vulnerable and disoriented, giddy and playful. I wanted you inside the deepest parts of me, I wanted you to know my core, the depths of my soul that are vast and varied and never get carried to the surface. I wanted you inside of me.
The people who know my heart are the most important people in my life. When my heart is craving company it’s longing for the people who have stayed up with me until 6am and gone to bed with me as the sun was rising. It’s longing for the people who know that i am more soft than i am hard and know my laughter better than they know my icy stare. The ones who have seen me on my cloudiest, rainiest days, those awful days that roared like thunder. I miss the ones who stayed until the clouds parted and danced when the sun was high and the sky was clear. I miss you the most when the weather starts to shift and the leaves begin to change. I miss you now. I miss you always.
It’s a beautiful day today. I wish you could feel this air. I wish you were here in the sunshine. I’ll always wish for more and more time with you. All of you.
I’ve been wondering when the fog will lift, when the world will return to it’s regular hue. I’ve been wondering when I’ll stop looking for you, when I’ll stop saying good morning to an empty bed. I keep wondering when they’ll get your things, when I’ll be able to go through the photographs and the records. I keep putting the flowers in the sunlight, hoping they’ll open and bloom and give me something else to look at in the sunshine rather than an empty room and empty deck chairs.
I keep dancing through the fog, I keep singing through it all. I don’t know which way to turn or what to move toward. I know these are the things I must do: I must laugh, I must move, I must be patient, I must try. When the fog lifts, when I move through it to the other side of it I’ll find the hues of life I remember– the hues you loved, the tints of life you saw that so few ever get to paint their lives with, the hues you used up til the pot ran dry.
My heart will never be the same again. My life has forever been changed. Once the fog fades my love, my life, my footsteps and my breath will be bolder because you gave me the privilege of seeing the colors and the rich aspects of what is real.
Everything I am is love. Everything coursing through this heart, these veins, within this very being is love. I have no need to seek it out, it lives within me.
Eternally the lover, eternally the sensualist, eternally returning to the surrender of love.
In knowing you, I know ecstasy.
The kind of ecstasy that can only be experienced from a work of art. The kind of bliss that surges through my whole my whole body and removes me from my surroundings. In knowing you I know the sort of pleasure that burns everything else down and brings me to tears. In knowing you, I know what it is to be exalted.
One of these days we’ll run away.
We’ll find a temple in Bali or a beach house in Brazil. We’ll find a cave carved out of crystals in the Patagonia’s, and swim in the waterfalls in the middle of a jungle in Colombia. One of the days we’ll watch the sunset at Big Sur, pitch a tent among the Redwoods and kiss under the stars.
One of these days my arms will grow sore from holding you, our mouths will be sore from our laughter and our feet will be tired from dancing. One of these days I won’t avert my eyes from your gaze and we won’t run out of time, you’ll bring me waffles in bed and drop fresh blueberries into my mouth.
One of these days I’ll show you our constellation. I’ll let you be my Renaissance man and we’ll build fires under that magnificent California sky.
Be true to yourself and who you are. Honor your right to change your mind. Honor your right to grow and evolve and shift.
It’s okay to discover yourself with each passing year. It’s okay to abandon the person you’ve built yourself to be in order to transform into the woman you are in your soul. It’s okay to be selfish, to say no, to spend time with yourself. It’s okay to love yourself so much that you never settle and always put yourself first.
This weather reminds me of when we first met: White sheets, late nights, early mornings, the sound of the subway whirring below our feet, sunny sidewalks and rows upon rows of red umbrellas and chrome tables. Ditching our responsibilities. Endless possibilities. Every kiss mounted on hope. Hot yoga, fresh fruit, squeezing the lemon over the kale salad. Your Persian rugs, your makeshift dark room, taking photos of each other, tossing the camera back and forth. Missing the train, wearing your t-shirts to bed. The stubble on your cheeks, the glow of the moonlight on your back and your face. Lazily pouring tea the next morning, me typing away, going through my notes, you kissing my shoulder.
Warm weather reminds you of everything you so cherished. It makes it so real and concrete rather than a distant foggy memory.
I used to think I was incapable of writing anything anymore.
For months , even years, I would try in vain to write, but nothing would materialize. I had no problem writing assignments for class. In fact, I would blow myself away with the ability I had when faced with an assignment, with guidelines and a strict deadline. I could knock out interviews, features, flash fiction and short stories with little thought and always, it was up to my standards. Often it exceeded my standards. Through those pieces I knew I still had it in me somewhere to write and write well.
I came to realize that it wasn’t the writing that had left me, it was the ability to write about myself that had left me. A few weeks ago I went through some of my old writing and I was astonished at how the 20 something year old me could express herself with such honesty. The 20 something year old me, put herself out there, she was prolific and unstoppable. She didn’t censor herself and she wasn’t concerned with how it came across, she just wrote. To quote my 20 something year old self, I was rabid in my self-expression. I was filled up with love, hate, anger, purity, frustration, anxiety, questions, longings, and hopes. Maybe as I matured I was no longer foaming at the mouth to be heard. I calmed down. I shared myself with few, trusted, cherished close friends and held the rest of myself internally or on the pages of my personal journals. I didn’t feel like pounding away at the keyboard and even if I wanted to I couldn’t get the words.
Soon I became drained of all the things that used to fill me up. Maybe it was from maturity, leaving girlhood and entering that place that Carrie Bradshaw, Miranda Hobbs, Charlotte York and Samantha Jones always talked about. Maybe it was the result of losing a lover I saw myself devoted to for the rest of my life. It sounds like such a tired thesis: Woman gets her heart broken, world shatters, woman must revive herself to pick up the pieces but not before she throws herself into an emotional coma. I was numb to myself and couldn’t say the things I wanted to say for fear of giving in to the hurt and the pain. I thought, “If I write about him I’ll immortalize him. I’ll give him credit that isn’t due.” I was worried that if I wrote about him I’d put a love story where there was none or expose myself and allow the world to know just how much he had devastated me. The 20 something year old me never cared about any of that. She wrote about her lovers all the time. She wrote about the men she wanted and ached for. She wrote about the best and the worst ones with vigor. When she was in love the whole world envied her lovers She had no problem writing words like “fuck” and “cock” and “skin” and “sweat” and “thighs” and “please”. Sensuality and sexuality were my gig. Love was my drug and I was ever so happy to trip on it until it left me in cold sweats all whilst writing about it desperately.
As hard as it was not to write I knew to give myself time. To let it be. I knew that maybe this was a necessary period of my life that I was enduring to perhaps, one day, get back to writing. At the suggestion of a friend I forced myself to write every day for an hour. He said, “Write what you know.” I wrote what I thought I should. It was all mostly awful. I was trying too hard. The words were contrived. I was avoiding the very thing I wanted to write about which was love. Every time I sat down to write the only thing that came to mind was the voice, the eyes, the lips, the hair, the throat and the gaze of someone my heart was wide open for. When I write about him the words pour out of me. Nothing is forced. For the first time in a long time I am filled up again. Filled up with all the words and passion that were so accessible to me before because my soul has been filled up. I am grateful to the one that helped to top it off. I’m filled up, to the brim , and I don’t care anymore who knows it.
Spend the whole day locked away doing exactly what you love; the very thing you dream about, the very thing that gets you up and out of bed in the morning and gives you hope.
Spend the whole day doing this thing that makes your heart beat. Spend all days immersed in this thing that puts breath in your lungs until you’re so drained that you feel as if your head could detach from your body and roll across the floor. Spend a few minutes drifting away from this thing once it begins to feel as though your back is about to break from the hours you’ve spent commited to it.
Withdraw from the thing you love sore and wilted and crawl to your bed reminding yourself: Although these days are hard and sometimes more frustrating than rewarding, and you don’t know if there will ever be a light at the end of the tunnel, I’d rather be here in this muck of my choosing than muck forced upon me.
I wake up with tousled hair and a warm, inspired heart.
I do the things I ought to like wash my face, brush my teeth, make lemon-green tea, check my e-mail and check my to-do list. I browse the Paris Fashion Week collections and am instantly satisfied and pleased with Raf Simons love of youth and the provocative, soft and subtle parts of Rick Owens’ collection. I wonder what ASAP Rocky will think of Pigalle at the Palais Garnier- #fashionkilla. I rely on the comfort and the practicality of Damir Doma and McQueen and give myself some time to think about Alexander Wang’s collection. It’s heavy laden with the 90’s. There’s a bit of Jonny Lee Miller and Damon Albarn to it, don’t you think? I check my playlist and do my morning sun salutations before exhausting myself at the gym.
When I return home I don’t head straight for the shower. I turn the hot water all the way up and lay out my towel and my washcloth. I can’t resist the feeling that has settled into my heart and spread out into my veins and circulates through my body to my core. I feel as if I’m in my own palace basking in the tremendous amount of love I feel surrounding me. Love from the most unexpected places. Love that’s full of surprises and earnest. Sitting on my ottoman with my sports and running tights on I can’t stop thinking about how I’m submerged in a moment of my life where everything feels right and perfect. It scares me to think that I may never have it the good again. I whisper prayers throughout the day that his feeling can continue, that it will remain, that it won’t dissipate, it will only swell and grow and leave me smiling ever after.
Not so long ago I was holding on to tremendous hurt. I thought it was better to hold on than to let go and dive into the unknown. Sometimes it’s more comforting and it feels more stable to live with the hurt that you know rather than to possibly send yourself into a hurt that you’re not familiar with at all. By letting go I was certain I had slit my own throat, created my own death and had ruined any chance of happiness again. Over time I came to discover that I hadn’t created my own death at all- I had created a magnificent rebirth.
So I celebrate this rebirth today, my way, and every damn day.
Sometimes I feel like this blog is supposed to be something else. It’s supposed to be “this” or “that. It’s supposed to have a concrete direction that I should never waver from and that should be just that.
I feel that I should put the different facets of my life in different places. One blog for fashion, one blog for music, one blog for my work, one blog for my writing, one blog for fitness. A whole mess of blogs all over the place. I wonder if this is some sort of lifestyle blog. It isn’t. It’s a place where my passions rest. It’s the place where I share my passions. I don’t know if there’s a category for “passions.”I don’t know if there are tutorials for passions either. I don’t know if I can partake in a “passions” giveaway.
This is the time of my life where things are very undefined.
I woke up in the middle of the night just to write you a poem.
An addition to my endless love letter that I speak onto your lips and into the blue of your eyes whenever the opportunity presents itself.
I woke up to write about how deep your waters run, the depth and vastness of your brilliant ocean. Your ocean filled with passion and allure. i wanted to write about my fervor for you and my devotion. How I would never allow your river to run dry. I wanted to write it all out; how I would be waiting to fill you up, to trickle down into your mouth and fill you up once more should you ever find yourself in thirst, in need, in want.
An endless love letter kissed onto your neck, your thighs and your lower abdomen. I told myself I wouldn’t remember the words in the morning and I had to get it down right at that moment.
September 8, 2014 (I still remember the words)
The Buddha Board promotes zen. It encourages the act of living in the moment. It persuades you to forget perfection, judgement, and criticism. It inspires you to call upon what is in your heart. The Buddha Board inspired me to surrender, which is a theme and motivation in my life. Surrender. Surrender to fear, surrender to doubt, surrender to all that you’ve ever believed to be true and simply be.
I discovered the Buddha Board accidentally. I didn’t go looking for it. I was casually strolling about in the aisles of an art supply store when I was lured by a paintbrush dipped in water, surrounded by river stones. It seemed so curious. A paintbrush dipped in a shallow box of water, cushioned by river stones. Above the paintbrush was a blank canvas, waiting to be touched. There was an invitation, an unspoken beckoning to put the brush to the canvas. I had already spent a portion of the day playing with Prismacolor markers so why not play with this?
The brush reminded me of a calligraphy brush and I instantly knew that I wanted to create something that would resemble a graceful crane or calligraphy. I swirled the pen around the board disappointed to find that the results were far from anything graceful. The strokes seemed timid, unimpressive and limited. I tried again. I made thicker, longer strokes. I painted with intention and I felt as though this time around I was going to make the strokes more deliberate. I thought of calligraphy. I thought of the lines and the delicateness of each stroke, but instead I began to think of symbols. I began to think of the shape of a feather and the long, slender shape of a cranes neck. The lines began to take on a life of their own. They grew darker. They were glossy and compelling. They took on the characteristics and the charm of rich india ink. My strokes that I had been so critical of earlier, began to take shape and develop into something energetic– something purely created in that moment.
What I love most about the Buddha Board is that it uses no ink, no pigment, and no extraneous paper. It’s one board and one brush and water. The creations aren’t permanent. What starts out as vague, turns into something rich and striking, and then it eventually fades. The creations on the Buddha Board are meant to vanish and evaporate to make room for new creations that are born purely from a moment.
Everything is truly just a moment. Some moments are longer than others. And some moments fade before our eyes and the Buddha Board makes it understood that that is the essence of our existence. If it’s in your heart- let it out. It’s only a moment. Cherish the wonderful moments and know that they won’t linger. Disconnect from the painful moments- those won’t linger either. Your anger, your joys, your loves, your comforts, your doubts, your ecstasies, frustrations and anguishes are only a moment. Live in the moment before you. Devote your consciousness to what it is happening now– you may find yourself pleasantly surprised.
♥ Ditte Mia
– I’m fearless. I’m not afraid to try. I’m not afraid to be. I’m not afraid to venture out on my own.
– i have tremendous worth.
– i know what it is to be zen.
– peace resides in my heart.
– love resides in my heart.
Lately I wake up in the middle of the night just to write. Just to get the words down. I need to expel them from my head and my heart. I can’t carry them into my dreams with me. You’re for waking hours only. You’re only for my conscious state. If I slip into unconsciousness with you, what then?
You grow ever more beautiful to me with each sunrise and sunset.
With you I know no restraint.
With you there are no clocks and time is infinite.
With you there is magic and possibilities.
With you I am never cold. There is only warmth.
You blaze like the sun, you you you, my double fantasy, you.
– More photography. More observation. More seeing.
– More reading. More trips to small book shops.
– More discovery.
– More exploration.
– More writing. Much more writing.
– More fitness. More health. More challenges.
– More learning.
– More speaking.
– More risks.
– More of everything I want.
To a lover, to a muse, to a friend:
I can’t remember the last time I was filled with so much inspiration. You’ve filled me with fire. You brought my dreaming world into my waking world.
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