If only money grew on trees.

Or came more frequently and fluidly from the activities I do which feed my soul.*

It’s the gossip that bothers me the most. The tense whispers. The snickers. The HOURS of inane conversation about this or that person. It isn’t all negative, per se. But it is just SO MUCH CLUTTER.

I already have PLENTY of clutter, folks!

Debating for 45 minutes the size of a belt buckle some dude wore on a reality show does NOT improve my life.

Pointing out the flaws of those with whom we sat in a meeting does NOT improve my life.

Clearly, it entertains many people. Perhaps, I am simply too self-centered to understand its merits. All I know is, it exhausts me to overhear it, it bores me to engage in it, and it has the stickiness of oil on a feather.

Now, if someone wants to talk about the tragedy of oil on feathers, I will gladly engage. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be a topic of interest for the office gossip girls.

What’s your take on a little gossip?

***

*Never fear. I am, indeed, working on this being more than an “if only,” with the help of Chris and Danielle and all of you. But it’s all happening at an annoyingly GLACIAL pace!

Watts Towers

What is it about living in a city that makes one less curious to explore?

When I travel to other cities, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I wouldn’t dream of missing their highlights. But when it’s home, there’s always tomorrow, or a self-conscious “cheese” factor, or the comfort of routine that keeps me from pulling out my map and my camera.

I’d heard talk of Watts Towers from the very first day I arrived in L.A. It’s the story with which people juxtapose that of the Watts Riots, to illustrate how this town is complicated and surprising. The riots of 1965 were a violent manifestation of fear, a push-back against hatred, intolerance and injustice. The towers, constructed from 1921 through 1955, were an artistic expression of peace, possibility and beauty. Quite a contrast. One I wanted to see. Or so I kept telling myself. But I never got around to it.

patterns

Then, three things happened.

1. I created my Intentions list at the end of 2009 – a huge long list of random activities I dreamily professed to want to experience. Suddenly it was all on paper, in front of me.
2. Then, I made it public by posting it here – that made, and makes, me feel oh-so-much-more accountable than those thousand-and-one lists I’d always scrawled in random notebooks or the back pages of my journals. I’m no longer the only one who knows how much I sit on my ass and talk big. Still, though, it took an outside force to get me driving across town on a Sunday afternoon.
3. If the ever enthusiastic Dian hadn’t read my list, seen my intention to visit Watts Towers and spontaneously agreed to join me on my venture, I’d still probably have no idea how inspiring broken bottles can be.

Simon Rodia spent 34 years collecting broken things, the stuff others see as junk, to create a vision.

DO SOMETHING BIG.

That was his dream.

perspective

He didn’t become a millionaire. He didn’t cure polio. He didn’t advance technology.

He constructed beauty out of trash.

broken bits

He’d never trained as an artist. He was a construction worker.

He didn’t seek or gain fame (at least not in his lifetime). He had a failed marriage. His neighbors thought he was crazy, and that he was designing a hazardous blight on the landscape.

He had a day job.

vision in pieces

And every single day, for 34 years, he came home and built these towers. At night, after an exhausting day of physical labor. On the weekends, when others were going to BBQs or the beach. He hand-selected every single piece of broken bottle, chipped china, shattered glass, and discarded tile. He had no architectural drawings, sketches or plans to consult.

It was all in his head.

How’s that for commitment, for faith, for trust?

dreaming big

Do you have a dream that strong and clear?

To be honest, I’m not sure I do.

But I’m working on it. Are you?

I saw a girl wearing a yellow coat today. It reminded me of you. Many things do.

It’s been a year since you left. I’ve just recently rediscovered my feet, that they belong under me, and that I can use them to stand and move forward. You’d probably say, it’s about damn time.

A lot has happened in the past 365 days. You’d be ecstatic about some developments, but I know you’d roll your eyes over much of it. Or maybe you would have accepted the humanity of it all with more diplomacy than I.

I wonder if you’d change your views about death it you had it to do over again, or if you’d still think it all ends point blank. I wonder what new secrets we would have shared in the past year, and which ones we would have continued to keep to ourselves. I wonder about a lot of what ifs. The wondering doesn’t stop me in my tracks as often today, though, as it has done.

Your mom, in the midst of her grief, told me that would happen:

Eventually the smiles transcend the tears.

She didn’t say it exactly like that, and let’s not even mention how strongly I wish our roles could have been reversed so that I was providing her comfort instead of seeking it, but I’m so grateful for the wisdom in her words.

I went camping this weekend. Yes, camping. You should have seen the night sky, Jamie. It was amazing. And it made me laugh.

There are no answers, chica. You already knew that. Like so many other things I’ve learned in the past few years, and particularly in the past 365 days, it took you to teach me this lesson too. I’d hold up a Whiskey and Ginger to you, but that’s not really me.

Another thing you’d have pointed out if you were around.

Instead, I’ll smile every time someone walks by vainly trying to pull off a yellow coat as well as you could, and my heart will crunch at odd moments when I hear a specific song or remember a particular event or see a convertible, and I’ll walk through the rest of my life with a little more light and a little more shadow to my soul than I had before I knew you.

I miss you, chica. And I thank you. And I honor you. And I love you.

Cheers. xo -em

p.s. Did I tell you I’ve stopped drinking coffee? Crazy, huh? But I’m eating chocolate again. For the moment. My feet are in desperate need of a pedicure. And I’m considering cutting my hair. See all the drama you’re missing? 

p.p.s. Yes, I will see the next Twilight saga. But, seriously, only for you.

by Sharons Web/flickr

An amazing event happened yesterday as I was waiting in line at the post office. A man in front of me started dancing. He had on headphones. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, at least not for Hollywood. But he wasn’t just nodding to the tunes. He was FULL OUT GROOVING. And everyone else in line immediately averted their eyes, glanced nervously at each other and took a step back, including me.

And then, I was struck by a thought.

Why are we all reacting with a combination of fear, embarrassment and pity? Why are we assuming he must be some homeless dude off his meds?

Why does this man’s joyful dancing terrify us so, and make us so uncomfortable?

WHY AREN’T WE ALL DANCING WHILE WAITING IN LINE? Seems like a damn good use of our time…

If there had been any kids under the age of 5 in that line, I’ll bet they would have joined that man.

***

In the moment, as I looked around at the group of “adults” in which I found myself, I felt a little sad for all of us, for the exuberance and self-confidence we’d lost, for the self-consciousness and inhibition we’d somehow acquired.

I wished for a camera, to capture this man’s freedom. But then I caught sight of a woman ahead of me who was slyly attempting to record the line dancer with her iPhone.

She had a smirk on her face.

I wondered where her little video would surface, and with what kind of commentary. I had a sinking feeling the sentiment attached to the image would not be one of celebration but rather one of ridicule.

The man caught sight of her as well. His face suddenly sagged. He appeared to visibly shrink. He stopped moving. The music continued in his headphones but he became one of us, one of the expressionless adults standing in line.

It made me want to cry, to scream, to apologize, to encourage him to dance again, to dance in defiance myself.

But I did nothing.

And then a postal worker called out, “Next!” and the line moved forward and we all lost a chance for… something.

But I’m adding DANCING IN LINE to my list of intentions.

Would you have the courage to dance in line?

I was leaving a comment on someone’s blog yesterday and became curious to know more about some of the other commentors with whom I was unfamiliar. Upon clicking on their gravatars, windows opened up to reveal lists of other blogs using the same spam protection service that they frequent. I was curious to know what blogs would make up my list, so I clicked on my own gravatar and immediately was hit square between the eyes by Jamie’s Yellow Suitcase Tumblr blog, at the top of my list. Before I could stop myself, I clicked on the link. I hadn’t visited the site since before we took the trip.

I was assaulted by her – her image, her voice, her laugh, her memories, her predictions. I read how many times she flippantly mentioned dying or having a coronary, as we all do in dramatic fashion, and I could feel the synapses in my brain disconnect one by one. I listened to her recorded memories that are mine as well. I saw things I’d never seen before. The reality of her loss slammed into me with the force of a ballistic missile. I was shaky and near tears for the rest of the day. If I’m honest, I’ll say I am still.

by SwEeTie/flickr

It isn’t like this hasn’t happened before. I’m reminded of her every single goddamn day. I wish I wasn’t. I really don’t like the feelings the memories stir. But I don’t like the alternative either – that I’ll forget.

I’m reminded of her when I look at the table on which one of her favorite photos sat until it was too much for me to see. I’m reminded of her every time I open my TweetDeck and see certain people in my stream. I’m reminded of her every time I wear her boots with which her mom preferred to bequeath me rather than send to a thrift store. I’m reminded of her every time my chest tightens or I twist my ankle or I think about Ireland or traveling or curbs or books or friendship or bacon or…

Thank goddess I’m no longer in an environment in which I also get mistaken for her and called her name. That was a torture I cannot even begin to process, months later.

by photophilde/flickr

Sometimes I hate her. She made me see a brighter world only to abandon it without revealing her trick.

Sometimes I wish I’d never known her. Then I wouldn’t have to feel this debilitating sadness.

Sometimes I think it should have been me instead of her, because she appeared to do and be and live with so much more skill than I feel I possess.

Sometimes I think her death was my fault, because I’m the one who suggested turning that corner and stepping up on that curb over which she tripped.

Sometimes I think I no longer have any right to grieve, that still feeling so much after so many months makes me crazy. I certainly feel crazy when the overwhelming need to sob continues to take my breath away. After all, I wasn’t family. We hadn’t been friends for a lifetime. We’d known each other for two years. TWO YEARS. That’s all. That’s an Associates Degree.

by scarbody/flickr

How can I possibly still be trapped in the web of her?

I can still see her falling. I can still hear how we laughed about it, and how she admonished herself for her clumsiness and how I got irritated with her, but said nothing, for taking pictures of her ankle to post on her blog rather than taking the aspirin I gave her.

I haven’t gotten to the point where I can remember her, or our friendship, or our moments spent together and laugh. Ironic, since so much of our time was spent laughing.

by awfulsara/flickr

I don’t know what it will take to shed this second skin she passed off on me when she passed away. What I do know, however, is that I’m pissed as shit that I’m still wearing it. I’ve done everything I know to do to get it off. I desperately grabbed onto a job as my lifeboat and then almost drowned when it sprang a leak. I turned to sex, to food, to therapy, to writing, to my pillow, to the sun. Yet, the mantle hasn’t budged. Perhaps it will take leaving this city, as her husband did. But if I do that, I’ll be wearing her boots even more.

Someone wise would probably say, it just takes time. Fuck time.

Yesterday, Lindsey from A Design So Vast, highlighted an Isabel Allende quote:

“I didn’t know then that sadness is never entirely gone; it lives on forever just below the skin.”

I look forward, with hope, to the day this sadness sinks below the skin. It will feel like such a relief.

Having spent my entire adulthood living hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from my family, the days and nights when I am with them hold particular significance. Getting to watch the little girl who slays my heart every single day from morning til night for numerous days in succession is a rare privilege. Slipping into leisurely and spontaneous conversations with my sister-in-law over piles of clean laundry is just as special. Watching the ground-shaking joy that lit up my niece’s face and enveloped all of us when my brother arrived home last night is a memory I will treasure.

My heart expands. My throat tightens. It is love.

I’ve always been fiercely independent, perhaps too much so. Only recently have I realized been struck dumb by the awareness of how very much I miss the unique community that family provides. The tight, protective hug I receive from my brother. The giggle shared with my sister-in-law. The cuddles and stern instructions given to me by my niece. I want these things in my life more than once every year or so.

I miss my family. Terribly. Now I must act on that awareness.

What is your view of family – the one you grew up with rather than the one with whom you share a home? Is your engagement with your family what you wish it to be? How would you change it? And what about it do you value?

by Kristina B/flickr

I’m just dropping in briefly to address a question I’ve been asked only about a hundred times in the past month or so… No, I did not trash my blogroll of fabulous blogs and websites that I wholeheartedly support. I simply moved it from the sidebar to a page of its own. So, if you’re curious, check out my Pleasure Spots – entirely dedicated to active sites I can’t live without. Oh, and yes, I update it fairly frequently because there are so many amazing people with whom to fall in love!

Any other questions?

xo

To be honest, this year wasn’t exactly chock full of belly laughs. But life has a funny way of reminding me that this journey is a full spectrum of experiences. Pain has an equal and opposite counterpart – joy. There is no Yin without the Yang. Laughter never strays too far from tears. And somehow, I’ve been lucky enough to have people in my life who make me laugh.

I belong to a book club. I’ve mentioned it before. The club consists of a phenomenal group of smart, witty, empathetic, conscientious, beautiful women. And every year, in December, we participate in a White Elephant gift exchange. For five years, now, we have tried to one-up each other by bringing the most ridiculous, outrageous, trite, horrific, embarrassing, and plain ole ugly-ass gifts to pawn off on each other.

This year, I laughed more in that one evening than perhaps the sum of moments in the entire rest of the year.

Thank you, ladies. I feel blessed to have girlfriends such as you.

Now, what made you snort with glee in 2009?

I’ve met lots of amazing new people this year, many of them fellow bloggers. But the person who turned my life upside down in 2009 was… ME. Egotistical, right? Perhaps. But also true. And humbling. So, no songs of heroism. Just gasps of “oh shit.”

As you know, 2009 has rocked me off my moorings. And straight to the moon. It’s been a year of grief, anger, insecurity, and fear. The principle side benefit of this (and, yes, I am acknowledging a blessing in the midst of chaos) is coming up against my self. I’ve discovered I don’t really know me very well. How’s that for a mind fuck at 40?

Sign me up as a mid-life crisis cliche, thank you very much.

Turns out, many of my beliefs about myself – what I want, what I like, what I value, what I need – have been catapulted into the ether. I’ve been stripped naked by the realization that the stories I hold to be true about myself, while at least co-authored by me and somewhat engaging, weren’t written with me in mind. They were written for you (and by “you,” I mean global you, not YOU, you).

My head has been a constant boxing ring for most of my life – judgement duking it out with enthusiasm, ambition with contentment, spot-light seeker with shy hermit. I’ve known those players for a while. The grand champion, however, threw left hooks from the shadows. Until now.

This fighter doesn’t have a name, unless you give it mine. It’s sole goal is SAFETY. But like a tiger cub left alone in a cave too long, it fights with its back to the wall and attacks anything that comes near, including the hand reaching out to comfort it or draw it into the light. And it has been working with bad intel.

The definition of safety this fighter has been using is wrong. And I didn’t even know it.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a neurologist. In highschool and college, my goal was to someday become a CEO of a multi-national corporation. Ambitious? Yes. True to my heart? No. I was striving for power, control, acceptance (external, of course). Career. Relationship. Body. I thought, if I have a big enough title, a dynamic enough man, a sexy enough body, enough money, enough wit, enough fill-in-the-blank… I’ll be enough.

Delusional.

And, intellectually, I’ve known for years how crazy that idea is. But I’ve still been hacking my way down that trail, swinging my machete willy-nilly.

There is no grace to living in conflict with your soul.

This year, I met my soul. And she is PISSED OFF. She has yanked me out of the boxing ring, thrown me in the ocean, and is the midst of a rant to end all rants. Something about being ignored and neglected. She’s talking so fast, I can barely keep up. I’m going to be spending 2010 getting to know her better. I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

How about you? Who rocked your world this year?

Is it possible for a trip to be the best and the worst at once? It seems so.

I went to Ireland this year, you see. I have red hair, and a wee bit o’ Gaelic blood, and I’ve always wanted to go. And so I put my wish out there. On a sigh. Or, actually, in the middle of a rant among girlfriends. I said, “I’m about to turn 40, my life sucks, I haven’t traveled in years – cause unless it requires a passport, it doesn’t count, and I really wish I could go to Ireland!”

I say things like that on a fairly regular basis.

But on this one day in March, a very dear friend in the midst of all these fabulous girlfriends, actually paid attention. With an impulsive “I’ll go with you” and a wave of her wand – or, actually, a few thousand hotel points – she made it happen.

Before I could take a breath, but just in time for me to dismiss her impulsiveness, she’d bought her airline ticket.

And so, I bought mine.

And we went.

Eight days. Driving back roads as much as possible. Laughing and singing and drinking our way through Kilkenny, Waterford, Cork, Kerry and Shannon before returning to the amazing city of Dublin for a final few days of pub crawling and rugby viewing.

It was green. Very, very green.

The beer was good. Very, very good.

The people were friendly. Very, very– well, not that friendly, but really nice.

And I felt like I was able to breathe again, after months of suffocation.

I was born to travel. I love doing it more than doing almost anything else you can imagine. I hold strongly the belief that if more people picked up a passport rather than a gun, we would obtain peace. I spent my 20s living out of a suitcase. And when too much time has passed between one trip and the next, I miss the freedom, challenge and adventure of travel like an amputee misses her limb.

This trip was stupendous. Even when my friend tripped over a curb our last day and sprained her ankle, thereby putting the kabosh on our much anticipated literary pub crawl. We simply shrugged off the change in plans, as one becomes adept at doing while traveling, and lounged in the hotel room debating the highlights of the proceeding week.

Neither of us had any way of knowing that seven days later, she would be dead of complications stemming from that damned sprained ankle.

I am left with beautiful pictures. Bittersweet memories. An unshakable passion for travel. And complete confusion. I still wade through a shitload of emotions with the weight of molasses. I struggle to reconcile the joy of the trip with the devastation of its aftermath, to retain the hope I rediscovered for myself in the midst of despairing grief for… everything.

There are seven stages of grief, I’ve been told. I thought they would come in a brief, orderly fashion, like months of the year. I was wrong.

And now, I just really wish I could go to some forgotten island in Greece and let the sun and the sand and the sea dissolve all the pain that comes with life. But then again, if I’ve learned one thing this year, it is definitely… be careful what you wish for.

If you’re still reading this, you may be wondering where the hell the positive, pleasurable spin is in all this. After all, this was supposed to be one of the BEST moments of 2009, right? Here’s what I can give you or, perhaps more importantly, give myself…

I spent eight intense, incredibly memorable, very personal days with an amazing woman who gave me more gifts with her friendship than I will likely have time to pay forward.

I journeyed through a greater spectrum of the human experience as a result of this trip than ever before.

And I’ve now been to Ireland.

I can recommend it.