A Grateful and Appreciated Butch

Anyway, to celebrate I thought I’d re-post my blog on Butches and add a little something; I was thinking about making a Butch T-Shirt and it would read something like this:
BUTCH: Butch Dyke, Femme Butch,T ransButch, Butch-Femme, Butch Top, Butch Bottom, Butch Boi, Butch Girl, Butch Tranny, Butch Man, Butch Switch, ButchMTF, Single Butch, Straight Butch, Butch Fag, ButchFTM, Soft Butch, Stone Butch, Hardcore Butch, AG, Stud, Bull Dagger, Masculine of Center, Butch Lesbian, Butch Fag…

I’m guessing I’m missing about 100 more self-identities. You know I’m serious about folks being able to self-identify, after all there is enough for everyone! — Can you help?

Happy Butch Appreciation Day!!

#Tie #Butch Enough #Butch – You are Butch Enough! We are Butch Enough!
If there is such a thing…

I started officially cross dressing at 15. I had a fairly athletic 145lb frame, my gait encouraged people to ask me if I had been in the service (I was not) and I was at this time and many years to follow, absolutely stone. Always broad, always strong, always butch and yet I’d have people telling me I wasn’t butch enough. Mistaken for men all the time, bouncing at clubs, fighting muggers on NYC streets in the 80s, stepping up to protect others in distress and passionately gallant – and still being told I was not butch enough.
It was tough. I hated it and for a very long time I believed it.

And what’s the difference between being told you are not being butch enough and you are not being man enough? Don’t both confine masculinity into a tight-small-angry boxes? It seemed that way to me because I was often compared to the butches who wore misogyny, sometimes, like an outer shield against the world and other times just under their shirts where they would passively hurt other women while also charming them.

My first live-in lover just could not understand why I would not hit her back. It was 1980, I was 17. At six or younger my sister and I played brother and sister games. In 2nd and 3rd grade I would hit and fight with boys for talking in class. I could see later how I was asserting my masculinity in this way – And “boys don’t hit girls!” The idea of hitting back my girlfriend never worked for me. Of course now I’m passionately nonviolent and have been for a very long time.

I learned recently that the guys who act out most aggressively and harmfully, supposedly have low testosterone levels. It’s some kind of condition that most guys don’t know about. The well-balanced, emotional guys are supposed to be considered pretty normal. I often wonder why, in any case, there are butches who want to emulate the worst guys and I wonder how many of them are told, they are not butch enough.

We who choose to be Butch in khakis, Levis, dickies and Armanis; short skirts, long dresses, doc martins, rock ports, fluevogs or tevas – we all get to self-identify as Butch. She butches, he butches, zi butches, transbutches, femme-butches and man butches, (I love my butch male friends who embrace their femininity!) And I all of those I’ve left out.

This is called freedom of expression. This is called Freedom to self-identify.

How do you identify? Is gender even a part of your identity? How diverse is your crowd/tribe? Can you go bigger?

When we are all free, we will all be free! – Butch Fresh! 10/7/2010

And that idea led me this morning to look up the origin of my “original” birth surname, Lewis. I use quotes around original because many adoptees are lied to about birth dates, circumstances and names, but that’s what I have to work with right now…

My story, the one that seemed to be real to me for most of my life is that I’m African-American with Native American blood, and Jewish ancestry. Spiritually however, I’m tied to everyone and I know in the bigger picture of science, that’s just truth. This story has kept me free and helped me move in/side step the shackles provided to me by my society; the ones I sometimes trip on. You know the ones who til this day have never reflected me in media.

Talk about stories; it’s not just the ones we make up, it’s also the ones we ignore who shape who we are and the society we live in. Although I knew it intellectually, I really didn’t make the conscious connection about what it means to be African-American and live with and pass down the names of your ancestors slave-owners.

I looked up my sure-name Lewis and found it reigns from the Welsh and German. Of course I wasn’t looking for ancestors, or was I. Somehow I thought I’d might find some sort of link, and I did.

That’s when I remembered the truth in the story of why we have to recreate ourselves, sometimes throughout our lives and sometimes, daily. My adoptive mother was West Indian. I knew her name was West Indian, I mean how many folks with the name Pusey do you know? And as it turns out, her name is connected to family in Berkshire, England. This family is not African, and it would be easier to find these original Puseys, than pinning down the vast lines of Lewis. But if I did, then what?

It’s always exciting when I hear about my friends finding relatives in Ireland, or Hungry, or Poland or China; or to hear the stories shared by grandparents about ancestors, great, great grandparents or their treks to the new world, both frightening and the freeing ones. Few of these stories come from African-Americans, most excluding the part about what country, town, or tribe their roots are sprung from.

It’s a story to say our stories are just stories. We are responsible for knowing our truths, all of them, even the hard stuff. Some of the truth is some of us are benefiting from the labors of the grand parents and ancestors of the rest of us. Some of that truth is that our stories begin with us. Some of the truth is, we don’t know what’s true and never will. Some of that truth is today we all eat to varying degrees, food that is grown, picked, packed and shipped by slave laborers, including children; many of which, as we speak are being broken away from their cultures, separated from their families, and imprisoned at the exact time we thank god for our daily bread. Another story is that we create our reality, and to a certain degree I believe this is absolutely true. And if we wanted to end abuse of the families that feed us, we can change their realities by demanding fair and compassionate treatment for them as well as work-visas and education and healthcare for their children. I digress…

The questions that come up for me today are:
What do we do with names we have no connections to/information about?
How are we affected by continuing to carry the names of the people who devastated our line? In anyway one may find devastating.
What do we do with names that don’t serve us and remind us that our names are lost?
What do we do with the stories, any of them that are lies about who we are or where we come from? Especially the ones given to us by others. (This reminds me of how many folks were taught African-American history began and ended with slavery, Native Americans were gone, Latins were new to this country/land and women had intellectual and physical limits that required they not work. All forms of oppression.)
How do we live with the truth of our past while honoring who and how we choose to be today?
How do we live with the lies of our past as we choose freedom from them today?
How do we accept our responsibility in perpetrating the lies of what separate us now? The same lies that separated our ancestors, no matter where they came from, the Lie of one deserving anything over another?

Today I’ll wrestle with the story of absolute majority of African slaves and fewer number of European and Chinese slaves, and any others, who were bought, sold, and brought to this country or taken from their American tribes and stripped of everything including their names. These, the people who built this country, field by field, house by house, road by road, track by track. I’ve wrestled with this before and now I get to see how I can improve the way I work to help others heal and thrive inspire of this story.

How can you help? I’m not sure, but here are some ideas, I bet you have a few as well:
Consider what reparations actually mean. I never really thought about myself before and how can I now. Is it about money? If so, would it even equal the cost of 1 year of our last 9 years of wars? Is not taking a step or action on reparations a racist act? (Heavy topic!)

Sign open records petitions; adoptees have a right to know. Learn more about what it means.

http://www.petitiononline.com/nysarpt1/petition.html

http://www.campaign4openrecords.org/

http://www.babyscoopera.com/M-O-R-E/index.html

When and where possible, connect youth to the stories of where their roots dwell and if possible how they got here. If they are descendents of slave owners, how does that affect their privileges today? The biggest lie that separates many of us is “Black” and “White”, when we begin to understand our roots, we can begin to recognize our common humanity.

Thanks for being with the incomplete thoughts, ideas and challenges in/and with this post. Sometimes you just have to tell your stories before they make sense…

We will not be free until we are all free! We will not be at peace until we are all treated justly, equally and fairly. Freshencounters.org

(While writing this post today I came up with the following idea. I hope you’ll join me, share the idea and share ideas of your own for keeping us calm and available during this time of constant crisis and opportunity.)

I offer my next breath to someone who is frightened in that moment and hope it provides an opportunity for them to exhale. I’m going to remember to do this all week when I meditate, I hope you’ll join me. Fresh!

Thanks for the amazing work you do Sarah!!

Check out Sarah’s blog here: http://blog.sarahderagon.com/

Jen and I have experienced different losses when it comes to the idea of “going home.” Generally however, I can say that neither of us have rooms filled with warmth and memories waiting for us anywhere, both for very different reasons and we both have different expectations and longings. And this move, it appears, is the continuation of our quest for home.

This is the continuation from the Facebook posting with the same title. This is all unedited. I have not researched the dates yet and may not get to doing that anytime soon. There are detailed shared and tons left out. Everything just came as I was going through the dates and are all only part of much larger stories. This is my experience…

I was told that I was born in Valhalla/Mt. Pleasant, NY on January 16, 1963. I’ve been told I went home but moved from there to where ever the state sends orphans in March of 1963. I lived there until I arrived in my foster, later to be adoptive families home in June of 1963 and I’ve been moving ever since…

1979 – I fist moved out when I 16. The only thing worse than a controlling kid is two drunken adults trying to control that kid. I moved to Williamsburg Brooklyn when it was populated on one side of the tracks by Puerto Ricans and on the other, where I lived, with Hasidic Jews. I lived with my Puerto Ricaňa girlfriend in a large 3rd Flr. Apartment for about $200.00 a month. Accept for her best friend, also a Puerto Ricaňa who lived on the first floor, everyone else in the building was Hasidic. Coming from the Bronx, I took every opportunity I had to use the Hebrew and Spanish I learned in school while living in this neighborhood.

It was late ’79 when I moved out I was making a living working at a Mafia owned bar, Chap and Rusty’s, down in the Bowery (their first club). That’s where I met my girlfriend. Also employed through Carter’s CEDA program, during the week days I worked as a carpenter on the Lower East Side. The CEDA program office was in the Friends Seminary School down on 2nd and Rutherford. The program Director, Joan Swan, will always be one of the biggest influences in my life; she saw me.

When my girlfriend too often came up too short of dreams and then one day went too far with her physical abuse so I left.

1981ish to 83ish… Whew the flashbacks of the Duchess, the Village, the Piers, the boy bars and friendly singing Irish bars. I partied more than a lot. I also went for my GED around this time at what I think was new, community center on 19th and Avenue of America’s where I also studied Karat`e. I moved in to a large flat attached to the Episcopalian Church on 20th and 8th, Yup! I moved to Chelsea. I loved it! I lived there with 2 or 3 women. At this time I was working as a Janitor at the Seminary, the CEDA program ended. I also got a night job on 5th Avenue doing research calls. It was my first “temp” job. I would take a cab up from the Seminary and I’d always stop at the Hagan Daaz for a strawberry ice cream cone on my way.

1983 I moved to SUNY Purchase. I can’t tell that story here, accept that my experiences were huge! During school I worked at Blythedale Children’s Hospital as a part-time aide, in Valhalla, NY; the place I was born but knew nothing about. I also began working at the campus bookstore, fell in love and moved from campus to White Plains, NY late 1984.

1985 my partner and I moved to Arlington VA. I had a job as a McDonald’s manager. When that first apartment didn’t work out, in 1986 or 87 we moved to Falls Church.
In 1988 we separated, helped each other move, and I moved in with woman couple back in Arlington. Now I was a video store manager who also delivered pizza for Dominoes at night and changed the drivers brakes on some weekends or between shifts. One of my new roommates stole the rent money so I got a place near the Pentagon. My first studio apartment. That was the same year, 1988.

In 1989, I was a stock clerk at Lambda Rising. I met someone there and when she fell in love, I moved into her apartment on 19th & Q, at Dupont Circle. While at Lambda Rising, I found a job cooking a DC’s first “vegetarian” restaurant Food For Thought. We served organic steak and fresh trout there as well. I don’t know why it was called vegetarian accept that it was mostly likely the first place to have tofu, tempeh and otherwise bean burgers.

What I love best about the way I got the job as a head chef walking in the door is that I was able to share with men going back to work in the mid 90s after surviving battles with AIDS. Here’s what I said and told them to say: “Yes, I know how to… and I’d be more comfortable if you could show me how you’d like to have it done.” This line has saved my rent on more than one occasion.

(During this period I was also a bouncer and occasional bartender at Tracks DC. I also continued to take or send any extra income home to my older sister and her children.)

Summer 1991 (first time) – San Francisco Bound! After driving across once I was easily lured by friends to move to SF. I remember checking in with them weekly for 14 weeks, “are you sure you still want me to come out?”
12/11/91 – The last call, from Bakersfield, the disappointment in their voice – but I was here. I drove north and was told within a day it wouldn’t work out, they were not going to be comfortable with me at their house while they were gone during the holidays. I have a cold.
12/19/91 – I get a job at Habitat Leather on Stockton, it’s where the Men’s Warehouse is now. I go from handing out fliers on the corner and working stock then have to fight my way to the sales floor where I step into the top 3 sales position in a couple of weeks.
12/23/91 – I move in with an old friend from Lambda Rising, he and his partner live near Duboce Park.
12/25/91 – With nowhere to spend Christmas, I experience magic at the a woman’s bar called The Cafe’ in the Castro and forget I’m homeless in San Francisco – for the night and days until my hosts return from their Christmas trip.
1/8ish/91 – I move to North Beach to share an apartment with a very nice woman. Her boyfriend moves in a few weeks later, they both fell off the wagon and it sounds bad. The nurses at General say I have walking Pneumonia. I’m getting weaker and weaker and there’s no heat in my room.

2/1992- Sometime in February I move to a hotel in North Beach. The nurses at General say I have walking Pneumonia but I tell them it maybe something else. I’m blacking out while standing, everywhere! One day I pass out after showering at the hotel, I have a dream then wake up on the floor in my room. All they can see is black and think I’m a junky, so they try to steal my stuff. I almost died from a pulmonary embolism.

3/1992 - Could be March or so when a friend I made in D.C. years ago, with the help from the woman I met at Christmas from some place named Edinburgh, saved me. I had been temporarily at the house of the women who invited me out here after leaving the hospital. I moved into a flat on Scott Street in San Francisco! Parties there included showing Madonna’s Justify My Love video and dancing to it over and over…It was the Haight.

In 1993, for some reason the 4 of us did not make rent (about $800 on a HUGE flat). I moved to Cole Valley for a few weeks before finding a room in a flat on Prosper –

3/1993 I move Right to the heart of the Castro!! I lived there with 3 very cool guys, it was a hopping house! I’m working at Ti Couz.

March 1994 I decided I did not experience enough of New Mexico, so I saved up my money from working at Ti Couz, Headlines and Junk and got in my truck and drove off. The generosity of my roommates there will always be appreciated.

When I arrived in Albuquerque I learned that it and Santa Fe were close to 99% occupied. Jobs were hard and I mean hard, to come by. I went for all the professional jobs first, managing hotels, restaurants and other stores. I had not been in a corporate atmosphere so it never crossed my mind. What I learned first was that many of the folks were not accustomed to masculine, female bodied, brown people coming in for interviews. In other words, they called me but once they saw me the positions were filled.

Survivor mode: I found a job with a landscape guy. I mowed lawns, cleaned yards and did minimal gardening. I dug a ditch into the Rio Grande, I hope I didn’t cause too much harm. I stripped cars for a very vulgar car painter. That was a bad scene. I distributed newspapers and learned a lot about the city that way. The landscaper introduced me to one of the clients he grew organic lettuces for and I became a Sous Chef in a fancy down town restaurant. These were all part-time and short-term.

June 1994 I was broke. I came back to SF and moved in with a friend couch surfing for a few weeks.

Julyish, 1994 I move into a house on Bernal Hill where one of the roommate ends up poisoning a cat and experiences some sort of spiritual “possession”. Came after me with a knife, the whole works. I learned years later that other women who lived in her room had the same experience going back 12 years. I loved the private hot tub there.

September 1994 (I”m guessing) I found a really great sublet on Dorland near 17th. I loved it, they loved me and I soon got the room permanently. Also great experiences, in fact one of the people is still there. At this time I worked as a bouncer at the End UP! Deterred from counseling once again, I took basic college courses at City including some computer intro classes plus Tia Chi and typing

April 1995, my new partner and I after standing in line for hours or watching tenants bid rents up to $500.00 over the asking price, moved to Pacifica. We lived in a house a block off the beach with a huge yard and fire-place for $900.00. I’d still be living there if she didn’t choose to stay. At that time I worked at a non-profit till that shrunk then TransAmerica til they sold that company. I then used my unemployment time and money to take ECE classes and study computers. Working and volunteering in classrooms started in 1994 or so and I continue to do so. I also worked as a contractor and consultant for a few agencies doing training, planning moves and supporting in other ways.

9/1/2001 – I move to an apartment near the beach in Pacifica. I shared a one bedroom with a gay male friend of mine. It was meant to be temporary.
3/2002 – I move to an in-law in Daly City. I’m not comfortable sharing my thoughts on this experience at this time.

3ish/2004 – I find my new home in the Haight. A one bedroom apartment that I can just afford on Haight & Broderick. I can see green, redwoods, hawks one way, the ball park, bay and city the other. This may be the closest I’ve felt to having a home since October, 1973 when we left our house to move to Co-op City so that we could be in a more convenient place for all of us to live after my mother passed in February 2004. She was always ahead of the plan.
In 2004 I fell deeply in love.

September, 2006 – Jen and I moved into our first home on a street near parks and a school in West Oakland In September. It was that month that while sitting at our dinner table we heard gun shots, a first for both of us, even me with my wild past. I began training Jen on everything I learned in the movies. Lights off and heads down. Lights off always when peeking out the window. It got worse as the year went on, stories too gruesome to tell. – But the landlord? All my landlords have been better than great and this one is simply kind and fun as well. I miss her and the guy from Haight Street. I talk to both of them still.

December 2007 we moved to Lake Merritt, Oakland. We just needed something quick to hold us over till we found the right place. I imagined a French Chalet, Jen agreed and we found one. All our windows had views of the lake or the park with redwood trees across the street. All of them, all single pane, one of the 10 next to each other, with worn wood. We baked in the summer and we froze in the winter but it sure was pretty and if we had more than one bedroom, we may have stayed a bit longer.

January 2010, Jen’s found her house and I have to admit it’s pretty amazing. This house built-in 1949, has nice size bedrooms and nice front and back yard and a little cottage for workshops and storage. That’s really just the beginning, the place holds a true calm and caring energy. The property manager on the other hand, not so great. – “You can move in this week” says the property manager. We drive over and drive by and talk to neighbors and get really excited.
A week later with a promise to meet the actual land lord, we show up and the place is in bad shape. Nothing they said would be fixed was fixed and there were holes where there were none the first time. We came to meet the landlord but he was no where. And there’s more. That was a hard walking away.

A week later we find an even older, somewhat more charming farmhouse down the road. We check it, we take it.

2/20/10 – Jen and Fresh move to San Rafael!! We’re all smiles until we learn that the kitchen and bathroom have to be replaced because of the mold. No problem, we’re glad they found the cause of some of the issues but as it turns out the landlord can’t manage it. – We’re advised to move.

Jen just happens to be by the first house in San Rafael, at the cafe across the street – we never let it go. Most of the work is done. It’s clean in here from what we can see. The sun is shining. The oranges are fragrant. And, from the beginning, the house is airy and clean. The spiritual energy here is so relaxed and calm – and it’s likely the lack of sub-floors helps keep it that way. Unfortunately we don’t notice those till later.

2/28/10 – We move to our NEW home in San Rafael. For a house with very welcoming energy – well let’s just say, the house needs just a bit of care. She’s old but she seems very solid/stable. Neighbors from all over the hood have something to share about it. We love it even though there’s no insulation and it’s freezing.

12/2710 – Very unfortunately the owner has passed away. The family who is left won’t be renewing the lease. It was very kind of our landlord/contact to give us 60 days notice – And we’re off… ?

12/28/10, I don’t know what to hope for in a home. Do I hope for a safe dry warm place to hold us over until we can find and afford our dream home? We’ve got two months, can we make our dream home happen in this time? (And when I say dream home, I’m just talking about a safe place where we can go out a play comfortably and safely and from the inside we can see nature and be warm. We’re walkers more than drivers.) How can we possibly pay for a move? Where will the money come from? How do we ask this time? What was missing from our last ask? Is the universe working with us, or on us? Are we blocking ourselves, or are we being unrealistic and if so, what is that? We’re now committed to reaching out to our communities in a different more intentional way for guidance, how can they really help? Can they take us seriously after reading and knowing our history? How do we hold each other at this time?

I have so many questions and that the most important one has been answered; Jen wants to move in with me again. I guess anything is possible from here.

A moment ago I was asking myself if Jen and I had problems finding homes within ourselves. My answer is no. We are very at home together wherever we are. I am at home with myself where ever I am. I should check with Jen on this, but she seems at home with herself outside of buildings. And saying that while making a pot of tea in this very cold kitchen I know this could have been a great home for us…

I just found the obituary of the owner who died. Here’s the thing about this house, it was a home to a large family for a very long time. This and the houses that surround it housed many children and lots of human-ness along with at least one dog called smokey. It’s a family home, something Jen and I don’t have access to – from our own family’s pasts. (is that a word?)

What I’m noticing now, is that it’s not just the home we’re missing, it’s what the home holds. And we try to be all of it together and for each other but families don’t work that way, or do they? So, what will we do with what we have? How do us to very independent and prideful people once again ask for help? These will be our most important questions in the weeks to come.

2/28/211…

Crying, though I’m getting better at it, may be one of my least favorite things, next to going to the gym. So I joined a gym yesterday and maybe sometime this weekend with my lovely wife, I’ll find space to cry. And most likely, they will be tears of joy as we celebrate out 2nd wedding anniversary and our 6+ years of being in love.

Tears, Tears, forming from the pressure in my heart, bubbling joyfully…from my eyes, warming our cheeks, wetting our lips, flowing, flowing free, free, free…

“I have found that tears can set us free and when we are all free, we’ll all be free.” Fresh! 10.29.10 freshencounter.org

Let’s see; the banks ask for help (hello), politicians ask for help (all the time), in fact any person in power can’t be there without help. And! When we ask for help, we allow others to give; to offer. If you’re like me you like to give a lot, and I’ve stumbled my way to understanding that when I learned to receive, I became an even better giver.

When you ask for help you say, I’m not perfect but I’m trying, and the beauty in that is the space that opens for growth for you and possibly the other. And, not everyone can or wants to help you, that’s okay, don’t take it personal, just move on. There are lots of generous, creative and compassionate people who are looking for someone like you to support, but they can’t find you if your needs are all wrapped up in shame.

Yes, there are people out there taking all they can and giving little back. By asking for help you don’t become one of them. Be conscious, generous, compassionate and be honest. And repayment may not look like what you expect, so give and let go and trust in the universal cycle of exchange.

What are you not asking for help with? Where can you use a hand? How can you get even more advice and who will help guide you to find a decision? Who can support you when you fail, so you can get back to it or change direction without judgment? – “Asking for help is an expression of freedom. When we are all free we will all be free!” Fresh! 10.28.10

Fresh! White
Co-Active Whole Life Coach, Event Planner, Diversity Trainer, Affirmative Acts Coaching
Member of the ICF
http://affirmativeacts.org/ ~ 415.459.8708 ~ fresh@affirmativeacts.org

If you are failing at doing something you love, remember that all the great athletes fail everyday; they fail over and over until they get to that sweet spot in their game/stroke/time. Remember they also have coaches; every single one of them is working with one or many somebody’s to help them achieve living their dreams.

Failure is a sign you are trying – don’t give up – and if you must, know it in your heart of hearts that it’s the thing to do. Changing direction, is not failure as long as you’re still walking towards a dream. Never give up cause someone else doesn’t believe and definitely don’t let fear stop you. Remember there are others depending on your dream to help create, expand and flourish in theirs. You deserve to live your dream.

If you are failing and not doing the work/thing you love, why not fail at walking towards/into your dream? Come on! There’s a ton of folks waiting for you to join us. Once you make your decision to really, really live your dream, doors and windows will fly open and yes, it’s possible your dream may shift or change, there will be challenges along the way, and you’ll feel so alive on your journey that the term “going back” will no longer be part of your experience, you will only move forward from then on!

Living your dream is an act of freedom. When we are all living our dream, we’ll all be free. Fresh! 10.26.10 freshencounter.org

When you are living your dream, everyone around you benefits. Some benefit from watching and believing they can do the same, some benefit in more practical ways like when someone opens a shelter or food bank. In corporations, gov and nonprofits, many people can benefit from growth and learning opportunities if they take them (if they take them). It’s perfectly okay to try to advance yourself while in your place of work, either in ways to grow in the organization or in other ways that grow you professionally or personally beyond the org. And get this, if you are committed to doing great work at your job, your organization will benefit from your growth. (And it’s complicated and you can see my post on naysayers at: freshencounter.org)

Cast your line! If you don’t take steps towards your dream, we all miss out on experiencing your particular flavor. You as an artist, student, teacher, manager, activist, leader, singer, writer/poet, developer, dress-maker, trainer, photographer, dancer, ice skater, assistant/supporter, coach and all others, can and must live out our dreams, the world needs us!

Life is meant for us to live fully into our capabilities. We have dreams and aspirations for a very good reason, we CAN live many, if not all of them. And living just a few of our dreams is more than many will do. For those of us who are unemployed, we have all the more reason to try. And don’t worry about competition, or who’s done it already and before. Just like the variation in the styles of Streisand, Jay Z, Rage Against the Machine, Jianda Monique, Storm Florez or Jovan Watkins, so is there need for your style. Your tone and out of tune voices have a place in this time – Cast your line!! –

Living our dreams is an expression of freedom. We will be free when we all freely express who we are and desire to be. Fresh! 10.25.10 – freshencounter.org

Life is meant to be open playful and abundant and that means many things to many people. Where are you missing these attributes in your life? How can you bring them in? May you be present and loving all day long.

(Originally posted 8.9.10 on FB.)