on shooting stars

hi friends,

how has your year been taking shape? what’s been inspiring you lately? what’s your current favorite snack? please do let me know.

i’ve missed shouting into this familiar void about whatever i happen to be thinking, feeling, doing, experiencing. i miss the challenge of writing regularly with no clear path of where it will go, writing until there’s that feeling where it clicks and i’m like “oh so this is what it was all about!” and i press post. so here i am, doing that dance once more.

the shift from nomadic life to living in my own space for the first time has been a fascinating one. so many things to notice and appreciate, and also so many feelings that had been hiding in shadowy corners and step into the light, begging to be felt. i’d like to think i’ve gotten better at greeting them, sitting with them for a while – rather than banishing them back into the darkness as i had grown accustomed to. but it can still get crunchy. (i’ll get into that later)

for half of 2024 i was often living alone, in strangers’ homes up and down the west coast, always with a furry little friend of some kind. some spaces were large and lavish, nestled in the Santa Cruz mountains on a blooming plot of land, with an indoor pool housed in glass and wood-paneled walls. some were quaint and a little rough around the edges, but steps away from ocean cliffs in San Diego that are painted in gold every evening as the sun sinks under the horizon. some homes-for-now i stayed at for only a couple days, others for a couple weeks at a time. and every time i got to know my rhythms a bit more.

the first couple days were always the most exciting. orienting myself by wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood, buying a fresh loaf of sourdough and a chocolate croissant from the local bakery the grocery store clerk recommended, observing this new world i had entered. this has always been one of my favorite sensations of the human experience. the watching and listening and being in the world and amongst its inhabitants, but feeling blissfully anonymous while doing so. i liken this to my approach when i (rarely) played video games as a kid. i was never one for strategy or memorizing cheat codes or really caring about winning – all i really wanted to do was wander around this new world that i found myself in. i wanted to dive deep into it and explore. take peeks around corners most people would rush by in the pursuit of getting to the next level. maybe find some hidden treasures along the way, some tiny delights the game creators tucked in the most unassuming of places. i feel similarly in this real-world video game we’re all playing our little roles in.

once i had done my fair share of wandering, and if i was staying in the current temporary home for a while, i started to settle in. often, the inevitable exhaustion of travel would catch up to me. i would rest, and other times the rest would morph into a twisted game of hide-and-seek with seemingly spooky feelings. the feeling of weightlessness, of floating that i was so inspired by when i embarked on this journey would feel quite dark and ominous, the feeling of ungroundedness and aloneness became intensely uncomfortable. i kept trying to find new hiding places in myself, and the feelings would always come looking. but the dog needed to be walked, the house needed to be tidied, and then i would send myself off to wherever my next destination was.

and still… no matter where you go, there you are. i learned this in each new destination, with each new view. i continue to learn this in first very own home-for-now.

i still try to sneak away from myself, cyclically. i still leave clothes on the ground when my brain starts feeling fuzzy. various surfaces around the space i’m so lucky to call mine are scattered with long-forgotten mugs housing lonesome, damp tea bags. i still curl up into myself and away from the people that love me most. i still try to rewrite the story of my truest self. i still hide from my reality from time to time.

when i am in this experience of self, the world becomes smaller and the colors a little duller. it becomes a distorted un-fun house maze where everywhere i turn there is someone doing something that makes me feel all squirrely and judgy. i see the nastiness in everyone and everything. the real world is hazy and clouded and i prefer my dream world instead.

and then,

i give myself a deadline to this theatrical display of apathy, this tantrum in shades of grey. the next morning i thank the sun. the next morning i commune with shades of green, amongst tall redwoods and spritely ferns. the next morning i let myself identify with the dew drops resting atop soft grass – small and still and sparkling – unaware of the magic they add to the world. the next morning i smile at dogs and i end up by the sea, which never ceases to beckon to me. the next morning i let the mist cleanse the grime that has built up in me. the next morning i inhale deeply and exhale completely. the next morning i feel porous, as if the sea breeze could carry me. the next morning i let myself feel blissfully empty and clean. the next morning i begin again.

i couldn’t even begin to count the times i’ve been on this ride. every time i come out the other side i’m like “yes! i’ve discovered the answer to all of this. now i know and now i will be my most radiant self all the time and forever.” and then i forget. and then it begins again. and i think this is life. and it’s actually totally normal and this is the ride that we have all ended up on alone and together all at the same time.

this is again, one of those moments that i wish i could tie up this letter with a pretty bow and make it nice and polite and comforting. but this ride is often not nice and polite and comforting. and so it is. it is hard to hold the light and still remember the dark is inevitable, or to hold the dark and remember the existence of the light. and it is rare to be in moments where you are grateful for both, where you let them both be what they are, wholly. where you let yourself be what you are, wholly. i think i’m actively realizing i am in one of those precious blips of time as i write this. a shooting star across an expansive sky, that has turned from dark to light cyclically for centuries.

i hope this letter finds you well – whether you are in the dark or the light or taking a ride on that shooting star. i hope you stumble upon some hidden treasure this week.

i love you,
coley