Dating.

There is no French word for "dating."

Wiped Out - Part II - The Gift

In the last two months, my own personal mental hard drive has been been wiped out pretty clean.

Much of what I "knew" no longer applies and I am treasuring this new way of being.

Sharing this lack of "knowing" has been a gift as well.

And now, I understand the computer thing.

I understand that as much time as I spend in my relationship with my little white Mac (listening to music, writing, studying, communicating, working, banking, teaching, learning, discovering, discovering movies and more), it makes such perfect sense that ITS hard drive had to go as well.

The Old was ... old.

And so now, the New is slowly trickling back in. At its own pace ...

I like that a lot.

Wiped Out

I have - completely - erased my computer's hard drive.

Just reading these words as I write them makes me feel... strange.

Everything is gone: photos, programs and of course... my website. Not to mention my books-in-progress and who knows what else I have not yet thought about.

I sit here and try to observe my thoughts: some of them are of panic. Some of them are numb. Others, I barely glimpse at may be of something akin to ... excitement? Could that be?

I know that everything has a darn great reason for happening. I know that I create my own reality.

I don't know why I picked this. When I do, I will let you know.

Until then, I oscillate between lots of "doing" (calling data recovery services, thinking about what else is gone) and "being" (taking a bath, thinking that maybe I will forget the whole thing and apply for a job as a school bus driver).

This is a strange time.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

As I was getting ready to shove a thyroid pill down our dog Roxy's throat, a couple of weeks ago, something in the way she looked up at me made me pause.

She and I have a very strong bond and I usually relate to her very much the way I relate to the people I love.

Which does not include shoving anything down their throats.

So, I stopped, placed the pill on the floor and simply asked her to please eat it.

Roxy looked at me, sniffed the pill and turned away.

I asked her again. I reminded her of how much better she had been feeling since she had been taking it, these past few weeks.

She looked at me again, walked back to the pill ... and ate it.

Just like that.

And so, this is how it has been ever since. Twice a day.

Easy. Fully connected, trusting, respectful.

And yes, I know that "you can always sneak it in her food" but just as I don't sneak spinach into my kids' food ... well, I like this so much better.

To Party ... or Not to Party? - That Was the Question.

I moved to the US a few days after finishing high school.

This was not an intended move and in fact, I did not think that it was a move, only a visit.

But this is another story. One that has been slow to heal.

My parents, in an attempt to get me socially connected to "their new country", introduced me to a young man who invited me to "a party."

Having not danced in a few weeks, I was looking forward to it.

As I walked into the house where the party was held, I noticed that it had not yet started: people were still standing around the living room, talking. The lights were bright. Some people were sitting on the couch and everyone seemed to be drinking - a lot. Many of the guests seemed a little bored and I could not wait for the fun to start as this certainly held no air of what I thought of as a party.

A couple of hours later, my date told me that it was time to go home.

"We are going to leave before the party starts???"

He looked at me, confused.

"This is the party. We have been at the party." he answered, looking at me strangely.

My heart grew heavy as I realized that I would not dance after all. It grew heavier as, that evening, I became aware of the difference between the lives of French teenagers and American teenagers.

I had spent my teenage years going to weekly parties where we danced all night, lights turned low, strobes turned high (this was the 80's...) and - to my recollection -  never a drop of alcohol in sight. There was laughter, playfulness and well, FUN.

I had seen none of it that night.

Addendum:

A few weeks later, that same boy invited me to the movies. He did not mention anything about "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" being an atypical show. As we left the theater, grains of rice in my hair, I knew for sure that I hand landed in a different planet. A planet where not only did kids not dance but adults felt compelled to act out every movie they watched. I could not wait to go back home to France.

Which, as it turns out, I never did.

By 7AM

Homemade Nutella crepes for the boys - one of them I have not birthed.
Fresh liver for our dog.

A hot shower awaits me and I feel so damn good about it all.

Whose Business?

As some of you know, I have been intensely studying Byron Katie's work and her simple yet profound teachings are making their way deep inside me.


This is the kind of things that does not happen that often but when it does, it is pretty darn altering.


One of these teachings has to do with "The Three Types of Businesses."


According to Byron Katie, there are three types of businesses and knowing the difference between them can make a huge difference in the way we live our lives, in the amount of peace we experience.


1) God's business. This is the stuff hurricanes and tsunamis are made of.


2) Other people's business. If your next door neighbor decides to paint his house bright fushia ... that's his business. On a tougher-to-implement level, if he decides to call you names, that's his business as well.


3) Your business. Getting mad about the new paint job or feeling insulted by his words, that's your business.

And here is the trick: the only place to ever dwell is in YOUR business. 

If you/we/I am experiencing stressful thoughts, chances are you/we/I are in someone else's business.


So simple and when truly grasped, fully revolutionary. 

No Thanks

The phone rings and the school nurse reminds me that one of my kids "needs his shots."

Being familiar with the process, I simply answer: "Ok, please send me the personal waiver form so that I may sign it and return it to you."

As I hang up the phone, I - as I have many times for the past 18 years - mentally thank the doctor who told me years ago that "no matter how authoritative and mandatory the whole vaccine lingo is, all you have to do is sign a personal waiver." Which basically is a fancy and legal way of saying "No, thank you."

I am not writing this to influence anyone on their choice of vaccination or non vaccination. Not at all.

I am writing this because I want to shout loudly and to anyone who wants to hear that sometimes, all it takes is saying "No Thanks."

No need to explain why, a simple "No Thanks" is often enough.

The First Time I Saw Her

Costa points out a spot, in the corner of an orange room in a big beautiful store and says to me:

"This is where she was, the first time I saw her." 

My boy sure loves his guitar. 

School

I believe we are all born with a different curriculum.

So, we attract different teachers and different textbooks.

Some courses are harder than others and sometimes, we need to study all night long just to barely pass.

But when the recess bell rings ... it's time to look up at the sun and go play!

Homing Instinct

"The homing instinct is an innate directional positioning that points to where you know you belong."


Yep. 

In Times of Trouble

I sit today with an uncomfortable new awareness. Uncomfortable because  - as is often the case with any important new awareness, I wish I had had it ... before.

But I didn't.

And so, in the last few weeks, as my life became a whirlwind of emotions, challenges and fears, I "did" a lot. Faced with something intensely difficult, I took action. I made appointments, I asked for support and I talked with people. I rushed things.

The support I received helped me feel loved. And validated. It all came with much warmth and because I have awesome, smart friends, it all felt really good.

But today, I sit with the knowledge that less movement may have been better.

That more sitting with ME would have served me and mine in a truer way.

Sitting with the "not knowing" would have allowed me to eventually hear my own voice, to speak my own words. The "not knowing" that is so damn uncomfortable.

So, I live with this new piece about myself. And I let it settle within me, find its new home so that I may use it in my own life as well as the lives of my clients.

Cato Was Born.

Just a few words on my screen let me know that a new little person is amongst us.

Why would this cause me to cry?

I guess it is just the wonderment, the beauty, the hope fulfilled and the reminder that life simply goes on.

Conversation starter...

From Becky Blanton who will be my guest on Dec 8:

From Becky Blanton: I think it's an attitude. I meet a lot of people who live in their cars so they can surf, climb, camp or whatever. Being in our 20's and 30's and being footloose and free is "okay," - like traveling cross country after college to "see the country" is an adventure. Doing it in your 50's to "find a job" is being homeless. Why? We define ourselves and I think that's important for people to realize - that THEY control their reality. If you are laid off and think, "Oh my god, I'm unemployed and have no income, I'm going to lose my home, my car....etc." and you panic - then you become "homeless." But if you are laid off and think, "Wow, not what I want to have happened, but now I've got other options - what are they? How will I define myself now? What do I want to DO now?" Then you take control of your circumstances. I think attitude is everything and that's the point I want to make. Not everyone will get it....but it will be interesting!! 

Sixty Some Days

My daughter "goes back to her Dad's this weekend."

A decade later, these words still jolt me.

A couple of years ago, she decided that she no longer wanted to do this every other week thing and she switched to an every two months schedule. The truth is, I cannot begin to know what it's like to switch home every other week. As much as I have strived and mostly succeeded to free my life from guilt in general, this one still tugs at me.

But I digress.

She is going back to her Dad's this weekend.

And coming back in two months.

And leaving again two months later.

Possibly for good.

She is a senior and has made it clear that she wants to move away (as in Europe kind of away) not too long after graduation.

Which I understand and support.

But this, technically, leaves only Sixty Some Days of ... the way things are.

Sixty Some Days of her unbelievably messy bedroom (no matter how many times she cleans it) and her borrowing my makeup (or me hers) and her creative baking and ... well ... her.

And I know, somewhere in a wise part of me that she and I are just turning a page and that  there are many more for us to write together. I look forward to her being an adult with me and I look forward to watching her spread her wings and fly and try on new things and (eventually) maybe even make a couple of babies for me to kiss and hold and smell.

But today, I am feeling a sense of loss.

Kids

My client is about to give birth at home to her fourth child.

Her oldest boy has questions.

The most recurring one being: "What am I going to eat that day?"

Maya's Wisdom

My friend Rebecca reminded me of this timeless gem.

Thank you ♥

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... 
enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... 
something perfect to wear if the employer,
or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .. 
a youth she's content to leave behind.... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... 
a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to
retelling it in her old age.... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..... 
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... 
one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..... 
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.... 

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... 
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems,
and a recipe for a meal,
that will make her guests feel honored... 


A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... 
a feeling of control over her destiny... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
how to fall in love without losing herself.. 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
how to quit a job,
break up with a lover,
and confront a friend without;
ruining the friendship... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW.... 
when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY... 


EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
that she can't change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.. 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it's over... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
what she would and wouldn't do for love or more..... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it.... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW.. . 
whom she can trust,
whom she can't,
and why she shouldn't take it personally... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
where to go...
be it to her best friend's kitchen table..
or a charming Inn in the woods...
when her soul needs soothing... 

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... 
What she can and can't accomplish in a day...
a month...and a year... 

S#*t Happens.

This morning, as I am about to leave, I notice an unsightly brown streak on the cream colored living room rug. I get closer, I bend, down, I take a sniff.

Yep, dog poop.

Not much dog poop, mind you.
Just the little bit that happens when a dog rubs her butt on the floor after ... ok, well, you know.

So, I walk over to the kitchen, grab a paper towel and a spray bottle. Wipe the stain off. Walk back to the kitchen and think to myself how easy that was. And also how easy it is for us to sometimes think these little things are a big deal.

Most of the time, they are not a big deal at all. Only the stories we tell ourselves about them make them big deal.

S#*t happens.

Baseline

My "happy" baseline is high enough that I sometimes do not notice when I am dipping down.
I am pretty sure that this is a blessing - yet one to get to know closely.

Keep Knocking

"Keep knocking and the joy inside will eventually come out to see who's there" - Rumi

Funny what words do...

I have noticed that oftentimes, when people mean to say or write the word "Meditation", they often say "Mediation" or "Medication."

That's all.

Joining the Circus

Over dinner, tonight, my friends tell me about friends of theirs whose son, Casey, wanted to be a pro skateboarder.

After high school, he packed his board into his car and headed down to LA. His parents were skeptical about the validity of the plan but knowing the little bit that I know about them... they sent him  some love to take along.

Within a short time, his car got stolen.

Many could say: "Well, that was that. Time to come home and get a job."

He hung in there.

This is where he is today ...

Wintuk by Cirque du Soleil MEET THE CAST: Casey Rigney, performing in the Act Charivari as a Skate Street: He has been skating for 17 years and this would include 7 years pro. Casey won first place in best trick in 2002 at the Slam City JamV (one of the largest skateboard contests in the World)

This story makes me very, very happy.

Early AM walk

Whoever had the idea to drop deep shiny red leaves onto the bright green grass and then add a layer of fog to the whole thing is a hell of an artist. Thank you.

Blame?

When we "blame" - ourselves or others - we automatically subscribe to the notion of "something wrong." (If there is not the assumption that something is wrong, then there is no need for blame, right?)

But, can we know for sure that something is wrong? Something might be inconvenient, contrary to our plans or even painful ... but intrinsically wrong? Can we know for sure?

If if we cannot know for sure that something is wrong, then how can we blame?

Strange Night

Last night was Homecoming. Well, pre Homecoming, actually.

I told Tanissa to "have fun and be safe"

I fell truly asleep after having heard her walk up the stairs and crawl into bed.

A short few hours later, my mommy radar wakes me up from a deep dream and alerts me to once again, the sound of feet coming up the stairs.

Chris is next to me,  and I am not sure what is going on. Wondering if Tanissa went out again  - which would not have made me happy at all - I get up and look in the hallway.

A guy is standing there - petting Roxy.

I say: "What are you doing here?" (fair enough of a question, right?)

To which I hear Tanissa, annoyed that I would ask her such a stupid question, answers :"Nothing Mom. I am sleeping." Duh.

Then I hear Chris mumble: "It's just Marco, baby."

Well, Marco it is not.

Marco is asleep at his Dad's and sure as heck, this is not Marco.

So I ask "Who are you?"

To which he answers : "I am Cal."

Well, now we know.

By now, Chris and Tanissa are up and we are all standing in the hallway.

I request that we move the party into the living room where I ask an obviously intoxicated Cal  what is going on.

Roxy is still at his feet, supremely pleased with the ongoing petting.

This is so weird.

Part of me is alert to potential danger but the biggest part of me knows that we are safe. Chris' large presence holds the space for me to tap into a fearless place in me, the one that reminds me that this kid is someone's son and that kindness is the best tool, right now.

So, I ask him a few questions. He says that he is sorry to invade our space. I ask him if he wants a glass of water. He says no thank you. He gets up to leave. Chris asks him if he wants us to call someone for him. He turns around and asks US if we want him to call someone for us.

He gets to the door.

This is so weird.

He leaves.

I lock the door - a new habit for us to hone.

I guess by then it is actually Homecoming.

Gravy Lava and Celery Generals.

Sunday afternoon. Chris and I are waking up from a sweet nap, sun streaming through the window.

I look at him and he seems pensive, a slight smile on his lips.

Because I am a woman, I ask: "What are you thinking about?"

Because I am a woman, I know he must be thinking about how wonderful this moment is - possibly even about how much he loves me.

He turns to me and answers.

"I am thinking about a mountain of meat."

Yikes.

Maybe to appease my puzzled look, he adds:

"You know, with gravy lava coming down the sides."

Within minutes, he is up and on his way to the grocery store.

Then in the kitchen. For quite a while.

And then, as we all sit,  ready for a great Sunday dinner, he and Marco gently set ... a volcano in the
center of the table.

I am talking about a deliciously seasoned meat volcano. With rich gravy lava trickling from the top and down the sides of the volcano ... all the way down to a sea of buttery mashed potatoes.

And because I always want us to have vegetables ...  five celery-and-cherry-tomato-generals look on, celery feet firmly planted into the mashed potatoes.

Life is good.

Three Ways to Clean a Bathtub

Way #1 - Neutral
Scrub while thinking of something else.

Way #1 - Angry
Scrub vigorously resenting having to do it.

Way #3 - Loving
Caress the sponge along the sides of the tub, feeling grateful for having a tub to clean.

Either way you end up with a clean tub.

My Fabulous New Weight Loss Plan

So ... I have about ten pounds that don't want to budge.

They, however, bulge.

And, as many of you will understand from personal experience, those are never far from the surface of my mind.

Yesterday, they popped in for a visit oh ... 72 times or so. And every time, their visit is accompanied by a firm resolution to eat less, move more bla bla bla.

As I ran into the grocery store on my home yesterday (and by run I mean walk), I called home and asked Chris and Tanissa what they would like me to bring them.

Tanissa wanted sorbet - raspberry or mango.

Chris wanted cookies and cream ice cream.

Ok.

So here I am, plopped in front of a wall of ice cream, focused on finding the two requested items, when my eyes land on ... chocolate hazelnut gelato. Chocolate. Hazelnut. Gelato.

My mind does a little dance and pretty soon I am dropping all THREE types of ice cream into the cart.

Walking around the store, my mind is busy. It dialogues with itself about weight, promises, bulge, chocolate ... the whole time my eyes are caressing the gelato. This goes on for about 15 minutes.

And all of a sudden, I feel satisfied. I feel as though I have extracted the nectar from the gelato. I feel as though eating it would barely add to the pleasure.

Weird.

So, to test myself, I walk back to the ice cream aisle. I pick up my lovely chocolate hazelnut gelato and I gently put it  back amongst its brothers and sisters.

Just like that.

Minutes later, I am walking out of the store, feeling as though I have lost 5 pounds.

??????

A Little Bit Creepy ...

I was awake at 4, this morning.

Not a bad, panicky "shoot, I can't sleep" feeling, just awake.

So I got up and decided to do some work, savoring the quiet of a home rich with the slumber of people I love.

I turned on my laptop and within a few minutes, I noticed: every site I landed on seemed to have an ad for sleeping potions. "CAN'T SLEEP?" "WORRIED ABOUT INSOMNIA?" "WANT TO GET SOME REST?"

All this because I was online at 4AM.

Part of me is very aware of the brilliance of such targeted marketing.

And part of me - the biggest part - is creeped out. And somehow a little sad.

(Ok, so I see a nap in my afternoon's future.)

Environment Dependent

This is my newly coined term to bring out to the light something which I have suspected - but not fully embraced - for a long time.

Whereas some people tell me that their physical environment has no bearing on their mental state, mine is omni important.

Colors, placement, (my idea of) beauty and even smells all contribute to whether I survive or thrive.

And because I am really into thriving ... I need to "move into" a space. That space can be as small as the little black agenda I carry around or as big as my home. It includes my purse, my car and lately my office.

Fighting it and denying it is too much work, I am fully giving in.

Bring on the rich purples, the burnt oranges, the plants, the textures, the smells.

Bring ME on.

Funny how this goes...

For the past decade, I have always felt immensely blessed when one of my kids was sick and I KNEW that I could work from my home office, juggling phone calls with chicken soup.

This morning, as two of my (now much older) kids are home under the weather, I feel again immensely blessed for having a quiet office to drive to, having left some great homemade chicken soup in the fridge for them to sip when they wake up.

(and yes, I did have to remind myself a few times that I am only a phone call / 7 minutes away)

Quick Thought

Conspiration theories (big or small) drain me.
I would much rather hear about a strong belief in a Friendly Universe.

We are oh so hip.

Somehow, I goof.

I say: "I think I'll post this on SpaceBook ."

And my friend cracks up and replies: "Oh my god, it's so funny: you called "MyFace SpaceBook!!"

Manners

Reading about the whole Obama / "You lie!" blurt of yesterday, my mind gets on the subject of manners.

Raised in France, manners were added to my baby bottle pretty much from birth. Keep your elbows off the table, make sure you say please and thank you, give your seat to older people, sit up straight, make sure you ask before taking the last piece of anything, let grown ups talk etc ... etc... (lots of etc...)

I found it ludicrous and did not like it much when my grandmother pinched my arm when I chewed a little loudly.

By the time I was ten, there was no turning back. "Good" manners (esp. table manners) were in my blood, for better or for worse.

And now, here I am. I hear myself ask my kids for what I consider good table manners. I am turned off when I see an adult slouched over his plate or even worse, chewing with her mouth open.

"What does it matter?" my kids ask.  Just as I used to.

And really, does it matter? Who decided that slurping our soup was less ... something ... than gingerly spooning it in our mouths?

But ... I reply to my kids - and to my own occasional doubts: "It really does."

I think...

I always had a hunch...

"Excuse me ... can you remind me how to spell "première""?

The pretty woman who had been fervently writing at the table next to mine tells me with a laugh that she is having a bout of spelling block.

The setting is one of Seattle's great Capitol Hill coffee shops, the time is last night.

Within five minutes, she is sitting next to me and we are enjoying getting to know each other.

Two hours later, she has told me a whole bunch of the story of her life. The last decade anyway.

And by then, what had always been a hunch, now had a voice. And a face. 

Ten years ago, she was married and owned a successful fitness center.

Then one day, the building caught on fire. Barely a week after she had let her insurance lapse.

Pretty soon her marriage dissolved.

Pretty soon she had a near fatal car accident.

And pretty soon... she was homeless.

Ensued almost seven years of a life she never, ever knew existed: lining up at night to secure a place to sleep at a shelter. Being teased meanly for her nice clothes and fit body (she laughs a little bit and tells me that she looked like "Barbie does Angeline's - the name of one of the shelters") and then, the big piece: how easy it had been to stay there.

I always had a hunch that the line was not so opaque. 

Strange Conflict

I walked out of a movie, yesterday.

I think this had only happened once before and only because I so disliked the movie that I could not see giving it another hour of my life.

Yesterday was very different:

I really liked the film. The acting was great, beautiful cinematography, masterful directing and a super story, too.

My mind was happy.

My heart, though, within seven minutes, started to whimper.

It needed out. It was shriveling.

I sat with this strange conflict ("stay, this is great" / "please leave, I can't breathe") for about 45 minutes and then my feet walked me out.

Relieved, my heart let out a big breathe and I sobbed, sitting on the sidewalk for a while.

Bijou Night

I had heard about "Bijou Night" for a couple of years.

Paula had been hosting these movie evenings for a while and to hear her - and her guests - talk about them, they were quite the event.

A few movies in a row (often with a theme), some snacks, great people and overall a great time.

I never made it to one of those evenings but somehow, knowing they took place made me happy.

Tonight, sitting on Paula's couch during an Art Walk, I hear again about Bijou Night.
And that is when I realize that the tiny, tiny little room where I sit ... is where it takes place!

The room is barely bigger than a large walk in closet. 

The room is so small that most people would never, ever consider hosting a regular movie night in there.
("I would love to but I just don't have the space" ... )

Not Paula.

She wanted a movie night so she made it happen.

Tough Night and Kitty Giggles

Our foster kitty is restless.

We have given him the premium spot (our bedroom) so that he may feel comfy for the night.

I am guessing he is - but we are not.

He rolls around and purrs loudly and massages us with his paws and crawls under the cover and nuzzles our necks.

Hour after hour passes and I know that neither Chris nor I is getting much rest.

Finally, at 5, Chris gets up. He is going to finish the night downstairs.

He tells me, sleepily: "I thought I was about to get back to sleep but then he stepped in my mouth."

So, for the past 5 hours, every time I think of his departing words, I get the giggles.

In Between Posts...

To see posts between Feb 10 09 and Sept 1 09, please click here.

I Surrender - and I Jump In

Coffee Shops, Pastis and Hookahs

I sit in my favorite coffee shop this morning, ready to start my week. My laptop is whirring happy sounds, my dog is laying at my feet (I told you this was an awesome place), her body content from the long walk we just shared and Johnny just brought me a luscious piece of “quintuple chocolate cake” that Trish has created and which he wants me to try. It is not yet 8:30 and the world is good.

As the minutes pass, I am juggling a few quiet phone calls with the school district, tying loose ends in the name of “three kids going back to school - two of them to new schools”, I am responding to emails from clients, arranging for our bathtub to get repaired, making sure my best friend receives some information she needs, and scheduling a week’s worth of coaching calls.

In the background, I hear a very distinctive sound.

It feeds me in a way I do not yet fully understand.

It is the sound of “men in coffee shop, in the morning.”

To my left is a group of men, in their 50s I would guess, sitting around and ... being.

The same scene is taking place on the other side of town, in another very lovely coffee shop.

The same scene will take place today, around the town square in many villages in the south of France. There, they will probably drink Pastis.

In the high mountains of Pakistan, too. Possibly around a hookah.

All over the world, men gather.

And basically, shoot the s**t.

And this morning - with the help of Trish’s chocolate cake - I am understanding it better. I am connecting with its timelessness, with its rightness.

Men gather and shoot the s**t in a way that we don’t.

We don’t because, well, we are too busy making the world go round.

And I don’t mean this is a feminist, angry, “poor us” sort of way.

I mean this is a privileged, honored and very aware sort of way.

We get up in the morning and before our teeth are brushed, we have a list of things that need to take place just so things may function. Just so the machine may run.

And while we go through our day, we keep track of many different pieces of the puzzle. We juggle.

Kids, parents, pets, homes, work ... all the colorful threads of the tapestries we weave.

The tapestries we are lucky to weave.

And yes, it is a lot. But we can do it and we do do it. And the beautiful thing is that, if we let ourselves learn some skills and use some tools, we can do it (mostly) away from stress.

Which allows me to sit on a coffee shop on a Monday morning, doing my sweet juggling and feeling at peace with hearing four men talk about their tools.

Men who most likely have jobs. Jobs which bring in money. Money which often allows us to collect the beautiful colorful threads we need to do our weaving - and our juggling.

Dumping Your Cake - and Eating it Too

My son is 15 years old today.

He and a couple of friends spent the night on our trampoline, last night and some time this afternoon, I will stop by the skate park (his second home) to surprise him with a chocolate cake covered with sprinkles.

As I was frosting it last night, I was reminded of another cake I had made for him, nine years ago.

His dad and I had just separated and everything felt heavy.

Plants were dying left and right, our dog had begun to limp a little bit and Marco had broken his arm.

I felt as though all of it was my fault.

But I made a cake.

And as my three kids and their two best friends waited to see Marco blow his candles, I opened the fridge and pulled that cake out.

And before I could understand what happened, I dropped it on the floor.

Face down.

Time stopped and I could feel twelve eyes on me (two of them belonging to the dog).

As surely as I knew my name, I knew that I had a big decision to make. Quickly.

It felt like one of those YES or NO moments. No room for maybe.

So, desperate to not have any more pain, at least for today, I turned to the kids and said: “All right you guys. No hands allowed. Go for it.”

They looked a little scared at first and then one of them moved. And then, all of them got up. Slowly at first and then madly. And they all got on the floor, hands behind their back and licked the cake off the floor, faces smeared with frosting and giggling their butts off.

And yes, we have a dog. And no, the floor was not spotless.

But they lived. In fact, we all did.

Come to think of it, one of the very same kid was sleeping on the trampoline this morning, for yet another birthday which tells me things can’t be that bad around here after all.

(but please don’t let me drop the cake at the skate park...)

Titi's Tatoo

On impulse (and while driving...) I dial my daughter’s cell phone.

They have been in Florida for almost three weeks now, vacationing with their dad and I am starting to miss them badly.

Her brother picks up and tells me that she can’t come to the phone because ... they are in a tattoo parlor and she is about to get a tattoo.

The cottony quiet that takes over the space between my ears feels weird.

After a few seconds, I hear my voice ask: “where?”

“Oh, at the bottom of her back, right above her butt.”

Cottony quiet again.

I say “Ok, honey, I’ll call back.”

Slowly, I pull over to the side of the road. I know I need to have a talk with myself.

Thank god for coaching, I know how to have those.

So I do.

And I ask myself what is “the essence” of my angst. I can tell that on the upper layers, there is a good dose of control swimming around. I would like to just say NO and be done.

But... she is in Florida. And she is 17. While a NO would most likely do it (possibly after some unpleasant words), it would not serve either one of us well, in the long run.

So I go deeper and I ask myself what it is that I am truly so uncomfortable with.

And then I get to the bottom of it:

While I have never been a fan of tattoos, at this very moment I am most bothered by the fact that she may be getting ink and needles at the bottom of her spine, a place I believe to be energetically sensitive.

I call again and ask to talk with her.

I tell her that I would like her to consider having her tattoo placed somewhere else. I explain why. I tell her my beliefs and make them available for her to examine. And I pray that I have done enough good work, in the last 17 years, to have earned her trust.

Silence.

Then laughter.

And she says: “Mom! you are so chill!” (what the heck is “chill”?) “I would never get a real tattoo! I am getting a henna tattoo!”

Oh boy.

Half Baked Idea

So - can't seem to get that one out of my mind:

I want to fly to Chicago in the fall, bake a couple dozens of those life altering Chocolate Cookies and deliver them to as close to Oprah as I can get (her desk would be great), along with a copy of the "Oprah and the Chocolate Cookies" story.

Costa keeps telling me it's time she reads it and tells the world about my book and dang... he may be right; he often is.

Which means I need a couple of things:

- Any 6th degree of separation magic that could lead me closer to Oprah. We've to be able to do this on Facebook, no?

- Any contact in Chicago where I could stay for a few days and enhance the kitchen with the aroma (and taste) of chocolate cookies.

- Any reminder that this a fabulous idea!

Oh boy.

Conor

He stands by my book-signing table, bright blue eyes and not quite four feet tall as he tells his grandma of all the things he still wants to do at the fair, today.

Before I can stop myself, the life coach in me takes over and I am asking him if he would like a piece paper to write his list down.

To my surprise, he does.

I hand him my very special pink pen.

At the top of the paper, in the center, he writes: LIST.
In caps and underlined.

Next comes a column of four little check boxes, next to the names of four cool things to do.

As he finishes, his grandma reminds him that he had wanted to get an ice cream cone, also.

His eyes light up as he starts drawing his fifth check box.

But then he stops.

He looks up and says: “Oh, no, wait... I can’t. I’ve already had my sugar for the day.”

Conor is eight.

Pain and Joy

As I soaked up the warm joy of sitting in the midst of music, art and happy people doing a little bit both last night, I was very aware that three people I care for (two of which I birthed and would give my life for) were in deep pain, at that very moment.

Three different kinds of pain.

It felt strange to be aware of both the heaviness of the grief and the lightness of the joy living within me.

At first, I felt as though the grief would take over, almost as though it should. And then, it felt as though allowing the joy would not be a betrayal. So I let it.

And it made for a very ... “real” combination.

When a woman showed up and asked quietly if she could sing a capalla and then proceeded to fill the little coffee shop with beautiful, belting sounds of “let the light in”, I let my tears come up, reminded of how much life we can feels when we all joy and pain to cuddle up together.

Life is amazing stuff.

For The Love of Laundry Lines

I have a passion for laundry lines.

I love the way they tell a story, the real story of real people.

A little bit the same way as walking through an alley, in the back of a home, will tell you a real story, also.

Laundry lines share their information without words, without pretense, without shame.

Laundry lines show you sheets, trusting that most intimate bit of someone’s life to the sun, to the wind, to the eyes of strangers. Sheets where real people, sleep, dream, worry, make love, maybe cry too. Where else would you see your neighbors’ sheets? And even though you don’t “need” to see their sheets, isn’t there something special about doing so?

Laundry lines show you clothes, unadorned, unpopulated and unmatched. Socks, too. And towels.

One day, I am going to create a beautiful book filled with a collection of photographs of laundry lines, photographs I will have taken all over the world. From the bright cloths of South Italy, strung way high above narrow streets, to the super efficient Parisian clothelines, stretched over tiny bathtubs.

Tonight, as I walked around, I was blessed with happy news, straight from my neighbors’ clotheline.

Alex and SaraLou have been expecting her first baby and even though I have only ever exchanged a few words with them, it has been wonderful to see her belly growing at the same rate as her vegetable garden.

In the spring, as she planted her seeds in long straight rows, she barely looked plump. These past few weeks, as she harvested her zucchini, she looked beautifully ripe.

She told me that her baby was due on the 28th. She told me that she had ordered a birthing tub to be brought to the kitchen of their tiny house. I heard in her voice that she was a little nervous when she told me about “having heard a lot of scary stories.” She seemed genuinely relieved when I told her not to listen to scary stories, that she was going to make her very own story.

Over the past couple of days, SaraLou had drifted through my mind and I had wondered if the baby had arrived, if all was okay.

Walking by their home, there had been no sign of anything different.

Until tonight.

Tonight, as I approached Alex and SaraLou’s yard, I saw a tiny bright spot in the middle of their laundry line. Strung in between Alex’s usual mechanic’s jeans was the teensiest, sweetest little green t-shirt.

Just like that.

No words needed.

I Just Don't Know

Tanissa calls me from Lopez and throws words at me, her voice full of fear. She tells me of this kid she knows who let this kid he knows drive his car on the island, yesterday afternoon. She tells me of this other, much younger kid she does not know who got hit by the car and is now in the hospital. She tells me of this man we will never know who is now dead, also hit by the car.

And I reach for reason and come up empty.

And I reach for faith and something deep inside whispers something, but I cannot hear it.

This morning, right now, I know nothing.

Do Unto Others

As I laid in bed yesterday afternoon, prone to a sudden, rare and yet almost total crash of energy, Chris sat by me and asked me if I would like him to bring me some cream and a video.

Some cream and a video.

The idea of cream made my stomach turn a little and I could barely wrap my mind around the concept of focusing on a video.

I declined and asked him for a glass of water instead.

Last night, as we talked, I realized that he had offered me the two things that would have made HIM feel a lot better: he likes to sip cream out of a wine glass (I know, isn’t it cute, though?) and there is rarely a time when a movie won’t cheer him up.

So, he was wanting the give me the good stuff. HIS good stuff.

Just as, seeing him under the weather I might have offered to run him a hot bath while straightening out the living room and putting out a vase of fresh flowers - which he would not even have noticed.

So, really it is not so much “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” but rather “do unto others whatever is going to make them happy - even if it feels a bit strange to you.”

Geranium Picking and Fire Stocking

As I tend to the geraniums and nasturtiums who live in my window boxes (I have never had window boxes in my home before this summer), I realize that the whole pruning, picking, watering, rearranging and general nurturing that takes place scratches an itch in me. A motherly itch perhaps, now that my kids are growing up and need me in different ways.

And then I remember that first winter after their Dad and I separated and they spent seven days and night in a row “in their other home.” I, in turn, spent hours and hours tending the fire in my wood stove, sitting by it, feeding it, turning the logs around, watching it glow and getting up in the middle of the night to make sure it was still breathing.

Today, that all makes very sweet sense.

Forty Years of Pizza

“I have friends all over the world.”

It is early in the morning and I have called this older gentleman to discuss the possibility of collaborating on re-opening the town’s drive-in movie theater (that’s another whole story). We seem unable to stick to the subject at hand, however, thus his declaration.

Quickly followed by:
“I made most of them over pizza.”

I then find out that for the last forty years, without fail and wherever he found himself in the world, every Friday, my new friend has gone out for pizza and invited whoever wanted to sit at his table to join him.

He has done it in France, in Vietnam, in Sweden too (I think he said Sweden...) and many other places. He continues to do it, every Friday, at home in Anacortes.

So there you go:
A crust of generosity, a layer of adventure, some bits of curiosity, a good helping of conversation, a good sprinking of hospitality and a whole bunch of cheese.

Pretty darn cool, no?

Client Boundaries

(Written in May 09)

My friend seemed shocked. She said “You HUG your clients???”

We had just walked out of a movie theater and briefly ran into a group of three women with whom I had been working for a while; the four of us were happy to see each other and warm hugs ensued, complete with the happy noises that women sometimes make when they are, well ... happy to see each other.

What felt to me like a natural expression of joy seemed to offend my friend who quickly educated me - in what I heard as a worried tone - about her version of a healthy client / coach relationship.

This was a few years ago and while I never fully subscribed to her theory, her words remained in the background of my mind and occasionally made it to the foreground as I broke, again and again the boundaries of what worked - for her.

I have watched my clients’ dogs so that they may go on trips, I have returned calls at strange hours in order to offer a few calming words, I have opened my art studio and shared my supplies so that words that did not know how to be spoken may be painted, I have entertained my clients’ kids so they, in turn, could go play and “be”, I have driven my clients to the doctor when their backs were out, contributed to their kids’ tuition when it felt right to do so, shared a self-defense class to make it more fun (for both of us) - and way more.

And I have definitely given and received a lot of hugs.

And while it always felt right, my friend’s voice never fully went away.

Until this morning.

This morning, in the sweet space that exists right before we open our eyes, I knew my truth.

I knew how this works - for me.

As I woke up in a beautiful, peaceful room, overlooking a Canadian river and facing a hill where wild horses roam, I knew.

I knew that my own boundaries are strong in their ability to be soft. I knew that my intuition guides me well on the path to remaining open and connected in a way that is healthy.

I know because my dog fell asleep in front of my client’s fire last night, after a long walk on the beach: Laure is watching her so that Chris and I may go spend a few days in Kamloops, where Brigette invited us. Yes, she invited us to stay with her at her Riverside Inn, and gave us the best room in the house, made us an amazing late night snack and showered us with so much care that my eyes teared up. I know because Kristin will be checking on our cat, today, while we are away. I know because before we left, Rebecca lent me her computer charger so that I may continue to write as my own suddenly quit. I know because Carol has asked me to meet her for tea, next week, just to talk ...

I know because I know that Goodness is so precious that it is NOT to be used sparingly, not to be handed out fearfully.

This morning, I know.

Perhaps the line between clients and friends is sometimes not as sharp as I thought it would always be, when I started my career.

Perhaps it takes a little bit more work to keep checking in
to be sure that it all feels right.

And this “little bit more work” part, is also what I love. I love being aware of boundaries as a starting place and also being aware that they are mine to stretch. Consciously.

Hugs to all,

L.

Three Moms

#1
When I stopped in front of Michelle’s booth, at the local farmer’s market, I was surprised to see her flip a delicious-looking omelet. Through my light acquaintance with her, I had never known that she did this.

So I asked.

And she said: “Oh yes. We are doing this for Olivia.”

Olivia is her ten-year old daughter and and Michele and her husband thought that Olivia would enjoy learning a little bit about business as well as creating something with her family. So, last December, the three of them sat down and came up with the idea of having a food booth at the market, for the summer weekends.

Olivia is beaming and I learn that she is involved in all parts of the operation: creation, purchasing, inventory, production...

As Michelle’s husband told me: “By the time se is 16, she will be able to do this on her own.”

What a gift.

They all seemed really happy and I left the booth feeling uplifted by having briefly touched the lives of such a creative parents.

***

#2
Last night. waiting (forever) for French fries at the drive in movie theater.

The woman standing next to me had been waiting even longer and as I smiled at her, I noticed that her jacket said something about “F.B.I.”

So, of course ... I asked.

As we talked, she told me how one of her three sons was in the F.B.I. Was a forensic psychologist, actually. I found out that this is the guy who talks to killers and - as she put it - “gets inside their heads.” Think Silence of the Lambs.

Yikes.

She told me about him deciding to do this when he was 16, even though no one else in their family had gone to college. She told me about how strange it felt knowing that he could not talk about his work.

She sounded both proud and still puzzled.

Finally, she told me that until he had turned 16, if she had thought of him having anything to do with law enforcement, “it would have been from the other side.”


***

#3
A delicious lunch shared with a friend.

Our waitress sporting a new haircut. A creative haircut.

So... yes, we asked.

And she told us that her daughter had just graduated from beauty school. Then she said :”I get new hairdos A LOT.”



That’s it. Just three very short interactions with three women.
Three essential exchanges about the many different ways that we get to be moms.

Three connections which continue to feed me. 

Aie Aie Aie

My son Costa is 11 and has developed a serious crush on planes. Actually not planes so much as flying.

So being who he is, he has been taking flying lessons (mostly paid for by him).

This was kinda pushing the edges of my comfort zone but even though I have not yet gone up in the plane with him, I have managed to watch him take off without making a fool of myself by screaming - or fainting.

And then, a few days ago, he started mentioning flying for the Navy. Landing on aircraft carriers to be specific.

I won’t go into the details of why this plan is sooooo far from my aforementioned comfort zone.

When he wrote a book, a few years ago, I was completely happy with his vision of “writing books while traveling in an RV.” I think he had talked of getting a dog to keep him company and I had felt very much at home with that scenario.

Enters the Navy.

Enters his wish to go visit an aircraft carrier “as soon as possible.”

Yikes.

Now, I know that he is only 11 and that he has time to change his mind 200 times before it really matters.

And I also know what it feels like when you announce “what you want to do when you grow up” and nobody pays attention. Or worse: laughs.

So, yesterday, I took a deep breath and I tapped into the part of me that believes in supporting my kids’ exploration - independently of my own ... stuff.

And I sent an email to a man I met while teaching a class who spends a good deal of time on aircraft carriers.

I asked him if he could take Costa (and me) to visit one, this summer.

He said he thought he might be able to work it out.

Oh boy. 

For the Love of Connection

Sitting at a red light, yesterday, I became aware of this great music swimming in and out of the car’s open windows.

Already high on the simple fact that the windows were open (a pleasure we do not take for granted, here in Washington), I let myself be subconsciously wooed by the sound until my appreciation overflowed a bit and I turned to Chris and said “What IS this music? I love it!.”

The question was out and so the answer had been given an invitation to show up.

Turns out, it lived in a big beige van who was stopped a little bit ahead of us, on the other lane.

I made my way to it just as the driver was putting the CD away.

I leaned out and asked her what that music was.

She leaned out, smiling and told me all about it.

Our exchange lasted a pleasantly long time and the red might have agreed as it did not switch to green for a good while.

When it did, we resumed our connection at the next light.

This woman and I may never see each other again and yet we are forever connected.

We spent a few minutes expressing joint appreciation for a sound.

She gifted me a new sound.

I gifted her my gratitude.

I believe both of our afternoons were enhanced by it.

I just love this.

A Little Bit Bad ... and a Lot Good

I received a lot of mail following my last article “A Little Bit Bad”

So it is only right that I now share the sequel.

Here it is:

As life will have it, the day after the article came out, my son Marco called me and asked if I would please go with him to Whistle Lake, the next afternoon.

He told me that he had finally jumped from the 60 ft cliff into the water and that he really wanted me to see him do it.

He told me that all I would have to do was hike about a mile in and then swim for 10 ft feet so I could get to the place from which he was going to jump.

That was quite a scary program and I was trying to think fast of reasons why I could not make it.

You see, I am not crazy about the idea of my kid jumping into a lake from a 60 ft cliff.

And I not at all crazy about the idea of swimming in a lake.

Let me re-phrase this: I am panicked at the idea of swimming in a lake.

P.A.N.I.C.K.E.D

No good reason, I know. But for me, between the monster eels, the dark water and the-little-people-whom-I-just-know-live-under-the-water-and-are-dying-to-pull-me-under-with-them, I am panicked.

So I said yes.

I said yes really fast and the next day when Marco bounded into the house after school, I was ready to go.

Well, I looked ready to go, anyway.

So we went.

We hiked and that was great.

We got to the swimming place and that was not.

First of all, it appears that Marco’s idea of 10 ft is very, very different from my idea of 10 ft. From most people’s actually.

I stood there, looking at about 100 ft of (to me) very dangerous looking water.

I stood there and I knew that the only way to get to where I would see him jump was, well, for ME to jump.

I stood there and I knew that I could not do it.

I stood there and I knew that I had to.

I had to, if I wanted to accept the gift that I was being given. If I wanted to get to the other side of “A Little Bit Bad.” 

So I did.

I went in and I swam across.

It was scary and fear never left. But panic never came either. And pleasure managed to swim with me alongside fear. I got to experience both.

I had wanted to enjoy swimming in a lake for many years. It is no fun to want to want something you are scared of.

And I was doing it.

A little while later I got to see Marco fly down from the crazy-high cliff and when he seemed shocked - and a little disappointed - that I had not been more scared to watch him leap, I knew that I had had just faced an even bigger (and quieter) fear.

And this, I think, is what happens “on the other side.”

On the other side of missing our babies lives the opportunity to meet our grown kids in new places. The opportunity to let them guide us (when we are lucky enough to be invited) into their world.

And it turns out that sometimes, in that world, is where we find ourselves too.

And that, for sure, is A Lot of Good. 

Surprises

My friend had Toxic Shock Syndrome in her 20’s and was told she most likely would never have babies.

My friend held a slight yet noticeable level of superiority towards all folks “not white.”

My friend was somewhat judgmental towards blue color workers.

My friend will turn 50 soon.

18 months ago, she gave birth to beautiful twin baby boys.

Two beautiful Mexican baby boys.

Whose daddy fixes car for a living.

My friend seems really, really happy.

Holding Children Captive

Hours and hours in a car.

No iPods allowed.

Ahhhh ...

I love holding my children captive.

I love those long road trips where we share a very small space and where our words get swirled around over our heads.

We share our music (appropriately rolling our eyes at each other’s choices while we let ourselves meet - and enjoy - new stuff).

I get to hear about things I would never hear at home ... because there is so much time to talk and so much time to listen. And so little room for the words to get lost.

I hear what is important to them. I tell them what’s important to me. They listen and sometimes ask me more.

I hear them talk about other trips and I let myself believe that for all the times I might have screwed up, there are plenty of times when I haven’t.

I watch them whisper to each other and explodes in laughter.

I ask my rearview mirror to never fully erase those images.

I am in heaven.

And then, when we find out after half a day of driving that I accidentally booked a campsite TWO hours away from where we are going, I hear them tell me that it’s no big deal: they love being in the car. 

I Almost Misses It

I almost missed the funniness of it all.

Thank goodness Erin was here to point it out:

Yesterday afternoon, I signed up for a full weekend workshop for an “Alternatives to Violence Project” training.

Yesterday evening, I attended a very sweaty “Body Combat” fitness class.

Totally excited about both.

Life is rich in flavors and I am sure as heck not going to spend a lot of time thinking about this strange combination.

But it IS pretty funny.

Musing

One of my clients regularly sends me her “musings” and I find the term so delightful. It reminds me of “wandering”, not knowing for sure where we will end up. When she says it, it conjures visions of fairy wings.

So today, I am borrowing the term and I know she won’t mind.

Because really, this entry is not going anywhere, I am pretty sure. No conclusion, no bright epiphany, simply an observation, a musing.

I read today that when Natalie Cole was found to need a kidney transplant, dozens of fans emailed her saying that they were going to get tested to see if they could donate.

Such amazing generosity.

I wish my mind had stopped at being awed by the generosity but dang it, it didn’t. It kicked into what I call my “little mind.”

I am not too fond of my “little mind.” It is the one that forgets about our spiritual path for a while. The one that judges, that feels entitled to make assessments. Yuk.

Anyway... “it” went on to perceive some sort of injustice regarding all the everyday people, out there who get on a list and wait. A long, long time. No one volunteers to get tested to see if they can donate. Maybe ‘cause they can’t sing,“it” whispers to me in a syrupy way.

And then “it” goes on to wonder if all these nice people who are ready to give one of their really precious kidneys to someone they have never in person met would ... say ... cosign a loan for their neighbors to buy a car they need.

Then “it” goes on to ask a few other “small minded questions.”

(I told you I don’t like that little mind.)


Pretty soon I am thinking about how nice we can be
to the people who are not the closest to us.


For instance, I regularly hear from my clients (some of them whom I have never met in person) about how wonderful they think I am.

And yet, if you were to ask two of my three kids how they feel about me today ... wonderful would most likely not appear in their top 500 list.

Something feels weird about that.

So, that’s it.

No conclusion, no brilliant inspirational closing to this musing.

Maybe you will send me your own? 

I am Sorry

“I am sorry.”

Sometimes these words are so darn hard to say.

And sometimes they feel so, so - so - darn good to hear.

I have been thinking quite a bit about “I am sorry” lately.

I have said it, I have heard it, and I have begged for more of it.

And also (because apparently it is not just my job but also my nature) I have paid close attention to how it really works.

This is what I have found:

There are four phases to a truly effective apology.

Phase One - I am sorry
Phase Two - What can I do to make up for what I have done / said ?
Phase Three - I promise to try my very best to not do it again
Phase Four - Here is why I did it.

To me, this makes up a fully rounded apology which may or may not be accepted but which has been fully expressed.

One big mistake I see comes from the fact that two of these phases seem to often get blurred and blended together.

Which looks like this:

“I am sorry I did this (#1). I did it because ... (#2)”

And Bang! The explanation, which when it comes at the very end of the process (possibly a day later, even) acts as a way of saying “please know me better” all of sudden becomes a justification. It completely dilutes the “I am sorry” part.

This does not accomplish the goal of a clean apology which is to restore peace and healing within a situation where pain has occurred.

Because our languages, filters, backgrounds, triggers are different, if we get close enough to other humans, we are going to hurt one another, at some point. Forget avoiding that part.

Instead, let’s learn to turn these uncomfortable times into opportunities for knowing each other better. For “learning each other.”

Once I get hurt, I want to know that you see me being hurt. That it matters to you, even if you do not understand it (mostly because of your language, background, filters, triggers). I want to hear you tell me that you are sorry.

Then, I want to start healing the little strands of our relationship (no matter how small the relationship is), to restore our connection and trust by hearing you ask me what I need.

I also want you to tell me that you will try to not do this again. This helps me feel safer which allows the little strands to grow back faster.

Finally, once the little strands have begun to heal - which may or may not be in the same conversation - I want to hear about you. I want to learn you better. I want to hear why you did what you did. This is a very good thing.

And I want to do the same for you.

This does not need to take a long time nor does it need to take place in a teepee while smoking a peace pipe. It can be very simple.

So, for all the times when I quickly said “sorry” and then zoomed on to explain why I did what I did... I want to say: I am really sorry. Please tell me how I can make it up to you. I promise to try and not do this ever again. And if you’d like to hear why I did what I did, I can tell you about that, too.


Will you please do the same for me?

As for the First Time

He was staying with us for a few nights, a fellow couchsurfer and nice guy to boot.

Originally from Australia, he had been traveling (and couchsurfing) for a few months and was really taken by the work of Eckart Tolle’s: The Power of Now. He had carried the book with him all over the country and wanted to discuss its premise and concepts, thirsty for its essence.

Be present. Discover each moment as new.

This is Tolle’s message and I remember how powerfully they had hit me when I first read the book myself, almost ten years ago.

So there we were, on the deck, having finished a summer evening dinner (beautifully prepared by our guest) as the sun started to set over the water.

The oranges and the reds glowed like quiet fireworks and juxtaposed with the purple of the islands, they made me want to take it all in, in one big hug. I quickly climbed onto a chair to get closer to the sunset (!) and opened my arms wide, basking in the glory of it all.

Apparently surprised, our new friend asked: “Do you not usually see the sunset from here?”

Oh yes, we told him. Every night.

And every night it makes me want to fly.

A little while later we were all gathered in our sunny yellow kitchen, cleaning up and chatting some more.

I love what happens when a few friends prepare a meal together - or clean up from a meal well shared.

As everyone talked, I started loading the dishwasher and as is often the case, I felt a wave of simple gratitude for the appliance’s mere existence.

I have had a dishwasher for over twenty years (the first one was one of those funny moveable ones, gotten at a garage sale and which I rolled across the kitchen every night to hook it up to the sink) and yet I am always so thankful for it.

I am so thankful for the work it does, for the fact that it allows me to go to bed at night with a clean kitchen, for the fact that while I am sleeping, it scrubs and rinses and dries. I am so thankful for its support.

I love my dishwasher.

And so, I said just that.

As we were all cleaning up, I said “I love my dishwasher.”

My kids and Chris are used to me regularly professing my undying love for various strange things and they thought nothing of it.

Our guest asked: “Did you just get this dishwasher?” 

ARRGGHH!

So here it is:

While I was in labor for the first time, 17 years (minus 22 days) ago, I - seriously - asked my doctor if we could stop for just a little while.

Given the look on his face, I quickly understood that “we”, in fact, couldn’t.

Tonight, under the assault of my 17 years (minus 22 days) old daughter’s vocal attacks, I am wondering the same thing.

Given the look on Chris’ face, I am guessing probably not.

Oh well.

Time - and Arm Wrestling

Come on Mom, let's arm wrestle!

Over the past couple of years, my oldest son Marco had enjoyed testing his growing strength against me. So had I. It was fun to feel him resist my pull and it was also fun to lay his arm flat on the table, shortly thereafter. 

Last night, he asked again and I walked over to the table with him, feeling warm with the anticipation of this familiar ritual. Come to think of it, last night was a full moon and we all seemed a little giddier than usual.

So, there we were. Ready to start, eyes locked and smiling. 

And then it happened. In one tiny second. 

As I flexed my muscle against his, he effortlessly flattened my arm on the table. 

We were both shocked. 

Time stopped for a moment as we looked at each other without talking and this time there was a little bit of something like fear in our eyes. 

Could things have changed this dramatically in the last few months? 

In an instant, we acknowledged time. Time that had made his arm start to look like a man's. Time that was slowly melting a little bit of muscle away from mine. 

We were still holding hands when he snapped out of it and asked me to do it again.

Ready to fight harder this time, I braced myself. 

No difference at all. 

And that is when he embraced it; when he hooted, did a little happy dance, his eyes shining bright.

It was a huge moment for both of us. A little bit like giving birth to him again.

My love for this kid has grown so deep over the past couple of years. Watching him dive into teenage-hood while remaining open to his intrinsic goodness, spirit of fun and wit. He fills my cup - and yes he often drives me nuts. 

And now he kicks my butt at arm wrestling. 

Forever, I am sure.

(oh, as soon as the excitement was over, I quietly walked over to the phone and called the gym to inquire about memberships. As it turns out Marco - and his sister Tanissa - are joining with me. There is no escaping time, only loving it for its sweet assortment of gifts)

"La Tete Sous le Robinet" WTF?????

A few days ago, on a walk, Chris and I arrived at a beautiful spot on one of our favorite beaches. 

We walked to the end of the pier and Chris decided to pick me up and lift me onto the rail. 

As he explained (much) later, "he had a vision." 

My guess is that he wanted for us to enjoy this moment fully and liked the idea of holding me close while we watched the view. Being about a foot and a half taller than I am, this would look something like that famous romantic Titanic scene. 

I would have none of it. 

As soon as my feet left the ground, I asked him to put me down. Intent on savoring the moment, he did not hear me fully. I asked again and he again did not hear me fully. The third time, I demanded. By the fourth time, I am a little embarrassed to say that I kicked him out of my way. Heart racing, I screamed past him and ran down the pier, stopping only when I was very far away. 

I knew my reaction was strange and somewhat extreme and yet it was not unfamiliar. Several times, in the past, I had found myself in a similar panic. 

I always reasoned that "he had a control issue" and just had to use his big body in an effort to overpower mine. 

Last night, as we were falling asleep, an image came back to me. Along with a sentence. A French sentence. 

"La Tete Sous le Robinet." 

This translates, roughly to "The Head Under the Faucet."

And it refers to a practice (apparently not hugely uncommon in France) of calming an hysterical child by picking her up and forcing her head under a faucet of cold water. 

From what I now remember my mom saying, it works great. 

From what I am guessing, it should: the kid goes into shock, quits crying as he or she becomes more invested in survival, quiet returns and everyone is happy. 

Until forty years later when being picked off the ground triggers similar survival mechanisms. 

So here I am today. Outraged, shocked, embarrassed and a little enlightened. 

I understand better why, when my daughter was three days old and her dad picked her up gently to wash her under the kitchen faucet, I panicked. Why, until this morning, I still resented him for what I somehow perceived as abusive behavior. That was 16 years ago. 

There is more I could say about this, including the fact that even today, knowing why my reaction was so strong, I still feel that it is important for people (esp. people with larger bodies) to pay attention to other people's requests about their own bodies. This is how safety is created and fostered and as Al Turtle wisely says "Safety is the number one need in human relationships."

But I am still too triggered. 

So I will simply hit "send."

Permission to Paint

A cold got a hold of me. 

I think it had been chasing me for a few years and was possibly so glad to have finally caught me (I like the idea that a cold caught me!) that it decided that it would pack a wallop. And that it did. 

So, this is day 3.

And it is also Monday. 

I love Mondays. 

I love the open expanse of a week ahead of me, of calls to make, calls to take, things to create ... I guess I love my work. 

But this morning, there was no way I would make or take any calls. No way I would create anything. 

Energy, of which I am usually blessed oodles, is barely here. 

So, I am "forced" to look at my list and I am "forced" to admit that, really, none of it HAS to get done today. 

It is almost shocking to think that I can actually postpone all of it with no problem. 

So, now, what do I want to do? 

I want to go paint. 

That's right. On a Monday. 

And I know that I just learned something important, here. Something bigger than I can glimpse right now. But my brain is too fuzzy to articulate it. 

So I will later. 

For now, I am going to paint...

Breathe

My Kundalini Yoga teacher (I am on my second class and possibly hooked) sends me this message:

"In the Orient, it is said that when a child is born, the life-span is already pre-determined, pre-measured not by years but by the numbers of breaths allotted. Therefore, we can conclude  - and rightfully so - that if you breathe slower, you will live longer." 

Yum.