compassion heals.

Compassion heals because it lets us know that we are not alone. It bridges the gaps between human beings as if there hangs in the air, and penetrates our physical bodies, an ability, often beyond the limitations of language, to feel what another is feeling. Compassion heals both people involved as, in my eyes, a spiritual connection is formed. It feels like someone is embracing my insides—you know, my heart and soul, the stuff that matters most.

Last night I was having a beautiful conversation about… well, lots of stuff... the point is that I was overwhelmed by the existence of mutual compassion. Our stories and our experiences are vastly different, but aspects of our journeys have been almost eerily similar. In sharing our stories with one another, she said—I wish I could tell you that you’re beautiful and that you’re gorgeous and that you do deserve love; I wish I could rid you of any doubts. I can tell you ‘til the cows come home, but until you internalize it, it doesn’t matter what I say. I know it’s not that easy, but I wish it was.

She felt so much compassion for me that she wanted to rid me of my pain. She saw in me a human deservingness for love. Simultaneously, I saw the same in her.

Someone once had me do this exercise and I want to share it because I think that if you really surrender to it, it has the potential to bring you a little ray of light:

Think of someone you love to the depths of your heart and soul. Fill yourself with your love for them. Fill yourself with love until you feel as though you could burst. Think of a million reasons why you love them, and don’t think of any reasons not to love them wholly and completely. Now… give all of that love to yourself. Turn it around. Stop sending it outwards for a minute. Hold it; give into love. Give yourself that which you so fervently give to others. Take your own pain away as you give yourself permission to feel, give yourself space to feel, accept yourself as you are, and feel everything fully and deeply. Let it all wash over you and love yourself in it. Heal yourself by means of self-love and compassion.

This Little Light of Mine

So I was forced to take a Strengths Quest a while back, and I now know that my top strength is Achiever (womp, womp). It’s not the outgoing Woo or even the warm and fuzzy Compassionate (I just made that up, I don’t even know if Compassionate exists in Strengths Quest). I mean Achiever is cool, but I really don’t consider myself to be an Achiever, so I don’t identify with that strength. Instead I consider to be an Includer…at least that is what my mom always told me (and Strengths Quest, it’s my fifth strength). Basically, I just like to make people feel like they have a place, that they are welcome. This is where my desire to be a mom comes in. Everyone is special and everyone should feel loved—and as an Includer, I try to make that happen. It doesn’t matter if you like the Yankees (I might make fun of you a little), of if you wear all black, or if you are from Timbuktu, I want you to feel welcomed.

I know what it is like to be the one kid left out. My experiences when I was younger made me HATE (with a passion) my grade school and everyone in it. I don’t want other people to feel the same way; no one should bring hate into their lives.

I can’t really say how I would define myself. If someone asked me who I identify with, I wouldn’t have an answer (which would probably be an answer in itself because I am a pretty indecisive person). But I would like to think that I would say I’m an Includer –I’m not solely a woman, a sister, a daughter, a friend, an ally—I’m an Includer . No matter how you identify yourself, I am still going to love you and welcome you into my community. Everyone brings something special to the table. There is a light inside of each and every one of us. You just gotta let it shine.

putting myself in the box

Last time I wrote about how I didn't like being labeled, but throughout my life I have been (and sometimes still am) guilty of labeling myself. Or, allowing the labels I was presented with to direct my life. In the eighth grade I went to an all boys school with a dress code, one of those schools where you had to wear ties. Of course my friends and I being the wicked cool badasses we were would push this dress code as far as we could just to show 'the man'. We'd show up with ripped black pants, or we would have our shirts untucked and ties loosened. You know, like cool kids. We called ourselves non-conformists and didn't appreciate the irony until years later... I find it pretty funny now.

In college I was labeled a "stoner" because my roommate sold marijuana. I fought the name for awhile but eventually gave in because it was easy and I just didn't care. I fell into the lifestyle and fulfilled the title I was given. I am glad for the friendship that came from our living together but I regret some of what I did. My point is I shouldn't have let what people thought of me define what I thought of myself. I let what I thought everyone was thinking dictate my choices. I don't like when people make decisions for me and thats what I did by allowing that to happen.

I strongly dislike when I am compared with a stereotype, even if it is something I am like. I am me, and I cannot be confined in the box, when I find myself putting myself in it it is just as bad as someone calling me "hippie" or "stoner" I am neither of those, I am Three Feathers and I refuse to be a name. I am so much more than that, and so are you. You are you, and when you find that person in the mirror telling you who you are, just take a minute and see if there is more to the story.

i am.

So I was sitting in a seventh grade language arts class in a tiny, little Catholic school when I happened to glance upwards. Hanging from the ceiling were poems that each student had written, and each line began with “I.” For example, “I wonder…” “I dream…” “I understand…” and “I am…”

And the statements were filled out according to each student in order to describe each developing identity. They were beautiful to me because of their genuine honesty. I wanted to write one right then and there, even if just in my head…

I wonder what my life will look like—what will my babies be like? Who will they grow up to be? Where will we live? What will we do? How will we fill each day? Will we be joyful?

I dream of a world in which human beings take care of one another, reach out towards one another; I dream of a safe place for us to grow together.

I understand that I am only human and that I can only do so much, but I also understand that with my humanity, I hold the responsibility to live my life as a prayer to the spirit of love I feel moving within me, to live in service to the betterment of the world I am a tiny part of.

I am loving. I am thinking. I am trying. I am reflecting and I am learning.

So much of who I am is defined by what I am doing at any given point in my life. The things I fill my life with make me who I am. I am in need of a space to nourish my spirit and the time to do so without feeling guilt for not doing other things I “should” be doing. I am attempting to embrace my authentic spirit. I am working on creating a more loving and positive body image. I am overwhelmed by both the mundane and the extraordinary. I am angry at the world today, but I am filled with hope for a better tomorrow. I am working towards that vision. I am lacking sleep and therefore addicted to caffeine. I am scared that I will never feel fulfilled unless I am driving myself into the ground. I am worried that I don’t take care of myself, and that sometimes, I might even harm myself. I don’t remember the last time I did yoga. I feel more passion to stop sexual violence than practically anything else in the world. I am silly. I laugh all the time. Loudly. I am constantly discovering who I am and learning that I love that person. I am cooking. I am talking. I am dancing. I am becoming me—mt

me in a nutshell

Who am I? It’s an interesting question that I sometimes struggle with. I mean, I know who I am, but to verbalize that fact is incredibly difficult. What do I say? Is who I am my hobbies, my traits, or my values? Is it what I wear, how I present myself, or my interests? I don’t really think a blog will do my being justice, but this is the best I got. So I figure I would talk about my loves, my beliefs, and myself. I love to read and I love to write, if you couldn’t tell already. I love to lie out on the grass and stare at the sky at 3:00 in the morning. I love to visit my greenhouse during late hours and water my marvelous plants. I love just thinking about life, about how amazing life really is. I love people watching because people are so fascinating. They are amazing creatures who never give themselves credit. I love sitting down with friends and having those conversations that one may call philosophical, (I call it invigorating). I love night walks, I love getting in touch with nature, and I especially love the times at the end of the day when I get to reflect on my life, my day, and myself. I love knowing who I am.

A part of who I am is what I believe in, because for one, I think that beliefs are lived out through everything that you do throughout your day. I belief every human being has the potential to offer something amazing to this world, and that if we all embraced love in its full entirety, things would seem a lot better. I believe in the celebration of love, unconditionally. I believe in justice for all people, I believe that everyone can find happiness, and I believe that, as humans, we are obligated to take action when we see people suffering. These loves and beliefs are who I am.

I could go on to say that I am a human being, beautiful as all human being are, that I am a brother, a son, an uncle, that I wear cowboy boots as much as possible and dance in them all the time, that I have amazing curly hair, and that I am a loving, kind person who serves as much as I can and takes as little as possible. But those are only parts of me, parts of my story. I am a whole, and you cannot separate the part from the whole. I am me, genuine and true, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ll end with something that sums me up from Gandhi who said, “My life is an indivisible whole, and all my attitudes run into one another; and they all have their rise in my insatiable love for mankind.” Me in a nutshell : ). Oh and one more thing, just so you know, I love you.

a little bit off.

One of the most amazing (and perhaps one of the most perplexing) things about human beings is our ability to hold within us so much that is vastly different and even seemingly opposing.

I have always said that I am most intrigued and for that matter most attracted to people who look just a little bit off. For example, I dated someone who for the vast majority of his life looked, well, like he had just rolled out of bed. He is known for constantly (and perhaps only) wearing white V-neck tees, and I liked it. Well, I suppose on occasion he branches out into black or even gray V-neck tees. Anyway, I liked it so much that even when we were in separate states, I would see someone who looked a-mess and think that person was him. I struggle to describe this oddity; it doesn’t sound so nice to say: you’re off, maybe even a little bit grungy, and I like you for it.

Today, though, as I looked at myself one last time in the mirror before work, I thought: I’m a little bit off. My hair doesn’t really jive with my clothes and for that matter, neither does my watch. An earring fell out of my ear on Monday and I just never put another one back in. I wear my zebra striped flats even when they don’t match just cause they are super comfy. I like colored eyeliners but don’t really wear any other make-up. I am a little bit off. However, each little inconsistent piece reflects me, and, ya know, I wouldn’t change it for the world. (And I won’t!) I am messy. I am complex. I hold within me total contradictions. I definitely don’t fit into any stereotype or mold. My lace bras with little bows don’t really go with my highlighter-orange shoes, but they are both me—mt

Won't You Come See About Me....I'll Be Alone Dancing You Know It Baby

“You see us as you want to see us…In the simplest of terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal…”

If I have to check off one more square to identify myself I am going to flip. I am not defined solely by my age, gender, religion, ethnicity, and whatever else can be described on a piece of paper. These words are just labels forced onto us by the man. I don’t want to be a statistic that makes some institution look more or less diverse. I want to be me.

That’s how I am going to identify from now on…I am me.

I am the shy girl who lets lose when she is near the ones she loves. I am the person who likes to speak in the third person. I am the Catholic who wishes she was Jewish who wishes she was Quaker. I am the little sister who is only happy when feeding her brothers peanut butter blossom cookies and banana muffins with a honey cinnamon frosting. I am the person who will not tolerate when people say “that’s so gay.” I am the movie loving, flip flop wearing, environmentally friendly hippie who just wants people to feel loved.

A box cannot define who I am.

I can’t even define who I am.

My identity is constantly changing…. Inside I am a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal.

I am beautiful.

Label Maker

For as long as I can remember, I hated standardized tests. You know, the ones with all those stupid bubbles specifically designed to weed out easily confused and semi-dyslexic kids like me. I could go on forever about the evils of standardized testing, but don't worry I won't. I want to talk about that first sheet you have to fill out, you now with your name, gender, grade... and worst of all race. Now it seems like a simple enough question, and I know it's just for statistic reasons but it made a crappy test even worse for me. See, I always put something different on those tests, not really on purpose, and not to screw with anyone or 'the system' or anything, but because I don't really know what to classify myself. You can imagine what effect this had on me as a little third grader taking those stupid ERB's or whatever they were called.

I didn't even realize how complicated this question was for my sister and me. I mean, I knew my grandmother spoke with an accent, my mothers maiden name was Montoya, and my dad had lighter skin and hair. But since I had grown up with all this I didn't think twice about it. It wasn't until the typical "Where is your family from" project that I realized my family was different than many others. My mother's family is from Colorado and goes back before statehood, before it was apart of the US, and even before it was a part of Mexico. We have blood from the Apache, Hopi, and Lakota, as well as Hispanic as the centuries went by. My father's family is mostly German and English and were among some of the first European settlers in North America. I got my height, eye color, and nose from my father's side, and my complexion and hair color from my mother's. So people generally can't place where I'm from I've been asked if I am Italian, Jewish, Mexican, or Arab more times than I can count.

Years ago when visiting my mom's side of the family my sister and I were teased by our cousins because we talk and look white. Our parents taught in private schools so we usually got reduced tuition, so we were raised with a strong education. Most of our classmates were white.

I still don't know what to put down as an answer.

--Three Feathers