How to Make The Law of Attraction *Really* Work

If you’re spiritually-minded like me, you might already be well-versed in the Law of Attraction. You might envision the life of your dreams or even little things you want and hope that they materialize as if conjured from a Harry Potter Accio spell. You might also know that the process doesn’t work as instantaneously as a summoning charm. If you had told me this when I was thirteen and watching The Secret for the first time, I would’ve been crushed. I thought manifestation was just saying abracadabra in your head and the universe would hand you the life of your dreams. Not quite.

It took years for me to come to terms with this. I was on a loop of wishing for things and getting upset when they would manifest in other people’s lives instead. I’d carry that negativity around and resent people for finding their happiness. I didn’t realize that walking through life on a jealous autopilot was blocking life from presenting its magic to me. I think most of us don’t realize we’re doing this, but it’s possible to find your way out of this pattern once you find your own version of a manifestation routine that works. And, trust me, it can still be just as enchanting.

Here’s what I’ve discovered that really works:

1. Limit Social Media Intake

“Intake” is the keyword here. Instead of labeling social media as simply bad or good, we have to consider all of the benefits it provides and find our balance. For me, it’s about indulging in a healthy dose of scrolling through other peoples’ lives for inspo and using social media for your own creative expression/benefit. Instead of spending hours on YouTube or Instagram absorbing how amazing someone else’s life is, you can devote more time to sharing what makes you happy and what you’re creating. That way, you start to become the person you look up to.

When you’ve put yourself out there, try not to cling to the phone to see how everyone’s reacting. Spending hours obsessing over likes and reactions can be just as toxic as going on a binge of someone else’s life. Try to take a step back after you’ve posted and give yourself a little separation. Ride the high of sharing yourself creatively and indulge in that feeling — that self-love and inspiration is exactly the kind of headspace you want to be in to create more of the life you want.

2. Create a Vision Board

This is my favorite part of the process. It’s when you get to pick and choose images of your dream life — you take in all the things you love most and sit with those inspiration butterflies stirring in your stomach. The universe loves when you feel this surge of excitement because it’s how spirit (or whatever you prefer to call it) picks up on your manifestation signals.

The best thing about a vision board is that it can look however you want it to look. You can build it on Pinterest, print and glue pictures in a journal or copy and paste your favorite images into a Word doc (the latter option is what I recently opted for). It doesn’t have to be aesthetic goals. Remember, it’s for you. I’ve organized my vision board into the sections of goals I’m currently working on (i.e. future home surroundings, my dream art studio, health & fitness and career). Once I’ve found the images that inspire me most, I place them in front of me so I get those tingles and then I journal about whatever comes to mind. I write about the life I’m manifesting as though I already have it. When it starts to actually feel real to me is when the energy in the room shifts. That’s when I feel like the magic is working.

3. Meditate

I know what you’re thinking. You’ve read countless self-help articles and you’re sick of people telling you to meditate. I understand because I’ve been there. I’ve scrolled through post after post feeling once again like I’m being force-fed the same tips from every guru out there. The problem isn’t that you’re being told to meditate, it’s that you’re not being told how unique this process is to everyone. You don’t have to meditate every day to reap the benefits, although it’s amazing if you can. Your relationship with meditation doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s (see my previous blog post about how a meditation routine can even look like taking a long bath).

When it comes to manifestation, I find that setting aside time during your week for even just one meditation practice where you focus on your purpose or the things you’re wanting works wonders. Just last week, I found a guided meditation on YouTube about finding your way. I went into it wanting some answers about what to do next. Five minutes in and suddenly my spirit guide is urging me to pay attention to birds and symbolic synchronicities in my life. I start seeing birds flying everywhere, hearing their chirps and birdsongs. I get this overwhelming feeling within the meditation that I need to be free and I sit with that feeling for the rest of the day. Later that week I get asked to paint a commissioned abstract painting for a coworker and I’m offered the opportunity to work remotely sometimes so I can travel more to see my family (they live out of the country). The wildest part? The theme for my coworker’s abstract painting is centered around her mother’s garden and the three birds that have a deep spiritual significance to her family. I nearly spit my coffee.

4. Soak in the Present Moment

Lastly and most importantly, living in a state of gratitude for every little detail of your day attracts more of the positivity you seek. If you convince yourself to wake up excited about even the most mundane aspects of your routine, you send signals to the universe that life is good and the universe rewards you for it.

I used to think I had to reserve all of my creative, positive energy for the part of my day when I clocked out of work and finally had time for the things I truly loved. I didn’t realize how much of the day I was throwing away, how beautiful my lunch break walks were, how amazing and fortunate I was to eat a hearty breakfast and so on.

When life is moving at 100 miles per hour, it can be hard to take a second to just be. I struggle with this so much and feel like there’s always something to do, something I want to achieve. Just remembering to take a deep breath and allowing yourself to be overcome with gratitude that you’re alive in this moment has all the power to shift your reality.

I hope you enjoyed this blog post and that some of these tips help attract more magic into your life! Let me know if you have your own manifestation tips so we can keep spreading the joy. Much love to you all!

Surface Tension

He held me on the sidewalk while bodies passed, dodging us like we were delicate birds in the middle of the road.

I stained his jacket like the rain looming above our heads threatened to stain the city.

We had been here before. Me grieving a loss of something I’d never had. Him towering over me like a building I could lock myself inside.

I used to think he waded in shallow waters while I sunk into the deep. I pictured his long tranquil body at the surface, a halo of sun emanating over the sea. I couldn’t reach it.

In the car I mourned the loss of nothing and felt myself sink. He held my hand just in time to keep me afloat. We locked eyes and fingers, igniting a forcefield to keep the world out.

Driving through the clutter, we escaped the muck that pressed onto our skin – mine always stickier than his it seemed.

When we were free I kissed him so he could feel the light he had left inside me.

It was then I knew we’d find our way together

through the rain,

the sea,

and up towards the sun.

A Guy and a Gal in Galway (Part 2)

A vibrant tale about a couples’ first adventure abroad in a city where the Guinness flows like water and the locals are as friendly as the sheep

IMG_1785

The second leg of our journey begins in the heart of Galway’s city center (or centre) with freshly poured beers in hand, watching from the patio of a popular bar as men of different origins, muscle masses, and ABV contents compete for the eternal glory of hanging on a metal bar for the longest amount of time. This may sound trivial, but I assure you, it was treated like a world-class prize.

To make things more clear, a Galway local had the ingenious idea of setting up a tall pull-up bar in the middle of the city, luring people in with the promise that they’d win momentary glory for being the One who can hang on the longest. Completely enthralled by this epic display of drunk competitiveness, Rich and I watched the game ensue. Unfortunately, we didn’t get a chance to watch the hero with the longest time display his hanging talent, but we did watch the others try in vain to surpass his feat – which, if I remember correctly, was a whopping 1 minute and 40 seconds. We spent the majority of that night laughing, completely in awe of this seemingly primitive sport. We toasted to the brave players’ valiant efforts and their many embarrassing failures. We watched as the night and the drunkenness progressed. Eventually, the game lured a large crowd of onlookers.

The longer we cheered the event on, the more we noticed that guys were merely stumbling out of bars and feeling inclined to show themselves off. Young jacked bachelors stepped up to the podium feeling all too good about themselves. Their group of friends would crowd around them to cheer them on, often one of them would be inches away from the hanging man, getting him going like a coach during a heated boxing match. We filmed some of these encounters, only because they were too priceless not to – heavy breathing, intense hand motions, lingering eye contact, and all. It was almost sensual.

IMG_1715.JPG

Though Rich and I found ourselves in countless bars, one in particular left a mark. From the moment we landed in Galway, we searched for the places that were recommended and frequented by locals, The Crane Bar being the most suggested of the bunch. After a long day of exploring, we made our way over, pushing the red door to find ourselves in a modest, dimly lit, and unembellished bar. There were less than a dozen other people inside. We sat at the bar and ordered a pint of Guinness. Hold on, let me rephrase, the best Guinness my lips have ever touched. If only it tasted this much like velvet sunshine back home.

We sat and smiled at the people sitting next to us, cozied up to one another and truly indulged in that all over body high specific to a quality vacation. Across from us a traditional Irish band set up their instruments. We heard the Bodhran first, an Irish handheld drum, whose soft beat cued the fiddle in. Then came the voice, the ethereal voice of a woman who projected loss, love, and centuries of history so tenderly it brought tears to my eyes. I looked over at Rich who shared my reaction. The bar fell silent apart from the echoing melodies of their music and the voices of those around us who sang along. We had been transported in time, taken into a world we were strangers to – soaking in the poetry bred into the very core of these humble and fierce people. It was so moving we didn’t have words to say when it was over. I left feeling full and deeply in tune, as though we were at the right place at the right time.

IMG_1850.jpg

At the risk of dragging this post on for too long, I want to conclude our Galway tale with the image of Rich and I hightailing down the steep hills of Inis Mor, the largest of the Aran Islands, on bikes we had rented for two hours. Picture the abundant green pastures of Hobbiton. Throw in some cows, horses, seals, farm houses, countless walls of stone, and you’ll have a pretty solid idea of what we were in for. In other words, biking through the island trails was like stepping into a lush and fantastical Choose Your Own Adventure book.

Instead of following a particular path, we kept finding our own way. Speeding down a hill overlooking the ocean, we stopped to take a photo of a family who returned the favor for us as well. Across from us, behind a stone wall and white rusted fence, lived a couple of wild horses who seemed to beckon us over. We made our way to say ‘hello’, tentatively, attempting to be gracious visitors in their sacred land. Within minutes, the horses had stuck their heads out over the fence to greet us. One of them flirted with Rich so clearly that the other grew jealous and turned away. Eventually he returned and I caressed his head gently in understanding. We had both been temporarily replaced.

As I attempt to conclude this piece, endless moments flood my mind begging to be documented too, like racing through the streets at midnight with new friends, shedding tears over a play about gay marriage being legalized in Ireland, raging to 80s music in an underground club, standing over the edge at the Cliffs of Moher, and the list goes on…

Looking back, I can say we made the best of a week spent in green paradise and there isn’t a moment I would change – except maybe forgetting my wallet on the way to the airport, but that’s neither here nor there. Most importantly however, I’ll cherish the wonder of exploring with my best friend and how fiercely bonded I felt to Rich when it was time to go, suffering from the post-traveling melancholia together.

It’s during these moments of beholding new sights, shaking hands with strangers, and feeling utterly minuscule within your surroundings, that life feels wonderful again – full of promise like it did when you’re a child and the world is infinite. I vow to never stop chasing this feeling in my lifetime.

IMG_1900.JPG

*Ireland’s eighth amendment was repealed! Did you hear that? Repealed! If you’re interested in learning more, check out the link below and watch the video capturing the moment thousands of Irish women discovered they regained ownership of their bodies. It’s breathtaking.

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/ireland-abortion-referendum-live-updates-repeal-eighth-amendment-vote-latest-poll-a8366691.html

 

 

A Guy and a Gal in Galway (Part 1)

A vibrant tale about a couples’ first adventure abroad in a city where the Guinness flows like water and the locals are as friendly as the sheep

IMG_1785.jpg

On May 2nd 2018, my boyfriend, Richard, and I embarked on our first adventure abroad together to Galway, Ireland. Where my anxious brain might’ve expected drunken arguments in unfamiliar streets, battles over what to do, various fits of rage and hair-pulling, I was gifted instead the insurmountable joy of splitting a once in a lifetime adventure with my best friend who not only supported me through a new experience, but made it explode with beauty.

Galway is colorful, hip, teaming with music around every nook and cranny (there are infinite nooks), and rich with traces of medieval architecture that blend seamlessly with the various modern additions to the city. It’s a successful combo of old and new, just as enjoyable for the longtime locals as it is for the overwhelming college population who are lucky enough to frequent some of the most beautiful pubs, cafes, and restaurants I’ve ever seen.

Seven days is nowhere near long enough to take in an entire city, but dammit, we tried! From taking a ferry to the largest of the Aran Islands, Inis Mór, and racing through the winding streets surrounded by walls of stone and infinite green pastures to sharing pints with new local friends at a hole-in-the-wall craft beer pub called The Salt House – we wanted to make our experience as diverse as possible.

From day one, Rich and I were blown away by the kindness of the locals. With luggage in-hand, we got lost on our way to the Airbnb. Though it wasn’t funny to us then, we were able to laugh later about the fact that our airbnb host said the place would be about a twenty-minute walking distance from the center of town. Nope. It was closer to an hour. As such, we ended up in a suburban street behind one of the shopping centers in the city when, in full-blown desperation, we realized our phones were dead so we couldn’t even call a taxi. Eventually we were able to ask a woman leaving her apartment across the street if she could point us in the right direction. In a thick accent that made us more excited that it should have, she not only pointed us to the street we were looking for but offered to hail us cab as well. This was the general behavior of everyone in town who was willing to answer our questions. During another mishap, a lovely couple offered us a ride after we missed our bus, treating us as if we were longtime friends. They called the bus company for us and, sure enough, it came back. Not only were they incredibly accommodating, they were pretty badass too. Only a little younger than my grandparents, we had caught them in the middle of heading back to a nearby pub to retrieve their car.

“Sounds like you had yourselves a good night,” I joked.

“That’s every night,” they responded.

Flash forward to Rich and I exclaiming the Gaelic version of “cheers”, “Sláinte!” (pronounced slawn-cha) while clinking pint glasses with new friends from Galway at The Salt House, a craft beer dive bar we kept returning to after this night in particular. The couple who left their car at a pub came to mind as Rich and I too found ourselves fully immersed in the Galway daze, losing track of time and space in good company. Hours flew by discussing everything from whether or not we were watching the same TV shows on Netflix to the current political climate in both countries. Though we couldn’t miss the hundreds of “Vote Yes” and “Vote No” signs all over the city, we had not been informed about the historic referendum on abortion that had all of Ireland in a tizzy. Locals were and still are nervously anticipating a drastic change in their constitution, allowing women to have safe abortions in Ireland, if the majority of the votes turn out in favor of repealing the current law. Tucked away in our American bubble, we were shocked to discover this and it was a topic of conversation that came up more than once throughout our trip. It’s crazy to think, if the law is indeed repealed, that Rich and I were there before history had been made. It’s amazing how easy it is to be removed from the rest of the world, but it’s even more amazing how quickly we empathize when the issue is suddenly in front of us.

I don’t remember how long we stayed to chat with our new friends or how many rounds of beer were ordered, but I do remember Rich doing an Irish accent upon request and getting a round of applause. Point is, we were in the thick of it, just like we wanted. When it was time to go, we all exchanged Facebook info and planned to meet again. They invited us to a referendum repeal party on a boat.

Rich and I looked at each other, both with smiles that were waiting to burst all over our faces, looking like we were holding in a secret. We were thrilled but didn’t want to seem too uncool, too eager. We waited until we were alone outside to kiss and explode with excitement at how intoxicating the entire night had been, that we had found ourselves in this new place and formed real connections, that we were experiencing this adventure together. Running on a mutual high from the bar was one of the highlights of the trip for me, feeling deeply connected to him and to the moment – and the best part is, it was only the beginning.

To read the final installment of my Galway adventure, click here!

Don’t forget to check out The Irish Times for additional information on the abortion referendum too.

Luminescence

1501702539987.jpeg

I don’t believe in God, but sometimes I talk to the Moon.

If I’m alone and listen carefully, it whispers to me.

I usually begin with a question.

“Am I going to be okay?”

You’ll see, with time.

Deep breath in

“But will I be happy?”

I hope so.

Exhale

Never a concrete answer

At least I’m left recharged.

 

The Moon walks me to the next destination,

Watching over me while guarding all the secrets of the Universe.

 

We rarely speak.

You see, the Moon can’t reveal all it knows.

I try to understand.

I don’t like to overstep my bounds, but sometimes I cave.

After a night of heavy drinking, I curse at the sky.

“Show me the fucking way! Please?”

Relax. You know I can’t.

“Fine.”

Did you have fun tonight?

“Yeah I guess. I met some cool people”.

Good.

 

We’re better off when we don’t talk.

I’ll bring a glass of red wine, my journal, and a blanket up to the roof.

I find the Moon among the stars and smile,

Feel the pulse of its glow on my skin and in my heart.

I settle into the comfort of this silent greeting,

Sit deep within the cool glow

As it feeds me new ideas.

I descend into a flurry of dreams like a child.

 

The Moon’s gaze is often turned away from me too.

Its familiar glow bestowed upon someone else.

I’m a small fragment of something infinite

And that is truly enough.

Even without all the answers,

I feel full.

Kitty

IMG_0460I spent my first five-dollar bill on a stuffed kitten. We had just moved to The States and were rummaging through the toy aisle at Target when Papa slipped me some cash. “Pick something special to bring home.” On my quest, I spotted a striped orange cat with almond eyes and clear plastic whiskers poking its little head out among a sea of Beanie Babies. Someone had haphazardly thrown him into the wrong section. I pulled him out of Beanie Baby hell, like I was his god or something.  He was only about the size of my five-year-old arm and his face seemed to carry a million expressions. “That’s really what you want?” Papa asked skeptically.

“Yes.”

For the first few years of Kitty’s life, he was a she. He went by the name of Ashley, which had to do with my short-lived girl crush on the Olsen twins. I remember taking a bedazzled pink bow from one of my dolls and wrapping it around his scruffy left ear. He looked at me blankly, as though trying to communicate contempt. Then he was an “it” for a while until the gender change. I started calling him Kitty after running out of more creative options.

During my elementary school years, Kitty sat by a large Spongebob pillow in the middle of my bed waiting for me to come home every day. After school I’d run into my room, drop my backpack on the floor, and smother him. Much like my journals, he tolerated my ranting silently. I’d yap endlessly about the day, my ideas, my dreams. He was never one to judge, and his patience was boundless. In fact, the poor thing sat on my desk when I listened to Avril Lavigne’s album “Let Go” nonstop for a month straight. I still know every word.

Over the years, my bond with Kitty only intensified. I’d snuggle my cheek against his baby pink nose before drifting off to sleep, feeling protected. If ever I misplaced him and couldn’t find him in time for bed, I thought the nightmares would come for me. He was a dream-catcher. He’d wait for me by my sleeping bag during our summer camping trips in North Conway and smell like fire and lake water during the drive back home.

My grandparents, Rosita and Carlos, who are two of my favorite people in the world, would visit us from the Azores every year. Rosita has never been one to sit still and would deep clean every room in the house when my parents were at work. She’d reorganize everything and redecorate until the place looked like an Ikea advertisement. She was also the only one to ever give Kitty baths. After throwing him into “the underwater Ferris wheel”, Rosita and I would cook lunch together. When it was time, Kitty would come out of the drier brand new, his stripes and belly the color of snow again. I’d take whiffs of lavender and wrap my arms around him. We’d nestle together next to Rosita under a blanket, watching telenovelas until it was time for bed.

Snot and tears found a home in Kitty’s fur from countless nights spent feeling utterly alone, let down, and heartbroken. I never believed in God, so I saved my bigger questions and wishes for Kitty in times of desperation. I’d often ask him “Why?” and “What next?” like he was hiding the answers. I’d get frustrated when he didn’t respond. At the same time, I’d lock my eyes with his and feel safe. Our bond was beyond words.

When I was eleven, my neighbors threw Kitty back and forth in the yard. I was the monkey in the middle. His left eye came off and rolled past me on the cement path in slow motion. Playing it cool, I pretended not to care in front of the cute boy-next-door. At night I shut myself in my room and cried into Kitty’s ears. Rosita sewed the eye back on the next day, but the guilt of letting my friend down remained.

As time went on, Kitty moved from my to bed to shelves where I could see him, but no one else could. This was during the phase of giving away all my stuffed animals, tearing up the Twilight poster above my bed, and my teenage identity crisis. Kitty was on top of my bookshelf facing my bedroom window that led to a lower roof when he watched me smoke a bowl with my friend Anna, our legs dangling together into the night. He fixed his blank gaze on me when Mama caught us in the act. “You know you could’ve cracked your head open and died, right?”

Kitty hid beside my Jane Austen collection when I stuffed my bedroom into cardboard boxes, preparing for the move to a freshman dorm room in downtown Boston. Papa grabbed one of my bags and stood beside him for a moment. “You’re not gonna take Kitty with you?”

“Not this time,” I responded, scratching my fingers through the fur on his head.

I flunked out of my first semester of college, diving into every possible distraction instead of focusing on school. I gained twenty pounds, bounced around parties in a haze with my “friends” from Thursday to Sunday, and let myself go until there was nothing left. Kitty was waiting for me in the same spot on my bookshelf when I moved back home in defeat. There was judgment in his eyes for the first time, so I threw him in the closet and shut the door.

As time went on, I picked myself back up again. After taking community college courses to catch up on credits and to raise my GPA, I found my way to Salem State University. Kitty was still in the closet when I moved into my first apartment, gathering dust next to my flute and a middle school yearbook. The years spent at Salem State were some of the best of my life, filled with milestones that Kitty never witnessed: falling in love, moving into an apartment with my best friends, landing a real “adult” job, and the list goes on…I could have cried into his fur after my first gut-wrenching break-up, but my best friend ‘s shoulder and a cliche pint of cookie dough filled the void instead. He wasn’t there for any of the memories that solidified my transition into adulthood. I guess he’s only really known me as a child, which makes him all the more special to me.

Last week, my two-year-old brother, Gabriel, and Mama were snuggled together on the couch watching Sesame Street. I had just come back home from school for the weekend and finished attacking Gabriel with kisses when his little almond eyes reminded me of something. I walked into my room and opened the closet door, standing face-to-face with an old friend. Picking him up by the paw like the day I first brought him home, I introduced Kitty to my brother. Gabriel sneezed into his fur and handed him back to me like a used tissue. Mama and I laughed until Gabriel instinctively joined us. Kitty sat watching at the center of it all.

Ode to Rose

I pull back my hair with your raisin clip

as you waltz in and out of rooms

Only you can paint with olive oil on Sunday morning

“Can I help with anything?”

 

Fine sesame hair, freckled skin that smells like sunrise

Your broken nail clings to my hair during braiding time

It’s only 7 am, but fresh bread’s on the table

Time for school

 

You waltz in and out of your island

I stick to you like honey when it’s time to go

That royal perfume always stains my dress

So I keep you close

 

I pull back my hair with your raisin clip

My reflection looks like you

It reminds me to stand up and carry on

Because there’s always more to do

Kitty

I spent my first five dollar bill on you.

I held your striped paw in one hand and gripped Papa’s calloused finger in the other.

Sometimes you were “she”, sometimes “he”, “it” even.

I named you Ashley for a day after watching an Olsen twins film. That didn’t suit you at all.

Sorry for smothering you.

Sorry about all the snot and tears that live inside your fur.

Samantha tossed you back and forth in the yard with a friend. I was the monkey in the middle. Your left eye came off, rolled past me on the cement path. I brought you home and cried into your ears.

Mama sewed you up like new.

Grandma gave you a bath in the underwater Ferris wheel and lavender filled my dreams.

Sometimes I swear you spoke to me, hugged me back as I held you.

I thought you could see me.

You’re tucked away behind a pile of clothes on a shelf in my old room. I don’t live there anymore.

Are you mad at me?

That matters somehow.

I’d still save you first from the fire.

 

 

*refer to my Kitty essay for more context*

 

Stuck Again

I know I haven’t posted in a while and that’s honestly because I have not been writing enough. I was sifting through my journal today and came across an entry I wrote in January when I was battling with what I believe to be some form of depression though I’ve never been properly diagnosed. The older I get the more I’ve come to realize that I am constantly battling a toss-up between extreme highs and lows, which I’m sure is “normal”, but something that I know I could monitor when I decide to take the initiative. I am trying to search for insight, so I’m sharing this in part to see if anyone’s felt this way and because I need to set it free. This isn’t my strongest writing, but it’s true.

January 17, 2017

I think disinterestedness or indifference is as debilitating as depression. Whether it be a specific moment, like sinking slowly into a couch watching your friends comfortably interact with one another and feign confidence before you, or multiple days that drag into one string of monochromatic images. Nothing and no-one can do anything for you. You’re not bored, because it’s about more than just feeling like life is uneventful. Disappointment is where it begins, realizing that all of the love, time, and intimacy you’ve fed someone leaves you barren and clawing for something that won’t come any time soon – not soon enough anyway. Disappointment creeps in like cancer when you see your family for what it really is. When you see the unforgivable faults in a parent who is beyond repair, who selfishly drags it’s better half into purgatory. When childhood dreams gather dust and your body fails you. When you see the darkness in your friends’ eyes and it collectively leaves you wondering…where do I fit into all of this? The worst part is that by the time you’ve reached the point of asking yourself this, you’ve already seen too much. No amount of alcohol can black out the reality, the endless images tucked away. As the folder of images fattens your walk begins to change. You carry yourself closer to the ground with every step. You attempt normality by going to the parties, meeting the people, reading the books, writing the stuff, eating the food, trying the things, but you are heavy.

I never want to lose my soul, but I’d like to travel into a different body. I could be the Moon, I could be a blue jay. I could be everywhere all at once, absorb light, and bleed into every moment for the rest of time.

A Wake-Up Call

Candid thoughts from a solo trip to Austin, Texas, during SXSW

14721533_10210816061378935_8376157492839664574_n

My boyfriend of a year and I broke up about a month before spring break in 2016. The loss of him in my life shattered my reality. I became numb and indifferent. I lost sight of my responsibilities, drank too much, and started to slip drastically in school. My friends were trying to fill a void and pick up the pieces all at once. My parents were calling every day to check in, asking if I was sober and going to my classes. I wasn’t.

I had been in touch with them about my plans to travel over spring break and they knew it was part of a travel writing class project. They were also well aware that I desperately needed to get away. It was my dad’s idea for me to stay with my cousin, Maria, in Austin, Texas. We often hosted her in our house when she made her way from Portugal to The States for various solo trips of her own. She had always said that, when my time came to explore, I’d have a place to crash. I was looking into other options as well, but something about Austin during the South by Southwest (SXSW) Music, Film and Interactive Festival spoke to a part of me that had been buried for too long. My parents knew this. I clung desperately to the possibility that time away would wake me up from a deep slumber.

I gave myself over completely to being in love and lost half of myself along the way, not because he ever forced me to but because I was too eager to please. I prioritized him over myself and began to feel like I was disappearing. The half of me that had been raised unconventionally by a rock and roll father and a gypsy, belly-dancing mother grew small. In short, I subconsciously began to shed some of the “weird” from my identity.

In order to remember who I was, I clung to memories of summer days when my parents hosted parties in my childhood home. When the day grew dark, friends would make their way from our yard to the basement for secret adult jam sessions that never failed to peak my curiosity. I dreamt of being down there with them. My little cousin, Dylan, and I would play “spies” and creep down the stairs like mice, hoping to catch a glimpse of the magic coming from the basement through thick clouds of smoke. I marveled, wide-eyed, at the shadows of bodies dancing, the cacophony of grunge music blaring from inside, and the overlapping voices engaging in the kinds of conversations I was too young to understand but wanted to be a part of.

Sometimes, if I was lucky, my parents would let me say goodnight to everyone before bed. To ten-year-old me, that was like being handed a VIP pass to the sold out concert in our basement. I made the best out of the time I was given. I would engage in conversations with artists, musicians, writers, and listened intently. I’d jam out on the drums with my dad’s band, soaking in encouragement from people I respected. By the end of the night, I would lie in bed going over everything that had happened. I would fall asleep to the sweet sound of music and laughter coming from below me. I knew that was my world. I felt fulfilled.

For a year, while I was lost in a relationship, I struggled to find that same sense of fulfillment that tied to the roots of who I am. I neglected my needs, desires, and passions. It was as though I had become an extension of someone else who kept growing and evolving while I remained stagnant. I was free-falling. I thirsted for finding my place or purpose again and made the decision to be alone so that I could begin a new journey without anything or anyone clouding my judgment.

I landed in Austin at midnight on Sunday, March 13th. Only an hour after I arrived on southern soil, Maria and I found ourselves weaving through thousands of people on 6th Street in downtown. The city was overflowing with drunk people, rock and house music blaring from every corner. I passed and bumped into over a dozen musicians lugging around heavy amps and guitars from gig to gig. I watched a handful of girls in stilettos make their way to clubs; one tripped over her friend’s dress and they both went down like dominoes. My eyes darted to the obvious poverty as well, the homeless men and women wrapped in blankets, trying to sleep on the concrete as party-goers walked around them. This was downtown Austin during South By Southwest. It was chaos! It was alive. The city slapped me in the face, and I had only just arrived.

14379953_10210579074974423_5854297329523881533_o

I knew Maria from the handful of times she came to stay with us throughout my life. We’d always catch up on a few things but she was never around long enough for us to truly get to know one another. I saw her as this poised, elegant, and naturally beautiful enigma. She was independent, always traveling and building a successful life for herself. I admired her. Maria had only been living in Austin for a couple of months. Within that short amount of time, she had rented what I deemed the “Snow White Cottage” in all its mythical stone-lined glory, landed a grueling yet rewarding job as a teacher at a juvenile detention center, and attracted a rock lead singer and guitarist hottie who only lived a couple blocks away. Within this seven-day period, the two of us bonded and connected like old friends. We laughed and opened up to each other about our personal lives during every car trip back and forth from downtown. I felt at home in her presence. Most importantly though, she gave me space. Whatever independent spirit hid in the depths of me, she conjured it out. She encouraged me to explore the city on my own while she was off healing lost children. Maria inspired me with her own stories about traveling alone and forming friendships with strangers. I told myself that if she could do it, I could too.

On my last day in Austin, from about one in the afternoon to nearly three in the morning, I explored the city until my legs were numb and my Vans ripped at the toes. I went in and out of endless “Keep Austin Weird” vintage shops, sneaking pictures and pretending not to see the signs urging me to do otherwise.

At the end of South Congress Street, I walked into what seemed like a thrift store, took a quick look at the abundance of Halloween costumes surrounding me in the middle of March, and was on my way out when the cashier pointed out my shirt.

“Are you wearing that for the concert tonight?”

His question threw me for a loop. By chance, I had grabbed my favorite Deftones band-tee out of a pile of clothes that morning. Surely there was no way they were actually here for South By Southwest. I would have known this. I would have bought my concert tickets way in advance. I told him, “I didn’t see them on the lineup.”

Turns out the universe has a great sense of humor. The headliner for the massive Lady Bird Lake concert caught the flu, and the Deftones, already on tour, filled in last minute. One of my favorite bands of all-time was going to be in Austin at 8 PM. The kicker? It was a free show.

I had some time to kill before the concert and decided to head to a bar I’d walked past a few times. The entire place, inside and out, was something out of a fairytale. All of the eccentric and beautiful musicians congregated there like woodland elves in need of a pre-show potion, or many. With my head held high, I walked straight to the bar and sat down; on my left were two traveling ladies in their twenties and on my right was a woman holding the margarita I should have ordered instead of a Corona. It was my last day in the city and I had been in and out of bars alone a few times. I knew what to do. I heard Maria’s voice reminding me to let gobe open, and dive in. I introduced myself to all three women sitting next to me and, before long, neither one of us could shut up. As fate would have it, I quickly discovered that one of my new friends was from Boston like myself. She worked for the successful brand, Timberland, and was attending the festival with a few of her coworkers. “What do you do? Who are you with?” she asked. I explained the writing project, the fact that I was traveling by myself for the first time, my plans to write for a living in the future, everything. She listened intently and explained that many companies, now more than ever, were on the hunt for writers – young, friendly, and charismatic people to go to events like SXSW and document their experiences. My eyes widened. She encouraged me to keep writing, to start a blog, and to reach out to her as a friend in the industry. There I was, receiving words of encouragement from someone I had already grown to respect. I was forming connections, talking about art, music, my future, and began to feel my pieces getting sewn back together again.

I exchanged numbers with my new friends, left a tip on the wooden bar, and set off on the next journey toward Lady Bird Lake for the concert. I couldn’t have timed anything better and was one of the first people to land a spot only fifteen feet away from the largest stage in Austin. That’s what happens when you’re a tad early and the last-second “secret” Deftones concert hasn’t reached everyone’s radars yet. I stood patiently and watched as, slowly but surely, thousands of people came flooding in. What was once a vast green landscape quickly became a boisterous cluster of hipsters. Beside me, while waiting for the show to start, I met another band from California who had just left their gig to watch one of their main inspirations in action. “I can’t believe they’re here!” they kept repeating. They complimented my shirt and, suddenly, I’d made new friends. We instantly hit it off and they promised to protect me from the moshing when the time came. Turns out I wasn’t experiencing this concert alone at all.

An hour later, at the peak of the show, I was merely a tiny speck – shaken fully awake within a sweaty mass of screaming, dancing, and moshing fans. Every hair on my body stood high throughout the entire concert. I was in the thick of it, smack dab in the middle of the action. The combination of exhilaration, euphoria, and the fear of being shoved to death by a two-hundred pound moshing meathead, made for an out-of-body experience. I felt myself bleed into the moment as if the night was infinite. At one point, Chino Moreno, the lead singer, walked among the audience and his arm grazed mine. I must’ve asked myself how any of this was real about a thousand times.

13419162_10209672100620631_4669267099728795950_n

The show ended too soon and I thirsted for more as the sea of people dispersed. I  searched for the band I’d befriended, but they were nowhere to be found. I followed the mass back into downtown, still running on a high from what had just happened. Eventually I found my way back to 6th Street and decided it was time to hit up my favorite venue, just one last time for one last drink. My entire body was throbbing but this had to be done. I was on my way to the far end of 6th Street when I felt someone grab my arm. “Hey, you! Wait up!” As though the universe still had a few more tricks up its sleeve, I had been spotted within the late-night 6th Street drunk sea of chaos. My band friends from the concert picked me apart from thousands of people. “I saw your shirt” the drummer said. I couldn’t help but laugh. My Deftones shirt was a genie, granting me all my Austin wishes. “You guys want to join me for a drink at Hotel Vegas?”

If any place could recreate the same magic I felt coming from the basement during my parents’ grunge parties, Hotel Vegas was it. On the outside the venue looks like a cheap southern motel from a Quentin Tarantino film. Myself and the band got to know each other on the way there. Turns out the lead singer was Azorean and spoke fluent Portuguese, just like me. The universe, again. The flickering neon “Hotel Vegas” sign greeted us at the entrance and the five of us walked, through thick clouds of smoke, into the party I had been waiting for.

When I was ten and allowed access into my parents’ basement parties, I knew that as much as I felt part of it all, it wasn’t my time yet. Here I was brought back into that world, only now I could truly live it. I was one of the writers, talking to other aspiring writers, musicians, dancers, creative people of all kinds. We were all feeding off of each other’s energy. I danced my heart out. I let myself go completely until all of my “weird” was out for everyone to see. I didn’t give a shit about anything. I laughed until beer came out of my nose as my lead singer friend did “the Carlton” when the ‘80s music came on. The two of us attracted a crowd of dancers and all I could see was blurred bodies and light. I let that light consume me. I don’t know how long this party lasted. I don’t remember every inspiring conversation I had. What I do remember is the moment I felt myself watching this scene from afar, like a film. I realized that everything I had attracted in front of me, I accomplished on my own. I felt whole again.