Tricycle.

Child #2 got his learner's permit today.

That's two out of three.

I am buying "the baby" a tricycle.

Two minute road trip lands us at the psychic's - in PJs.

I wanted to be in bed by 8. The thought of my big white fluffy comforter and a good book made my body soften with anticipation. I slipped on my bright red penguin pajamas and got dinner ready.

But I had forgotten that I needed to pick up Emmett, Tanissa's boyfriend at the ferry ... at 9:20.

Ok. I would be in bed by 9:45.

At 9:15, I and all three of my kids - as well as Roxy the dog - pile up in the car for a 2-minute drive down to the ferry terminal. As often happens when all of us get in the Suby together,  the energy amps up a bit. There is some giggling, some teasing (most often directed at me) and the palpable essence of a real road trip.

As we get near the ferry dock, I notice the neon "open" sign on the little house that sits up on the hill.

The little house that says "Psychic - $10 readings." 

I have seen that house many times, have wondered about it often and yet tonight, it is the first time that I see the open sign.

And of course, the kids have seen it too.

So we pick up Emmett and because the kids' excitement often manages to light up my own never-far-from-the-surface taste for adventure ... we drive up to the little house.

No one's there. But there is a phone on the outside wall. And a number.

Before I can say anything about going home (I am, after all in my pajamas) Marco picks up the phone and within seconds, he is talking to someone and making plans to have her meet us in "5 to 7 minutes."

The next moments are filled with psychic jokes  - most of them pretty darn witty - and finally Lola shows up.

In her pajamas.

She and I look like sisters and we all get a kick out of it.

The initial agreed upon idea was that ONE of them would get a $10 reading but pretty soon, well, all of them are getting a $5 reading. A palm reading.

One by one, the kids sit down and show their palm while the rest of us wait outside. As one comes out, another goes in.

And as each comes out, he/she tells us all about the reading.

Some of it is pretty darn fascinating.

When time comes to leave, Lola and I share a pajama hug, recognizing the mommy-hood in one another and somehow bonded by having shared this time with a bunch of cool kids, on a clear february night.

I am in bed at 10:30.

Pregnant - In Reverse

I remember the day I found out I was pregnant with Her. I had known already, in my newly growing motherly heart that She was there and yet it was so thrilling to hear the confirmation.

I had nine months to get ready.

And by the time She was born, I was ready. Mostly.

Ready to share my body, my nights, my sleep, myself.

Yesterday - eighteen years later - I received a similar timeline: I have six months to get ready.

Six months to get ready to let Her go. Six months to get ready to put Her on a plane to fly to the other end of the world. And most likely never fully come back.

By the time August rolls around, I will be ready. Mostly.

On Marriage

You were born together, and together you shall be forever more. 
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.


Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup, but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread, but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.


Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.


- Kahlil Gibran

Some Days Are Like This.

Most days, I am a well of creativity.

I get up ready to make things happen and I am excited to let them happen, too.

Most days, I look at the clock and wish it would stop for a while so that I may spill all I have into my laptop, sometimes a canvas, sometimes a pot of soup and sometimes all over the place.

But not today.

Today, I am empty.

Not unpleasantly empty but unusually empty.

No great idea, no interest in getting much done, much read, much written.

Not much impetus to go for a run either.

Here I sit in my pink robe at 2:30, reminding myself that contrast is such a good friend and that something in me must know exactly what I need: to do nothing.

So I do.

Plenty of Time...

I looked up at the clock, and it told me that I had plenty of time.

A sunny Saturday morning, nothing but good stuff ahead and plenty of time.

I felt my body yield comfortably,  my chest expand and my breathing get fuller.

I love "plenty of time." 

In the course of the week, I occasionally lose that feeling. Even though I give myself quite a bit of room between sessions with my clients, I often create days where "some time" is more accurate than "plenty of it."

And I guess that the contrast is what makes the whole thing that much sweeter.

Feeling so loved - as I get hacked.

Last week, as I sat in a big bookstore café in Seattle, I delighted in the joy and freedom of being able to work in such varied environment.

Savoring a quiche while answering emails, surrounded by strangers who were doing their own thing I felt nicely connected yet focused.

As I got ready to leave, I noticed that one of my email accounts was asking me for a new password. While it seemed strange, I figured I would address that later on as I was looking forward to getting back home to Chris.

Five minutes later, as I was about to get into my car, my phone started ringing incessantly. I finally picked up and was told by an acquaintance that she had just received an email from me telling her that I was stuck in London and needed her to lend me $2000. While I was on the phone with her, a friend called and left me a similar message. And another. And another. 

My email had been hacked. 

This felt so weird. 

Suddenly, there was no way for me to get into my account. No way for me to do any of the things that are tied to a gmail account. Things like writing on this blog for instance.

This sort of things rarely happen to me (although I do a whole bunch of computer mess up on my own) and it was interesting to sit with the discomfort, reminding myself that I was dealing with only "virtual nuisance" - ie: none of my kids were in the hospital.

And then, the next morning (at 6:30 mind you), I received a call from Gregg. Gregg and I had worked together several years ago and he was concerned. Although he and I have never met in person, we had built a closeness through the trust it takes to coach and be coached. And here's the thing: he had written "me" back in response to "my desperate email" and told "me" that he would be sending the money "I" needed!

This man, with whom I had not talked in over three years, was willing to send me $2000!

By the time we talked, he had understood what was happening (the response he had gotten from his offer to use PayPal was strange at best) and was telling me how silly he felt.

Silly? 

All of a sudden, the whole thing felt fully worth it to me. 

Between all the calls of concern I had received and Gregg's willingness to bail me out, I felt so loved that  I was all mushy. 

It was one more example of how okay things are. 

So, in the end, here I am writing this blog entry on my finally recovered account. 

I am a little more cautious than I used to be - and yet feeling safer than ever.

The Magic of it All

In my heart, I know that it works this way.

I know it because I have seen it and I know it because ... well, the way you just know something. 

And so, in my work, I always operate from that place of knowing. 

And yet every time, the magic of it all brings me chills.

This week, I have had those chills several times.

I'll explain.

People often come to me  wishing that their partners would change, that something within their relationship would change. 

So we talk. And as we talk, I gently bring them back to THEIR business. Often, doing so peels enough layers that a new truth emerges. 

One such example is a client who told me that she thought her husband found her unattractive and that this was the reason why they had not had sex in a very long time. A few minutes into a brave inquiry process, she shocked herself by saying that really, she was the one who found him unattractive - and why. As I watched her discover her truth, I could see her face change: she became more youthful and even prettier than she had been. I could tell also that it had been easier for her to walk around thinking that she was too fat to be attractive than to admit being physically unattracted to a man she cherishes. 

Another client was hurting from her husband's unwillingness to stop drinking and smoking. As she sat in front if me and learned to separate his business (the way he acts) from hers (the way she receives his actions), I could tell that something important was shifting. Within a few days, she reported to me how different her peace of mind had been.

This is great stuff and I love doing it. 

But then, someone else, something else, takes over my work - and that is when magic happens.

That is when, hours after leaving my office, my first client find herself making love with her husband, not having said a word to him about anything.

That is when, within a few days, my second client hears her husband mention that he has just ordered a home exercise machine and has decided to cut down on his drinking (and stop smoking!) because "it is time he takes care of himself." 

How does it work? I am not sure.

Something about being clear, something about daring to look at the truth, something about letting go of other people's stuff and becoming intimate with our own stuff... a blend of all of it. 

And mostly something about the fact that when we are connected with another human being, our own work magically affects them. Just like that. 

No nagging, no begging, no threatening ... just magic. 

I love those chills.

Men...

I am blessed with two very, very, very kind men in my life.

One is my son and as of very recently, he almost qualifies as a man.

The other is the man with whom I share a whole lot of my life.

Their kindness takes on all sorts of forms and every time, melts me.

And I love telling them of my appreciation.

But they don't always like to hear it.

I am thinking of last week when the older one of the two seemed so uncomfortable after I finished telling him how very nice I thought he was. He looked at me and said: "I am NOT nice."

And I am thinking of last night, when I thanked the younger one of the two for doing something for me and told him how kind I thought he was.

In all his teen glory, he turned to me and said: "I am NOT kind. I am bad @$$."

Liking it.

I watch my 11 year old son write himself a (BIG) note before going to bed, reminding himself of a few things to grab before going to school in the morning.

He places the note on the dining room table.

A few minutes later, he walks over to me and asks me to please put his morning breakfast smoothie on top of the note, tomorrow.

I really love this.

January 11

Ten year ago today, I handed out the keys, cookbooks, recipes, employees, customers and the fruits of many years of my life to a man I barely knew.

At 5 PM on January 11 2000, I walked out of La Vie en Rose Bakery and forgot to take all my heart with me. It took a few years and many small trips to get the rest of it. Most of it.

A Magical Encounter and The Last Plane

After looking at my car and doing a little bit of tinkering, the thickly accented mechanic tells me to get in the car with him and go for a ride "so I can hear what he hears."

I get in through the passenger side.

He slides behind the wheel and hands me twenty dollars. He says that he found it on my seat, earlier.

I sit for a second with the sweet appreciation of his honesty.

Moments later, he sees the stacks of matched books on my back seat and I answer his silent question. I tell him that they are mine, they are the book I wrote.

He tells me that he would like me to help him write a book.

And then the words spill out.

He is Armenian. Born in Iraq (EERAK). Moved to Beirut. Left in 1975. Has so much to tell. Tells me a little more and soon, his story makes "The Kite Runner" seem cheerful.

Then I think for a second and I ask: "1975... didn't they stop flying out of Beirut in 1975?"

He turns to me and says: "right after our flight left the ground, they closed the airport. For 15 years."

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.