The Butterflies of the Sensitive Kid

The day my butterflies left my stomach

I didn't even notice



They didn't leave all at once. It was pretty slow actually.

One by one they flew out, bid adieu to my heart on their way up, and delicately left me. They didn't even have to force my mouth open.

I don't blame them for leaving. That is, after all, what starving things tend to do.





Their absence wasn't noticed until the day I realized I no longer had any fear of speaking for a large crowed of people. The day I no longer had to worry about my hands being too slippery to play my flute and the first time I wore an over sized DI sweater to school.

The day I sat indifferently in an awards ceremony, not caring if they called my name or not. The day I did away with my filter.

The day I stopped feeling nervous when someone was going to kiss me.
The day I stopped feeling excited when someone was going to kiss me.

The day I didn't care if I won because I wouldn't care if I lost.






And I still don't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing when that last butterfly flew out of my stomach

That's going to end up in the ocean you know

The thing about plastic is that it doesn't biodegrade. 
It becomes brittle. Breaks up into thousands of pieces.
But it stays around. Even when we throw it out because it has lost its.

It doesn't just disappear even though you can not see it

Plastic consumption and production is only increasing. Hundred of millions of tons of plastic are being used every year.

Water bottles, cheap packaging, dollar toys.

Plastic is cheap

To buy.

But the toll it has taken on the environment is a debt that cries for relief.

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, (pictured above) is twice the size of Texas.


Oh how differently our reaction would be if it affected humans in the same way it did animals



Or if it affected us as much as it affects them

But there's something horribly biting about reality when those who cause the problems are rarely the ones to suffer it's effects 

We don't have to see the large scale effects of our wasteful environmental exploitation. We don't see ecosystems and communities ruined by our trash. We pay people to remove the dirty surplus of our consumerism.

What we do see, everyday, is small pieces of plastic on the ground.

We see bottles littering the sophomore parking lot, cups in the streets, plastic bags blowing around the mountains.

What we do see, is recycling bins devastatingly empty.

Plastic is cheap, but it does not go away. 
BUT IT IS TOXIC 

We have one planet. And plastic has only been around for little over 100 years.

It's not just plastic though. It's natural gas. Forests. Minerals.
It's what we take from our planet that we can't give back.

We turn our back to so much of the harms that come from our luxurious and plush lifestyle. 90% of consumer goods made in sweatshops. Oppressive factory farms. Undocumented and underpaid immigrants picking our vegetables. Consumerism leaves a footprint everywhere it steps.

But plastic, at least, can be recycled. Easily. All it takes is is to bend down, pick up the water bottle on the ground, and toss it in the nearest recycling bin.

3 moments that changed my life

1. Riding alone on a front runner train from Salt Lake city at age 15. I was very tired.
College kid sits next to me. Shaggy hair and downward eyes he says- can you read something for me?
Out from his backpack he pulls out an essay titled "love".
He hands it to me.
I read.
His words paint an abusive childhood and a little boy with Shaggy hair and wet eyes running away from parents who did anything but parent him.
They draw a loving couple who takes him in and takes him on drives through the mountain. Who love him very much.

But who can never adopt him.
Who can never marry.
Because both members are men.

I stop reading.
He says he still doesn't know why.
His eyes are on the ground

2. My friend's entire family except for a little brother and older brother on a mission were killed in plane crash.

I sat in the crowed at the funeral.

My friend gets up and speaks.

17 going on 30 ; there is so much pain on his face

But his words are woven with hope. And God.

 3. I sit on a rock in a beach in california. And for the first time in over a year, felt peace and realized how beautiful the world was.

I remember that really well actually.

My Great Grandfather: The Tester

Grandfather Erwin kept a jar of candy tantalizingly on the top of the kitchen counter.

The sweets inside the jar tantalized the many children that would come to his house.
Colorful hard candy, peppermint sticks, gobstoppers.
Any child's dream
The best part: the jar wasn't off limits

He never handed out a single piece of candy























Erwin Henderson was a carpenter. He and his wife Twila built their own home in Downy, Idaho. A small, cozy, wooden house with yellow wallpaper and a flowerbed by the green door. Erwin had a large woodshed where he would do his work. Tables, chairs, and his signature work- building blocks for the neighborhood kids

He was a practical man who worked hard
With calluses that never softened
With wrinkles that were wooden
With a mind was sharp as a blade

And he would sit in his straight backed chair, a product of his hands And he would watch the jar

And he would watch the children
Silently preforming his test

For candy out of reach is still obtainable to a clever whit

No chairs or stools in the kitchen- yet to the innovative candy seeker a world of possibility of open
For the innovative candy seeker knows that candy out of reach becomes possible when the towel drawer below is pulled out and used as a stool

The innovative candy seeker knows the cloth under the jar can be pulled

The innovative candy seeker gets the candy



Year after year he watched his great grandchildren preform the test.

Some passed. Some failed.

He never told us who.


But Great Grandfather Erwin was gone just before I could be tested. The jar of sweets, locked away

All that was left was the small house, dozens of straight backed chairs, and boxes of wooden building blocks 

Substantially less cynical then usual: Flow

F L O W

f l o w   i s   t h e   m e n t a l   s t a t e   o f   o p e r a t i o n   i n   w h i c h   a   p e r s o n   i s            f u l l y    i m m e r s e d   i n   a   f e e l i n g   o f   e n e r g i z e d   f o c u s,   f u l l      i n v o l v e m e n t,  a n d   e n j o y m e n t. 

  

I want to talk about engagement.

Mental/emotional/logical
engagement
stimulation
simulation
situation

I want to talk about my most poignant and intense passion.

I want to talk about music.





As it turns out, music has basically always been a thing. Egypt has harps and flutes 4000 BCE. Before that, different types of drums had a prominent place in many religious ceremonies. We don't know who was the first primitive human to bang 2 items together for enjoyment rather then function. And that hardly matters anyway.

Although music has little to no actual functional use, (excluding war drums or signaling horns), it developed all over the world. Unlike "agriculture," "animal domestication," or religion, it cannot be traced back to a specific region where it originated and then spread. Because where there were humans, there was music.

It's particularly interesting to note the significance of this phenomenon. Something of minimal survival value, developing all over the world at a time where there was no time for fooling around.

It's actually quite amazing.

Music must really just be such a natural part of being human. I can think of no other explanation.



When you play music, it engages such an enormous part of your brain. It's one of the few activities that stimulates both the left brain, (as the player has to take note of chords, rhythm, accidentals, scales, etc) and right, (musical expression and interpretation, dynamics, timing), that it strengthens the layer of tissue, the corpus calloson that connects the 2. Well practiced musicians have great inner-brain connectivity.

It effects the way we feel.  In 2009, the University of London conducted a study, playing different moods of music for different people, and monitoring the results. Predictably, those who listened to sad music were more likely to see sadness in a neutral face, and those whose music was happy were more likely to see joy.

People of all types are drawn to it. Friedrich Nietzsche famously said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." There's a huge overlap in those who are musicians with those who do math. Religious people are spiritually moved by music. Young rebellious youth are drawn to different sounds. It has always been a way for those in pain to express themselves. Jazz in the Harlem Renascence. Rap now.  Classical. Rock. Folk. Country. Independent. Alternative. Hip Hop

It is extraordinary




F L O W

Playing music has been the biggest passion I've had from the moment I took my first piano lesson 11 years ago. But even back then, playing music was more of an obligation then a pleasure.

It honestly wasn't  until I picked up a guitar for the first time 3 years ago that I fell in love.

Cutting the callouses hurt. Bar chords were a joke.


But I kept playing.

I taught myself "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles, and to this day, whenever I pick up a guitar, that is the first song that comes out.
It's natural.

But then I fell in love again.

I am convinced that guitar was meant to be with. Simple knowledge of music theory and technique open up unlimited possibilities.
 And as a sophomore, I wrote my first song.
It's a song that I look back on with a smile and a small shake of my head.
It has no key signature, no pattern, just a random melody finger picked on whatever chord sounded good.
I never wrote it down. But I will never forget it.

You see, I fell in love with music that day because I realized how extraordinary writing music is.
That little makeshift melody had never been played before in the entire world.
Maybe something similar to it, but it had never been played the way I played it.
Literally the first time that tune was ever played, it was in my hands, in my room.

And I was the only one to hear it.

This may seem selfish, but I find so much satisfaction in laying on my hammock, picking out a melody until I am satisfied, internalizing it, and then forgetting it. Never writing it down. Being the only person in the world to hear it.

This is flow for me.

My guitar goes where ever I go, because it is my soul. I'm not an overly expressive or emotional person as is, but a guitar tugs my soul out of my body and lays it on the table for all to see.

The truly amazing thing, is it's not just music that does this.
 It's like the air around us is surrounded with strings of color and emotion and when you create something, whether that is piece of writing or abstract art, a photo or a tweet, you are pulling the colorful strings out of air and weaving them into a unique tapestry that is the first and last of it's kind.
Because we have the power of creation.
To actually put something in the world that wasn't there before.
That blows my mind.


Without me, that little awkward sophomore plucked out guitar melody would never have been played.
Those combinations of color on my latest abstract painting would never come together in that particular way.
The words of this very post would have never been woven together.

That blows my mind.

It's an empowering thought.


Ah right now I am 'tsk tsk tsk'ing myself for not having a thesis statement. This post has been all over the place, from 4000 BCE to my bedroom. It drives me crazy when there is no thesis statement. I better make one up really quick. 

It may not be music for you. But everyone has something that gives their mind 'flow'. Something exciting, stimulating, engaging. Something that, when they do, releases them from all worries and fears.

I can't play guitar as much as I'd like. I'm too busy.

Maybe it's time we all took a step out of life, if even for just a moment, and did what we loved. Create things. Bring art into this world.

I feel like that is what 'transcendentalism' which is honestly the whole theme of my blog, is about. Simplifying life to what makes you excited to be alive.

So that's my thesis. Do what you love.

F L O W

But what about her? Anthem of the heart breaker.

This piece is going to swear. Just once though. I usually abstain from crude language, but in the context of the thoughts going through my mind, there was not a better word. 



And the stage is set. 

Scene 1: Boy likes girl.

It's the girl he's been in love with all his life, the girl next door, who never seems to notice that he even exists, but she smiled at him that one time.

It's the girl who has been his best friend for 3 years. He's seen her without makeup, in tears, sun burnt, acne covered, then though puberty when she suddenly became gorgeous to the world; but he's known she's beautiful throughout the entire journey.

It's the girl who sits next to him in math. She jokes with him and helps him with his homework.

It's the girl who has freckles. The girl with white blond hair or curly black locks. The girl with straight As or the girl with a rebellious streak. The girl who wear tee-shirts. The girl who wears dresses. IT DOESN'T MATTER.

Because he loves her. He loves her so much and when he sees her he gets butterflies. He loves her because of her soul, not her body. And she makes him so happy.

Beautiful.

Day after day her watches her, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she feels the same way.

Except she doesn't. 

He texts her everyday with "I miss you" text messages. He asks her out and hopes she says yes. He buys her flowers and chocolate, knows all of her favorite songs, he can tell when she's feeling sad when no one else can, and it gives him so much pain that no matter what he does she does not retaliate the feelings. 

Because she doesn't miss him. She doesn't want to go out with him. She doesn't care about what he says or does it will not change the way she feels.  She keeps saying no.


And he and his friends look at her with daggers of hatred because what a cold-hearted, condescending, insensitive, obviously insecure, BITCH. Sorry. She's not even pretty. She's not good enough for him anyway. She's a brat and he's lucky he sure dogged a bullet. 

Her friends shake their heads at her as they ask how she can be so heartless, and "why can't you just give him a chance, and he's such a good guy.  And it would make him so happy if you went out with him. And look at how you torture him. You're the reason people kill themselves. SMH SMH SMH "

Scene ends with the heart broken. The "why doesn't she return my love?" The "how can she be so cruel?" Boy is sad. Boy doesn't know how he will ever get over her, if it's even worth it. Poor boy.

And here the audience cries. They have all felt heartbreak. They feel for boy.

They all ask "why?" They all ask "why is love so empty?" No one cares to ask, "what about her?"


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Scene 2: Her

She has no idea he feels this way. She tries to be kind to everyone, smile at strangers, help classmates out with math. She has lots of friends that are guys that she's known since forever. When she sees him, he's sad, and she doesn't know why. She tries to help him, but this seems to only make him sadder.

"Ignorance is bliss." -Thomas Gray

BUT SOMETIMES SHE DOES KNOW.

She hears every dagger and feels every every word spoken. She has a heart and it's breaking but not because someone doesn't love her back, but because she cannot possibly return the value of love that has been invested in her and the debt she feels grows everyday. She sees the boy, broken-hearted and broke, spending his love on something that was never for sale. She wants to shake the boy and scream stop! The love you pour falls into a bucket with a crack; a bucket that will never fill and when it's done you will find your rivers dry and vegetation crumbling because you have thrown your most valuable resource onto the dry desert ground. 

No amount of feelings he has for her can create feelings in her for him. 

It kills her that she hurts him. And it kills her that she has no control over it. Her heart isn't cold, it's alive and beating and just as important as his.

The more he pushes the more it hurts. He tells her she is the only thing that can make him happy. He tells her that she makes life meaningful and without her he doesn't know if he wants to live. He tells her she's beautiful and thinks that's enough to win her over. 

But she just doesn't like him. Her friends shake their heads at her indifference.

But she just doesn't like him. He could be the most brilliant, attractive, funny guy, but it would not change the way she feels.

Scene closes with the heart breaker. Guilt driven loneliness. Ashamed for feeling a way that should not be shameful. Girl is sorry. She really is. But girl can't change.

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It's not just him and her. It's her and him. It's the gay guy who falls for the straight one or other way around. It's every love sick human who has ever found their love sold and every person who can't be bought.

It hurts to be heart broken. But don't forget the pain of the heart breaker. Because both have a heart.

And loving someone never guarantees love.

Close scene.
Roll credits. 

Stop telling me to take off my hat

When a baby is born, the one of the first things you do is put a hat on its head.

The head is the area of intense blood flow, and the vessels of the scalp are particularly vulnerable to external cooling. The blood drops in temperature, lowering the core body temperature.

A baby's head is also larger in proportion to the rest of its body, and often doesn't have hair to insulate the delicate skin; thus exacerbating the process of hypothermia.

It is very important that their head is protected.

Hats from the moment we are born.  Both physical and social. After all, baby girls get pink hats and baby boys get blue. Categorized from the beginning.

People who are Construction workers. Bicyclists. Fire fighters. They wear hats to protect them.  Obviously a construction worker is more then a construction worker, and can have dreams and aspirations and personify traits that have nothing to do with building buildings.

But the hat keeps that worker safe.

Call me fake if you want, but just because I don't show the sad parts of my personality often does not mean the happy parts I do show are fake. I wear my musician's hat. My artist's hat. My "I love calculus" hat.
My happy hat when I'm sad.
My intimidating hat when I'm scared.

Because sometimes hats protect the parts of us that are most vulnerable. Sometimes you just have to suit up and do the job.

Wearing a hat doesn't make you fake. How can it? It's yours, and you choose to wear it.

I don't care about the hats others put on me. I only have one head. And I choose what's on it.

Stop telling me to take my hat off. Because of I took it off just to appease people, that would be the fake part.

The Cry of the Millennials

"5 STEPS BACK" The cry of the kids at the concert

"5" They yell

"STEPS" They chant

"Back"

But it's general admission. And everyone wants to get to the front.

It's a constant tug-of-war between the sheer mass of people you pushing back, those behind you pushing you forward, and your own desires to get to the front row of the concert; the prime location, success, status, recognition, pride

"5 STEPS BACK" The kids at the concert
They plead for relief, their feet don't touch the ground and the forces pushing them forward rip the air from their lungs and there are people passing out, and no matter what you do don't fall because if you fall at this concert you aren't getting back up.

"5 STEPS BACK" But even those who chant this weightless anthem have no intention of taking 5 steps back to relive the pressure on the crowd. Those who give up and take 5 steps back will be replaced by those who didn't and the pressure stays and the crowd still cries but those who gave up are only 5 steps farther from success.

"5 STEPS BACK" We could all just sit and enjoy the music if everyone stopped pushing. But even those who chant push to the front.

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5 more minutes. The cry of an overworked student.

5. A whisper.

More. A prayer

Minutes.

Everyday a competition and everyone pushing to get to the top.

An average of 3 hours of sleep a night for the last 3 weeks may keep adrenaline pumping through your veins but blood is only skin deep and though physical survival hardly parallels the slow chipping away of your spirit as the world isn't even black and white anymore; it's just grey. Everyday looks the same, but a moment of peace is a moment of neutrality and this is the kind of world where if you fall you can't come back up.

5 more minutes. The glow of a desk light keeps us up and the alarm clock rips us out and the time between the two occurrences continues to shirk with each generation. You know it's a problem when free time makes you stressed out because why aren't you accomplishing something and the problem with running on water is that you can't slow down.

5 more minutes. The most mentally ill, diagnosed, self medicating, pill taking, well faking generation this country has seen cries for relief. The pressure of competition and what it takes to succeed grows everyday. Levels of  stress that would justify visit to an asylum in the 70s are now normal in high school students. Everyone has anxiety. Everyone has depression. And the millennials silently scream for relief.

               A fraction of the sleep needed, satisfied.

               A college education that only a few generations ago was an option is now a requirement to succeed in the big world, to get to the front of the concert, the front of the line.

               A new policy for wall street interns requiring them to go home at midnight and take a weekend off once a month to see family because too many of the interns, overworked by choice, were taking their own lives in a desperate attempt to escape the pressure of trying to get success.


5 more minutes. We could slow down if we wanted to. Sleep more. Love more. But somethimes even those who desire this the most are the ones who push to the front most aggressively.

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I scream silently everyday as my alarm goes off. Maybe I should slow down. 5 more minutes. "5 STEPS BACK". But there is always someone to take your spot.

5 STEPS BACK. I chant with the crowed. But that's Utopian. And I keep pushing forward.

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