Book Project

So.

Here I am again.

Thinking about publishing a book.

But this time it is different.

This time I am ready.

Ten years ago I moved to Paris.

I moved to Paris to “become a writer.”

The truth was.

I already was a writer.

I had been a writer for decades.

I was on the cusp of turning 40 when I moved to Paris.

I am on the cusp of turning 50 now.

If you had told me that I wouldn’t really be looking at being published for a decade after moving to Paris.

Well.

Fuck.

I would burst into tears and likely thrown myself off the cutest nearest bridge.

Good thing I didn’t know.

Hell.

I had no idea ten years ago that instead of becoming a published writer, which, by the way, I am published–my dissertation was published on ProQuest on August 8th–I was to become a therapist.

I had no idea what Paris was going to hold for me.

It was terrifying, cold, heart breaking, wet–it rained a lot, and it snowed!

I got lost all the time–sometimes literally, often figuratively.

I spent a lot of time in churches–they are heated to a nice toasty warm that I would often find myself seeking reprieve from the weather in.

I wrote.

All the fucking time.

I wrote three, sometimes four, times a day.

I edited and re-hashed and re-organized a memoir.

I wrote short stories, poemss, blogs.

I wrote in my journal (s).

There ended up being many, many, many journals–all of which I still have.

I wrote in the morning.

I wrote in the afternoon–in cafes, my favorite being Odette & Aime.

Which was just around the corner on 46 Rue Maubege, I lived at 18 Rue Bellefond.

I would sit for hours in the cafe and sip at tap water and a cafe Allonge–which is basically a black coffee.

I was so poor.

Tit mouse poor.

Starving artist poor.

Hemingway in A Moveable Feast poor.

But like, Hemingway made it sexy.

I was not sexy.

I couldn’t often afford a cafe creme–thus the Allonge–I would eat lunch from the Monoprix–basically a Walgreens with a bit of a supermarket in it.

Lunch would be a single serving piece of cheese and a packet of peanuts.

Often accompanied by an apple I would buy from the Friday market around Square D’Anvers.

Once I treated myself to sausages, heaven, at the Friday market but only once–they were rabbit and to die for.

Breakfast was apple in oatmeal and milk.

Dinners were often from the roti chicken place down the street by the Metro entrance for the Cadet stop.

Not the fancy place up the road that was Monsieur Dufrense.

But the Halal place, the owner was sweet, the chicken was cheap.

I could make one of those last a good four days, sometimes five.

I worked under the table, nanny, dog walker, baby sitter, English tutor.

I took French classes that a friend in Chicago wired me money to go and do.

I walked everywhere, when I wasn’t on the Metro, which I used frequently as I had a Navigo monthly pass.

There were times, especially when I was doing baby sitting outside the periphery, that I realized, no one, not a single person, not a soul, knew where I was.

I was baby sitting in the ghetto, the low income housing, taking three trains to do an under table gig that basically paid 8 Euro an hour.

I walked past drug deals, prostitution, gambling places.

I walked briskly like I knew where I was going.

Irony.

The place was located on Rue Victor Hugo.

Sounds hella romantic.

Was hella sketchy.

I remember once taking a picture of the street lights reflecting in the rain, once, on a very early morning commute from my place in the 9th arrondisement to outside the periphery, at like 7a.m.

It was a gorgeous shot, the light, the reflection on the sidewalk, the darkness, the sheen.

I got so many comments on social media after I posted it….so pretty, so Paris, so exciting, lucky you, living the dream!

Sure.

The dream.

Which was actually a nightmare.

Scary, cold, intense, broke as fuck.

Taking an elevator up 9 floors in a tenement in the ghetto outside of Paris.

The kids were sweet, but they didn’t have books, they like to watch the Mickey Mouse Club.

The tv was their babysitter, except when I was there, I insisted on taking them outside.

The park in the middle of the low income houses.

I would watch them race around on their cheap plastic little scooters and stare at the clouds in the sky.

What the hell was I doing with my life?

Query another agent, send off another book proposal, watch my thin stash of Euros in my wallet slowly get a tiny bit bigger, after baby sitting, or tutoring, or house sitting, quietly buying my apples and peanuts and Halal chicken, and then have to pay a week’s rent where I was staying–in a one bedroom lofted apartment where I slept in the living room on a fold out futon that must have been 25 years old, it was so hard.

I didn’t usually have the month’s rent.

But I would pay week to week to week.

Living on peanuts and apples.

Like I said.

Hemingway made it much sexier.

So.

Ten years later.

Many adventures since.

So many adventures.

I am sitting in my very cozy, very pretty, one bedroom apartment in Hayes Valley in San Francisco.

I have a successful private practice therapy business.

I own a car.

A new one.

I have traveled back to Paris, and will do so again in December to celebrate my 50th birthday with a new tattoo from my favorite tattoo shop–Abraxas on Rue Beauborg in the Marais, where I will also be staying a beautiful and hip Air BnB, also in the Marais.

I will buy myself dresses this time instead of packets of peanuts.

I will buy notebooks from Claire Fontaine.

I will go to many museums.

And not on the free days.

I will have a lot of cafe cremes, and not a single Allonge.

I will eat a chicken from Monsieur Dufrense and an actual meal at Odette & Aime.

Also.

I will eat my birthday dinner at my favorite restaurant La Cantine du Troquet on Rue de Grenelle.

I will celebrate a dear friend’s wedding anniversary the day before–having become amazing friends in my Master’s in Psychology program, I have stayed at her family home in the Marais and as she will be celebrating, I will be at my Air BnB just a five minute walk from her home.

I will go to my favorite cafe, Cafe Charlot, which is open on Christmas.

I will be there for Christmas as well as my birthday.

I will take photographs and write, like I always do.

Although.

Hopefully I will not be writing agents to query them about a memoir, just writing in general, after scoring a few of my favorite notebooks, a small stack, at least five, maybe more.

I will instead be querying agents now about my book proposal.

Not exactly a memoir, but in a sense very much so, but with a different scope, seen through the lens of my dissertation, with beautiful photographs not take by me on my phone, but by the professional photographer I am meeting with next week for coffee in Petaluma–Sarah Deragon with Portraits to the People.

She did my headshots for my website and I adore her work.

I queried her if she would be interested in collaborating with me and I got a yes.

I’ve got some work to do before I see her.

Sketch out the book better, mock something up.

Cut and paste and write.

See.

I keep coming back to the writing.

Which is what I am doing, here, now.

Practicing.

I’m not exactly out of practice, I still journal every day, did it today, I’ll do it tomorrow.

But.

I haven’t been blogging in a while.

Time to polish the chops and sit at the keyboard and see where my meandering brain takes me.

I had not thought that it would be a time travel back to Paris ten years ago, I don’t often know where this page is going to take me, but take me it does.

I figured that the best way to put together my book proposal and manuscript was to open my blog and write my intentions and start from here.

I don’t know how exactly to get an agent.

But there’s Google for that.

I do know my dissertation is a mighty fine academic piece, but it’s not a book ready piece.

No one, well, my dissertation committee did, wants to read my Method and very few people are going to be interested in my Lit review, but there’s some juicy stuff in there.

Dramatic.

Traumatic.

Sexy.

Sad.

Transformative.

Pain.

Story.

There’s story and it’s good story and it’s got scandal.

And who doesn’t like scandal?

I’m going to risk it all and put it all out there with transparency and honesty and integrity.

And hopefully, someone will bite.

I want to do a kind of coffee table art house photography book with my poems, essays, blogs, memoir excerpts, and pictures of my transformation alongside the story of what I discovered with my research in my dissertation.

I also will write an epilogue with new insights.

The transformative tattoo; Walking towards joy.

Coming to you soon.

Fingers crossed.

What Day Is It?

I mean.

I know it’s Thursday, but honestly, I had to check a few times today to remember.

The days they are blurring together.

I’m not upset about that, it is just interesting, how malleable time has become.

I have a good routine.

I got up with an alarm today.

I had group supervision on Thursday mornings.

Since shelter in place I get to “sleep in” on Thursday mornings until 7a.m., days when I would have driven cross town I would have been up at 6a.m.

There are some benefits of shelter in place, I won’t deny it.

There are many drawbacks, but I bet you already know what those are.

I’m just going to keep it on the up and up for the most part, at least today, whatever day it is, whatever month it is.

I had a client mention the three day weekend and I was like, what three day weekend?

Oh.

Ha.

Memorial Day is Monday.

I don’t have plans.

Well.

Not true.

I have hella clients.

Monday is my busiest day.

I will have seven client sessions, some weeks I have eight.

I definitely start the week off with a bang.

I also have some down time in the middle of it so it doesn’t blow me completely to bits, but yeah, Monday won’t be a holiday for me.

And I will soon really be in it as I will start picking up teenagers next week with the contract position with Daily City Youth Clinic.

I am going in tomorrow to do the last bits of orientation and pick up a “stack of files I have waiting for you,” from my newest supervisor.

I will be slamming right into the work.

Which is great, I am not complaining.

Again, it will keep my busy, it will keep me from ruminating or feeling lonely.

It may also blast out my brain a bit, I am a little concerned about being on my laptop so much.  I am definitely booking a lot of screen time.

With picking up another batch of clients that will only increase.

I was actually not sure about blogging tonight.

I mean, I wanted to, but I also was thinking I might want a break from my screen.

But, oh, the siren song of writing a blog and not writing something academic.

Well.

It surely called to me.

So here I am, on day whatever it is, writing to you about my day, which really was pretty chill and not dramatic and simple and when I am honest in my heart, very sweet.

I didn’t hang out with anyone but myself, and I like myself quite a bit, so I’m like, you know, fantastic company.

I had some really great phone calls.

I went on a long walk up and around Sutro Heights Park, which overlooks Ocean Beach and it was gorgeous and stunning and filled my eyes and heart and soul with goodness and beachiness and the smell of the Monterey pines and the Eucalyptus was so good.

So good.

The bright peppery smell of orange and yellow nasturtiums, the blooms of jasmine, the roses, pink sherbet swirled, lulling fat fuzzy bumble bees in for sweet repose.

It was good.

Then I walked the avenues for awhile.

I’m out on 48th Avenue and up a hill, so not many folks out walking and that’s nice.

I even took a break from calling people names, in my head, I don’t do it their faces, about not wearing masks.

Who am I to tell another how to live.

Funny, though, how often I have been prescribed a specific role.

Funny how I often say, um, no thanks, I’m going to do it my way.

So.

I know that it’s not helpful to tell people what to do and saying douche bag in my head only affects my experience.

I’m trying to gently curb it.

Sometimes I substitute, “oh look at you and your cute privilege!”

But even that snark doesn’t do me much good.

The best thing for me is to gently remind myself that I can only police myself and act with integrity in all my affairs.

I don’t have to tell others what to do, I mean, I have had plenty of experience with that and it’s no fun.

Keep my side of the street clean and move the fuck on.

And walk where there are not so many people.

And call my friends.

And make plans for when this moves away and it will, I don’t know when or how, but this too shall pass.

Go see my dear friend in Florida.

Go see my best friend in Wisconsin and as long as I’m in that neck of the woods, get in a visit with my oldest friend from high school in Minnesota.

Go to New York and hit up the museums, New York has really been on my mind, maybe because I am wearing a dress I bought here in San Francisco that I associate with New York–I bought it specifically for the last trip to New York I had.

I wore it to the Brooklyn Museum to the David Bowie installation and walked around Judy Chicago’s beautiful piece The Dinner Party.

It was hot.

The dress is red and I felt and feel pretty in it.

It makes me think of warm summer nights and wandering through the city.

I love New York.

There is still a little piece of me that thinks I should live there, but I’m here and I love San Francisco too, and well, frankly, it is prettier.

Although I sense I might have more adventures in New York than I have here, but that’s speculation.

New York just holds a special place in my heart.

I also want to visit my best friend from my Master’s cohort in Paris.

Paris, my love, I am ready to see you again too.

Hell.

I’m ready to see the rest of San Francisco.

Sit in my favorite cafe and drink a really hot latte and have girl friend time with my best girl out here.

Go get a mani/pedi.

Oh!

Eat lunch at Souvla.

Yeah.

I know I could get take out, but I want to sit in the back patio and stare at the sky and people watch.

I have a good routine.

I have many, many, many blessings.

I am grateful.

I am graced.

I also have feelings and I miss things and travel and adventures.

I miss people.

Even though I am good company to myself, I miss the touch of another’s hand, a hug, a shoulder to set my head on.

This too shall pass.

This too shall pass.

This too shall pass.

 

 

Little Gold Star

Today I got my 14th star tattoo.

14 stars.

14 years of being sober.

I decided I need to give myself a gold star.

It’s been that kind of year.

When I reflected on all the things that I went through and all the places I’ve been, I think that I definitely earned it.

This past year I traveled to DC, New York, Paris, and Marseilles.

I graduated with a Master’s degree in Psychology.

I went through a buy out and moved.

That was some serious stress let me tell you.

I also started a private practice therapy business.

And.

A PhD program.

I also got my grades back from said program.

All “A”s.

ALL.

I was a little surprised to tell you the truth, I had an issue with a final paper I turned in for one of my classes and I didn’t think it was going to fly, the paper, that is–I digressed from the specific instructions the professor gave and did rather what I wanted to do.  It was the only paper for the class, although there were so many discussion posts that I feel like I actually wrote seven papers for the class, and I ran a huge risk doing it.

The risk paid off.

So, yeah, a gold star felt really appropriate.

Yes.

It did hurt.

And it felt really right and I was, obviously, very happy with it.

Not only was I pleased with it, but it filled out the space perfect.  I am very satisfied with the way all my tattoos look and really have little desire to put anything else in that area.

Not sure where I’ll put the 15th, but let’s just let me focus on the 14th star.

It really was quite a year.

I walked through some really challenging things and came out the other side.

I reflected on a lot of that today as I went about my day.

I saw clients at my office, did lots of writing, read for one of my upcoming classes for this next semester (school starts next Thursday!), went to Let it Bleed on Polk Street, got an iced coffee for a treat, walked around the Tenderloin and took graffiti photographs, caught up with my friend DannyBoy at the shop, took myself out to lunch in Hayes Valley, had a coffee with a friend in the Mission at Maxfield’s House of Caffeine, went to Divisadero and got my nails done, and then hit my Saturday night commitment and did the deal.

It was a day.

I’m really happy with my life right now.

Oh, sure, romantically it’s strange, but you know, that will work itself out.

Or not.

I have ceased (fighting anyone or anything) trying to figure it out.

I’m just showing up every day and taking care of myself and I feel really good about what I did today for myself and my own care.

I also thought a lot about what I want to bring forward for this next year.

Get through the next semester of classes, add clients into my private practice, travel.

I also want to get through the Below Market Housing Homeowners workshop.

I really am going to go after buying a house in San Francisco.

My friend whom I met for coffee happens to be a realtor and we spent an hour going over what I need to do to get myself in line to actually do that.

She gave me a good idea of how much money I will need to have saved up, which will take some time (or not, who knows, money may fall out of the sky) to save, but I can do it.

Plus that I should get a credit card.

Which I’m not super stoked on the idea.

I had one that I’d gotten last year and then never used as it made me uncomfortable.

But.

My friend insisted I was really going to need a credit history that showed me paying off a card.

She said get one, pay it off every month and always pay more than the minimum payment.

If I do get another card, and that’s an if, I will definitely not let a balance roll over.

I just do not like the idea of having any credit card debt.

I do, however, like the idea of having a good credit score and something that shows I am a good risk for a home loan.

I shall take it under advisement.

I actually tried to re-open the credit card I had closed but I could not figure out how to do it and just sort of set it aside tonight when I got home.

I feel like I did a lot today just by sitting down and talking about it.

I will manifest a house in San Francisco.

See if I don’t.

In the mean time there is plenty of other things for me to do.

I do want to keep a soft focus on it though, always have it in my mind and see where I can expand my awareness of abundance.

I am continuing to practice that opening up to the universe, to the flow, to God, to abundance, I have continued to give away a little more than I typically do.

More tip in the tip jar, more money in the basket, continuing to pay my bills within 24 hours of getting them.

And!

Oh my gosh, this is definitely part of the gold star, I got approved to become an employee at my internship.

Which means that I will start bringing in more money.

I am so psyched about that.

I’m excited for this year.

I feel like all sorts of incredible things are going to happen.

I really do.

Faith.

I like that.

Faith, abundance, joy, honesty, integrity, serenity.

Words to live by.

Principles to underpin my gold star.

And!

Love.

Let me not forget that one.

Never forget that.

Seriously.

 

There’s No There There

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.

Nothing.

No fear.

No excitement.

No anxiety.

Nothing.

Wow.

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.

Exquisite.

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.

But.

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.

So.

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.

Really?

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.

Then.

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.

Seriously.

I mean.

Have you seen my hair?

Getting The Swing of Things

I am feeling so much better than yesterday.

Although I have to say, this morning.

Not so much.

I had a moment of, “fuck this.”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

I did.

But I also knew that moment was fleeting, a feeling, not a reality, an emotion that would go once I gave it some space to move on.

I was emotionally hung over from the night before.

I cried so much yesterday in my last class of the day and the emotions were so high for everyone involved, I was not the only person experiencing that and the flavor of the morning was subdued.

Suffice to say, I got to move through it, although I did find myself in tears again this morning discussing a point of view with the class, articulating how I was feeling and have felt some contempt prior to investigation with the program.

How I really have spent some time talking myself into this.

Is this the right program?

Am I doing this right?

I don’t fit in?

Or do I?

What are my goals, what do I want out of the experience, how do I move forward in a cohesive way, how to balance work and needing to cover my expenses with what is happening and what I have to do and the expectations of the teachers and what they each are looking for.

I leaned over to my class mate after I said my piece and how I felt that it was way too soon to already be crying.

She laughed and said she’d had a big cry before coming to class, so I was right on time.

And I know.

Get used to it kid.

It’s terrifying and awesome and amazing and completely new.

I have never had an experience like this and I am only three days into a three-year process.

When I extrapolate it out it’s going to be a much longer process than that, but from here to the degree is three years.

Three years time is going to pass no matter what I do, might as well get my Masters in Integral Counseling Psychology, I mean what else am I going to do?

And that’s not the full story, it’s just a part of the narrative I tell myself, because I have tried other programs and I have tried getting into other schools and the door was always shut, always blocked.

I have checked out education programs at San Francisco State, I have sat in on open houses, I have gone to City College, I applied to and was turned down by UCSF for their creative writing MFA program, same with a number of other places and spaces and programs.

But this program has opened to me and when ever I was uncertain something would happen, something would shift and I would get clear direction about how to continue to move forward.

Always, every time, every day from the first day that I posited maybe I should do this.

Maybe when he said to me last year at Burning Man, “you’re a child psychologist being paid babysitter wages,” I could have balked at it, turned away from it, not allowed myself to hear it.

But I was so open and hurting from the conflict with my boss, which was really just a conflict with myself and how I have to find the words to ask for what I need and if the job, whatever job, is one in which those needs can’t be met, I find another.

There are absolutely no scarcity of jobs for me.

In fact, I was offered a job today at lunch.

At least, I was felt out for a possible job and that felt good.

Not to say I have any plans on leaving the family I work for, but if they can’t provide me with what I need and I am going to have to ask for a raise, I should have already, but should have doesn’t serve, I just get to look at what i have been given, acknowledge that I have job security, that I have financial security.

Whether it comes from the family I am with or another.

I will be taken care of.

The more I learn these lessons the more I am going to be of service to my future clients.

I like saying that.

Clients.

I am going to be a therapist and I can tell I am going to be a good one.

Perhaps that feeling of knowing is where I find the most fear and also the most freedom, to acknowledge a set and defined career goal.

Not that I necessarily know where that path leads, or what divergence it may take, just that I am on it, I am on it for a reason, and I am going to be good at it.

I am good already.

Meaning.

I showed up.

I have not left.

I have not dropped.

I am on time.

i have been doing my best to keep up with the readings and I take notes like a motherfucker.

In fact, I can see I will be investing in a lot of pens, I am a note taker and a underliner and I like that, it helps me to assimilate the knowledge in my head.

I am learning more than I know as well.

Not just about the coursework, but about myself and these small revelations are just as worth note as the bigger ones, the “I made it into graduate school ma” kinds of epiphanies, I am learning about myself, my way of being in the world and showing up the way I do has been noted.

I am seen.

I am heard.

I am getting into it.

I am grateful for this.

And that I have a fucking awesome professor for my Therapeutic Communications course.

I’m excited by working with him.

Anxious too, but happy, and enthralled and he makes me sit up and pay attention.

I was in his class six hours today and it whipped by.

I was almost surprised when it was time to go and I look forward, very much, to working with him more and I am over the moon to feel the connection to the class and to the professor and to myself.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

I am a graduate school student.

Holy shit.

I’m doing this!

It’s a nice feeling.

I have trepidations still, but, I also have faith.

And that is where I will plant myself.

Secure in the knowledge that it’s all happening and as long as I show up with integrity and kindness for myself today.

The rest will follow.

It always does.

He Walks Away

The sun goes down.

He takes the day.

But I am grown.

My tears dry on their own.

And like that.

I am single again.

The man and I ended it last night.

Nine weeks to the day of our first date.

It felt longer.

I dare say because I was so present for so much of it.

Oh.

There were things, issues, stuff, the stuff of life, the things that happen, the shut down, me, I can shut down.  I can get silent, I can step away and my heart can break even when I know that there is no going backwards only forwards into that deep unknown of intimacy.

Into me you see.

Yes.

That.

When I am not being my self than I am not allowing for intimacy and boy have I learned a lot about myself over these past few months.

Again, really, it was just two months.

Jam packed months, my father’s accident, the trip to Anchorage and back, my birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, my sobriety anniversary.

I knew on my anniversary that it was over.

I knew last Friday that it was probably over after we had our get right with God conversation about what we both wanted from the relationship.

I am not going to focus on what he said to me, because that is not for your eyes, just for my heart and the confidence of a few close friends and mentors.

And thank God I made plans to be out dancing and celebrating my anniversary.

I was surrounded by people who love and care for me and told me how much they did and I was deeply moved, to tears, a number of times by the outpouring of love from my friends.

I am so lucky to have these relationships in my life.

I cannot help grieve that which is passing, I’m on the verge of crying right now, the grief it is very much there, sitting on top of my throat, heavy on my heart, but I know that I can walk through it and come out strong, more valuable and tempered, like steel in fire.

I have become that much more realized.

For having realized what I need in a romantic relationship.

Hell.

In all my relationships.

And that relationships, romantic or otherwise, take work.

Gobs and gobs and gobs of work.

It is easier to be single, I found out.

To do what I want, when I want, regardless of anyone else, to have my own agenda, to be safe, to be in a cocoon, to rest and take my leisure.

I want, however, to be in a relationship and I am going to keep dating.

I am not putting my heart up on a shelf to grow old and dusty and insensate with time.

Nope.

I mean, I’m not going to go re-open my OkCupid profile and I’m not going to Tinder and I am not going to go scroll through Face Book and find that special someone tonight.

My heart, she is sweet and needs to have a moment or two to let the man go.

Move aside and let the man go through, let the man go through.

To let go of the fantasy too.

He’s a perfect man.

I am a perfect woman.

And the relationship was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I can still have grief around it and sorrow and have feelings.

But I don’t want to wallow.

I don’t want to not put it right back out to the Universe.

Hey God, who do you want me to date, please show me and help me to move toward the man who you want me to be with.

A-fucking-men.

I didn’t know if I was going to write about it tonight after getting my dancing on with my friends at Public Works, which, in case you were wondering, was fantastic.

It started a little slow, but the groove was great and the Fleetwood Mac remixes and disco beat with a little Northern Stomp and Detroit four on the floor, was a delight to get my hips moving.

I needed that.

I needed that bad.

Sometimes a girl has to dance.

Sometimes a girl has to cry.

I’ll do that too.

I did a bit today, it would come and go in waves.

The sun on my face as I sat and ate lunch at an open table in the cafe and suddenly my eyes start leaking.

Or when I showed up to see my girlfriends at Firewood Cafe.

I dreaded going.

I dreaded walking up the hill in the Castro to the restaurant, I did not want to tell them, although I had already told my three best girls, that the relationship was over.

Done.

Kaput.

No more.

Although he wants to be friends.

And that’s a possibility, a good likelihood, not now, I don’t think now is the time, we both need space.

In fact we agreed to no contact for 90 days.

Which is actually longer than we dated, but felt right when we were discussing it.

And as I mentioned, the conversation, that’s private, but the actions taken, the sincerity of the speech, the honesty, the showing the fuck up and wo (man’ing) up, the being brave and walking through, not doing it over the phone or in a text, but person to person and with integrity.

That was an amazing experience.

Painful?

Fuck yes.

Jesus.

Please.

Bring me the box of tissue ok.

But honest, sincere, right-minded, real, I am blown away by how we both walked through it with the best of intentions and the most honesty that I have ever had in a break up.

I am extraordinarily grateful for that.

I sort of wanted to pat my teary self on the back for doing it and being open and allowing myself to be exactly there and me.

Well.

There was some self-deprecating humor on my part on one point, but really the levity was there and we parted ways clean.

It all feels very grown up and real.

Tiring too.

I am going to sleep better tonight I think; I hope.

It was hard to go to sleep last night and harder to stay in bed, I just got up and got moving.

I suspect I am going to have to sit in some feelings and not check out.

Just sit and feel them.

Let them pass through me and over me.

And when they go I will turn, stronger, face forward, and walk on.

Toward the man I am supposed to be with.

And when I meet him.

I will be ready.

Punked Out

But still going.

I had an emotionally draining day.

One I knew might be, but was not exactly what I expected.

I knew I would cry and I wore no eye liner.

And waterproof mascara.

Cry I did.

I also did not finish with my endeavor, which was unexpected, it took longer than I thought to go through the things that needed to be said and I was busy writing down things that I did not even realize I was doing.

Control.

God do I want it.

Control and victimhood.

Get thee gone, motherfucker.

Ack.

Nope after an hour and a half at Tart to Tart my time was up and I parted ways with the work, but was still being worked over, internally re-arranged, you might say.

I felt out of it and drained and tired, and it took me a bit once I got back to get into any sort of routine, to get any momentum underneath me.

But I did.

I had a late lunch, went grocery shopping, and managed to get over to Wise Surfboards to buy a pair of booties for surfing.

I just confirmed that I will be getting picked up, me, my wetsuit, the new booties, and a borrowed long board, to go surfing tomorrow morning at 7a.m.

Sigh.

It’s 11:33 p.m. at the moment and I won’t, even my speediest typing, won’t get to bed before one a.m.  I will finish my blog by midnight, but I had a little caffeine later in the day to pick me up from bailing on the rest of the day, and though my body feels tired, my brain is a little busy.

I do have some tea cooling off and a small snack to nibble and maybe I will finish Before Midnight, which I have down loaded and been watching bits of over the last few nights.

I will unwind, but it won’t leave me with the usual number of hours I like to sleep, especially on a day off.  Then again, a day off could me a nap, which would not happen if say I was up late before I was to work a shift.

So, the balance being I will get up early, surf, and probably take a nap in the late morning or very early afternoon, right about the time when I used to get up and ponder this thing that some call brunch, which is really just a vehicle to cater to those hung over from Saturday’s revelry and nurse a bloody mary or mimosa while coating the stomach with greasy eggs Benedict.

Or, that is my experience anyway.

“You’re going out surfing tomorrow?” My friend said to me as we were parting ways, “good for you!  Where at?”

“Sloat,” I said.  Although when I went to buy my booties at Wise Surfboards I did remember how wild the water looked, how big the waves looked and whether or not I would actually be getting into the water at that time seemed farfetched.

“No, you can’t do Sloat, the waves are going to be way too big, who are you going with?” He asked.

I told him.

“No, that’s too dangerous, you guys don’t have enough experience to do Sloat, go down to Rockway or Pacifica or Santa Cruz if you’re going to go out, Sloat scares me right now, the waves are huge, its way too dangerous,” he repeated with emphasis, his eyebrows going up and down of their own volition.

That’s what I thought too, then his friend showed me the wave report for tomorrow and I got goosebumps looking, yeah, not surfing Sloat.

I have been told this numerous times now, the winter is here and the waves are big.

Too big for me, that’s for sure.

I sent my friend a text while I waited for the train, hoping to hear back from him, and wondering whether I would pussy out of going if he suggested we head to Pacifica.

The lure of a warm bed calling to me to stay in it is no small thing.

He texted me just as I was sitting down to write and said, “Pacifica, and if the waves are too big we’ll go out to breakfast.”

Sigh.

Ok.

I texted back.

I know I will be happy when I am in the water and my new booties are keeping my toes warm and even if I don’t get up on the board, I will have the satisfaction of knowing I got out into the water.

Half the battle, more really, is just showing up.

I know I will get up, begrudgingly perhaps, but I will get up.

I will suit up and show up.

I have been trained well.

Turn toward compassion and humility.

That was what I got today and that is what might be the hardest thing about surfing, as I go out for the third time, being so amateur at something, so lost, I have to surrender to what is happening and though frightening, the lack of control is also freeing.

Control.

That was pointed out to me again and again and again.

How I want to control others, their reactions, the way they live, what they do, as though by doing so I will avoid being hurt, I will protect myself from pain.

But life is pain.

And joy and love and all sorts of other things, but yes pain.

Pain is where I grow and learn and through going through the pain I learn.

I learn that I can let go of the control and what I think should happen and on what timeline.

It’s always been out of my hands.

Now, more so than ever.

Just like the waves, too big for me to control or swim past.

Surrender to the nature of my humanity and stop struggling for something that I never had in the first place.

No wonder I got so tired today.

It takes a lot to keep up that facade.

It blocks what I need though, that old sunlight of the spirit, so here’s to letting it go and seeing what takes its place.

Surfing for one.

Apparently.

Who knows what else.

Naps too perhaps.

Sprinkled with acceptance, forgiveness, and most of all.

“Compassion,” she said, “show yourself some compassion.”

Ok.

I acquiesce.

I give up.

Compassion sounds a lot better than control anyhow.

Integrity

I so did not want to spend the early evening hanging out around the Mission, and that is funny, because there have been many, many, many times when I did not.

However I was due to be of service at 8p.m. and with work done for the week at 4:30p.m. I had some down time.

I spun by the bike shop, got my brakes tightened, had a little oil slipped onto the chain, chatted up my friends there and then headed to Rainbow to get a few groceries.

So sad the groceries at Rainbow.

Which is not usually the case, normally the fruit and veggies look spectacular, but the after holiday pickings weren’t so great.  However, the main reason I was there was to get myself a bag of Stumptown Holler Mountain and that was achieved.

Then over to Herbivore for my “I play a vegan on tv” dinner.

I am not a vegan, but they do have a super tasty plate that just makes me all sorts of warm and fuzzy and I get my Mexican in the Mission fix without eating suspicious meat or a lot of grease.  I get the Mexican beans and rice with fresh salsa and guacamole and fake sour cream with a little side salad and fake chicken and it really hits the spot.

Don’t know why, don’t care to analyze it.

Then a manicure because that is my splurge and a cup of tea and then the doing the deal and thankfully, as it was late and my bag was full of groceries, I got offered a ride home to the beach, my bicycle nestled into the back of a truck and voila!

Home.

Home.

Home where the house is clean and smells like me and says, “hello! Glad you are here.”

Here for tonight and off to be a bit busy this weekend, but not too over scheduled or over booked, just enough to provide a bit of structure and a bit of wiggle room should something fun pop up for me to do.

“Want to go surfing on Sunday?” My friend asked me tonight as I greeted him in the Mission.

“Yes!” I said, followed by, “when?”

“Sunday.” He said.

“Perfect!” I said.  Keeping that Sunday open I am! And I was able to say yes.

“What time?” I asked.

“In the morning,” he said slyly.

“Ugh.  Yes, ok, how early?” I asked, I guess I am getting up to an alarm on my day off.

“Eight?” He said.

“Ok,” I said with a small sigh, “I can do that.”

He looked at me and smiled, then cocked his head to the right slightly and said almost too quietly for me to hear, “seven?”

“Jesus, I suppose I could, good thing you already offered be a ride home tonight or I would not have said yes to that,” I joked.

Although, I would have.

This will make surf trip number three for me.

I think I will have a little something extra to do tomorrow, now that I know I will be getting into the water in the morning, time to buy some booties.

I did not mind surfing without them the last time I went, it was getting out of the water and walking on the beach when I could not feel my feet that made me a bit nervous.

That and walking back to the car, it was nice to have some protection on my toes.

So, looks like I will be getting in one more surf session before the new year commences.

I confirmed my work for this upcoming week and gratefully found out that the family will not need me next Friday.  I get  a three-day weekend!

That will make up for the very intense work week I will have with the overnight happening on New Years Eve.  I work a double or triple shift depending on how I look at it.  New Years Eve day I work my normal hours 8:45a.m.-5:30p.m. then I will hop in the car with the mom of one of my charges, with my overnight bag, and head over to her friend’s place in the Mission and nanny for two little monkeys overnight.

My shift officially is listed at 7pm Tuesday night until 10a.m. Wednesday morning.

Then I will have the rest of the day off.

Which I will need.

Work a regular shift on Thursday with my charge in NOPA and then three-day weekend.

Excellent.

I can do it.

Especially with the next two days off to write, surf, do some inventory, almost done, which is good since it has to be by 12:25p.m. tomorrow.

Ha.

Coffee with someone in the early afternoon, tea with someone in the evening, head up to Noe Valley, do that thing there, then back out to the beach.

Squeeze in a trip to a sporting good store to get myself some booties.

Ah, yes, that works, thanks brain, sometimes you do come in handy, I will make a run over to Wise Surf Shop when I return from my noon get together at Tart to Tart.

That’s where I got my wetsuit and I believe their prices are a little more inline with my needs then Mollusk, which though adorable and half a block away is a little bit pricier.

I feel pretty good about that at the moment, the finances, being responsible girl I am.  I paid rent for January last night, paid my student loan, and just wrote a check out for Healthy San Francisco f0r the next three months.

Happy Holidays!

You’re financially sufficient!

Yes.

I also put money in the savings account and sent a message to Barnaby to figure out how to pay him the plane ticket money.  I want that out of my hot little hands before I decide to delay and get a new lap top.

I want the debt dealt with and done before the new year commences.

These things all mean that what ever money I make next week, it’s sort of bonus money.  Oh, there’ll be incidentals and groceries, there always is, but I don’t have to pay any bills with any of the money that I get the next week.

I can sock a good amount away toward the new laptop and I can get a pair of booties.

Good to know where I stand.

And soon to stand, on a surf board.

I don’t know that I will be able to get up on my third go out, but I am going to try to get up, even if it means just to fall off.

Showing up for it is the biggest battle.

Just showing up is 99% of my life right now.

Glad to do so, even if it means setting my alarm for 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

I shall.

My word means something today.

Today I have integrity.