The Writer's Oracle

Tag: writing

  • The Lost Art of Dating

    The Lost Art of Dating

    Hannah Baker

    When I was a kid, I used to eat lip balm. It was pink and lollipop flavored. It smelled like strawberries and coated my tongue with sticky sweetness when I pushed it through my lips. It even had pictures of candy on the wrapper. I don’t know what genius marketed this to kids and didn’t expect them to eat it. But every time I took a bite, it tasted horrible. It made my lips pucker and my throat sore. But I’d smell it again and go in for another taste. Still horrible. I kept going back for more, thinking maybe the next time would be different.

    This was a precursor to what relationships would be like for me. So enticing, the promise of sweetness written all over them. But disappointing every time. I wanted so badly for them to taste good that I kept coming back for more, thinking maybe the next time would be different.

    But they weren’t. 

    Anyone who has known me long enough is aware that I am a lover, a hopeless romantic. And therein lies the problem. I love so deeply and so easily that I give the most tender pieces of my heart away like free samples at the grocery store. I’m notorious for being too forgiving, too understanding, too enamored by amour. That’s the thing about rose-colored glasses; they make all the red flags look like normal flags.

    Walking through the graveyard of miserable dates, failed relationships, and awkward situationships, they all have one thing in common: me. So, I decided to remove myself for a while. How did I end up here? How did so many of us end up here? The answer, I concluded, was trauma.

    Humans are hardwired for connection. We are not isolated creatures. We survive because of our community, our family, our relationships. Yet, we’re sold this fantasy that we don’t need anyone. Our basic instincts are stripped from our core, packaged, and resold to us under a hyper-individualistic model of relationships. Western culture perpetuates this idea that you alone are a unique and special individual, and everyone else is either a material asset or hindrance to your ultimate success. This doesn’t leave much room for the emotional complexity, empathy, or the spiritual nature of being human.

    We didn’t choose to be born into a culture that doesn’t know how to love. (If you did, please message me so I can pick your brain about reincarnation.) Most of us are operating from the model that was laid out before us. We come from families who come from families of empty promises, instability, rejection, conditional love, abuse disguised as affection, and cruelty masked as care. We are starved for real love and genuine connection, unaware that our soul’s deepest desires are sleeping in the cavern of our chests. Because they don’t teach you that in school. They don’t teach you how to love yourself and see the world and every being in it as an extension of the divine source that exists across infinite time and space. 

    To put it in simple terms, we don’t know any better. We don’t know how to stop seeking approval from others, how to stop chasing the dopamine rush, how to be okay without external validation or being the Chosen One. We don’t know how to reject this model of false love and exchange it for the pure and free love that is eternally available yet seemingly rare. After a lifetime of disappointment, confusion, regret, and isolation, we long for someone to change the narrative. We fantasize that someone will come along who sees us and loves us exactly as we are. And the love from this magical person will heal all the hurt we’ve ever felt.

    This was the fantasy I had. I so desperately wanted someone to say to me, “I love you, I choose you, and you never have to be alone again.” Maybe I took the Golden Rule of treating others the way you want to be treated too literally. Because I said these words to anyone who caught my fancy. I was blissfully unaware of what true love was and naively confident I knew what it looked like. If I said all the right words and acted the right way at the right time, couldn’t I manufacture intimacy? With the proper formula and enough willpower, couldn’t love grow in even the most hostile environments?

    Turns out it doesn’t work that way.

    I blame online dating for strangling the modern expectation of romance and courtship. Granted it is a symptom, not the cause. The sterilization of online dating fits perfectly into a culture where relationships are treated as transactions. It makes total sense for my generation, being the first to grow up with the internet. We’re the first group of kids who didn’t have to go to school if we didn’t want to. Anywhere could be a classroom with a computer and wi-fi. It’s normal for us to have close friends halfway across the world whom we’ve never met in person but frequently play video games with. Social media became the new mall, and the actual mall became the set for a zombie apocalypse movie.

    As a result, my generation is terrible at meeting people organically. Making friends is a struggle, let alone dating. It’s much easier to scan through someone’s pictures, know their zodiac sign, whether they’re a cat or dog person, whether they want kids, how tall they are, and their favorite hobbies. Everything you’d want to know on a first date is conveniently laid out for you in a 30-second snapshot. You don’t even have to go through the humiliation of rejecting them or expressing your interest face-to-face. If you do meet in person, you already have a preconceived notion of what to expect based on their profile. And the majority of the time, in my experience, the reality is vastly different from the expectation.

    I know I sound like a hater of online dating, and I am. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t used it. Unfortunately, it’s the new standard. The best conversations I’ve had with people on dating sites are about how much we despise dating sites. I met one of my more serious relationships through online dating. We used to fantasize that we met on the stairs at a house party hosted by mutual friends when the music was too loud and we both needed to get away from the crowd. We laughed and sighed, letting the disappointing reality of our online meet-cute hover with a silent tension.

    This same person admitted to me that they curated their profile to attract someone like me. They were in sales—which was the first red flag—and said that dating is a lot like making a sale. You have to put the best version of yourself forward and tailor that version of yourself to be appealing to the person you are pursuing. I was a little offended when they said this. Was I nothing more than a customer? Had I been baited into finding this person attractive? The answer was yes, but wasn’t that what everyone was doing? 

    It wasn’t until we were in a committed relationship that they actually showed me who they were. They were waiting for me to stay before they took off the mask. Because now that I was committed, even if it was to a half-true version of who they were, I couldn’t revoke my premature declarations of love without being an asshole. Had I been a little more mature and self-assured, I would have had the courage to have that awkward conversation. I would have said, “It was lovely getting to know you, but we have incompatible life goals and values that won’t work out long term. Thank you for all the good times, but I must be going now.”

    But I stayed much longer than I should have. I tried to say the right words and act the right way at the right time to resemble love. I wanted it to work so desperately that I lied to myself and thereby my partner far longer than I should have. And when I ended things, it was sudden. I was over that relationship too long before it actually ended.

    And there were the other dates I went on. So sterile. So full of expectation. So transactional. No one took the time to get to know me beyond how I could fulfill their hedonistic desires. No one courted me or put any effort into the romance of dating. No one wore their heart on their sleeve like I did; they kept it tucked tight under their shirt. I was starting to think maybe I should do the same.

    I was losing faith in the art of dating. Not that I was trying, really. I had tried too hard for too long to no avail. So, I was experimenting by actively not trying.

    And isn’t it always when you aren’t looking for something that the thing you weren’t looking for comes waltzing into your life?

    In my case, it came dancing under the disco ball, wearing a mesh long-sleeve layered under a tie-dye shirt, asking for my number. I pretended not to anxiously await a text when I got home, the modern equivalent of checking your answering machine.

    I was flattered and a little dumbfounded. No one asks for your number anymore. No one approaches a stranger they find attractive, introduces themselves, and exchanges numbers. That’s only something that happens in the movies. The internet has completely squashed any possibility of organic dating. Or so I thought.

    When you meet someone in person, you don’t get to see their profile. You have to study their face, catch the color of their eyes and the way they style their hair. Notice the way they dress, the way they carry themself, how they interact with their friends. Make eye contact, but not for too long. The trick is to do all this without them realizing it. It’s okay if they suspect something. You want them to know you’re interested. But be sly about it. These are the building blocks of flirting.

    After this is established, introduce yourself. Offer them a compliment, but only if it’s sincere. If there’s something admirable that stands out to you, tell them. The more specific, the better. Avoid stock phrases like, “You’re so hot/beautiful/sexy/etc.” What is unique about this person that makes them attractive? No need to force a compliment if something doesn’t feel natural. But there must be something about this person that you find appealing, so why not tell them? 

    Don’t kiss them. Don’t hold them or touch them any differently than you would a friend. Don’t sleep with them. Exchange phone numbers or an equivalent communication medium. Avoid sharing social media if you can. This keeps the mystique alive. Arrange a time and place to get to know each other one-on-one. They might say yes or no. Either way, it’s good news. If they say no, the work for you is over. You can go back to living your peaceful life just the way it was before. If they say yes, you have the exciting opportunity to get to know someone new.

    When you arrive at a time and place to get to know each other one-on-one, ask questions. What are their likes, dislikes, hopes, fears, goals, passions, interests? What can you relate to or bond over? Whether or not you have things in common, it’s good news. If you don’t have much in common, you have the privilege of learning a different perspective. If you have plenty in common, it’s even more serendipitous that you and this former stranger have a seemingly endless list of things to talk about.

    If things go well and you both enjoy yourselves, keep doing this. Keep going on dates, spending time together, talking, and getting to know each other. Space it out as it feels right. There’s no need to rush. All you need to do right now is keep living your life. Keep living your life exactly as you have been, with the addition of seeing this special person from time to time. The rest will sort itself out.

    But you can’t jump straight to the end. You can’t make a flower bloom before its season. The harder you hold on, the more it slips away. And trust me, I know.

    People change all the time, some faster than others. When you commit to a relationship with someone, the person you’re committing to now won’t be the same in a year, ten years, or twenty. And you won’t be the same either. So never stop dating. Never stop getting to know each other. Never stop flirting and asking each other questions. Never stop bringing surprise gifts and planning activities together. Never stop hanging on their every word and gazing into each other’s eyes over candlelight. What people most often don’t realize about the art of dating is that it doesn’t end after the beginning of the relationship. It shouldn’t, at least. 

    Dating is an art, a dance. Sometimes it feels like an ancient language that we all know bits and pieces of but struggle to converse in. But romance is alive and well, my friends. The art of dating is a practice. It’s just up to you to breathe life into it.

    From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle

    My sincerest apologies in advance to anyone who doesn’t want me to write about our personal relationships. I do my best to keep all characters in my non-fiction writing anonymous. If you were worried about having your personal life exposed in the most poetic way, you shouldn’t have gotten involved with a writer.

  • Dancing with the Great Unknown

    Dancing with the Great Unknown

    Hannah Baker

    The ground never stops moving here. The earth that was supposed to be so stable and hold us for all our lives never stops moving here. I plant my feet, the sand consumes them. I pick them up, it pushes back and forth against me. The reflection of the clouds is perfectly clear, until it isn’t, and the swirling brown surf washes it all away. Like someone threw a bucket of water on a wet painting. Nothing could be closer to walking on the sky.

    Time is distorted here. I haven’t walked for more than a song or two, and yet my friends are smaller than ants on the picnic blanket I left perched on the sand dunes. Sound travels different here, too. There’s people all around, but their voices and footsteps are drowned out by the roaring of waves. Like a herd of wild horses thundering over the hillside, only to collapse and dissipate into sea foam at the crest.

    I walk in the liminal space where the waters of earth’s womb cleanse her human shores. Nothing stays the same here, and nothing ever should. Nothing stays the same anywhere if you look long enough. The unending change is just more visible on the coast. The ocean bellows an ancient hymn of change.

    I left my job at the end of last week. It was planned, expected, a date on the calendar that approached closer and closer with every rise and fall of the moon. It’s been four years of dedicated service, of being the first to arrive and the last to leave, of rapport with children not because I had to but because I couldn’t contain my heart from loving them with all that I was. After four years of growing in one spot, I felt my roots get crowded around the edges of my container. They longed to dig deeper, reach wider, and I knew I would grow in ways I never thought I could if I gave myself the opportunity to. So, I left. I left with my last paycheck and a binder full of my favorite children’s illustrations. I didn’t even have a plan or a summer bonus to fall back on.

    Growing up, things changed a lot for me. Different houses, different families, different friends. My life feels like a back-to-back sequences of beginnings and endings with little time to adjust to stability in between. My inherent optimism came in handy here. No matter how uncomfortable or scary the change was, I greeted it with a smile and welcomed it into my life. Even when I hated it. Even when I wished things wouldn’t change. Even when I wished things would change in a different way.

    Maybe this is why I am so drawn to the beach. It is the birthplace of change. It affirms what I already knew to be true: change is the only constant. It is powerful and terrifying and unstoppable. But it is glorious. And it just Is. We don’t have to do anything for it to Be. Just witness it.

    And, so, I am reveling in this liminal space.

    I’m opening the windows and turning up the song.

    I’m not getting enough sleep and I’m sleeping too long.

    I’m singing down the sidewalk and skipping out the door.

    I’m kissing after midnight and twirling on the dance floor.

    I’m drinking too much coffee and screaming at the sky.

    I’m laughing with the Great Unknown until she makes me cry.

    From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle
  • Writing as Witchcraft

    Writing as Witchcraft

    Hannah Baker

    When I turned 18, my mom took me to see a psychic. We made a whole weekend out of it, drove two hours to the nearest city, stayed in an artsy air bnb, brought my brother and our dog. My mom heard about this psychic from her friend who used to do her hair for a t.v. show where she gave live readings.

    Most people are either firm believers or die-hard skeptics of psychics. I try to strike a healthy balance between the two. There is a right amount of skepticism to have for those who claim to know the future and what lies beyond the human realm. There are scammers out there, people who prey on your grief and trauma and charge hundreds of dollars to appeal to your cognitive biases. But also there are people who try therapy and support groups and the charcuterie of spirituality humanity has to offer, and nothing resonates except a psychic reading. Still, I always leave the door open in case I meet a real-life Oda Mae Brown.

    Regardless of if the psychic-in-question is “legit”–meaning they can see the future, read auras, talk to spirits, or whatever powers they claim to have–does it matter as long as it works? Does it really matter as long as the client is satisfied? If someone finds closure, feels relief, answers the previously unanswerable, then they got what they came for. Is that so wrong?

    The psychic I saw when I turned 18 didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. She gave me some hard truths, some false truths, and some Great Unknown truths.

    A few weeks prior to the session, I bought a matching necklace and earrings from the local thrift store. They were locked up in a glass case that doubled as a counter separating the volunteers from the shoppers. The necklace had raw turquoise patterned with purple glass and blue pearl beads across a flimsy wire. A toggle clasp shaped like a silver rose marked the ends. The dangling earrings matched. I imagined someone had these tucked away in their jewelry box, like a dragon sits on its treasure. The woman who owned it made it herself and would wear them to special occasions in her youth. But as the years went on, those occasions became few and far between. When she died, there was no family or next of kin to inherit her precious gems. They went ignored at an estate sale until a group of volunteers came and brought them to the thrift store where they laid still under this glass case.

    Obviously, the volunteers didn’t know what they had, otherwise they wouldn’t have priced the set at $12. I bought them and it was the fanciest thing I wore every day. It stood out against my casual high school attire of red Converse and band t-shirts.

    I hadn’t taken the necklace off since buying it, so it came with me to the psychic reading by default. The first thing the psychic did was ask for a personal item to connect with me. I unclasped my necklace and handed it to her. She stroked it with eyes closed the way one would pet a cat from head to tail. The beads clinked against the rings on each of her fingers. She described to me a vision of stained glass windows, maybe a church, but an ancient church full of real holiness. Not any of the manufactured cookie-cutter religion I was accustomed to. But I hadn’t stepped foot in a church for at least a month, and that was the first time I went to church in years.

    I went for my friend’s funeral, and it was not a beautiful or ancient church. It was modern and it was dull and dark. There were no windows, but high ceilings with mud-brown walls and harsh fluorescent lights that lit the pews of people in attendance for a 17-year-old’s funeral whose body had only laid lifeless for a week. Funerals are rarely a happy occasion, but this one was infuriating because it was so preventable. She should not have died the way she did. But I guess that’s why they call it an accident. An accident with fatal, irreversible consequences. And if my friend had written a will, I can almost guarantee you she wouldn’t have wanted her funeral in this church. The church that ignored her cries for help her whole life. The church that excused pedophiles and abusers with a regular tithes. The church of hypocrisy, the church of scandals, the church with no windows and false gods. This could not be the church the psychic was channeling through my necklace.

    No, the church she channeled through my necklace must have been somewhere in Italy. An ancient cathedral marked by polished wooden pews, columns and archways holding the building together like bones in a body. Stained glass that filtered the morning sun through every color and cast beams of light around intricate mosaics spiraling out of the center of the floor. Giant candles standing with pride at the sides of a golden throne with dripping wax dried along the stairs. The musky smell of incense wafting through the air. Marble statues of the saints and prophets carved by hand, welcoming worshipers into their house. Ornate bells in the highest tower attached by a rope so old you’re afraid it will crack in your hand just by grasping it. Ancient churches built in the name of the spirit that connects us all, that brings communities together not out of fear but out of true love for our fellow humans and all inhabitants of earth and beyond. This must have been the place she meant.

    But I have never been to this church. I am not so sure it even exists outside my imagination. I told the psychic about the last time I went into a church, about my friend and her funeral. She asked how she died, and I explained the story the same way my friend’s obituary was written: cold and matter-of-fact. She drowned in the cab of a truck that sank into the river after accepting a ride from her drunk friend. I couldn’t think about it too hard, because if I did all my sadness and all my anger and all my grief would have overcome me. It would have blinded me from any other feeling, and I was afraid I would drown in it if I fully let it in. The psychic just nodded, continued stroking my necklace, and warned me never to get in a truck.

    I had come out of two car accidents luckily unscathed prior to my friend’s accident. I already had some fear around driving, but the psychic’s words just solidified it. I tried to avoid accepting any rides in a truck, but it was almost impossible and often rude of me to do so. Shakily, I stepped into trucks time and time again, pushed the worry out of my mind that something bad was about to happen. And you know what? I was okay. Every. Single. Time. But that psychic’s words had power. Even though she was wrong, and my logical brain knew to take it with a grain of salt, every time I stepped into a truck I thought about how I was not heeding her warning. The fear and anxiety ate at me.

    The second thing she asked me was what I was doing after high school. At this point, I thought I had a pretty solid, well-laid-out plan. You know, the way most teenagers know exactly what they’re doing with their life and how it’s going to turn out. With pride, I recited my plan to attend my state university where I’d already been accepted and live close to my boyfriend who was already a sophomore there.

    “No you’re not,” the psychic said bluntly. She didn’t miss a beat. She couldn’t have spoken the words faster than I could get them out of my mouth. I exhaled a nervous laugh. Quiet. I didn’t know what to say. Most people responded with congratulations, that they were happy for me, that I had their full support and they were excited for this next leg of my journey. Now I think those people were just being polite. What this psychic did was give me the truth, and I thank her for that. I don’t know if her psychic abilities had anything to do with it at all. She could just read my body language, my tone of voice. She saw right through me in a way even my brother and mother didn’t see. Or if they did, they never told me. I felt like she ripped the sheet off my head and exposed my real identity.

    The truth was, I didn’t want to go to my state university, even though I got accepted. I wanted to go away. Far away. Far away from my peers, the small-town culture with small-minded people, the same music on the radio, the same mindless chatter, the same life plan that everyone had laid out before them. I didn’t want to live close to my high school boyfriend. I was just afraid to live far away from him. I didn’t want to be with him forever, I was just afraid to break up with him. Fear, fear, and more fear kept me making choice smack-dab in the middle of my comfort zone. Because that was safe.

    But what this psychic did was show me what I already knew. That my comfort zone was not comfortable, it was suffocating. That I would never grow into my full potential, be the person I wanted to be, unless I took risks and leaps and bounds and made mistakes and kept trying over and over again. I don’t think she had to be psychic to tell me that. She was just something no one else in my life was: honest.

    She told me I would go far away, and that was true. I didn’t go across the world or even across the country, but I went farther than most of my peers did. I moved to a new city where I didn’t know anybody and all my family was 500-1,000 miles away. She told me I would go on a road trip with my brother, which hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.

    She told me I would break up with my boyfriend, which was also true. I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t even break up with him right away. I peeled that band-aid off so slowly and painfully because I didn’t want her to be right. But her words had already infiltrated my subconscious. No matter how hard I tried to ignore or deny it, she had already spoken it into existence.

    The last thing she told me was that words have power. Magic is real, though it does not show up in the same fantastical way we hear about it in storybooks. She said that when we use language, we are casting spells. Literally spelling things into existence. Manifesting them into reality. In big and small ways. But since our thoughts create our reality, and our thoughts are largely made up of words (at least mine are), then what we think and what we say becomes who we are and the world we live in.

    This was certainly true in her line of work. She used her words to predict some things in my life, but really she was just persuading and affirming me to make choices I already knew to be true in my heart. Her words helped me speak it into existence.

    But it was my words that broke up with my boyfriend. My essays that got me into the college that I actually wanted to go to. My emails that granted me scholarships to attend an out-of-state school. My phone calls that got me a place to live. My words that made me friends and connections, brought me new places, showed me new things. My words had power. And they still do.

    This is why writing is my favorite form of witchcraft.

    from the Hidden Realms Oracle
  • It’s no surprise to me

    It’s no surprise to me

    Hannah Baker

    I am my own worst enemy,

    Because every now and then I kick the living shit out of me.

    But all ‘90s pop-punk references aside. . .

    It’s true.

    Can you relate?

    Don’t bother putting me down. No one could ever measure up to the frequency and accuracy with which I put myself down. No one knows my deepest insecurities, fears, weakest points, the things to say that hurt the tenderest parts of my soul, better than I do. So, if someone ever rubs you the wrong way or hurts your feelings and you feel the urge to explode in a rage of vengeance cleverly disguised as justice, remember that no one insights vengeance on them better than themselves.

    But I am practicing being kinder to myself, using sweeter words, more forgiving words. Because I really do love myself. No one could ever understand the depths of my dreams or know which wishes I repeat to the first star in the twilight sky. They don’t know that I know I’m not wishing on a star at all, but a planet that glows brighter than the other constellations. No one knows the little things in each day that remind me there is magic in the world and we are all very much a part of it. the things to say that hurt the tenderest parts of my soul, better than I do. No one knows the things to say that resonate against the tenderest parts of my heart better than I do. Because I am so loveable, and there is no one better to remind us of that than ourselves. So, if you find yourself in a downward spiral of self-blame and self-doubt, remember that no one can remind you how loveable and forgivable you are better than yourself. 

    I don’t think anyone gets in our way more than ourselves. We live in a societal system that feeds off of our insecurities. Financial insecurity, job insecurity, education insecurity, food insecurity, housing insecurity, health insecurity, body insecurity, social insecurity, love insecurity. Need I go on? Many of the great writers on social justice and politics describe the strategic placement of these insecurities within a culture to create a society of people who are easily controlled. One of my favorite feminist poems puts it better than I ever could.

    The Myth of Female Inferiority

    The best slave

    does not need to be beaten.

    She beats herself.

    Not with a leather whip,

    or with sticks or twigs,

    not with a blackjack

    or a billy club,

    but with the fine whip

    of her own tongue

    & the subtle beating 

    of her mind against her mind.

    For who can hate her half so well 

    as she hates herself?

    and who can match the finesse

    of her self-abuse?

    Years of training

    are required for this.

    Erica Jong, “Alcestis on the Poetry Circuit”

    So, it is my belief that one of the greatest acts of resistance that we have at our disposal at all times is self-love. The greatest act of rebellion is to live authentically as yourself, whether you’re alone or in a room of strangers. Give yourself the permission to live unapologetically, courageously, free.

    And me-oh-my is that one of the hardest things to do! The fear of rejection is not an irrational one. We need other people to survive. We need our community to support us. We need others to help love and care for us, and we need to love and care for others, too. Humans are not solitary creatures, no matter what hyper-individualism propaganda we may receive. The fear of being rejected by those we admire truly taps into our basic survival instincts. Our lizard brains associate rejection with isolation and isolation equates to death. Without other humans, we would not survive. However, this becomes much more complex in the 21st Century when our basic survival instincts are activated when someone doesn’t respond to our text.

    I have decided to take the courageous leap to be myself, as authentic as I can be, in every social interaction I have. Friends, strangers, work, family. If I’m happy, I’ll express it. If I’m sad, I won’t hide it. If I’m scared, jealous, insecure, excited, anxious, uncertain, melancholy, I’ll give them a seat at my table. I know these feelings are just visitors passing through.

    For most of my life, I have used my relationships to other people as a way to define myself and my self-worth. I let other people decide if I was a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister, a good listener, a good leader, a good worker. They decided if I was beautiful, if I was fun, if I was smart, if I was kind, if I was worthy of love and acceptance. And when I let people down–because inevitably we all let somebody down once in a while–I felt distraught. I let it redefine my self-worth. I had to rethink everything I thought I knew about myself. I punished myself with “the fine whip of [my] own tongue.” But around the age of 20, when I read Terry Cole-Whittaker’s book What You Think Of Me Is None Of My Business, I realized how much power I was giving other people over my own life. And I was the only one facing the consequences. I am the only one living my life, having my unique human experience, piloting this animated flesh suit on this rock hurling around a ball of incandescent gas in space. The only person’s approval that really matters is our own.

    This is not to say you should go around hurting others or your environment as long as you have your own approval. A basic code of morals is also essential to survive in this global human village. Like I said, we could not survive without each other. We could not survive without the vast and complex ecosystem that provides us with air to breathe, food to eat, and land to live on. So, do what you will, but do no harm.

    No matter what choices you make, rejection is inevitable and often unpredictable. Rejection is not an easy feeling to sit with. Nobody looks forward to this inevitable pain. Most of us will go to extreme lengths to avoid rejection by building walls around our fragile human hearts. But we could never know the deepest expression of love without knowing its antithesis: loss. We all want to be loved and accepted for just who we are. But we can’t please everybody all the time. And oftentimes, there will be people in your life who are simply on a different wavelength than you. And that’s okay! It’s nothing personal. No one is worse or better than anyone. It’s just different, and variety is the beauty of the human experience. People are going to reject you, you are going to reject people. People will let you down, you will let people down. And that’s okay. It’s not the most fun and easy feeling to have, but despite what our lizard brain is telling us, someone not texting us back in the timeframe we want them to is not a life or death scenario.

    At this point in my life journey, I am practicing walking the middle path. I am balancing security within myself and the possibility of new connections. I am building a home within myself while leaving the door unlocked for people to come and go. And make no mistake, it is extremely anxiety inducing. To let other people in on the parts of me I’ve often hidden out of shame for decades? Horrifying. To face the daunting abyss of inevitable pain and rejection? Terrifying. But I am learning to walk through hell with an open heart. 

    From the Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

  • My Favorite Kind of Writing

    My Favorite Kind of Writing

    Hannah Baker

    I always knew I wanted to be a writer.

    No– I always knew I was a writer. I still am. 

    I am one of those kids who grew up to be exactly what I wanted to be. I often stop and wonder if this is a result of nature or nurture. Somebody complimented my language comprehension when I was a child, I ran with it, and to this day I am beaming with pride whenever someone likes my writing.

    But I never stopped writing. Even when no one was looking. And that was the easy part. The not so easy part was sharing it with people. The scariest part of writing, for me, is pressing the “publish” button and knowing someone else— anyone else in the world with internet access— can stumble across my innermost thoughts and press “subscribe.” I can let words flow out of me like water gushing through a drain pipe. But knowing that other people are receiving it, interpreting it, seeing their own version of my story… terrifying.

    See, I used to only write for two reasons: for myself, and for school. 

    I wrote as a way to vacation into my imagination. I befriended my characters, bounced from planet to planet, and spoke my own language. I filled binders and scrapbooks full of fantastical plants and animals, songs and poetry, people and places that I would have never known had I not written about them. I have a shelf of journals dating back 10 years (and counting) that document my life experiences and emotional development. I understand myself, and thereby the world, better when I write about it. This was always my favorite kind of writing. 

    I also wrote as a way to earn praise and validation from the adults around me who appeared to hold my future in their hands. I wrote the way they taught me to, with my grammar in check and my sentences on a short leash. I used their templates, their formulas, and their theories to craft essays they wanted to read. I received a streak of gold stars, but rarely was it for my favorite kind of writing. 

    Seldom was I praised for the kind of writing that came from the soul. And seldom did I share it. What if it’s silly? What if people think it’s no good? Am I exposing too much of myself? Am I exposing enough? More terrifying yet, what if someone I know reads this? What if the people I write about know my stories are about them, and they are enraged by my portrayal of their character? Even more humiliating than that is if I share my writing with my most trusted friends and family, and they don’t read it. They say they skimmed it, never saw it, or it simply slipped their mind.

    A wise teacher once told me that you have to first learn the rules to know how to break them. I paid my dues learning them, and I do believe I have earned my right to break them as I please. 

    I created this blog to serve as a sort of professional writing portfolio. It sat stagnant and dormant for years. I had very little content that was up to par with my standard of shareable writing, and still no one read it. If I had nothing “professional” to share, and no readers to receive it, then I was writing for no one but myself. Somewhere between junior high and college, I must have forgotten this was my favorite kind of writing.

    Tim Krieder once said, “If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” Another wise teacher once taught me that.

    If we want the world to love us, praise us, accept and celebrate us, then we must first bare our hearts to the world.

    And that is horrifying. It leaves our most tender parts open, available for the poking and prodding of strangers’ skepticism. It opens us up to the reality of rejection. If we reject ourselves first, then we can never say the world rejected us because we never put our true selves out there in the first place. Once we make the courageous act of loving and accepting ourselves as we are, we risk rejection of our true self, and that hurts a lot more than rejection of the false self. But if we never take the risk of true rejection, we will never experience the ecstasy of true love. 

    I must admit this blog leaves me feeling raw and exposed at times, like a piece of meat hanging above a shark tank. But that was the point. To write the way I want to write. About what I want to write, how I want to write, when I want to write about it. And it’s not for anyone else. Just me.

    All that being said, if you like my writing, your support means the world to me. I would be honored if you subscribed and shared this with anyone else you think might relate. 

    From the Work Your Light Oracle Cards

  • The Way of Things

    The Way of Things

    Hannah Baker

    When I first moved to the city, I had no place to scream.

    The initial months dazzled me—the city buzzed with life and promised endless opportunities for adventure. But when the cold winds arrived, the four walls of our apartment closed in. I was suffocating and couldn’t scream if I wanted to. In the city, there is nowhere you can fall apart..

    If you’re lucky, you can cry alone in your apartment—if you live alone or have a few hours before your housemates return. If your walls are too thin, people will worry about you, but most of them won’t mention it. Perhaps you can scream in your car—unless you have to ride the crowded bus home. But walk down the street with tears streaming, your face contorted with grief, and people will do one of three things: stare, avoid eye contact, or ask, “Are you okay?”

    No, I’m not okay. But I know the answer you wanted to hear. Because if I tell you the truth—that I’m not okay, that I’m trapped and choking on every breath, that I feel myself falling apart along with everything around me, that the universe is spiraling out of control and no one seems to notice it but me—you won’t know what to say. And there is nothing to say. You won’t know what to do. And there is nothing to do. No, I’m not okay, but I don’t need anything but the space to fall apart in peace.

    In the forest, you can scream.

    The forest urges the release of every guttural, primal sound imprisoned inside you. No feeling is unwelcome. You can cry and scream and wail and sob like you did when you were a toddler. But the forest doesn’t demand you stop lest you face consequences for your emotions. It has a greater capacity to hold space than any human does. The forest doesn’t interrupt or stare. It doesn’t try to fix you or pretend you’re something you’re not. It simply wraps you in its quiet presence. 

    When you’ve cried every last tear and screamed your throat raw, there is nothing but stillness—true stillness. Except for a squirrel rustling in the leaves, or the gentle creak of branches swaying in the wind. The forest hums an ancient hymn—the eternal rhythm of life. 

    See how the brown leaves crumble into the earth? See how the trees bend to the wind? See how the seasons cycle with each rotation around the sun? See how death is essential to nourish the next generation of life?

    Here, it is easier to remember the innate Oneness of all beings.

    The energy you carry—the grief, the anger, the resentment—belongs to no one. It is infinite and ever-changing. It is meant to move through you, to be surrendered. The tighter you grip it, the more it hurts you. Only when you release can it begin to recycle and transform. This is the order of things.

    There is the same order in the city.

    We like to pretend that our skyscrapers and subway schedules separate us from nature. But nothing ever could. Our humanity—the rage, the sorrow, the desperation—doesn’t disappear just because we pave over the earth and line our lives with concrete walls. Slow your breath. Notice your heartbeat. Listen to the city singing its own rhythm: the honk of a horn, the laughter of children on a playground, the wind rushing between buildings. There is nothing to change, nowhere to go, and no one to be. Everything just is. This is the order of things.

    It is the order that rules the forest and the city, the stars and the soil, every inhale and every exhale. Grasping to expectations is futile. The only constant is change. So release the bitterness, forgive yourself and others, and trust all is as it has ever been and will ever be. 

    Knowing this in your head is easier than knowing it in your heart. Every act of letting go carries its own grief cycle. Releasing resentment does not absolve you of human emotion. Forgiveness does not excuse the atrocities committed. Trust does not negate all fear. But we can hold space for acceptance of these contradicting truths to exist at the same time, and leave room for new experiences to enter and change our minds.

    It can feel inescapable, this human condition. But escaping isn’t the goal. There is nowhere to go. There is nothing to do. The forest bends to the storm, and so must we. So, release the scream, the tears, the weight—and allow it to transform. Allow each moment to rise and fall, decompose and grow again.

    I still live in the city, and it holds my every scream.

    From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle