The smallest seed can create the biggest ripple

It's been years since I've contributed works to this blog, and I'm happy to have returned. We can all agree so much has happened over the last 5 years, in our global experience as well as our personal experiences. The rollercoaster ride of life never ceases to amaze me, and keeps me on the edge of my seat, watching the whirling images from my past catching up to the hopes and dreams of my future. It all comes spiraling down in one moment of truth. That I have fallen to being pregnant, not by my choice, or intentional planning, but to the intervention of divine force that has created a situation to which I must step up to something greater than myself. I can admit that throughout my life, I've had the privilege to yield experiences for growth and learning. However, one thing always remained constant, freedom. Many times when humans breakthrough their shadow sides, it is because they are forced to face themselves in a situation that doesn't bend, break, or yield to their selfish desires. Difficult and mucky times can often spawn the greatest truths of perseverance and show us our own shortcomings to which we make a decision to push through and succeed. Looking back on my life, I manifested many situations to continue to teach me, and align me with behavior that I hold up to be righteous and intentional. However, even in those moments, I have also padded myself with freedom. Freedom to explore into or beyond the struggles was my way to get through some things I didn't want to face. I am a magical manifestor, therefore, when I was in a situation I didn't like, I could easily change my experience and create a different one. Not all humans have that luxury. However, I am looking at my luxury as a crutch as well. Have I fortified my backbone to accept the truth? Or, have I created a life to which is constantly reshaping itself around what I desire? Now, with this baby coming, my heart and soul is telling me it is time. There is no running. There is no shaping. There is only freedom of love and joy developing through this bond of me and little one. 

No shoes. No worries!

 This impeccable time of my life, so carefree! When I was living in Hawaii, hitchhiking around, traveling to the west coast and back again. I love seeing the seasoned transitions of my life, all the faceted ways to grow and expand. And deeply knowing that every single step was part of it.


Spending my early 20's worktrading yoga classes, housekeeping, babysitting you name it for food and shelter. I was living out of jungle huts, riding in cars with boys, jumping on sailboats and planes and trains to wherever. It was the pinnacle adventures of my life...

It is my belief that a "gap year" is so incredibly important to the transition of youth into adulthood. I always tell friends, if you have NEVER taken a trip for your spirit, and an opportunity arises, DO IT! Is my advice. If you travel all the time, go go going wherever without direction anymore, well then maybe think about starting to ground down.
It's the ebb and flow, the rightful response, a balance in action to life.

The pivotal moment for me was when I set foot in Portland with a backpack, $200, and an open heart! I looked upon these creative inspirers who looked back upon me, and I realized it was time to create something, to hone it. And now 5 years later, here I am. A different kind of journey... The one where you rediscover the treasures right in your own backyard.

This is to be read when you’re alone.

This is when you are nestled in a place where everything melts away with each word written on this page. Light a candle. Take a breath. Settle in to a place that is attentive and true. The distractions of the day begin to soften. Its’ edges dissolve, where the heart reflects and the body’s mind and motions move to a steady hum. And this is the moment when the heart stops tugging and starts beating, pulsing. This is the reminder of that love is evident.

It moves throughout every cell, and is strongly and firmly ingrained in the attraction. It is that alchemical dizziness that we feel when we touch each other, magnetizing a formula to fit together, even though our bodies already are puzzle pieces, finding their grooves.

It is by the way your body feels. It is by the way the waves of bliss that sweep across your limbs. Compassionate tides rolling through with fervent winds because of the reflections of love being brought to the mind’s attention. Sometimes the quality of love is questionable, especially when I ask myself what’s best in this crazy, roller coaster-of-a-ride present moment. The up, downs, and all arounds of understanding what it means to see beauty in someone else, and not be attached to that, in respect of how they see themselves.

See yourself. Now, here, in this moment with the fire in your eyes. Take note of your own reflection. And, find me again when you do.

Kingdom of Your Own

inspirations to new song lyrics... 

So, grab a hold
Onto what it is and believe it will be
Grab a hold and find the pressure,
take the leap and let go.
'Cause it can only be you
To set these words on fire
Wrapped pages, building bridges higher
It can only be you, my love.

You're getting fickle on a million flavors
To which none of them you liked at all
Follow the leader for a good behavior
And build a kingdom that you call your own.
Say goodbye and walk away with wisdom,
Holding on what truly matters
Call upon the cracks below.
The kingdom may fall.
So, grab a hold.

Conversations between lovers

True account of messages to one another spanning over the last 9 months. A saga of the relationship revealing truths about sacrifice and autonomy and codependency. 

My most recent message, September 13th, 2016:
Hardest part of the trail coming up, huh? You'll fly over those mountains, spaceman. Collecting all the treasured moments into these fateful last miles. To seal your revelations of life and love, all from your first amazing journey. Sure to not be the last. 

*** 

Spaceman:  It comes to me now that my love for you has never faltered, never wavered. In my state of depression in my ability to share that love, to express that love, to give of myself I was swallowed in shadow. And I did not put up the fight a deserving man should. I reflect on this, and it makes me sad, and yet this is the very thing that brought me here. Shall I then rejoice for the sorrow? Much has been lost, but there are mountains to be gained.

Me: I let you go when you asked me to.

I'm grieving the loss, and moving away from any hopes. 

You hurt me more than I thought you could,

 First by your words, 

And then by your actions, 

even with water running down your face not single breath of love left your lips...

After I left your house, you laid where I once laid, with my tears still wet upon the sheets,  and when you laid down in that bed and found sweet slumber, you abandoned all promises you ever made to me.  And I'm still holding on. You left.

Spaceman:  And, you showed me a love that was quite different from what I imagined. You refused my complacency and demanded more of me, but never beyond my capacity. I fell in love with an extrovert and an only child, with very high standards, a queen on her throne who said "make me love you back' though her heart was already mine.  You fell in love with an introvert, from a tight knit family prone to bouts of melancholy and blueness, a skeptic, who mistrusts even his own emotions. You fell for a man who had more to prove to himself than he felt he needed to prove to you, the kind of chap whose greater ambitions include living alone in the wilderness for six months, a stubborn prince of fortune who said, "I will love you my own way, and that will be enough." 

Me: What am I still holding on to? You left. And how do I wake up every day knowing I am still in love with a man who left and went 2000 miles away? A man's who face I haven't seen in 8 months. Granted, I encouraged you. One of my greatest downfalls is I refuse to ask for help. I thought of how free you would be. I let you go.

Spaceman: What are you holding on to? The chaos of colliding galaxies illuminates the abyss, and those who look up are lost in the wonderment and awe. I hold to the truths that cannot be unmade. I love you as I never loved another. The trail is a teacher: I struggle to find words to describe this education but I shall try to say this, 
whenever I have made a plan or tried to force an occurrence, the plan has failed and I have gotten lost. When I release my expectations, and ask for what I desire, I am given what I need which is rarely what i think and always better. 
8 months ago, and a whole new world lies before me, my needs are so few so opportunity bounds. 
Instead of what are you holding onto? ask yourself, why will i not let go" the greater truth is in the latter, and the answer is hidden in between, tomorrow is exciting, but there's long and lonely miles yet to walk. Our cosmic dance is not yet complete. 

What is it like to love someone 2000 miles away whose face you haven't seen in 8 months? It's like two galaxies colliding together with the exchanging of stars violent and beautiful. They swirl about each other, both unable to resist the gravity that continues to pull them together, through the sheer magnitude of their own egos and doubts that are trying to tear them apart. 

I find a hope within me, like a flickering candle int he distance, that one day I might share with you my findings, having opened the lock of my fear and set to exploring the mysteries deep within. You are climbing your mountains and I am proud of you. Our paths have split, and we'll both be made better and stronger for it. Yet in the waning hours, as the owls raise their voices to call the moon from its hiding place, I watch the nocturnal shadows begin to crawl and hope against hope hat I am being forged into the fires of the soul, to one day return to your hand. I wish you peace and love and joy, always.

Me:  I am raw and open, laying here awake after a weekend-long, native tribal ceremony, where I allowed plant spirits to take over my body and my mind. 
On the second and most intense night, visions of you came to me.
No one else came in the visions, no other people in my life, just you.I don't have any conclusions at this moment only that you appeared to me because you're still a huge part of how I make decisions. That you're still a huge part in me.

Spaceman: You. you're beautiful. I still remember your body like a holy vision, and still my wildest imaginings can't do it justice, but its your morning face that haunts my dreams, branded in my mind, that glow in your droopy waking eyes, your skin soft and supple, the smell of the nights love tangled in your hair, and lips, lips full and red that bed to be kissed, to wake you from your slumber, and wake me from my sorrow. this picture brings it all back, mostly, that feeling of waking everyday to a face that I want to wake to everyday. This breaks me all over again. 
Be careful with me. My heart is tender and lonely, and I miss you deeply. I learned to forget these last couple weeks. and now I must learn again. But I still, thank you for this treasure you have given me, though I buy it with pain. It's as true now as it ever was, I love you.

Me: Our first date at Opal Creek was so natural. I felt as if the world ended outside of us but I was with you, I know you and I would survive and we could make each other happy for the rest of our lives. 

Spaceman: Often did I think that we would spend the rest of our days together. But, at that time, I wasn't ready. I had much to prove to myself, before I could be sure I was giving you the man I wasn't you to love, this still is my quest. You got me to take this trail, you have kept me going on this trail. Still, you are making me a better person. That's how I know. 

Me: Come back to me. I don't expect that to look like any certain way.  I just hope that someday, I see you again. So I can wrap my arms around you and feel the rough truth on your skin and muscles from the trail, sun on your face, look you in the eyes and deeply thank you for how you are a strong man in deciding to conquer yourself through experience. I want to release you from any expectations I've created in the past, and meet you in a new way.

Spaceman: My thirst for adventure grows with every step, and when finally, I have climbed this trails final maintain, my journey will have just begun. Still I hope that on my next adventure, I will have you walking by my side helping to make me better some more.  As we may see each other again as the strong man and strong woman we both desire to be.

Fire Monkey 2016

Those of you who know me personally know I am going through an incredible transformation in my life. The last 8 months, I opened my own business, moved in with my partner of 2 years, got an apartment in NW Portland.

Now, mostly of all that has changed.

I've put all of my energy, savings, blood, sweat, passion, and tears into opening a studio in Portland in August 2015. The studio abruptly closed two days ago due the landlord raising the rent and a new yoga company coming inthat can pay more.

My partner and I decided that we could come together to make it through the birth of this new career "baby", turns out he is at the brink of his own spiritual growth that must be independently explored. With the news of the studio closing, I also realized that this is the time he has to move out and find himself. As I watch him pack up his things in the apartment, I am overfilled with intense sorrow and solid duty to the journey of the human soul. I love him with everything I know, which is why I have to let him go.

I reflect on my intentions to 'set roots' in Portland, a town that has invited me so graciously into this beautiful community back in 2012. The decision to run my own company full tilt, and to be a loving partner has revealed incredible truths about my capacity for commitment, my capacity for love, my honesty in business, and my choices to continue moving forward. I have found that being a studio owner is a labor of love as I am the soul to bear the relationships that walk in the door. I have found that being a true girlfriend means to surrender, to know deep down love prevails, even when it is hard to cut the chords and see clearly the need for each other to be independent... and grow.

I share this with you as the year changes into 2016. As my eyes are wet with uncertainty, and my heart is confused with past and present moments, both grieving and shaping. I share this with to remind us all that growing can be painful. And this is the time. To remember that we are loved, holding space and a smile for the future to come

Sangha

Sangha

As a 'yoga instructor,' I bring myself into a room full of unique bodies within a space designated for practice, to integrate tools of accessing the internal environment with what I perceive in our external environment, to be reflective, magnetic, recharged, balanced.
<; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;"> Yogis acknowledge senses and invite space and sensitivity,
Breath into each moment of progress
Recognize and release expectations or fears or limitations,
Participate with an open heart to whatever changes may arise,
Spend moments alone as well as with each other,
Witness personal transformations that occur when immersed in a place of spiritual focus and flexibility.

I enjoy my position as a yoga teacher, not because I think I am good at yoga, or that I can show people how it's done or that I have it all figured out... Rather, I've accepted my gifts of perception and voice.

I see a tribe, coming together to mentor each other through a program of shredding inhibitions and layers in which we guard ourselves. We become completely open to spirit so that paradise between souls can seep in deep into our veins to unveil our highest potential. Our environment is a mere reflection of the way we feel inside. I open my voice sorrow and fear of age, death, and survival. That in my space is a welcome place to voice recognitions, respects, gratitudes. The practice of yoga can help focus our mind less on fear and more on listening.

In my service to myself and others, I pursue the exploration of liberation through the senses. It is my belief that the body cannot accept healing without a movement practice.
Move energy. Get unstuck. Listen. Breathe. Fill up. Let go. Sing out. Repeat.

As a leader, my goal is to encourage my students. Every morning, I set intentions for this truth in practice to develop.

Fire & Earth

From the moment I saw you, really saw you, sitting on the picnic table outside lighting hand rolled cigarettes with a zippo lighter and hair as smooth as silk, you intrigued me. You always had a interesting presence about you, a sincere curiosity, a provocative imagination always thriving in conversation.You believed in your admirable love for your mother and grandmother and honored the intelligent caretakers around you. You were a God fearing man. I walked up and asked your sign, and you said Capricorn but you can't remember your age, with a smile.

You had strong qualities that were attractive, and when I got to know you deeper, your ideals, your understanding of things and your blind intuition, your love of family, your obsession with the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit... I couldn't predict how deeply I could fall in love with a whole other person, who is a completely counterpart to me. Then, we got lost in the canyons, deep in snow, climbing the side of cliffs to overlooking contoured earth, moonlit sky, and soaking pools to our own exploration's delight. We've come so far. I've known you with so many adventures and our bliss, stupid-in-love moments shared.

And along the way, when I turned to share my deepest truths with you, I looked into blank eyes. When I held your hand and asked you what you were feeling, I noticed your words and your palm, ice cold. When I called upon you for your service, no longer were you home.

In my heart, that fire still burns, slowly, but the flames were no longer dancing. The flames were not hissing with the wind, nor changing color with cold air. The energy diminished, there was no man there to maintain a steady loving breath on the coals. And, he hadn't been there for quite some time.

In the middle of our honest moments, I rested upon knowing the constant fire cycling between us. It was true, whether we were honest and vulnerable to ourselves, or not. It burned and cooled. But, this time, I burned and you cooled.

The ground beneath your feet is the same ground I walk upon. I share this earth with you, I am here to reflect the vast universe around you and within you. I will not drift lightly into the abyss. The fire, now darkness, is here for our teaching. How we choose to transmute the archetypes, the elements, the signs, is up to you, and me.

Set Sail

I find myself now

 at the end of the day,

Exhausted, depleted, longing, desiring affection.

Someone to call,

that person to anchor in with 

for the night
while the tide goes out.

I hope for the day

 that I can roll up my sail, 

And rock rhythmically alongside the riverfront,

Instead of being the seafaring captain

in ambitious pursuit.

I feel tired.

I long for solitude and the holding.

I haven't had it.

I don't know what it's like. 

I've been taunted and teased with the ideal of leaning into someone. 

I fell like I've seen this man in my dreams.

And, then as we looked deeper and peered in together,

we found that this just could not happen

in real life.

And, why not.

Well, maybe next time.

For now, I pulled my anchors up and
Set Sail.

Yoga Soup for The Soul

When I was eighteen years old, yoga was an attractive physical practice to me for many reasons. It appeared to be the perfect balance between my two favorite things in the world; throwing my body around the stage during rehearsals, and would also wake up early in the morning to get my heart rate up by jogging through the neighborhood right before the sun rose that by the end of my school day my body was so worked my limbs felt like Jello. I needed something strengthening, toning, integrative, and creative.

I loved dance but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do it forever, and running was my current voyager, until I landed in my first Bikram class in 2004. The practice was invigorating and relentless, a true challenge for me and my genetic stamina. I showed up to yoga class, and cranked on my limbs so they would stretch and bend like putty, reshaped into the deepest postures where I could feel my heartbeat pulsing, and feel my sweat dripping in places that I never thought possible. When I laid down intosavasana at the end of the class, there was nothing but me and my breath because I was so damn tired, and hungry for more.

After my first year of training, I began to notice beautiful thing happens underneath the surface. My concentration, sweat, will power, and flexibility began to come together. My body began to communicate with me. At first, it was through pain and exhaustion. Then, other things began to happen. My sleeping and eating cycle began to revolve around my yoga schedule. It became easier to listen to what my body needed instead of wanted. When I knew I was going to be doing hot yoga later on that day, I began to make healthy decisions about how I wanted my body to feel during the practice.

After attending my yoga practice regularly, I recognized these little considerations began to infiltrate every day and every moment. I spent a few minutes before each class centering myself because I knew I was in for an hour of excruciating hell. I was engaging muscles I didn’t even know I had, and tuned into some of the muscles that needed attention. Afterwards, I nourished myself with necessary foods and took care of my muscle soreness with conscious thoughts and healing care.

It was an effortless process to begin considering myself. And, as I continued, I practiced more and more, and dove deeper to find more sources of practice that I could add to more areas of my life. I wanted it to continue to grow outside of me, bigger than me. It was the encouragement I needed to begin really looking at myself, without judgment.

In this journey, I am reminded of that everyday, just by the way my body moves, and my thoughts speak to me. Yoga practice is the time I take to fully listen. Classes give me the opportunity and the practice weaves itself more into the threads of each day. My mat has become the nurturer, my breath is the teacher, my body is the vessel, and yoga is soup for my soul.

Art in Undying Form

This blog might as well be titled "Visions, Experiences, & Practice." That's basically what I aim to share through these writings. My account of information through the first person, and sometimes in the past, but I will try not to.

I guess you could expect this to be a memoir. The last time I wrote in a live journal, I wrote about travel escapades in Hong Kong. Each post was a delicately described adventure, sharpening my writing skills, as well as painting a high defined picture of my silly thoughts and experiences. I was 19 at the time of that blog. When I go back and read it, I want to change it. Isn't that crazy? Our mind evolves as our knowledge and exposure does. Sometimes I want to erase some very silly lines in the blog, because I know better now. Even more so, I don't. Because that's what this is all about.
www.ericabelfiore.blogspot.com

This time, I will be pulling stories, truths, recipes, sequences, techniques to share about my journey here at home. I am running a yoga studio business in Portland, OR and my days are very short of being boring. So before I begin sharing my tales from the last 6 months to current, I will open the intention of this Live Writing Journal with this:

This journal is dedicated to every thought, dream, word, and reflection that I have to share with myself and possibly others. Each line and page, I vow to fill with truth of that moment, and no other to change it. I vow to preserve that creativity by writing whatever, whenever and never by judging myself through words.

There is nothing that cannot be spoken to be freed to that which is silenced to the murmurs of the eternal heart. I practice transparency in ways I weave words together.

I realize I set a standard for the 'good' stories that can make it into this journal.

I often play the role of deciding what goes into the story of my life or not.

It's not my place to decide, however it is my will to write, to spill thoughts onto a page and out of my head. A space to say whatever? Nonsense is a perfect storm that rolls in and can be disturbing and beautiful. First, rumbling and chaotic, then cooling and liberating. The smell of the earth after lighting and rain, with scribbling on one page, sincere script on another. And the sharp edges of guilt and shame racing down the sides of the margins.

The words through penned fingers are intoxicating yet purifying. 

To surrender the desire for proper writing is to lend out the soul,
A stream of consciousness art, in undying form.

The one that sings to me

Hold my deep dark secrets, and let this be the place where I can dump some of the thoughts that aren't ready to be unveiled yet.

So, I'm slowly embracing the business world, but I'm also slightly holding back. I seem to find apprehension as an apparent quality of my universe, where I'm often telling myself that I'm just not prepared enough. I'm a noob. I'm on the fence. "I've never done this before!" therefore, I'm only allowed to observe and don't have the guts yet to liberate. Constantly, I proclaim my ineptitude due to sheltered experiences. But, the verb here is opening me wide, and I'm on the verge of a complete eruption. I can feel it brewing deep inside me. I just hope I'm not one of the many statistically visionaries that gets stuck on chasing a better ecstacy, never satisfied with just one kind of work. The ones that lose their minds from too many mind expansion parties, to truly decipher which one resonated to their purposeful soul. I want to be the one that finds the deep connection to the one that pulls the most on my heart strings. The one that sings to me. So here I am. I'm on the cliff and haven't taken the plunge. 

I suppose, I'm reaching out until something grabs a hold. But alas, don't wait too long. I'm reminded once again, that as soon as I jump off the shore and reach for the rope my hand slips and instead of swinging across the lagoon, I fall hard... into the murky waters, scathed and blasted by protruding rocks hammered by erosion and oxygen. And, I stop and I listen. The earth tells me she is fragile and naive, as I am just the same. That it is important to take the plunge, but also be patient for the experience to be natural rather than forced. There is a difference between punctuality and hastiness as well as laziness and ineptitude. To stop and take a breath amidst the many paths to cross, it is easier to see how they all will end up at the same end. That I will ultimately end up in the water and that maybe taken the low road will be better than assuming that splashing in with a rope swing, maybe a feat to tackle when I'm certain that my focus is intentional to accomplishing that goal, and nothing else.

Detoxification

Start again
Start again
With a calm and quiet mind this time
Be alert, witnessing each breath,
Be tranquil, feeling every sensation
with equanimity

When a sensation feels it's way in,
Let it pass,
When a crazing of bliss bubbles,
Let it be,
When an aversion to discomfort grips,
Deeply exhale and move focus away from the pain.

Vices

It won't be forever that I run on passion, fire, and desire. But for now, it's the smoldering embers of experimentation that have ignited me, by my own curiosity.

"This self is such an intriguing character.

 I never order the same cocktail twice,  can’t figure out whether I’m a coffee drinker (or not) and viscerally recognize my travels as each point towards growth, not Luxury. 

And, even though some nights seem to feel more in the way of decadence, desire, and vice, I take home the memories like simple souvenirs, when lightly observed.  I wonder if it ever will come to a point in life, that something will track me down and out, and blow up my defense system leaving me irrevocably submissive to the lush lands and exotic men.  But, for now, I am happy to say I lack promiscuity, in the proverbial sense. 

~*Gambling, sex, potato chips, cocaine, cigarettes, shoes, alcohol… all compiled and categorized into a little treasure box I call, “UNEXPLORED TERRITORY.”*~

 On the flip side of materialism, I have encountered potential suitors, and recreational drug use practices that stirred little sparks. Shiny new toys aren't as attractive to me, as agreeing to outlandish practices that develop the badass adventurer stories in my mind.

I’ll never forget the first time he walked into the room and I looked into his eyes. Those "fuck me" eyes. And, I thought to myself, “Oh, fuck....” 
It’s not about the rush you get from betting $10,000, or snorting a line of cocaine and jumping off the roof. These are passé fits of addiction, that are wimpy and short lived. I’m talking about the burning feeling when you feel it all over and inside, and it takes over like a predator of sensationalism, swallowing up all other emotions, as the keyholder to the body as a vessel of watery depths that can only be tamed by the idea of lover,  of the high or the escape, of the rush or the run, of the ritual or the routine…whatever keeps you coming back for more. Writing about this makes it feel like it’s more obtainable, even though I know the addiction I have and what I’m seeking to fill has been an impossible journey for just about my whole life now.

My literary rant on this subject brings me to the question, Am I addicted to experiences? Can you be forever swayed by the insatiable desire for more life?!
Are these silly questions?

Journey On

Well, that was a fun ride. 

3 weeks ago, I landed in Rough and Ready, CA, a few miles outside of Grass Valley, CA. I basked in effervescent sunshine and spent a week before Halloween, regaining perspective through the lens of an endearing town 'where the men are rough and the women are ready.'

By the sheer magic of two beloveds, Alyssa and Milton, On Halloween, I ended up in a mansion in one of the most breathtaking overlooks of the Sierra foothills, as I was summoned into a pile of squish and introduced to a whirling twirling dervish of amazing dancers, musicians, and healers all throughout the night.

I said hello to the sun that morning, watching it rise above the hills and move the blankets of fog off the plateaus so we could see the secretive, clear blue lake underneath. We spent the following day soaking and marinating on a trip to Harbin Hot springs, a magical place I've been dreaming of visiting since last year. Shortly after, the caravan cruised north to Audio Corroborree debut bash in Mendocino, and the next morning, I find myself yet again, driving to another breathtaking tucked away mountain gem down the dirt roads of California. I rolled up onto the rustic site as the property was covered in ancient trees and wildlife, while the night sky was lit by stardust. Three brave men stayed up there for the last 6 months rebuilding a mountain home from the ground up. My work was short and sweet, and the connection was deep, as I was grateful to witness such beautiful commitment and creation to the work of building art.

After that, I hitched to San Francisco and spent over 4 hours at the Dance Mission Theater, taking class through West African, reggaeton, and hiphop, ecstatically dancing up all the dreams that have come to reality thus far, and saw a dear, dear sister Andrea, that brought me to the airport in Oakland next morning.

My flight to Florida was quick, easy, and completely unexpected. I drove up to the Suwannee River music park, catching an epic weekend at Bear Creek music festival. Seeing ol friends, the roots, the funk, and the tribe was perfect in its moment. Kayla, my sister, my partner in crime…we rocked out our leather jackets, cruised on our bicycles, and brought a bit of the west coast vibe in the east coast tribe, loving all the music and grand efforts to bring that love to light in Northern Florida.

I’m at my mom’s house in Florida and I couldn’t be happier to take a day to take a breath. *Sigh* The more and more I reflect my travels, the more I realize a free bird but I’m also yearning to hunker down and build a nest. How spectacular it was to fly by night, on the whims of faith and freedom, and charge destiny with an open heart. I also recognize the fruits of labor, and sincerity in enduring beloved work. Tending the gardens, putting the roof on, making peace with the forest, and surviving the mountain lions and bears to be apart of the landscape, is a sign of always striving to build a new home for community and tribe, whether it is on a new piece of land, or in our hearts.

This journey isn’t over yet. I am only more inspired to return home and plant the seeds of the beauty that I have witnessed.

Dear Sparky,

        This is to be read when you’re alone. This is when you are nestled in a place where everything melts away with each word written on this page. Light a candle. Take a breath. Settle in to a place that is attentive and true. The distractions of the day begin to soften. Its’ edges dissolve, where the heart reflects and the body’s mind and motions move to a steady hum. And this is the moment when the heart stops tugging and starts beating, pulsing. This is the reminder of that love is evident.

        It moves throughout every cell, and is strongly and firmly ingrained in the attraction. It is that alchemical dizziness that we feel when we touch each other, magnetizing a formula to fit together, even though our bodies already are puzzle pieces, finding their grooves.

        It is by the way your body feels. It is by the way the waves of bliss that sweep across your limbs. Compassionate tides rolling through with fervent winds because of the reflections of love being brought to the mind’s attention. Sometimes the quality of love is questionable, especially when I ask myself what’s best in this crazy, roller coaster-of-a-ride present moment. The up, downs, and all arounds of understanding what it means to see beauty in someone else, and not be attached to that, in respect of how they see themselves.

                 See yourself. Now, here, in this moment with the fire in your eyes. Take note of your own reflection. And, find me again when you do.

Love
Me

Waterfall

 Fewer words describe their soulful beauty
    And how he can maintain her innocence
        As the waterfall’s lustrous appeal
llluminates passion through unveiled skin.
   Gently, he opens her heart with serenity
    As he draws her  body close to his.
                With fingers interlaced
        There’s nothing more to witness,
                      but Love here.

Shedding Leaves

Connections from a physical cauldron of spiraling energy,
swirling guarded emotions out of deep beauty.
 Sacral space that is often locked with a skeleton key.
Your touch intoxicates me, the closer my dreams
 manifest in your reality.

I look into your eyes and see
the wishes of my mother,
and what my father hoped to be.
 This woman's body invokes the divine.
 You are my king.

A fairy tale moment that spins magic into space,
rewriting the story for romance and lust.
This match made in heaven
merely devotes me.

I lose my balance one foot after another, on my path
when I glanced up and saw you there.
The resonance of spirits beckoning truth.
For each of the lovers' third eye to see.

With sheltered blossom I've protected for so long,
standing by you gives me confidence
to shed these leaves.

Goddess

 I strive to be her. I manifest my role as her with a mantra every morning, reclaiming truth, spirituality, and feminity with my words and my breath. I remind myself what it means to be a strong and sensitive female on this planet. I refuse to denounce the goddess within me as just a fleeting dream of my brainspace. Even though she seems unattainable, she symbolizes perfection even amidst the provocations of earnesty, humility, arrogance, and ego. She will always be within to nuture whatever is uncertain.

To unfold the secrets of balance and grace, I must unveil the wombs and whims of the goddess, both in strength and insecurity. I must show beauty through elegance and strength by intuitive courage that can only be unlocked when I chose to free myself in that moment. Breathe deep and transpire the energy into moments of presence, and witness the blooming novice opening into a lotus of the divine.

All of these qualities strengthened through the feminine by the grace and conditions of nuturement are manifested through the lens of their own perceptions. Women cannot be told they are powerful, they can only feel it. A goddess pays attention to all the changes in her body, respects her movement by dancing with others, spends time each day with herself, by herself, engages her muscles and breathing to reconnect with the mechanics of her temple. She honors whats passes through her and beyond her, and always takes care of her environment within herself as well as around herself. She is open to receive love and assistance from others and is certain of her decisions that come from her heart. She is patient for the frequency and invocation of beauty into life. She finds her duty to unlock love inside others when she is able to fully love herself.

I've been holding off for the right moment to write about my time spent with Becky Harmonm and I feel this piece will be timeless and everchanging beyond what is expressed on this page. These words commence my admiration of her beauty and strength, the goddess that appeared to me in my deepest valley of darkness when a time dawned upon me that I felt my own feminity had been lost. Not even the brightest star in the sky could lead me to the light, as it seemed my perceptions drowned me in a fear that I was forever tainted by a fateful experience that left my courage and will shocked and shattered. My body felt frail and unwelcome as the folds of my flesh were weakened by an infection that dampened my light with fear. The sun climbed above the clouds each day and I felt as if my soul would not awaken to the morning's possibilities.

She rose with the sun and moved with passion from the earth to meet its' highest place in the clouds. She inspired grace and beauty, poise and strength, in every moment. Her body reflected her incredible strength as she charged physical challenges without the slightest bit of doubt. Her belief in her ability was unfettered, even if she took a few extra moments to catch her breath. Her bright blue eyes looked deep within mine, with the same depths as the love in her heart. She reflected the sexy and unfaltering goddess to reclaim her throne in my perceptions. Her ambitions reflected my own, as I mourned the loss of my own strength, and buried its resurrection deep within my self-pity, Becky refused to acknowledge defeat. She swept me up, called my inner goddess to arms, and rekindled the flame of life and love that I was so dearly missing. Much of my recollections of what it truly means to live in goddess form is attributed to her. She is my heart, my soul, my light, my sister.

This was one of the hardest pieces I've ever written

Disclaimer: This is long, intense, graphic, and difficult. Also, out of context and chronology of the other pieces. It's finally ready to be posted, although it still needs a lot of revisiting before it's complete. Self-therapy in progress.

Untitled.

Eyes are windows
They are open.
Blue like rain
Streaming and dancing and washing it all away
They are honest.
Brown and deep
Stable and certain and anxious to speak
Green emeralds
That sparkle.
Grey skies
That cry.
Red blood
That smokes too much.
Black eyes
That die.

August 2, 2006 Early Morning
      I haven't slept. I slap the mattress and throw my head into the pillow. The empty beer bottle next to me is steaming and I can the feel the stink crawling all over me. My mouth is crusted with the morning air and there’s black soot and cigarette ash trapped in my fingernails. Mascara is smudged down my cheeks and my dark hair is matted to the side. It’s been two weeks since it happened, but it’s only 11:30am, and too early in the day to call the day quits.
      I roll over and grab my morning coffee off the nightstand, which usually consists of three shots of whiskey and a cigarette. It’s never about the taste when it comes to whiskey. I wash it down with my cigarette anyway.

     The mornings are clockwork hell. Get up from bed, brush my teeth, stare out myself in the mirror for about 30 seconds, and pick at the little scar on my chin. I have to be at the office by 1pm, but lately I’ve been showing up around 2:30pm, lost in wasteful time and disorganized thoughts.
                I stopped picking up the phone, and my friends stopped calling. When the last drop of the bottle wets the glass and my head stops spinning from the night before, I’m barely breathing.

13 days and counting since I’ve recognized the attack. 13 more days and I go home. Back to reality. Back in the arms of comfort, even amidst this black soot covering my openness to live, whiskey and blood mixed in my veins, drowning me in guilt.  I finally pick up the phone and apologize to my mom, because she worries and knows I’m alone, and she hears it in my voice and she misses me and wants to hug me and tell me I’m strong and will survive this. She speaks gently because I’m fragile. I’ll smash in a million pieces, like glass, razor sharp, and shattered all over the floor. Hi honey, how is it today? You want to come home yet?  I tell her I don’t know what I want to do. I know, Baby. She says softly. Well, your flight to come home is in less than two weeks from now  at JFK Airport. You can call them and get a sooner one if you want.

I hear her, but I’m still too defiant to be defeated. The scene just replays in my head. It was one single moment that stole my strength, and my courage. Still, there’s no way I could leave sooner.

I walk to work with my head down and sunglasses on. The sidewalks are all cracked and uneven. The sunlight is glaring, bouncing the midday reflection back into my eyes. I'm cautious, careful, and aware; peeping over the lenses every couple minutes just to be sure that I am alone. But I’m not. I yearn for peace, closure, solitude. Everyone can sense I’m broken. This anxiety that just won’t go away. Even when I close my eyes, its ravenous beam is still there.

  ***

MixxLounge Bar had a savage smell. It was a mixture of perfume and sweat. The floors were slick from spilled beer and the air was intoxicating. Elvis, the owner, would ask me to hike it up, or let my cleavage show. It’s the Manhattan high class, you sell it and the drinks come with it, he would tell me.. I move around the bar and start setting up the bottles. The cheeky old men, sit across from me all night, watch me bend over to pull the glasses from the rack. Their sports jackets reek of cigars and expensive cologne hanging over the bar stools, creating an aroma that only swanky businessmen can produce.  At around 2:15am every Saturday night, Elvis would disappear into the backroom, assisting the boys to end their night with a fine white powder that covered up anything that money could not. I would watch them walk out, ten minutes later and $300 dollars less, with a little baggy and an unstable swagger. 

Ruggiero, the kitchen manager was an addict. He waited around for the shake at the bottom of the bag, or the crumbs that spilled across the table, scanning the residue with a straw, slurping it into his nose. I remember his eagerness. He never talked much, stayed to himself in the back, frying up chicken skewers and spring rolls, and remained a slave to the men who have it all. He’s worked here for years, Elvis told me. Don’t worry about Ruggiero, he won’t bother you. But I could see him by the corner of the bar. His black eyes swollen with misery, lips pressed tightly, head held low. I never had anything bad to say to him, in fact, I barely spoke to him at all. I made sure to smile back though. After all, what’s the point in making matters worse for someone who scrapes the leftovers.
****

Earlier in July 28, 2006
I tell Ruggiero one last time I do not want to snort a line. He wipes his nose off with his apron. I tell him to shut the bar down, Elvis is gone, I’ll see you at work tomorrow, I say with a deep and hopeful smile. Have a good night okay? I reach over, pull my purse off the counter, and turn towards the door. He moves around the bar and stops me in front of him. His black eyes are bullet holes, deep and fierce and destructive. I pull the strap over my shoulder, and check for my wallet. Take a shot, he says again and reaches for the tequila. I’m already sickened by the smell. His accent thickens as he raises his voice. TAKE A SHOT! He makes a quick move, and two shot glasses hit the floor by my feet. He growls and stumbles around the bar. I feel my heart plunge into my stomach, a force reaction to an instinctive premonition that something terrible was about to happen. I back away from the spill. The floor smells of old Cuervo and rotten limes. He drags his feet through the glass, and I turn my head, but his hands are already on my waist.
His strength holds me hard. He presses his lips against my ear, Permanezca aquí, stay here, he whispers. I can’t release myself from his grip. He leans into my neck, spins my body and throws me face first against the bar stools. He thrusts his hips towards mine and heaves me forward. I’m bent over as he digs me into the bar and I anchor my fingernails into the seat backs. He rips my straps and grabs my shoulders. I can’t speak. I can’t think. I push against the counter trying to free myself from him, but his body is suffocating. I inhale, but it feels like I’m only sucking air, gasping, panting… He grabs a fistful of my hair and throws me to the ground. His grip tightens and I want to cry but, I can’t. I squeeze my eyes, hard enough so that any emotion inside me would come out. But there was nothing. Not even a sound. Barely a wimper. Black out.
     I come to.  The tile is cold and wet. He rips off his belt and holds me down. My heels clatter like hail. My shorts are soaked in beer and my palms are cut with glass. He towers on top of me. I look at the spotlights on the ceiling. His silhouette is a black shadow. I can feel his hand on my thigh and his big black eyes are all over my body. His fingers are rough like splintered wood. I kick him as hard as I can and he doesn’t stop. I roll onto my stomach and grab the leg of one of the bar stools. He slaps it out of my hands. I thrust my back into his chest and slip my legs underneath me. The broken beer bottles cut my shins and palms. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me close to him. I fight him. He wraps one arm around them and pushes his other hand down my throat. I make a fist with my left hand and bang the side of his face. His fingers taste like iron and lime juice. I bite down. I am an animal. Clawing and scratching and biting for safety. His blood seeps into my mouth. And I finally begin to cry.
      There’s no conviction in his eyes. He stares at my chest and moves like a machine. He rips my shirt open. I hit him again and crawl towards the back door of the kitchen. He grabs the back of my neck with both hands and flings me towards the basement. The doorway to the office down below is a gaping pit with concrete steps right in the middle of the kitchen floor. He pushes me headfirst towards the hole. The pit opens its mouth before me, its fatal lair beckons me to just give in to him, and give up the fight.
I dig my fists into the floor and arch back against his body again. I hold steady. Still. His hands are still all over me. Time stops. He reaches and rips my shorts from the back. I hit the floor. He turns me over. I start kicking him again. I shove my heels into his groin, but there’s no pain. He wraps both hands around my neck.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Please don’t do this! A surge of energy suddenly barreled out of me. I scream. I finally scream again and again and again, desperate for someone would hear me. Anyone! No. This is not where it ends for me. Not here.

Not now.

A power takes over me with indisposed defences, blinded by survival. I grab a metal rod lying underneath the sink next to the door. Next thing I know, his head gushes with blood. His big black eyes looked deep into me, and rolled into the back of his head as he hit the floor.. I get up from the ground and turn my back on him; hurl my bloody legs one right after each other, running as fast as I could towards the front door. My feet stop moving as soon as I get to the street corner. I just stop, and fall to the ground on my knees. The tears fall down my face, soaking my face, and washing the blood off my mouth.  I can’t believe that happened. Did that just really happen? What just happened to me? My shorts are shredded and my whole body is shivering.

                A couple walking their dog across the street run over to me. The woman pulls her jacket off and throws it over my shoulders. Without asking any questions, they tell me it’s going to be okay, and call 911.

***
I’m a case number.
I’m a file.
I’m a statistic.

I am completely fucked.
                My body is shaking uncontrollably. The paramedics tell me I am okay but I need to come in for questioning. They tell me that I need to try and remember everything. I could barely get the words out. I’m not even sure if I am saying the right things. Three police officers climb into the ambulance with me and drilled me with questions, screwing  into the painful pockets of my memory.

We arrive at the hospital. Mascara is running down my face. I am still hysterical in my tiny black shorts and  high heels. I am holding my purse against my chest and rocking back and forth in the wheelchair as they veer me into the ER waiting room. The patient rooms are draped in green plastic and the nurses are just shadows moving against them. My stomach is empty and the smell of latex is stale and completely uninviting. The psychologist comes in and tells me I am going be okay even though the nurse in the room is sticking me with tetanus needles and drawing blood. Protocol, she says. She tells me to stop moving, but I can’t. Every nerve in my body is trembling. The blood stained my face and legs, so she grabs a towel and solution to clean the wounds. The peroxide sizzles on my skin. I just can’t stop crying now. You’re safe here, Ms. Belfiore, you were attacked, but you’re alive and you weren’t raped, right? Just relax now.

They've seen all this before. It happens all the time. I was an obvious case. The nurse put my file into the drawer and two more officers come in to wrap up my statement.
Name:                                       Erica Jean Belfiore
Age:                                                           20
Offense:                                                   Sexual assault and battery
Location:                                              MixxLounge corner of Bleeker and 7th Ave South
Injuries:                    Lacerations and bruises on knees, back, and arms.
Rape Kit:                                     Negative
Offender:                                    Ruggiero last name unknown
Nature of attack:    sexually driven; influenced by narcotics, cocaine, and alcohol.
Investigation:          In progress.

****
August 2, 2006
It's 12:30 am and I'm already late for my internship. But, I don’t care. My mind is elsewhere. Like today, for instance, rather than calculating the amount of time I need to be punctual, I am counting the amount of cigarettes I can smoke from the time I leave until the time I arrive at work. I realize it usually takes me four cigarettes along the way, but today, let’s shoot for five. One on the way to the train, and three in between bus stops in midtown. Maybe I'll find an empty bench with an empty seat big enough for me and my emotional volcano. My feelings spewing out and covering everything around in a thick molten lava of insecurity, smothering all that comes close and killing off any positive energy that could possibly survive the blast.

The bus is three minutes early today. Any other day I would have been happy the bus was early, but today, I’d rather have my fifth cigarette. There’s something about the smoke and how it enters my mouth. It’s the control. Inhale. Exhale and six minutes later, it is gone.

August 2, 2006 12:59pm

I have one minute to get to work. Whatever.
 I climb off the bus at 53^rd street with one more block to walk towards my office. I walked passed a group of construction men carrying large concrete blocks towards the building. I can’t even close my eyes to keep my head from spinning without seeing them looking at me again through dark eyes on the scaffolds. Workers like beasts, hanging off the railing, hounding iron and metal but ravenous for attention. My head drops down and I swerve to the inside of the sidewalk. Don’t look, don’t listen. Don’t look into their eyes. Just keep walking. “Oye mami!” A zealous brute whistles at me as one of the others jumps off the platform and waves his hands. I walk straight and let them bark. I feel my legs and arms swing mechanically down the concrete.  Their eyes spear me, like sharp teeth tearing into me. They are dripping from the mouth and sizing up their prey.
I walk quickly and duck into the nearest convenience store around the corner. The clerk smiles at me and I don’t even lift my head. I grab The New York Times and throw down two dollars without change.

  Monday Evening News Report:
NEW YORK -- A subway train strikes an unidentified man at the Christopher Street and 7 Ave South station in Manhattan 3am in the morning on July 28th. The accident affected subway service on the 2 and 3 subway lines, but service is now back to normal. The man was taken by ambulance to nearby St. Vincent's hospital and died early that following morning. Police said he was heavily intoxicated but it's unclear if the man committed suicide or if he just fell on the tracks.

I rip out the article and fold it up into my hoodie pocket.
I count another one and a half puffs of another cigarette on the corner until the construction workers leave for lunch and I finally can walk upstairs into work, 2 hours late.

I slip into the main lobby, and pass three execs standing in the hallway, sucking on each other’s words, wishing their lives weren’t so uncomfortable. They discuss Hilary Clinton and distract themselves with collared shirts and business plans. Their desks are a row of urinals. Eggshell walls separate nine to five workhorses shitting and pissing their lives away. Vagrant Records office is the last door on the right. Musty, gold colored linoleum wrap either side of the walls and seven separate mirrors spot the hallway. The mirrors bounce their reflection off of each other. I stare at myself as I pass each one of them and there’s seven million of me staring back.
***
The guilt.                                                           
It’s burning a hole. Spinning around me and swimming in my stomach. I try to swallow it down. I walk over to the vending machines for a bottle of soda or some animal crackers to soak up my disgust. Eddie, my internship boss, finds me and tells me he’s disappointed I’m late. I know you’re going through a hard time right now Erica but I need you. This job is why you’re here isn’t it? Snap out of it. He asks me to type up the Saves the Day press release. It all comes up now. I push him out of the way and bolt toward the bathroom. I grab the toilet and shove my face into the bowl. I wish all of this emotional shit would come out with my puke. I sit next to the toilet bowl, and close my eyes.
I slam my fist against the stall and get up to look in the mirror. I look really ugly. My eyes are blood shot and soaked with tears. I smug the mascara some more and give up trying to clean up. I throw water on my face and watch the black tears roll down my cheeks.
I don’t want to talk about it, but Eddie is making me take an hour long lunch break for some time to think. It’s been too long for it to still be smoldering like this. How does this disgust linger so long? Why can’t I just let it go?!  I wander down 42th street amidst the busy worker bees. Everyone is the center of their own worlds; indulgent but content and completely unaware of their surroundings. Like me, for example, who is deathly afraid of every one of them.

My parents say that they’re happy the fucker is dead. The police called me last night and confirmed it. And when they did, I cried a lot. But I don’t even know why I was crying. I woke up today, numb and empty and scared and then it occurred to me why. It’s because I want something. I want answers, or closure, or anything better than that! I want my life back.” My breath shortens. “No trial. No investigation. No closure!” I lean in and write down the last thoughts I hope to ever write again. That bar was his life and once he knew that was over, he jumped in front of a train. ...And that was after he tried to kill me first. I drew a heart, bleeding, and then closed the page.

THIS WAS NEVER THE PERSON I AM TO BECOME.
Too early to call it quits.

***

August 4^th, 2006
I walk down to Tompkins Park with my suitcase and sit with my journal.  It’s been two weeks since I’ve written, but this is the last day before this chapter of my life is closed. The pages are anxious and bare. I stare up into the sunlight for clarity to collect my words, dusting off the cover and opening to the end of the story, to restart it with a new perspective.. I look down across the park bench that I'm on to see a man with red eyes glaring in the sun. His body is hunched over the bench. I’m sitting on the end. Legs crossed with my sandals on the ground in front of me. I pull my sunglasses off my face. He spins around to snatch my stare. Hello, he says. I set the journal on my lap. The sunlight catches his blonde hair and his face is illuminated. I figure he’s 24 years old. Lost and stoned. Hi, I say back with a deep exhale. I light a cigarette and offer him one. I feel him watch my breathing. He slides down the bench so his leg touches mine. He smells of hempseed and sweat. He is restless. He is natural. I know this stranger very well. I recognize his big naïve grin as it was my own. And, I smile.
2^nd Journal Entry, August 4^th 2007
Today, I didn’t force myself to smile. I’m confident to recover.
Fill me up
Rapture of certainty
My fear drowning confidence
When stitches tear at the seams
Be my refuge for loneliness
Tell me how these wounds will heal

This wound will heal..