It was at a young age that I began to question what life was for. When caught up in so much reason it is hard to experience life in its most simple form. In the inhale and exhale of your breath, the rise and fall of your chest; it is all lost in a mind that cannot be silenced. Oh, how I wish for a silent mind, to be a vessel accepting all that arises in action, not in thought.

It seems that this year especially, my mind has taken over. I have merely become a carrier of an organism that I fight to silence, or to release. I wander through my days with a hopelessness of ever coming to an answer of why I am here. And I accept that this answer does not exist, nor is the turmoil I experience in struggling to attain it real. But I continue to play this game as if it its completion will result in what I hope to be is real life; or maybe I will be numbed forever.

The numbness is what...

In the midst of violence, anger, death, grief, sadness, pain, hope, division, and unity, is it possible to find compassion? Honest, pure, unfiltered compassion. All encompassing, compassion.

At four years old I left my homeland to come here, to a country that gave me freedom to be that of my choosing. I ended up in the beautiful state of Colorado, in the middle of beauty, and in the middle of tragedy. In elementary school I watched the news, terrified, as footage of Columbine came up on every channel. I cried and fear grew deep in my core. I feared losing life the way that these innocent kids lost their lives. I feared anyone who looked like they could be the next to shoot, I feared the quiet, I feared the lonely. I hated. I blamed. I obsessed.

Years later, our channels were occupied again. September 11th, thousands of lives lost. Acts of terror, of suicide, of murder.

...

I sat wondering,

What had bestowed this feeling of utter failure and hopelessness upon my soul?

My soul, which I held in such high regards as being good, at least in intentions, but lacking in action.

My soul, entrapped by a mind and a heart caged in steal.

If the body and mind were kept busy, the soul could be forgotten,
But it would remain when time allotted that it breath again.

Yet its breathe was not one of relief.

It was not that of an occupant’s who found that a window could be opened in the middle of a scorching night.

The breath was less of an inhale of a cool breeze, but more so a screech,
A screech exiting the body against its owner’s will.

I could no longer silence my soul.

My inner being that looked at its current state and only suffered the loss of time with stagnation.

The problem was not that it screeched, for I felt it necessary to speak up,
But that the...

I have a previous post, you may have read it, maybe. Called, “On Passion.” And it’s great, it’s honest, it’s straight, and it’s fucking fleeting. Everything, always, fleeting.

So here is my new post, on passion, on bringing it back, on the spot, right now. The point? Literally just that. My passion has slipped through my fingertips; things not going the way I want translated into, “This isn’t it.” And that blows, that really blows, because there was a moment last year where my life aligned as I stood before an audience waiting to hear me speak. My life aligned as my fear engulfed me, and my life aligned as my best friend’s mom, with tears in her eyes, said, “Thank you,” and we hugged.

The truth? I gave my word to hold yet another event. Another event that requires meetings upon meetings, commute after commute, email after email, promotion upon promotion, and while we are at...

And sometimes it feels like there is beauty in death. It tears at your soul, as you struggle to convince yourself it’s real, and only when you fully bring it to the front of your mind do you realize that there is an end. There is something that no effort can change. No thought can erase the absence of a person from the earth. But sometimes there is beauty in death. The tearing of your soul is a bitter but enlightening reminder that your soul still wanders this terrain. Your soul is reawakened, reminded that forever is an image you carry in your head but forever is nowhere to be found. Death yells at you and along with your soul you carry the remains of someone else’s. There is beauty in death, we just have to put aside its ugly, painful, covering and hold our eyes wide enough, and our souls open enough to accept its lessons.

No doubt if we could go back in time, we would create...

I can say I’m lucky to have found my passion. I can say I’m lucky that I had a conversation that changed the trajectory of my life. Or I can own this trajectory; I can own that I wasn’t happy where I was, and that I was never willing to settle. I struggled, I tested different avenues, I worked out of different environments, I learned the benefits of a steady pay check, and I learned the hardships of not knowing when the next check was coming in. It wasn’t luck that brought me passion, it wasn’t circumstance, it was creation. I wasn’t lucky, I was determined.

I was working out with a friend today, talking about the relief that I’ve experienced ever since I found my present purpose. She asked about a mutual friend, who too seems to have found his passion; working with kids with special needs. She spoke, a bit resigned, about how lucky I am to have found my passion, and how she...

As I constantly search for the meaning of self, or the ability to relinquish such longing, I strive to participate in processes that allow transformation indicative of such results. As the recent holiday seasons arrived this past year, I found myself despondent around the question of what do I want. I replied that I wanted nothing to a degree from a place of indecisiveness, but more so in accordance with my recent want to have less stuff. I look around my room, at all that has accumulated over the years, and recognize the clutter of the space that in turn results in the clutter of my mind. I had sporadic moments in 2014 where I tried to reduce this surrounding clutter, always failing to really reduce significantly enough to make any impact on both spaces. I failed to transform the clutter of the physical space as well as the clutter of my mind. I found myself holding on to...

Choice in Recovery has been one hell of a ride, filled with the usual ups and downs that come along with any endeavor that carries a vision but no clear path towards its realization. The help that I received on this project has been amazing, and simply necessary. Every person that has showed up to a meeting, replied to an email, picked up a phone, met for coffee, printed flyers, etc. has played a role in pushing the project forward as it constantly transformed into what it is today. I thank all of you, for the praise, for the collaboration of ideas, and for the rejection. AND for the rejection. This isn’t some bullshit line of, “This is for my haters.” No, this is a thank you, for knocking me down just a little, opening my eyes to what can REALLY be, and giving me the necessary push to clarify a vision and solidify it in reality. Thank you all for being a part of a conversation...

I was told to hold a page for a list of thoughts that arise that are inconsistent with my drive to complete this project that I have signed up for. Currently, I believe that it may be more useful to have a list or a reminder of why this is the project I signed up for. I have recently recognized that in sharing what I intend to do with my business; I create not only an environment of accountability, but an environment of belief. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with my vision, I get caught up in my lip service, recognize my lip service, then scare myself out of any action that will make my vision real. I am scared of failing; I am scared to take actions that will not produce my expected results. Sometimes, I really don’t believe in myself. I question my motives, my intentions, my expectations. I question my ability to make a difference, I question my credibility to work with addicts, I...

I write upon a blank computer screen, producing words for the mere practice, the mere art of them making an appearance that is in shape constant, bland really, but in experience, profound. For this I read the prose of seemingly educated authors. A text that placed next to any other text, is more or less identical, but contains experience that is so versatile; sometimes classified as punishment, yet in another space, pleasure. I dive in, to an extent, to escape my life, and then to a greater degree, to gain perspective on my life that wasn’t present before. Yet, I don’t think I am gaining perspective. For if I was, then I could gain it, and at the snap of my fingers, change it for my own. No, I am not gaining perspective, I am gaining language. I am rephrasing that which already exists in my mind; I am placing new words to the never ending turmoil, and I am attempting at making it...