You Get Paid To Love!


He said to me with a big hug.

“And you’re next career, you’re going to get paid to love too!”

He’s right.

I do.

And.

I will.

The best thing about seeing the boys today was dinner time.

Roast chicken, marinated in my homemade marinade, brown rice, sliced avocado, fruit salad.

I also made homemade mac and cheese with sharp cheddar, panko breadcrumbs, Baia pasta, parmesan, and sautéed crimini mushrooms, then mixed up with a little cottage cheese, a pinch of love, and baked in the oven.

Tomorrow’s meal.

I did a lot of cooking and marketing today as the family was returning from a long weekend in Sonoma to celebrate mom’s day and had decided to take it easy coming home.

Originally they thought home would happen around 2 p.m. but it wasn’t until nearly 4 p.m.

I had a lot of time to prep and go to BiRite and the corner market and do some laundry and dishes and what not.

I also sat and read and meditated and breathed and let the sun fall on my face and shoulders in the kitchen nook by the back patio doors.

It was a real nice way to start the week.

But it really was dinner that was the best.

Mom and dad went to do mom and dad things and to catch up on the few things that needed to be addressed and I got the boys for the end of the day.

I sat with the oldest boy sprawled out in my lap eating sliced apples with cinnamon and nutmeg and telling him secrets.

“I have a secret to tell you,” I whispered in his ear.

“I have a secret to tell you!” He whispered back in my ear.

“One, two, three, go!”

“I love you!”

We both fiercely whispered to each other.

Then, yes, there might have been giggling and I may have taken my glasses off to kiss his neck and squeeze him tight.

“I missed you,” I told him.

“I missed you too, Carmen,” he hugged me back and kissed my hand.

Yeah.

I get paid for that.

Not a bad job if you can get it.

My friend and I caught up on the weekend and he relayed to me, “I heard so much gratitude in your share, so much love, how are you doing with everything?”

I shared about my experience with the scooter and how it’s time to let her go and basically I’ll probably just give it away to a friend that is a bit of a Vespa aficionado and let him and his friends tinker with it.

“Good, that means you’ll be with us for a while,” he hugged me, “we want to keep you around.”

I want to stick around too.

There really is nothing left to do with it.

I have made my decision and unless something odd happens I am not going to be a scooter owner for much longer.

I am hoping to have this all cleared up by the end of the week.

It’s been an adventure and I’m ready to get off the ride.

Perhaps I am meant to go only so fast, as fast as my legs can carry me on my bicycle, and as I was stretching out my hips and rolling out my IT band along my thigh on the yoga roller, I was ok with it.

If I have to do these stretches all the time, so be it.

It’s really not a high price to pay.

And when I looked around my sweet little home I was filled with more gratitude and more love.

Look at this space I have created for myself.

I finally have all my prints from Paris framed and my Arin Fishkin “Baker’s Beach” is hung and framed, my Will Rogers Burning Man photograph from the air, an amazing shot that depending on the time of day actually seems to change colors just slightly, mimicking the blue haze that seems to just be draped over the mountain range surrounding the event.

The orchid that I bought myself for my 41st birthday bloomed out again, this is the third time it has blossomed and the rich creamy white fans of flowers straddling the last of the sun’s rays as they slanted through the back door glowed with luscious light and I felt this love that I have for myself blossom too.

The worst thing about the scooter was not the money.

It was how I was treating myself.

I, without intention, began to equate myself with that poor little busted down ride.

I was no better than a broken lawn ornament.

I was a stupid girl.

I should have known better.

I wasted my money.

I wasted my time.

I am a fool.

Nope.

Turn it around.

I just had an experience.

And I am not my things.

Just like I am not my dress size or the amount of money in my bank account or how much money I owe on my student loans, or am about to what with taking on loans for graduate school.

I reminded myself to forgive myself.

I made some mistakes.

It’s ok.

I am not broken.

That was it.

The sad little girl crying in the scooter shop with the manic hustle and bustle of the owner and the staff and the mechanics, I am not some small abandoned child on the side of the road.

How can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling?

How can you mend this broken (wo)man?

And let me live again.

I suspect that it’s love.

At least that’s what the Reverend sings about over and over again, Mister Al Green, if you didn’t catch the lyric, love.

L.O.V.E.

Fierce, with wild abandon, I get to love.

That I get paid to do so for work is just a side benefit of the love I have constantly and continually had to show myself.

I’m really pretty damn lucky.

Graced.

Loved.

Full of gratitude.

Even for the challenging things.

Because I lean in harder to love those things more.

And I open up.

I don’t need to be mended.

The scars are beautiful.

There to remind me how much love I can hold.

Some times it’s a lap full of five-year old boy who needs a snuggle.

Some times it’s that small little girl I am who is looking for the way out.

Either way.

I have plenty of love for both.

The more I give it away.

The more I get back.

That’s just the way love goes.

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