Speak To Me

In the language of trees.

Specifically.

In the whisperings of God dropping through the boughs of the giant avocado tree.

Said tree that I stand next to at times, times of the day when I am alone at work, out on the balcony to the world staring down at the bowl of San Francisco from my perch.

A  perch just on the cusp of Glen Park.

Borderlands to Noe Valley.

A perch of privilege, a deck of wonders.

Who knew there was such a view?

Or that God would choose the avocado tree to teach me of my love for you.

For a moment I could not even remember if you liked avocados.

Then.

The memory of the first time I cooked you breakfast.

(You requested, something simple, like avocado toast, which you got, as well as prosciutto and asparagus fritatta with pecorino and grueyere and fruit, all organic and curated, and granola parfait, said toast dusted with sea salt collected by the soft milk white hands of virgins under the new moon–at least that is what I told you,  as it cost $58 a lb)

How I wanted to please you.

How I wanted to make you happy.

How I wanted to impress you.

And yes.

How I wanted to show you how much I loved you.

Although the words had not been uttered out loud.

They were there.

Lingering in the cast iron skillet I sautéed the asparagus in.

Late spring asparagus I had culled with much discernment at the market.

Everything needed to be just so for you.

You may see how mad I was to impress you.

See.

Here.

Here are my list of skills.

Cooking, obviously.

Did I tell you that I know how to make pie crust from scratch?

I know I must have enraptured you at some point with tales of apple pie and vanilla custard ice cream in the house in Windsor, in Wisconsin, with apples that I picked myself from the Cortland tree.

Apples that to this day I can taste faint, sweet, crisp, with a wicked whisper of tartness that reminds me of you.

You flavor my ways and days and the memory of you wicks through me some times with terrifying speed.

I digress.

Apples.

Apple pie.

Apple tart kisses, my bonny boy, my blue-eyed one, my love, my love, my ardent heart.

I digress.

Where was I?

Oh.

Yes.

Skills.

Cooking, cleaning, pie crust making, massage, poetry, recitations, love-making.

We were oh so good at that last, weren’t we lover?

Digressing again.

I shivered, it felt like withdrawal, in the car tonight, on my long drive home, waiting in line on Lincoln Avenue for the light to finally turn green so that I could turn on to 19th and head to Crossover Drive, to float down the hills, rolling and soft, like a asphalt veld, to the sea.

To 48th and Balboa, my new digs.

You were the first person to see it.

Just the bones, you know.

Just the bare walls and the wood floors and the oh so, oh my God, is it really all mine, deck.

I almost kissed you there, in the shadow of the house, I wanted you to kiss me there, in the corner of my heart, in my new home and cement yourself even further into my heart, is that possible?

It is I think.

You managed somehow.

And though I did not kiss you, I stopped, startled, stunned that I wasn’t allowed to kiss you anymore, momentarily forgetful of this whole grown up thing we are doing, the no contact thing that we keep breaking, like my heart, trying to find our way through the morass and the mire to that high road of love, I wanted to.

I wanted to kiss you.

And I did.

Later.

But I am not at later yet.

For.

I digress.

The digression too becomes a part and parcel to the piece.

Does it not?

Where was I?

Oh yes.

I was shivering.

Shaking with need, a good addict response, what had triggered me?

Aside, not digression, I hate that word, trigger, so banal, so trite, so overused and misunderstood, excuses to act out on desires, I was triggered, I could not help myself, what was it that pulled my focus, that made me shiver.

The damn car wash.

Remember that one?

You know the one, when we were on holiday, what a horrid way to misuse that word, from our sexual appetites, trying yet again to figure out how to be and not be with each other.

We’re just “friends” now.

I knew then, but did not say it, there is no going backwards.

So when we were just supposed to be going for a ride, just supposed to be talking, how we ended up at the gas station with the discount gas if you should happen to buy a car wash.

No overheated teenager ever made out more furious with passion than did we.

I do not know how long the water pelted down but it was not long enough.

It was never long enough with you and I.

And then I’m turning, the light is green, it is time to go, and I let the yellow and orange and white lights of the gas station melt away in the rear view mirror, but the song is still there and I still feel you in the air inside my car, some sort of ghost in the machine.

Deux ex machina.

And I feel you seeping under that layer of skin between muscle and sinew and I cry, out loud, your name in the darkened shell of my car, the dashboard lights the only witness to my pain.

I half expected you to text me immediately.

You do always know when I am almost there on the ledge of love waiting to leap and always wanting you to catch me when I fall.

But you didn’t.

Text me, that is.

No matter how much I may want you to.

You’re not allowed.

I am not allowed.

We are not in that place.

Yet.

And.

I do not know the place exactly that we are in now.

So.

I talk to the avocado tree at work.

I pace the back balcony, the view of the city spilled out before me like a sumptuous private banquet that only I shall eat at.

The clouds, high, and tight in the sky, flick past, but are not big enough to blot out all that wide open blue.

That sky that does me in.

You had to have eyes the color of the sky, didn’t you?

Eyes so blue, so deep, flecked with green and gold and burnished with love.

Like the leaves of the avocado tree.

Leaves that when ruffled against the blue of the sky remind me of when I fell, headlong, heedless, and in absolute knowing, that I was irreconcilable in my love, into the blue of your blue eyes, straight through to the sea of your soul.

I launched out upon that sea and I have never looked back.

And though I am so far from shore.

I know, I really do believe.

That if I can just decipher the secrets that the avocado tree is whispering to me I will unlock the key and bring you back.

Back.

Back.

Down to the sea.

Where the driftwood bonfires burn brightly on the edge of the ocean and the mermaids sing each to each.

Do not make me wait to be old, a Prufrock figure, with trousers rolled, feet bare to the sea-foam, pushed about by incoming waves of salt sadness and sea bream.

Come back to me my love.

Come back.

At least please see me in my dreams.

Where once again I will fall for you with nary a regret.

Never a regret.

Over.

And over.

And.

Over.

Again.

Always.

Will.

I fall.

For.

You.

 

This Love Of Mine

Well.

I did it.

I listened to a playlist the ex had made me on the way home.

I’m not upset that I did it, it was going to happen at some time.

I was, however, hit harder by the music than I suspected I would be.

I sang a little, I teared up, I reprimanded myself for being emotional while driving home in the fog, he would have hated that I did that, he was always so concerned about me getting home safely.

It was a dreamy sort of drive home, though, darkly romantic with the fog halos around the street lamps lining Lincoln Avenue.

It’s Friday.

I’m alone.

I miss my love.

It’s been ten days and it feels like an eternity since I saw him.

I had a thought that I should call him and of course, I stamped that out, it’s not going to do any good and it will only make you sad, don’t do it.

I will just have to continue walking through the feelings when they come up and probably not listen to any of the playlists he’s made me for a while.

I am still far too tender.

I do have plenty of things to distract myself with.

God.

Do I ever.

I need to print off the rest of my syllabi and start the organizing my readings that will need to be done before the intensive begins.

I also have a bunch of things I need to organize for the new internship.

One of them being that I have settled upon a price for the times I will use the office.

$125/week.

I think it’s a damn fair price.

It’s $25 more than what I asked and about what I thought it would end up being, so I’m totally fine with it and responded as such.

Now I have to coordinate with the person at Grateful Heart Therapy who negotiates the leases for the interns.

My God.

I’m going to be renting an office!

Shit.

I haven’t even found a place to rent for myself yet.

Not that I’m not looking, but I’m not doing it with pressing haste.

I am trying to let myself sit still until I need to get a place.

I don’t want the stress of moving while I’m starting the PhD program.

The program will be stress enough.

And I’ve been getting lots of emails from the new internship, things that need to be done, dates that I need to book out in my calendar, head shots that need to be done.

So much stuff.

I”m a bit pooped out thinking about it all right now.

It was a long week at work and I think, cue the sad song sing along in the car, that I am also emotionally exhausted with the grieving of the relationship.

It’s been ten days.

It hasn’t been that long and I loved him, love him, so fucking much, that it may just keep taking some time.

So the best I can do is be nice to myself and not freak out that I haven’t read the orientation packet with a fine tooth comb or figured out my therapy business name or started my online presence yet.

Those things will come.

I am proud of myself for doing the little things.

Like getting up, showering, making my bed, doing laundry, folding it and putting it away, cooking myself food, seeing clients, being sweet with the monkeys today at work.

I even baked cookies.

Not for me, my charges.

But it was nice to bake and take my mind off of all the things and just be present with the kids and have a sweet time with them.

We made sugar cookies and homemade frosting and used lots of sprinkles.

An illegal amount of sprinkles really.

It was a nice thing to do on a Friday.

Another nice thing I am going to do is not set my alarm.

I was thinking about swimming in the morning, but honestly, I just can’t muster it up right now.

I may wake up and feel differently, but I’m just going to let myself off the hook and let whatever happens happen.

I have a lot to take care of and it’s ok if I stay home and just do the work I need to address before heading out to group supervision.

I have plans tomorrow night with some girlfriends for dinner and a movie, so I will also be getting in some social time.

All I want right now though is some zone out time.

I’m going to call it a night, make some tea and watch a video.

No more sad songs tonight.

Although I can’t guarantee that I won’t cry a little before I go to sleep tonight.

 

Happy New Year!

I really haven’t any resolutions to share with you.

I prefer to just treat each day like it’s a new day instead of having expectations that I need to change or get better or perfect something.

I need to grow a little everyday and not try to cram a bunch of resolutions into my day and think that I’m going to change over night.

Little bits by little bits.

Baby steps, baby.

And I took some nice ones today.

I got out of bed.

I know.

Crazy.

I really wanted to stay in bed and in fact, did sleep past the point I would normally get up.

My brain was trying to hijack my body though and convince me that I didn’t need to go to yoga.

I needed to go to yoga.

It, my brain, almost won out, but I have smart feet and I also have inborn knowledge from having done enough yoga that I always feel better after a class, even if it’s with not my favorite instructor at the studio.

Which is the excuse that I used the day before to not go, but really, I assure you I had gotten plenty of exercise the previous twelve hours to not feel upset about missing a class and I think that I needed the extra sleep yesterday.

Today, not so much, and I knew that I would not be happy with myself if I skipped yoga two days in a row during a time that I could be going to yoga.

I can’t typically make it to classes during the week, work and my internship conflict, so I’m a weekend warrior.

To not go on both Saturday and Sunday would have been sacrilege.

So I got my happy ass out of bed and into my yoga clothes and I stayed in them for a long time.

It was a great class, I was really surprised, maybe not having any expectations that I would enjoy the class I actually did.

I came home thinking that I wanted to go on a bike ride too, the bike ride had been running around in my head for a few days now that I think on it, and I figured I could actually make it a nice physical day for myself, maybe even go back to the late yoga class.

It’s a restorative yoga class, so it wouldn’t have been like a big effort, although I didn’t end up going, something else came up.

But.

I did go on the bike ride!

It was great and in fact, I might let myself go on another tomorrow.

I was supposed to meet with a ladybug today, but she had to cancel, so after a good check in via phone, I pulled my bike out and pumped air into the tires, grabbed my messenger bag, a water bottle and my bike locks, in case I wanted to stop anywhere I could lock up my bike.

I rode out from the house down 46th to Sloat, then up to Great Highway, up past the zoo a bit, and then stopped right before the hill to gaze at the ocean for a while and snap a quick photo of my bicycle, she is a pretty, pretty thing, before I headed back down Great Highway, riding past my turn off to Fulton Ave, the up to 47th and around the park for awhile, around the soccer fields and the back side of the Beach Chalet, I went past the archery fields and eventually popped back out onto Lincoln Ave at Chain of Lakes, back down to 46th, then two blocks back to the house.

It was smashing.

I am so glad I did it.

Aside from the exercise it also felt really meditative and I reflected over and over again how amazing it is that I live somewhere so beautiful, that I literally am blocks away from Ocean Beach, that I get to ride my bicycle around a world-renowned park, that I get to live here in San Francisco.

It is a huge gift.

After the bike ride I had a late lunch and then made some chicken soup.

I’ll be visiting my person tomorrow, he just had a hip replacement surgery, and I wanted to bring him some more chicken soup, he’s gone through the two big Mason jars I gave him right before the surgery.

I’ll be heading is way by 1 p.m. and we’ll go for an easy walk around the block.

Like literally.

Just around the block.

And maybe a few minutes of hang out time.

I don’t think he’s got the energy for big visits, but he wants to see my face and I, his.

It will be good to see him.

I’m also going to hit up another yoga class tomorrow.

It’s nice to have a Monday off and the studio is open.

That will make three yoga classes over the weekend and a bike ride.

Not bad.

Especially for someone who is  loath to exercise.

I generally like it once I’m doing it and I know how important it is to move my body, but my brain is a sabotaging machine.

Anyway.

I signed up for the 10 a.m. yoga class and I’ll see my person at 1p.m.

Other than that I have no New Year’s Day plans.

Doing the deal somewhere and chilling out with my new book.

NEW BOOK!

That’s not a psychology book.

I know.

Crazy.

I went up to Blackbird Books, the new book store in my hood next to Trouble Coffee, and splurged on the new Jennifer Eagen book, Manhattan Beach, I’m going to indulge my literary self and not read any psychology for at least a week.

So freaking sexy.

I may just spend most of tomorrow lazing on the chaise lounge after I get back from helping out my person and just read.

Such luxury.

And that’s it, that’s my New Year’s Day plans.

To chill the fuck out.

The year is going to be full and amazing, hello, I’ll be graduating, going to Paris, and starting  PhD program, traveling to D.C., and who knows what else will happen, seeing many clients and nanny’ing up a storm.

Wishing you and yours the Happiest of New Years!

Big love from the city by the Bay.

May the year bring you so much love and joy.

So much.

Push Button Baby

I saw a couple on the side of the road as I zoomed down Lincoln Way frantically trying to kick over the starter on a vintage Vespa.

I chuckled to myself.

The old Vespas look so fucking cool.

I know.

I used to have one.

It was such a pretty girl.

But.

Man.

It was such a hassle to get it started or it would conk out on me out of the blue.

Like coming down Laguna Honda in the fog going 40 miles an hour.

I got tired of that really fast.

That.

And the freaking horrifying sprained ankle that I got when the kick starter jammed and I folded my ankle in half.

That was no fun.

Months, years really, of healing.

The doctor was shocked it wasn’t broken and then told me it was too bad it wasn’t since the sprain is slower to heal and how badly I had injured it I would be lucky if it was healed fully in a year and a half.

He was right.

It took that much time to heal.

Actually closer to two years, if I’m honest, I had to be really careful and there were times when I could feel it was still injured.

It put a bad taste in my mouth for every having something vintage like that again.

Truth too.

I wasn’t prepared for the amount of maintenance and well, it turned out it was a knock off Vespa, despite the registration issued from the DMV, it was a knock off Vietnam Vespa and no body in town would touch it to repair it.

So.

I got rid of it.

I had it recycled.

I got it off the road.

I wasn’t going to be responsible for someone else getting injured on it and when the mechanics at the shop told me all the issues with it I was shocked that I hadn’t hurt myself more on it, I could have easily crashed it out.

Granted.

There were some gleeful moments on it when someone would pull up to me on it at a light and chat with me about it, the scooter really was well done, no one had a clue it was fake.

Certainly not I.

I was a tiny bit bamboozled you could say.

Any way, that’s an old story and not the point.

The point is.

Thank fucking god for my scooter.

I live in the Outer Sunset.

I work in Glen Park.

My internship is in the Mission.

My school is in the SOMA.

I have supervision in Hayes Valley.

And.

Therapy in Noe Valley.

I have to get all over the city.

And the scooter is quick.

Of course, I do have some anxiety about what will happen when the fall comes and the rains that generally come with the fall.

I will either have to get used to wet weather riding or figure something else out.

I can ride in the rain.

I have done it.

I do not like it, but it’s doable.

I was talking to my friend yesterday as she was getting the last of her household packed up for travels back to France and she looked at me and said, “drive safe poulette (her term of endearment for me–sexy girl, although literal translation is chicken, I like to think of it as “chick” or chickadee), maybe it’s time you got a car.”

Yeah.

There’s that.

Aside from the fact that it would be handy to go to Burning Man.

Heh.

Still haven’t gotten a ride yet, still hedging my bets with a rental, but that too is beside the point.

I don’t know what exactly the point is.

I haven’t had a car for over a decade.

I got rid of mine two weeks after moving here in 2002.

Fuck.

Nearly fifteen years with no car.

Lots of bicycles.

And two scooters.

I do like my scooter and I do so appreciate getting around on it.

I just have time concerns now that I didn’t have before.

I mean.

My schedule has always been full, but then I added in graduate school and graduate school added in an internship and um, ha, since, I’m a therapist in training, I have to be on time for my clients.

I get done with work at 6p.m. and I have clients at 6:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesday, Thursdays, and I have been assigned a new client to see on Fridays now at 6:30p.m.

My first child client!

Bring on the child and family hours!

Ahem.

I digress.

This whole blog is a digression.

Sometimes when I don’t want to write about what I want to write about, I can go off on tangents.

Shadrach.

Scooter accident.

Dead.

Today.

10 years.

I had a little contact with his mom today after she posted a photo of visiting his grave.

Add onto that saying goodbye yesterday to my darling French friend.

Great recipe for sadness.

I felt heavy with it this morning when I left my house to go meet with my supervisor.

I got to Hayes Valley early and had a fifteen minute window so I called my person and shared about it and he said, “you sound sad,” and there it was, the sad, the heaviness in me, it was sadness.

Tears welled up and spilled down my face.

Yup.

Sad.

So we made a plan to meet at a church in the Inner Sunset after I got out of supervision.

It was so good.

I got right with God.

Then we went for tea at Tart to Tart and had a good session.

We sent my friend from Paris a good-bye photo of the two of us having tea, my face a little wet with tears, and my person smiling to beat the band, ugh, not all selfies are sexy.

Ha.

Oh.

Sadness.

I had my cry though and things began to shift.

I came home, made a nice lunch and then did some school work.

Because.

It’s that time.

I have two syllabi posted up and I checked them out and ordered books for class.

I sighed and realized I was pretty burnt out with the emotions.

And I decided.

You know what?

Nap.

I need a nap.

And that’s what I did.

It was perfect.

I had a little rest then got up, prepped some food for dinner and I could feel the sad had moved out of my body.

I got my things together and hopped back on my scooter, went to my internship, dealt with progress notes and paperwork and then saw a client.

By the time my session ended I was feeling great.

So nice that.

Go.

Be of service.

Feel better.

I scooted home.

Zipped by the park, rode the curves of Lincoln Way, smelled the bonfires at Ocean Beach and though it was cold and a bit foggy, I felt lifted, carried, loved.

I miss you Shadrach.

But.

You would be pretty proud of me.

Ten years.

You think the grief would have gone out of my body, but sometimes it is still there and needs expressing.

I’m grateful I didn’t squash it.

I just had it.

And I’m grateful for the emotions.

I get to have them.

Feelings.

It means I am alive.

And after all the death I have been witness to.

Well.

That’s a fucking miracle.

So glad I still get to be around.

Happy.

Joyous.

Alive.

And.

Free.

Ratchet It Down

I’m trying to get mellow.

It has been a long day, much was done, much accomplished.

Biggest accomplishment was getting out to do the deal at a spot up in Potrero Hill that I don’t get to very often anymore since it’s an 8:30 p.m. gig and I’m trying to not be out that late on ‘school nights’ but, I knew when I was watching the lights of the city come up as the sun set that I needed to go and get my connection on.

And I did.

And it was good.

I got to see some folks I haven’t seen in a while and get reconnected and get some good hugs and see some sweet faces.

Always a plus.

And now I’ll be able to go into work tomorrow and be a kind, tolerant, generous person, the kind of woman I want to be.

I told myself it was going to be a long weekend.

No days off for this lady.

So I wanted to be getting the connection in.

I will also be doing the deal all through the weekend, but there’s not much down time for me.

Super grateful I got all the school stuff out-of-the-way.

So much stuff.

I met with my advisor today who is also the head of the department, which is fun, I get to share my experiences and suggestions with someone who has a vested interest in creating positive change in my program.

I’m not quite sure how we got on topic, something to do with the goal of pursuing the PhD and how I will need to do a lot of writing and I just chuckled and told him that my writing is fine, that I have a writing practice that I have been doing steady as she goes for ten years.

And this little blog that I have been doing for 7 and 1/2 years.

I have a practice you might say.

I told him that there are some folks in my cohort who have expressed some jealousy at how fast I can whip out a paper.

But.

That I have a method to it, yes, the practice is super helpful, I mean, fuck, it keeps my typing speed at a maximum I’ll tell you that, but it also is a practice and the more I do it the easier it becomes.

And.

I have a method to my madness when I am writing a school paper and I shared that method with him.

His eyes lit up.

“Do you think you could do something for me?” He asked.

I nodded yes and he laid out his idea for a teaching panel about how to write papers.

He wants me to sit on it and help incoming students with the process of writing papers.

I was very flattered.

And I’m always willing to share my experience with doing the work.

Of course.

It’s work.

That’s the thing, it’s not hard per se, but there is effort involved.

Sometimes when I talk to people about what I am doing or how I am doing I apparently give off this casualness about the work, but it’s work, I show up and do every day.

EVERY DAY.

Twice a day.

And let me be honest.

It saves me, it nurtures me, it is art, it love, it is poesie, it is pretty flowers in my hair.

I can make up the most fantastical amazing things the words and ideas and images I can suddenly be standing on the Trocadero in Paris and be transported to the sound of the Seine and the batobus going by, the cars rolling over the bridge or me, on my bicycle rolling along the bike path headed towards Rue de Commerce to see some fellows and get to down and do the deal.

I can see squares with green grass and gravel paths and benches under beech trees.

Or.

Like tonight.

Riding my scooter home from Potrero Hill the moon, oh the moon, a heavy-handed ladle of butter in a midnight blue velvet enamel coated spoon, the syrup of sweet heady jasmine floating to me through the cool air.

Or.

How that one turn from Fell Street as it becomes Lincoln Avenue and the open swath of green grass that leads into the park proper, how the air there is always cooler and brushes over me like a cat with cold fur from being outside in the night.

Furry and soft and petulant.

Then the over blown smell of cut clover at Keezar Park, a rounded bend in the road and the moon now to my right peeking and booing from in between the Monterey Pines in the park.

Divinity.

I mean.

Shit.

I could go on like that forever.

There is a logic to how I write and there is a rhyme and reason.

Sometimes I can explain that desperate call in my heart and sometimes the words fail.

But.

I keep showing up anyway.

And that is the trick.

“Just breathe and show up,” I told myself this morning as I walked out the door, saying good-bye to my little home by the sea to scooter off to school and jump through the next hoops to do the work to eventually, one day, be a great big grown up therapist instead of a junior baby in waiting.

I jest a little.

But.

It is a long road ahead.

Nonetheless.

It is important that I acknowledge the movement forward.

It is a big deal.

All my papers signed off and turned in.

All the “t’s” crossed.

All the “i’s” dotted.

I even talked with the financial aid department today.

I wasn’t expecting to be in practicum this summer, it just came together that way.

The summer practicum costs about $2200 to do.

Basically $1,098 per credit, was what I was told, with the caveat of “don’t quote me on that, but I believe that will be the cost” from the financial aid admin I spoke to today.

I decided at one point that I don’t want to take out any loans for school this summer.

I have a little in savings from my tax return.

Then.

I  got a financial aid e-mail from the school and I thought, maybe I should, that way if anything happens I won’t have to dip into my travel savings.

I really want to give myself a nice break in May and be able to do all the things in Paris that will make going to Paris all the fun that I need.

So.

Tomorrow.

One more little hoop to jump.

My paperwork is turned into the registrar and it’s official, I am an intern.

But.

The “course” needs to be paid for.

I will do the application, give myself the gift of a worry free trip in May and get my grad school on when I get back.

Internship begins May 22nd.

I will be ready.

Yes.

Yes, I will.

Everything Is All Right

I mean.

I woke up this morning at 6 a.m.

Rested.

Relaxed.

And fucking fine.

Dare I say?

Right as rain.

I have no clue why, well, actually I do, I did some inventory last night before bed and sent it off to my person and that feels really good and I’ll probably do another bit of it tonight.

And fuck.

This shit works.

So grateful for a solution.

And that I have people I can bounce things off of when I am in a funky place in my head.

The sads passed.

I have no real idea, still, what I was sad about, sad happens.

Now.

The 20 month old today was SAD.

And loud and upset and had a huge melt down and there was no reading school books in Who Ville.

There was only calming down the baby who was having some big time abandonment stuff around the mom leaving.

She figured out that when I show up the mom is going to leave.

It is always heartbreaking and depending on the age it can be a bee line right into a temper tantrum.

And that’s what happened today.

Not the longest one I have ever experienced, but the poor little mite wore herself out with it and was sleeping on my chest by 9:45 a.m.

Hours.

I mean, HOURS, before her scheduled nap time.

And.

When I put her down in her crib she got really upset all over again, so I just took her out and let her sleep on my chest.

At times it was restful and lovely, in fact, for most the time it was restful and lovely.

The view was of Twin Peaks–they are at a high point in Noe Valley–and it was swathed in grey and the light rain and mist and fog swirling around were relaxing to watch and meditate to.

I got some quite time and though there were minutes of being annoyed, they passed quickly, that I wasn’t getting a fat juicy nap to do my reading for school, most of it was serene and soft and nice.

I mean.

Really nice.

She is a super sweet and very smart girl and it was a pleasure to work with her.

Tomorrow back with my regular family, plus an interview with a mom that was referred to me.

Then Wednesday, back to Noe Valley.

Thursday and Friday in the Mission.

And though I’m not a 100% behind all the moving around it feels like it’s a temporary thing and I am enjoying having some extra cash in my pocket as well as connecting to a very sweet family and their adorable brood.

Plus I am enjoying, immensely, being able to get out to the that thing I do in church basements every day this week.

That feels huge and really nice to get plugged in.

It always takes a week to get re-oriented after a weekend of grad school work.

I have a lot of stuff coming up on my plate around that, when won’t I?

But.

I am just doing what I can every day this week and letting go of the results.

I will have to write a paper this weekend, probably Saturday afternoon as my person is going to be out of town and we won’t be meeting and doing our normal Tart to Tart routine.

I was also thinking about how I heard a gentleman tonight talk about the stresses of school and I was like, brother, I hear you, and hmm, you are cute and want to start a make out group?

Er.

Hahahaha.

A study group.

Yeah that.

Sometimes the door opens right next to the door that shuts and as I walked past the shut door tonight I realized, wow, there is no there there.

And I had so much compassion.

For myself.

For the shut door and I got to let it go.

Oh.

Granted I got to talk it out a little tonight on the phone too, “oh, ho, I think there’s something still there, your voice sounds like a hammer every time you say his name.”

Oops.

“Men know when you are angry at them,” she concluded.

“Do some inventory and the next time you see him, give him a big hug and say, ‘it’s nice to see you’ and walk away.”

Yes.

I like that.

And hey, walk toward the open door.

Or stop looking for the open door and just do your homework.

Which is really what I’m all about.

That and seeing what happens regarding work.

I’m actually really starting to contemplate what it would look like if I took the position that I’m interviewing for tomorrow.

Granted.

Yes.

It’s only 30 hours.

But if my current employers want to keep me, and they do, two shifts a week, it could work.

I’m just going to show up and see and not have expectations.

Expectation leads to resentment.

I do have any more need for that today.

Really.

l am just relieved to feel so much easier in my skin, lighter, looser, like I am actually wearing life like a loose garment.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I know.

Cliche.

But sometimes there is a valid reason for the cliche, there’s a nugget of truth in it.

I could sense it when I was scootering up Lincoln Avenue on my way to work, the grey sky sprinkled rain down and the earth smelled so good, so alive, the pine needles in groves, the freshness of the morning.

I couldn’t believe my mood had lifted that much.

But it had.

And for that I am grateful.

Grateful that I know to show up and suit up, hey more cliches!

And to do that thing, whatever it is, that action, that is right in front of me and not get hung up on outcomes.

So much easier said than done.

Fuck me.

I can’t stop now.

Ha.

Anyway.

I’m feeling happy, joyous, free.

And it’s fucking right on.

Seriously.

 

Oh Hello

I said to my house with distinct pleasure when I walked in the door just a few minutes ago.

I had forgotten, completely, that I had got down on the house before work today.

Scrubbed the bathroom, swept the floors, dusted, took all the trash out, did the recycling, swiffered the floors, fuck, I even vacuumed.

It was sparkling when I came home and such a nice surprise.

I did a lot of things before work today.

Like.

Yes.

I sent in my amended tax statement.

I should be getting back $805 for the penalty I paid but turns out I didn’t need to.

It will take about three weeks to process.

I’m sure it will take longer than that and I don’t care, I’m not financially in straits, it just was a really good feeling, dare I say, adult, to print off the forms, sign them, affix the appropriate paper work to the form, seal them up in an envelope and drop it in the mail box.

I did not sit on it at all.

I took that bitch right out to the mailbox and mailed it.

I also went grocery shopping and sat down for a moment at the little parklet by the store and wrote out my mom a card.

Just because it’s nice to send mom a card once in a while and I was thinking about her.

I got back from the grocery store and had a half hour to “kill” before work.

I decided that since I’m working again tomorrow, four hours of active duty and then five hours when the boys will be sleeping, good excuse to work on my homework, maybe write that little two page paper I need to do for Multi-Culture class.

Oh.

Fuck.

I have to post to the fucking Applied Spirituality forum.

God damn it.

As you may have cottoned to.

I don’t like this class and I don’t often feel very spiritual about it when I think of the work that I am supposed to do.

But.

I get to do it and it’s due tomorrow?

Ack.

I better check that.

I could be due tonight.

Grrr.

Anyway, I can sort that out after I finish writing this blog.

I got my house clean because I knew it was the best thing to do.

And I am glad I did.

I am busy tomorrow.

I am meeting with my person and finishing reading her my inventory.

Then some lunch, a little lady time, mani/pedi.

Then off to the Mission.

I may have a few minutes to kick it around the hood.

I may not.

I have to be there at 5p.m.

I’m working until 2 a.m.

Then I have a ladybug coming over to do some doing the deal on Sunday at 1p.m.

And.

Heh.

I may have a date.

Not a Tinder date either.

(Oh so many “Nopes”)

I have been using the app but not so much action seems to be coming from it, but the Universe does seem to hear me say, hey I’m single and sexy and available for pursuing.

Let’s have fun.

That’s all this is about.

Having fun.

If it’s not fun, fuck it.

I’m not interested.

I don’t have enough time.

I do have time for hanging out and having a good time.

He’s going to call me on Sunday.

See that’s the nice thing.

We have already established that there is chemistry.

We did that when we exchanged phone numbers a couple of weeks ago.

He knew I was in school last weekend and working this week, but when he saw me he asked what I was doing this weekend and the possible time slot I was perhaps setting aside for a maybe Tinder date is now being held for him.

Which is nice.

Already know what he looks like and his age and his smile and I can say reality is a much nicer thing than a swipe on a phone.

That being said.

I will keep on keeping on.

As I was told.

There’s nothing wrong with the app, what needs to change is you.

Yup.

Change.

The only thing I can count on.

Change.

I have changed so much.

It really does amaze me and when I was riding up Lincoln today with a song in my heart, the trees in the park, the flowers blooming, the red tail hawk soaring, I felt uplifted and grateful and just fucking amazed at this life I have.

I have an amazing life.

I live in San Francisco.

I have great tattoos.

I have a scooter that’s completely paid in full.

I have a place to live that I can afford.

In San Francisco, let me repeat, afford.

(Although once in a while I still kick myself for turning down the Junior One Bedroom Studio on Valencia at 21st.  Oh how sweet would my commute be?  OH how cheap my rent would be.  It was $850 when I looked at it.  I turned it down because I thought the carpet was nasty and I wanted to explore living somewhere other than the Mission. D’oh!)

I am in graduate school.

I am doing well in graduate school.

I get to go to Burning Man.

For my tenth year in a row–a decade at Burning Man and no Burning Man tattoo, not that I am opposed to one but the Man symbol has never done it for me.

I get to go to New York in May and have a place to stay at a friends house in Brooklyn.

All these things.

And so much more.

Filtered through my heart, dripped down into my heart, and I breathed and laughed and could have cried, but I was scootering and didn’t want my vision impaired, so I held it down a little, but yeah, I was the girl on the scooter laughing with joy this afternoon.

Sometimes.

It just hits me and I am overwhelmed with the love and the living and all the fabulous things I get to do.

Even my Applied Spirituality class.

I get to do this.

I get to have these experiences.

Rock on life.

Let’s have a fan-fucking-tastic weekend.

Right.

 

Magic Monday

Mondays are not usually magic.

I certainly did not feel magical getting out of bed this morning.

Sleep in another half hour, hell another hour, my brain whispered to me.

I had awoken a few minutes before my alarm went off and when I reached for my phone to see what time it was I winced.

The alarm was going to go off in ten minutes.

I was hoping I still had hours to go before I had to get up–the gloomy, fogging morning, foiled me into thinking it was far earlier than it was.

Ten minutes.

I want to sleep for ten more hours.

However, I swung my legs out and flipped back the covers and got up and got going.

Laundry, bed making, kneeling, praying, staying connected to my primary purpose, doing the deal, saying the words, asking for direction and to be of service.

Breakfast, clothes on, laundry getting folded and put away, coffee, morning pages, scooter securing–I parked it the garage last night, my housemate was away and I just felt like having it in the garage and not have to hassle with locking it up last night, but I had to have it back outside this morning.

Then the hair and makeup.

In case you ever need some cheering up on a Monday, stick some flowers in your head and be the sunshine that you need to carry you through the day.

Works for me anyhow.

Then the reading.

A full hour before I left for work.

Hopped on my bicycle.

And then magic started happening.

Really, when I acknowledge it, the magic happened when I got up the hour earlier than I wanted to to do the reading for school, but that’s not the kind of magic that’s sexy to write about, that’s only magic to me.

However.

I had the unicorn bicycle commute.

I have only had it one other time in the history of riding my bicycle to this job.

The unicorn looks like this–no full stops, not foot off my pedals, always in motion.

I didn’t do a full stop the entire way, I never put down a foot, it was smooth sailing all the way from start to finish.

46th and Judah to 20th and Lexington.

In 34 minutes.

That’s 6.5 miles in traffic, lights, stop signs, intersections, cars, bicycles, pedestrians, garbage trucks, police horses, nannies out pushing double strollers, Uber drivers, cabs, buses, and me.

I had the pricking in my thumbs early on in the ride that it was happening.

I can’t say when, but it was about when I coasted through the double stop traffic light at 18th and 19th.  Normally I catch one or the other, it’s pretty inevitable, but I coasted right through.

I had the feeling way before that though and thought I was nuts to think it and I should not at that early stage of the ride, must have been around 33rd or 34th and Lincoln that I felt it happening.

And.

It did.

I really am astounded at how it happened.

I got to work with so much time that I did a full set of stretches and I took some sexy bike porn pix of my whip and posted them up to Instagram.

My girl’s still got it.

Then I bounced into work.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

Ready for Monday.

I checked in with the mom about the boys and the holiday week school schedule–they’re out for the holiday at noon tomorrow, plus the grandparents are visiting–and asked what I could do to help out and be of service.

And.

Did they get my spring semester school schedule?

They had requested my school dates as soon as I had them and I sent them off last night before I could forget.

Yes.

The mom said, we got them and we wanted to extend your contract out from January through the end of May, we’ll need to check in at that point, as our summer plans are up in the air, but we also wanted to let you know we’re giving you a raise on January first.

A raise!

What?!

$1.50 more an hour.

I was floored.

It was a totally unexpected conversation and such a gift to be acknowledged.

So grateful.

I also conferred with the dad that I would help out extra on December 4th–the mom’s birthday, and I would work a night shift for them as well so they could go out for a birthday dinner.

I happily said yes.

I don’t mind working the extra hours, a few extra dollars for France.

A few more Euro in the pot.

Which I can use.

Since.

Heh.

I’m buying tickets to the ballet.

!

My friend from my cohort texted me this afternoon at work and asked if I would be interested in either going to an opera or the ballet at the Garnier Opera House.

It houses the Opera National de Paris and the ballet.

I shall be seeing La Bayadere, the last ballet by Rudolf Nureyev.

I am over the moon.

And I’m going to be broke, because I said, fuck it, you only live once and when I chatted with my friend about booking the tickets she said you want the decent ones or the really good seats?

I said give me the good ones.

So depending on what she books I’ll be reimbursing her around 300 Euro, or whatever that translates to in American dollars.

But fuck it.

I don’t care.

I’m going to the ballet.

In Paris.

At the opera house.

At Christmas.

I will be there with people I adore.

And.

“And you will get to dress up like a princess!” My darling Parisian friend texted me back.

Oh my God.

What the hell am I going to wear.

As though.

Oh my God.

I need me a dress for the ballet.

Actually.

I have a dress.

I have a really pretty black dress that I ordered on ModCloth a while ago coming.  I had to return it for a different size, but it should be here in time for the trip.

I may need new heels if I choose that one.

Or.

I will wear the holiday dress I bought last year for my ex’s holiday party.

Who relayed to me tonight in a text that he was sorry he had not said good bye to me, he needed to bounce out.

“Seeing you was kind of weird.”

Then.

“The only discomfort I felt was still being attracted to you.”

“You looked great.”

Why thank you sir.

That was nice to hear, after the fact.

It had been a little awkward to see him.

But.

We said hello.

We hugged.

I hadn’t expected to see him tonight, but there he was and it was good.

No drama.

No fuss.

That tiny bit of awkwardness and then, gone.

Magic Monday indeed.

What a way to start the week.

I wonder what is going to happen next.

I don’t doubt that it will be spectacular.

I still have a pricking in my thumbs.

And tickets to the ballet.

In Paris.

 

I’m Free

I was drifting down towards the sea on Lincoln Ave after just by passing a long line of cars on Chain of Lakes, on my bicycle, happy, happy, free.

I’m free.

I smiled so big I think I could have broken my smile muscles.

But no fear.

They still work.

I’m smiling now.

I could also entitle this blog “I Don’t Care.”

“So how do you feel about that,” he asked me over roasted herb chicken at Firewood Cafe, “about…”

I interrupted without thought, “I don’t care.”

I smiled.

I really don’t.

We were talking about the few dates I went on last week and how that was and what I was thinking about it and it just popped out.

I don’t care.

Oh my god what a relief.

I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t care if I have a date or not this next week, I’m happy.

I’m doing so well in my life right now.

Things just seem so smooth that I could care less whether or not I’m getting asked out or asking out anyone.

In fact, I’m sort of bored with it.

The asking out thing.

I mean, I am so grateful I did all that work and worked some more around my ideal, my sexual ideal, which is just a version of myself that I am striving for, I don’t expect him to come in on a white charger to save my ass.

I already saved it.

I didn’t have some wild and crazy Sunday, it was sunny, I went grocery shopping, I rode my bicycle along Great Highway and saw the ocean, I did some laundry, I met with a lady bug and talked about amending behaviors and did some amending myself.

With no thought as to the results.

I don’t care.

I took the action.

That’s where it’s at, the action.

That’s where the faith comes in.

I believe in myself and I take action to care for myself and when I looked around my sweet little studio, with my new antlers hanging on the wall (on a back board of wood in the shape of a heart), my fresh made bed, my jackalopes perched in their corners, my bunnies all arrayed in their spots, I knew that there was nothing I needed.

I have it all.

I don’t know how long this feeling will last.

This too shall pass, the good and the bad, it all passes, but the serenity in the face of the ups and downs and the passing and going hither and yon, I don’t think that is going to pass.

As long as I continue to take the actions indicated and not rest on my laurels.

When I was riding my bicycle to the Castro to meet with my three o’clock sit down and do the deal, I was reminded, a scent memory, a visual reminder, of a day in my childhood with the bright sun shining down and the carnival or circus or fair I was at with my mom and dad and grandmother.

I remember the palm trees shaking against the blue sky and the little rubber ducks that went by on a stream of water and the small, bright, balloons on the peg board, I remember holding a hand, my grandmother’s or my mothers.

I remember strings of lights over head, but they weren’t lit yet, it was still sunny, I remember the feel of asphalt under my feet and the white paint that felt just a touch tacky as if the paint was still wet.

I was in a cotton dress.

Violet or soft purple, I can’t quite see it, it flits at the edge of the memory.

I remember walking through stalls, as though at a farmer’s market, so perhaps it was the state fair, I don’t know.

But the memory washed over and my heart opened and I grinned happy to know that my life is so full and rich and wonderful.

I have a lot of memories that I don’t remember from my childhood.

That is a side effect of trauma.

I went through a lot of it.

I don’t remember it.

Thank you God.

Instead, I remember the smell of popcorn on the wind and my grandmother buying me a small plastic bird that she stopped to fill with water and when I blew on the stem it bubbled and spit a little then trilled a warbling song of childhood.

A memory of laughter caught in the plastic throat of a toy bird.

I remember my grandmother giving me a glass of coconut milk from the white paper pint carton in the refrigerator.

How sweet it was and the pulp that squashed between my teeth.

“You’re golden, like someone from Polynesia,” he said to me on Friday.

I laughed, “I’m half Puerto Rican and Polynesian, as a matter of fact.”

No wonder I love dousing myself in coconut butter lotion and hair conditioner.

I just did.

I climbed out of the shower after my day of bicycle riding and grocery shopping, of cooking (Chicken and shrimp with ginger and garlic, onions, green beans, carrots, broccoli, pea pods, cabbage, and brown rice–throw some Braggs Amino’s on that and it’s a party) and I heard Regina Spektor on my stereo and I thought.

I really am free.

Free to do what I want.

Free to be the woman I want to be.

Free to wear funky eyewear and a flower in my hair.

Free to remember the good parts and not be ashamed of the hard things and the growth experiences I went through to get here.

It’s all a gift, folks.

This life, this love.

This light.

This sunshine.

So much love.

So much freedom.

“I don’t care,” I smiled, then I laughed, I laughed so hard I almost cried, a tear slid out from behind my fabulous eyewear and I took off my glasses and wiped it off the top of my cheek.

“It’s amazing!”

“Girl, you’ve done the work,” he closed the book and held out his hands to me.

We held hands and said some words and breathed and the world breathed right along with us.

I’m free.

Sings so soft as if she’ll break.

Laugh so loud.

Because I know that there’s nothing wrong.

For on this day I’ve learned to fly.

Death by Machete

And other adventures in bicycling.

It was a bit of a shit show out there tonight as I was heading in towards the Mission from the Outer Sunset and the calm environs thereof.

Well.

Not really calm.

Hardly, Strictly Bluegrass was all weekend and this morning it was shockingly loud.

I thought at one point that I was hearing Tom Waits and I realized it was just so loud, distorted, and warped from traveling through the last bit of trees to my ears, that it sounded like a loud, belligerent, drunken Tom Waits performance this morning in my house as I was writing.

I was amused.

And I was not going anywhere near it.

Yes.

I had a tiny touch of FOMO.

Fear of missing out.

However.

I also wanted to have a relaxing day and I had some projects and plans that needed attending to, its honestly much more important to me to have my food prepped and ready to go for the week then to battle out the drunken pot soaked crowds at the festival.

San Francisco does like a good festival.

Or street fair.

Castro Street Fair was also today and it seemed that the benevolent weather was going to charm its way into San Franciscan legend with the warm sunny sunshine.

Although.

Should one stand still enough.

Or.

Should one be a long time San Franciscan resident.

One knew.

Or at least I knew.

The fog was coming.

I could feel it on my skin as I head out to do some of my grocery shopping today.  I still get quite a little thrill that my bicycle commute to get groceries happens to be along Great Highway, right along the Pacific Ocean.

The beach was packed.

I hadn’t plans to attend to anything at the beach either.

Again, too many people.

But, so pretty to look at and as I said, really a scenic little route to do my errands.

The pleasure of living in San Francisco struck home again and again today and over this past weekend as well.  I am really lucky that I get to live here.  I work hard and my life is fairly simple and the trade-off is that I live in this gorgeous jewel of a city.

It’s not the same city I moved to twelve years ago, but then again, I never thought it should be.  I actually like a lot of the changes I have seen in the city since I have moved here.

Some things not so much, I think MUNI fares are too high and rents are totally ridiculous, but I have the option to live elsewhere and I don’t so I don’t reserve the right to bitch about the city.

It is what it is and I am just grateful to still get to be a part of it.

Even, when I almost get hacked to bits by a machete on my bicycle.

The bicycle commute up Lincoln was a little crazy.

When I normally ride, in the morning, I don’t have to be too concerned about the traffic being intoxicated, I mean for the most part, there have been a few times when I thought some one was out of their skull, but really commuter traffic is what I am used to and it can be uncomfortable, but there’s usually not a lot of foot traffic or pedestrians.

Not so today with the last day of the festival happening in the park.

Folks on foot galore.

Moms and dads and strollers full of kids.

Skateboarders.

Dirty hippy kids with dogs.

Man with machete.

I saw him popping around in between cars at 20th and Irving and I couldn’t quite see what was happening, but there was a large machete be wielded, a lot of lank brown hair in dudes eyes and a general look of not being entirely present to the world that made me extraordinarily cautious as I moved up the block.

It was a baby coconut stand that dude had put up on the corner of  20th and Irving by the pedestrian cross walk.

The light changed and dude walked out into traffic swinging his machete, picking up a coconut at the same time to hack into pieces.  Except he wasn’t paying attention to the traffic, and all this hair was in his eyes and god damn that’s a big knife.

The thought passed in my head.

“That would be a funny way to die.”

Uh.

No fucking thank you.

“BICYCLEBICYCLEBICYCLEBICYCLE!”

I hollered out.

I couldn’t swerve much to the left, there was traffic right next to me proceeding into the intersection.

He saw me at the last-minute and dropped his knife down.

“Thanks!”

I called out, my heart in my mouth and then I just laughed.

Only in San Francisco.

I made my way up Lincoln and then I actually took Oak Street all the way down to the Lower Haight.  I refused to go on the bike path through the Pan Handle.  There was a huge back log of bicycles waiting for the light to change at Stanyan and Oak and I decided to flit through on the road instead of the bike path.

Which was a veritable mess of bicycles, dogs, strollers, old people out for their after dinner constitutional, bikes coming and going both ways, joggers, and roller bladers.

I felt safer on Oak Street with the traffic zipping past then I would have on the bike path.

Then as the dusk was turning gloamy and purpled I spun through Church and Castro Street then dropped down to 17th hit the bicycle lane onward to the Mission and down to 24th and Florida Street.

At one point I was on 22nd and Alabama and I saw the old Bodega I used to buy six packs of Sierra Nevada from and it’s been renovated into an upscale craft beer and wine store.

I chuckled.

I avoided a few doors on cars popping open and made it to my destination.

A good hour of getting the deal and then a hop back on my bicycle and the ride in reverse.

Except this time.

I took the park and the fog was here and it was a carnival of breakdown happening from the festival as the last drunken dregs meandered out of the park.

I zipped a long.

The fog rich on my face, warm, wet, misty, thick with love and sea salt goodness.

My God I love San Francisco, I thought as I rounded the last turn on Lincoln at 46th Avenue and floated through the mist towards my little home.

Machete wielding madmen and all.