Posts Tagged ‘Gertrude Stein’

Rejection Is God’s Protection

March 23, 2016

Maybe it’s the full moon.

Who knows.

But the date I was supposed to go on cancelled very last minute and it put an odd taste in my mouth.

Tinder fail number four.

Le sigh.

Full transparency.

I don’t need to be on Tinder.

I’m doing pretty good on my own.

In fact.

I turned off the app again.

My person was right.

There is nothing wrong with the app, but I also know when something doesn’t work for me and this is not working.  It was fun.  It was titillating.  It was and appears to really just to be about fantasy.



This lady has had enough of fantasy.

I like the real deal.

The smash me into the man deal, the full on kiss, the I want you, you’re sexy.

I can have that.

I am aware of my needs and the TInder and the OkStupid, again, I come back to this again, haven’t cut the mustard with me.

It’s fun.

To a point.

Then it seems.

I don’t know futile.

I was actually a little relieved when he cancelled.

I have had plenty on my plate this week and I’m finally feeling like my cold is passing.

A little lingering cough in the morning.

I figure one more day of sleeping in and I will have the little fucker kicked to the curb.

I’m planning on hitting the yoga studio on Thursday and get back into the flow of that again.

I have missed it.

The being in my body, the stretching, the achey muscles.



I’m ready for sore muscles.

Too funny.

Full moon.

Spotting this morning.

Ovulated yesterday.

But not the full on roaring hormonal monster that had me in its clutches last month.

Just a normal cycle.

The moon though.

Have you seen it?

Magic in the sky.

I imagine it descending over the ocean and how it will paint the sand dunes white and silver with its light.

Splendid and alive in the sky.

Or perhaps just in my imagination.

A luminous pearl in the velvet sky.


I can feel that I am doing better.

My head feels clear.

My heart feels clear.

A touch sad now and again.

But I have that love of richness, that emotion, deep and true and yes occasionally indigo blue jean blue, but so sweet and tender and alive, that I don’t mind.

I have had so many feelings, tender and vulnerable, strong and flexible.

I do feel that I’m coming out of something.

A little darkness and mourning.

And by perfecting my heart truly/I got lost in the sounds.

The opening of the crocus pushing it’s way through the soil, dark, and at first impenetrable, then, the flower bud plunges up and out and unfurls and yes.

I am like that flower.

Fresh as a daisy.

Silly and sunny.


Back to myself.

Out of the dark.

Into the blue.

The sky blue.

The light of day.

It don’t hurt that the rain stopped falling.

A break in the rain.

A reprieve from the storm.

The orchid on my night stand table has bloomed again.

Five times now since I have been here, I bought it the first week I moved into the studio.

Not bad.

It always seems to bloom at an opportune time for me to self-reflect, to see the purity that comes from the gnarled and twisted roots and the glory that faces into the sun and blossoms there from the ungainly and the knots of green.

I remember to not force the blooms.

To not rip open the petals because I want the full beauty.

There is beauty in every stage of the development.

Just like there is with me, with dating, with romance, with love and loving myself and learning what works and what doesn’t.

And not judging myself when I don’t bloom out as fully as I expected.

Sometimes the flowers on the orchid are six, seven, eight blooms.

This time around there were only two.


The simple divine flowers floating in the air are such tender white magical things that I cannot imagine that there needs to be anything more.

I don’t need anything more.

Look at all I have.

My simple life.

My sweet space down by the sea.

My dear friends.

My good job.

My school.

I get to live this life, I get to revel in it.

I get to roll around in it and not take it so seriously and lighten up and go out and put myself out on a limb and take chances and change.

Open the door and meet the welcome face there.

Be swept up into the moment and taken along for the duration of the song, carried away, caught for a moment in the in between moment.

The twixt and the tween and see that here too, is still another way to go.

A softening and letting go.

A sweetness and surrender.

Everything must come and go.


That too.

So seize the moment, let the life in front of you be joyous, full, and alive.

Being awake is sometimes a tender place to be, but I’m no good checked out, and I’m not good when I am in fantasy.

I am good here.

In this reality.

With all my vulnerabilities and mistakes and terrors.

The fear it fades.

The sun it warms me as I walk towards it.

And the flowers bloom on their own with out me forcing them to open before their time.

There is no there there.

I am the party.

I am the girl.


I am the woman.

And this is my life.

I’m going to keep having fun and dancing in the hallways and crying on the yoga mat.

I’m going to keep showing up.

Going where I must.

And letting go of thinking I know where it should go.

It’s all the same road anyhow.

Even if I often choose the one less taken.

I bet they all end in the same place.

I don’t need to know my destination.

I just know that I’m on the right path.




Heart on my sleeve.



There’s No There There

August 24, 2015

And it was lovely.

I received a cute text message from my ex-boyfriend this morning while I was making breakfast and plotting my moves for the day–what to pack, laundry to do, marketing that I needed to do before leaving to come back up here to Glen Ellen–I’m just in, 27 minutes ago I landed–and I had no emotional reaction.

I saw the text.

I recognized the number.

I saw the photo.

I laughed out loud.

It was a photo of an inside joke we had and that joke might have been one of the sweetest things about our relationship that I can feel now a warmth and fondness for.

It was so nice to realize that.

I cut up an apple and tossed it with cinnamon and nutmeg, and some sea salt, threw it in with the oatmeal on the stove, turned to the electric tea-pot, took the kettle, poured boiling water over the fresh ground coffee and felt my inner emotions.


No fear.

No excitement.

No anxiety.



That is so nice.

No animosity!

Just a quiet gratitude for the man, for the message, and for the sweet memory that he sent me, a funny little inside joke that had been a place of resting laughter for both of us even when the break up was sad and hard to do.

It felt nice.

We exchanged a few more texts then he went his way and I went mine and I forgot about it until I was working with a lady bug at the house and we were going over some instructions on how to write inventory.

I pulled my notebook out of the stack and flipped open to the pertinent inventory and laughed as I saw my ex-boyfriends name at the top of the list.

I shared my experience with quiet gratitude and showed how I was able to get from that place of resentment to where I am now and that it works, it really works when I do the work.

Live and let live.

Easy does it.

First things first.

There again, an hour later with another lady bug, the same gentle reminder that the solution and the problem have nothing to do with each other and that really I can practice spiritual principles, stay in gratitude, and do the next action in front of me and I will be abundantly taken care of.


In fact, that’s what this whole weekend was about.

What the last few weekends have been about.

Yesterday I got a text from a friend in regards to our busy ass schedules and how we had been trying to make plans to see each other before Burning Man and how it was obviously not going to happen, she was till packing and I hadn’t located my bins nor even gotten to the point in my day when I knew where or how I was going to buy said bins, and nope, not going to see you before the burn.

I mean, we live in the same town.


There was no way to make it work so we made a date to go dancing on the playa–she and I and another friend had gone to the NIMBY Steampunk Masquerade Ball that the Airpusher Collective played at where the Flaming Lotus Girls Serpent Mother was fired up (yeah, I know, you haven’t been to Burning Man and have no idea what I just wrote) and the same group is doing a repeat of the ball on playa.


I will be going to that.

And when we commiserated about work, and doing the deal, and all the stuff, when I texted her what I had to get accomplished before I leave for Burning Man, it left me breathless.

I mean.


How the hell am I going to get all this done and not lose my mind?

But then I read, again, “first things first,” and knew I would get it done by focusing exactly on the task in front of me and not living in the next hour or the evening or tomorrow.

I just stayed focused on what exactly was in front of me.

Then I wrote three pages long hand, did my laundry, made my bed, did the deal, knelt down asked for some stuff, said some thanks, pulled out the bins, started packing them up, slow and methodical.

I went to the grocery store and picked up a few things to just get me through the day and a birthday card and gift for one of the ladies who was coming over to the house.

Back to back to back.

I met with three ladies, did some reading, shared some experience strength and hope, asked in return that they do some things while I was away at work, confirmed our calendars for September–I won’t be able to meet with any of the ladies until after my first week on campus on school.


I texted my ride to Glen Ellen.

Confirmed a pick up time 20 minutes from the text.

I packed my bags up for Glen Ellen–a coupled days worth of clothes, my laptop, the books and readers and notebooks pertinent for the week and what I have to do for school before I leave.

I then proceeded to finish folding the laundry, take out the trash, and organize my bins.

I packed them more than 3/4s full and was on the last leg of packing when my ride pinged me.

I have perhaps fifteen minutes of packing left to do when I get back to SF on Wednesday.

I got my stuff for Glen Ellen, locked up the house, hopped in my friend’s car and we headed over the bridge.

A pit stop in Mill Valley for an hour of doing the deal, then a drive through the rolling golden lit hills of Sonoma to Glen Ellen.

We grabbed a bite to eat and figured out gas costs that I need to reimburse him for–he’s basically done the trip there and back and there and back and there and back for me, since I didn’t rent a car this time.

Then a dash up the road and I am here at 9:30 p.m.

It’s 10:15 p.m.

I am almost done with my blog, I’ll make a cup of tea, chill for the rest of the evening and get a good night’s sleep before work in the morning.

I couldn’t see how the day would play out when I was awoke with the bang and thump of my housemates little girl and her friend playing, I couldn’t have imagined such a smooth and seamless transition from here to there.

Nor that I would have such moments and pockets of grace and gratitude for the experience of just living my life to its fullest.

One day at a time.

One hour at a time.

One moment at a time.

Easy does it and there it is.

I’m here.

All the things are happening.

And I got done everything that I needed to do this weekend to be prepared for my trip to the playa.

Tomorrow and Tuesday I will write my two papers.

Then I am good to go.

I get to show up for work tomorrow happy and rested for the boys.

I get to continue to live this full, happy, joyous, free life.

I am the luckiest girl in the world.


I mean.

Have you seen my hair?

You Have Meaning

November 28, 2012

You have purpose.

I was given a beautiful tiny pot of pink roses this afternoon on my way into French class.

I was talking with Johnny, who I had not even noticed walking down the street as I had my head in the clouds.

Literally, I was watching the sky.

Sometimes, when I wonder what I am doing in Paris, yes, aside from the obvious, writing, I think it may be just to observe the color of the sky, the formations of the clouds, it is God television and it never fails to enthrall me.

Of course, sometimes, it does make me a bit of a nuisance as I stand blocking the sidewalk, looking for my camera, juggling my gloves, my bag, my apple stuck between my teeth, then I forget that I am blocking the sidewalk.

I take the photograph.

Head in the clouds

Head in the clouds

Then I take another.



Some times, most often, truly, I take that photograph with my mind’s eye.

Which is what I was doing when I startled out of my reverie to see John standing in front of me waving.

He smiled.

“Oh!  How long have you been standing there?”

“Only about 20 seconds,”  he laughed.

We did the French greeting, faire de baise, kiss, kiss, one cheek, then the other cheek.

“Ca va?”

“Ca va bien,” I said and smiled.

As we were standing there catching up, my class mate walked past, the lovely W. who had consoled me last week when I was homesick for, well, I don’t know what, the fantasy of Thanksgiving?

Je suis mal de pays.

I am homesick.

I could not quite express what it was, but she knew.  She is a sympathetic soul and despite not having had huge conversations, we are somehow connected.

She is a person I feel compelled to confide in.

I have told her a few things about me and she is becoming a friend.

She touched my shoulder and handed me a small pot of pink roses wrapped in lime green paper touched with white ribbon.

Budding Friendship

Budding Friendship

“What’s this?”  I asked, then I saw the inscription.


She smiled, “I will see you in class.”

Tears pooled up in my eyes, which I now, just now, mind you, realize that I cry when my heart is full.

My heart so full, it overflows.

It read: Carmen….

You have purpose, you have meaning….

I do?

I do.

How is it that you meet the exact person at the exact time that you need?

How is it that some one I do not know, really, a week and a half of French classes is not a true intimate, yet, I do know, knows me better than I know myself?

I was beside myself.

“Wow.”  John exclaimed, “that is so sweet.”

I was abashed and shy and overwhelmed and how silly, flattered, but yes, that too.

I had also, wished, in a slightly dreamy sort of romantic way, that I would be given flowers.  I love so to be given flowers.  It has been a little while since I have had them given to me.

Of course, I think that they should come from a romantic interest.

But what is more romantic than being gifted something so brave and beautiful and full of hope with the promise of faith in who you are and what you are doing?

That is romance.

Especially when you least expect it.

Especially when you wonder, like I had earlier this afternoon, what I should be doing, what was I doing?

I was going to go to French class.

I was using g.ood o.rderly d.irection.

What is the next thing you need to do, I thought to myself as the doubt rose like gorge in my throat threatening to strangle me and hold me hostage.

Put on your coat.


Put on your muffler.

Shoulder your bag.

Participate in French class.

Now go.

And off I went, traipsing down the cobblestones on Rue Bellefond, down to the Metro, off to French school.  Where upon arriving ahead of schedule I walked around the neighborhood.  I walked past a florist and thought, I really want to have some flowers, I really want some one to give me flowers, I corrected.

You could just buy some, but that feels frivolous in these times of economy as I just put aside my rent money and then dug down to make sure I could pay for the Metro pass another month.

Do not fret, do not worry, there is a reason you are here.

I told myself, one foot in front of the other, look as you cross the street–lost in my thoughts yesterday I almost got mowed down by a taxi–look up.

And there, look, the sky.

My heart filled.

I ran into Johnny.

I got a pot of flowers.

My heart overflowed.

I have purpose.  I have meaning.

French class went by in a flash, then off to Rue Madame.  I carried my little paper wrapped package with me on the Metro headed to St. Sulpice reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast.”

I got off.

I walked around.  The sky was doing that incredible French movie Paris sky thing it does and I pulled out my camera, setting my roses onto the ledge next to me.

I took a few photographs, looked at my watch and realized I had more time than I thought.  I could go for a brief walk before I needed to be where I needed to be.

I gathered up my roses.

I realized where I was.

Pres de Rue Fleurus–the street where Gertrude Stein habituated.

Oh, why the hell not?

I walked down the street pulled along by the flowers in my hand toward the pinks that marched along the sky line.  I watched a cloud float between the two towers of row houses lining the rue and saw it go creamy golden to rosy pink to dusky velvet yellow and backlit with softest gauze pink.

I saw the window sill on the building of Stein’s home.

I set my flowers there.










Stein's Place

Stein’s Place






I actually do not want to write like Gertude Stein, her stuff is a little over my head, however, I do want to write like Carmen Martines.

And I did that tonight.

I came home.

I took my flowers out of their wrappings, watered them, set them by my bedside, gathered my lap top and my journal and headed off to Odette & Aime.


I wrote a poem.

I edited my book.


I have purpose.

I have meaning.



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