The Holstee Community Love Internship

Well, then. For those of you who haven't heard, because I haven't yet tackled you with my news or you haven't happened to pass by the particular mountaintop from which I've been shouting, in reference to my last two entries in this particular blog about change, I am now able to positively report: YOU ARE LOOKING AT HOLSTEE'S NEW COMMUNITY LOVE INTERN.

First things first: how did this happen?!

This past Christmas, in addition to many other thoughtful gifts, two of which brought a literal tear to my eye, cute Colin gave me a poster (now in a gold frame hanging at the very center of the wall I'm currently facing) that contained the profoundly perfect words of the Holstee Manifestio. Which are:

I'm an avid reader. I have been my entire life. In fact, somewhere buried in our family photo albums, you will find a picture of a three-year-old me attempting to read a book to my father, who is asleep on the couch beside me. Despite this early introduction to the written word, I can confidently say that no passage has ever moved me in the quite the same way as this Manifesto. It is honest. It is TRUE. It is, as they describe life to be, simple. And that's that.

Since December I had then been intrigued by Holstee as a whole, as a company, as a mission, as, in a way, a lifestyle. Seeing that poster every morning when I woke up was a constant reminder of what I wanted my life to look like and, more or less, how to do it.

I found out more about Holstee's beginning, their goals, their positive impacts (all of which you can, and should!, read more about here). I liked the things I was discovering about this newer company, I respected the ambition behind its foundation and the commitment to their original purpose. All in all, when I tried to imagine myself being a part of a place or a company I am proud to associate with, when I think about using my gifts and interests for a reason, when I hoped to find an avenue that excited me, Holstee fit the bill. No matter where else that revelation took me, it was encouraging to know: there is something out there for me, too.

And so, when I discovered (via Twitter, bless its little tweeting heart) that Holstee was on the hunt for an intern (an intern that, quite magically, did not have to be a current college student, bless them as well), I instantly decided that, with all the other stabs in the dark I was taking in terms of finding work, this was finally an opportunity I felt confident about trying for, one I felt incited to learn from, one that kept me checking my phone and email for a response.

After two weeks, two phone calls, and one successful visit to the Big Apple (do I have to start calling it that now?), Holstee has graciously brought me on board to their intimate team, all the members I have met so far being both welcoming and down to earth, their conversation and questions being all humbling, thought-provoking, and inspiring.

As most of you know, this has been one hell of a journey, this post-graduate life. It is nothing like I thought it would be, not in any way at all, and that realization has been both a relief and a head-on collision. I've been on this road, ever winding, since 2009 (ironically the year that Holstee got off the ground) and I can safely say that I have learned more about myself and the person I want to be in these three years of floundering than I have in all my years of education combined. And, if I were to make a solid guess, I would say that portion of this pilgrimage, the one where I continue to guide myself as I go, doesn't quite end here, if it in fact ends anywhere at all.

I'm at the end of something while I am simultaneously standing on the edge of another beginning, a new field of newness, an opportunity for change. For a moment, I have to wonder if all of this, this sudden commencement, brings me to the altogether abrupt end of this particular blog, of this sense of musing over what's to come. Is this next step a part of the whole or does the road, though only this leg of it, end here?

As I have said, through this experience, at the highest and lowest points of it, I have learned an astonishing amount about myself, about all of us. One of the the largest and most potent being that we are constantly being reborn, constantly challenged, given the option to stay or go, fight or flee, grow or stubbornly remain the same. We're never through with learning about ourselves and our world and how those two phenomena (exactly) are meant to intermix, what we've ended up here to do, what our motivations and responsibilities contain. It's a lifelong expedition, one that brings us equally to both joy and weariness, and that is nothing if not pure hope for us all.

After all, as Holstee would have us remember, "This is your LIFE." Something entirely your gift and entirely your burden, something to be cherished and welcomed with extreme gratitude. Taking these exact sentiments in going forward with this new opportunity, it is safe to say that change comes with persistence, with patience, with the ever holding on when the rope rapidly frays beneath your grip. And, now what? Keep holding, keep moving on. Because this is going to be good.

More to come.

The Morning Pages

I'm always writing something down. I'm typing up thoughts for a blog entry in my phone, I'm scribbling something in the back of my notebook, an idea I couldn't let get away, I'm adding depth and real life to my characters, I'm pulling over while driving to write one particularly moving thought on the back of an old receipt (if I'm meeting you somewhere, and I'm late, this is probably the reason why), I'm underlining the best parts of a story, I'm jotting down the outline of last night's dream which makes me nearly positive I'm losing my sanity. 

All in one day, however, probably my favorite method of collecting my thoughts is through the suggestion of author and teacher Julia Cameron, an exercise called "The Morning Pages." This practice came to me through one of her books titled The Artist's Way. In this book, Cameron basically walks you through the steps of regaining your creativity, of allowing yourself time to do the things you love, the things that make you who you are, to not guilt yourself out of enjoying the freedom to paint, to sketch, to write, to do the thing that move you, whatever it may be. Cameron gently insists that one of the reasons we distance ourselves from the artist's life is because our minds are too overloaded, are constantly not living in the moment, are thinking of other things that need to be done, are concocting to-do lists and rating free time and simple enjoyment as extras, as things we don't get to do until our chores are completed, until our lives are in order. Which, simply stated, will never be. We can be more organized, more focused and task-oriented, but nothing ever falls together all at once. If we're waiting for that particular moment, Cameron says, the artistic side of us never had a chance. 

In order to avoid this catastrophic case of routine, of deciding that some things are necessary and others aren't crucial enough (the irony being that they are the most important!), of putting everything else before the things we love the most, Cameron suggests that we spill our guts onto paper. Which, for me, as someone who likes to write, not only gives me yet another outlet to craft my words, but brings me to a sense of (perhaps temporary) calm about what is happening in my life. The morning pages are all your own; they are yours to admit what you'd like without over-thinking it. Cameron is clear that it is not a diary, not necessarily a journal of your day or mindless list-making for what's ahead. First thing in the morning, it is your chance to let it out, to make sense of it (sort of) and release it, allowing for other things, other projects, other thoughts, to take precedence. The first few times I tried it, I felt a little strange. Mostly because, as Cameron described, I didn't have to think very hard about what to write. One little sentence, one shortened notion, and suddenly my pen was flying, my sleepy-headedness was gone, I almost couldn't move my hand fast enough to keep up with my brain, to keep up with all the things the page urged out of me. 

I finished The Artist's Way about a year ago, and for some reason, and one I am grateful for, the morning pages stuck. I admit, I am not as diligent about it as I was while reading Cameron's book. But I sense a real difference in myself on the days when I make the time for it, fifteen minutes of clarity, and the days that I don't. Lately, more than I ever, I have been picking up that little orange notebook, bolting up out of bed to tell myself the truth. And even though Cameron might slap my wrist for this one, for sharing a piece of what she deems is specifically private, I wrote something the other day, at the silent hour of six in the morning, that has not since left my mind. Not for its profundity, not for its brilliance, not because they are the finest words ever written. But the morning pages coax out of you your most honest moments. Which for me, was this: 

Change is coming. I can actually tangibly feel it. It's sitting in the palm of my hand, and I have it now. This particular scenario, I hope. I hope. But if not, something soon. Change is coming. 

I don't know if it is the return of hope that brings me here, the newness in the air, the greenness all around, the positive energy that keeps me humming, or a combination of all of these things. But I think that was one of the only times my morning pages contained a clear affirmation, not just a hope, a wish for the future. Which to me, is a change all unto itself.

P.S. Going into New York City this Tuesday, at 11:30 AM, to meet with one of the co-founders of the company where I hope to intern. Feeling nervously good, and ready ready ready. More to come next week. 

the return of hope

Some days more than others, this blank page before me has more qualities of an enemy than a source of promise, of inspiration. It can stare me down with a disgusted, daring look in its eye, arms crossed to my advancement; it knocks me down a time or two when I have to reach for the delete button, when I've bothered to thread some words together only to realize the nonsense that prevails, the structure faulty, the story hollow.

Sometimes the written page is just as formidable. My own words, words as I was at one time pleased with, unprepared to share but proud to have crafted, being re-read weeks later, even years, and suddenly I am embarrassed to find them printed in a pile in my closet. I wonder if anyone has ever stumbled upon them and felt sorry for me, wanted to tell me the truth about my talent. Or worse, the written page that isn't mine, the caustically simple words of some great poet, a best-selling author, between the lines saying, you'll never write this way. You won't figure out the just how to say things like they can.

Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets, former national poet laureate (can you imagine the honor? the pressure I'd feel on my brain?), says in his newest collection, "When a man asked me to look back three hundred years/ Over the hilly landscape of America,/ I must have picked up the wrong pen,/ The one that had no poem lurking in its veins of ink." In my reality, if Billy Collins knows, we can all admit we have felt the same.

If we could only remember, however, that every time you have a reached a point that you believe to be the lowest, change is on its way. There is always a newness hurtling towards you, the air is heavy with it, an approaching revelation, an open door and just the push to get you through it, an idea or a knock or an answer striking you directly between the eyes, something never to be un-seen or un-thought, and the hill suddenly goes up again.

For the first time, in a long time, I have genuinely re-learned what it is like to feel hopeful. There is something to be said for the moment when you go from wanting better things to truly believing they are possible. I have had a lot of kind words over the years, occasionally of the tough love variety, that have encouraged me that life doesn't always stay the same, that we persevere always and forever, and that the changes that endurance can bring will just show up one day, plainly and for all to see, as if it was part of the plan all along. Because, as I know now, it is.

So no matter what happens between now and next Tuesday, the point is this: when you can't anymore, you can. And I think it might have to be the sort of thing you can't really know until you stand there, facing into it, seeing it, literally and figuratively, through your very own weary eyes. When you've reached what you believe a solid standstill, when you can't figure out what's next; when the options have supposedly met exhaustion, when the wells of creativity have drawn up empty; when the page, blankness and all, looms over you, demanding what you have to say but the words don't come: there is hope.

After nearly three years of job-searching, I finally have an inkling of possibility. And as it turns out, an inkling is more than enough. For today, it's all I need.

Details, when I have them, to come.