Posts Tagged ‘prosperity’

So Good

January 30, 2019

To be home.

My God.

So good.

I’m super grateful I went to the intensive and I reconnected with all the folks in my PhD cohort, don’t get me wrong, but fuck, I was ready to get the heck out.

I cannot wait to sleep in my own bed again.

Five nights in a hotel in Burlingame is not exactly my cup of tea.

Granted.

I got super lucky, again!

I had no room-mate.

Although I had been assigned to share a room with another woman, I did not pay the extra $702 to have  room to myself (there were quite a few who did drop the money, but I really couldn’t see doing it) to have it to myself.  My room-mate just never showed up.

Not sure why either.

The name of the person was not someone who I knew from my cohort, which meant I would have basically been bunking with a second year person.

Which isn’t horrible, it would have just been an unknown and another layer of the experience.

Grateful as fuck that I had the room to myself and I didn’t have to pay the extra to be alone.

It was nice to sleep and do my thing at my own schedule.

It was nice to get up in the morning and shower without having to be concerned about a room mate or another’s sleep schedule, or wearing pajamas to bed, I sleep in the nude thank you very much.

It was lovely to have the quiet, especially as I have been incorporating a fifteen minute meditation into my morning the last few days.

I had a friend suggest an abundance meditation and I started doing it the first morning of the intensive.

I do a little reading, mull on the reading, then sit and meditate and after words write down what comes up.

Sometimes my brain is just too busy, but I have found pretty consistently over the past five mornings that I have felt more abundance and my flow and I have felt more generous, both with my money and with my time.

I definitely can suffer from a scarcity mentality and I feel like I have worked a long time on turning that around.

Now I want to bring more abundance in and that means conversely being more generous.

Faith.

Not fear.

I’m grateful for that.

I found myself tipping more at the intensive, offering to get things for people, more coffee when I was doing a refill for myself, asking others what they needed, buying flowers.

That experience was really sweet actually.

The second year students had their last intensive, there’s four in total for the program if you’re on the two-year track, six if you’re on the three-year track.

I am on the get it done as fast as possible track, two years of course work, instead of three years.

It means that once again I am full tilt boogie for the semester, but having survived the first semester I feel like I have a slight leg up over the person who walked in pretty blind last semester.

Granted, I still did have an anxiety attack the third day of classes going over my third class syllabus and realizing how much the professor wanted of us.

But, I managed to not die and a dear friend reminded me that I had a near panic attack last semester going over the syllabus in my third class too.

So I was right on time.

Lean into the process.

Fuck.

He was right.

And I got through it.

So it was nice yesterday to have a big chunk of time, I had my elective scheduled on Sunday, to run around a touch and get out of the hotel and go get flowers.

I had been tapped along with two other women to do the adieu ceremony for those in the program who were moving on and wouldn’t be with us next semester.

They will instead be doing the independent research that they need to do to get their dissertations done.

I drove my car into downtown Burlingame and went window shopping and walked around.

Downtown Burlingame is surreal, FYI.

It was like a big outdoor mall.

Very little that felt unique or town like, although there was a town like sort of structure to it, it felt like a big suburb.

It was nice to be out though and considering that most of my time I spend in San Francisco, it was nice to see something new, granted, not my cup of tea, but still seeing new things is good.

I won’t be going back anytime soon, unless they decide to do the next intensive in Burlingame too.

It’s hard to say, the place that the school had been doing them is under a huge remodel and may not be ready by next fall.

Anyway, I had fun window shopping and got a few new lip glosses at Sephora and then got flowers to give to the outgoing cohort.

We had a little ceremony later that night and I have to say I was super happy that I had made the suggestion to get flowers and then went and got them, it felt right and it was so sweet to see how touched the outgoing students were.

I like this kind of generosity.

I like bringing happiness to others.

I do like feeling in the flow and in abundance.

And I realize, quite well that when I am in scarcity I tend to hold too tightly to money or objects, afraid to lose what I have.

But it’s really hard to accept what is trying to be given to me if I hold on too tightly.

Giving back, being generous, even in small ways, seems to shift that for me and I found that I felt really positive and good in my interactions with my cohort and the second years moving on.

I also participated a lot more than I did last semester.

Sat longer at meals and talked more.

Participated in the talent show.

Made myself known.

Sure.

I also ducked out of going to the bars and grabbing margaritas or drinking wine with the ladies after class and went to my room and read, but I really did try to socialize a lot.

It was good.

I am proud of myself for getting through.

And I’m ready to go back to “normal” life.

Heh.

Busy life.

Full on tomorrow, work and three clients after work–I had to reschedule some of the folks that I had not been able to meet with for having been out-of-town.

Plus!

I picked up two new clients while I was at the intensive, which was really cool.

Anyway.

Grateful to be home, it’s home, and my bed is going to be a miracle, I can tell.

And I’ll do my best, I think I really do want to do that for you and for me, by writing my blogs as often as I can.

This week I’m pretty caught up on my reading and ready, but I know there will come a time when I fall off the face of the earth for a while.

Don’t worry though.

I will be back.

I promise.

I love this too much.

I really do.

Advertisements

Deleting Photographs

November 3, 2016

Listening to jazz.

Specifically Art Tatum.

The scratchy sound of the needle dragging though the vinyl is succulent and the glow in my cozy, sweet home is warm and inviting.

I’m deleting photographs in waves.

I had over 10,700 on my hard drive.

They have all been safely moved to my external drive and I’m now in the process of deleting them off my laptop.

I have to say it’s challenging.

There’s a tiny part of me that wants to not delete them, what if they didn’t transfer?

But they did.

And the photos are taking up way too much space on my laptop.

It’s been running slow, telling me constantly to delete files, disk is full.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I hear you, I’m working on it computer.

Thanks to my special help, it takes a village, it does, I was able to secure my pix and now, ha!  Now I can take more.

Well.

Not yet.

But soon.

I’m figuring January.

I’ll be flush enough to get a new camera.

I’m not sitting horribly at the moment, but I did buy a ticket to Wisconsin and a ticket to Paris this past month, just paid rent, just wrote the check from my health insurance and bought my mom her birthday present.

I’ll be sending that off tomorrow.

I love sending presents.

I love the idea of seeing someone’s face when they get something I have gotten for them.

I like to give.

I’m a giver.

Shocking.

I know.

When I have been in financial straits I tend to make things, and truth be told, I’m thinking about doing that this year.

I’m not really in straits, I’m just not as flush as I would like.

I’m doing ok and I’m not going to stress, but I was also thinking that I love cooking and it might be nice to make chicken soup for friends at school.

Last year around this time I went over to a friend’s house and cooked food for him for what probably lasted him weeks if not a month while he was going through a challenging time.

Cream of broccoli soup with cheddar cheese and bacon.

And.

Chili with sirloin and three kinds of beans.

Plus a huge pan of cornbread.

It was right around this time, I do remember, it might have actually have been Halloween, I remember there were trick or treaters going around and I used candied corn and bacon, because I roll like that, in the pan of cornbread I made.

I miss baking.

I don’t miss eating it, though I can get nostalgic for it.

But I do miss baking.

Sometimes I wish I could just get all the stuff and bake up a storm like I used to when I lived in Wisconsin.

Sugar cookies with frosting.

Brazil nut toffee.

Popcorn balls.

Fudge.

With and without nuts, but frankly, it’s so much better with nuts.

I miss making cheesecakes and pies, pumpkin pies and apple pies especially at this time of year.

I miss that feeling that, warm, soft glowing feeling that I got as I puttered around my kitchen, mixing and measuring, baking, and kneading, frosting sugar cookies.

I do.

I always get a bit nostalgic for it when I’m heading into the holidays.

The photographs I have been deleting also reminded me of that.

I’m currently in the middle of the 1,000s of photos I took when I lived in Paris.

And I have to say.

Fuck.

I’m a pretty damn good amateur photographer.

There were some really good shots.

And I loved seeing the Paris around Christmas time photographs.

The lights were so gorgeous.

Definitely different from what you see in the states, but they had an allure.

I was also so broke when I lived there, taking pictures was all I could afford to do.

Although I did splurge during the holidays.

Mostly on postage.

I sent my family and friends postcards and Christmas cards from Paris.

I found a photograph of my table, one of my favorite perches at the neighborhood cafe at that was on the same corner where I lived, Rue de Bellefond, in the 9th, Odette and Aime.

I had a glass of water.

A cafe allonge, which is basically an Americano, or a black coffee–I was already skimping on the milk, the cafe cremes were just too pricey.

My notebook.

My bag of pens.

And tons of cards and postcards and stickers from the librairie that was by Square D’Anvers that I made myself a nuisance at.

I couldn’t really afford the pens and paper there, but I would treat myself once in a while, I would buy a card or if I was feeling extravagant, a Claire Fontaine notebook, I would wander the aisles and look at everything.

I was very polite to the owners and once that got used to me and the fact that I always bought something, even if it was tiny, went along way.

Bonjour Madame.

Bonjour.

And I would wile away the time in the aisles longingly caressing the notebooks and smelling the good paper smell.

I love paper.

I love books.

I love, love, love the way they feel and look and well, Paris was a hard place for that luxury when I was living there.

When I went back last Christmas I gave myself carte blanche to buy whatever I wanted to paper wise.

I actually had a challenging time with it for a little while.

Grow up poor and in scarcity, even when there is none, even when I had fat Euro, for me, in my pocket, Euro that was not needing to go to rent or groceries, or god forbid a cafe creme, I had a hard time spending it.

For a few days I was acting as though I couldn’t part with them.

I actually forced myself the first time to buy a notebook at a papeterie my first day there.

Yes, there are paper stores there.

Exclusively paper and pens and auto collants.

STICKERS.

God I love me some stickers.

Shut up.

I did get past it and I did allow a few splurges.

But truth be told.

I could have let myself have more.

That’s a thing.

Letting myself have more.

Nice coffee.

Nice candles.

Nice hair products.

It’s ok to take care of myself.

I still want to give, I do love gifting, there is just something about it, but I also want to let myself have things.

Whether it is an experience, which is usually where I spend my money–traveling.

Or.

A nice pair of pants.

I deserve to have nice things.

I am lovable and worthy of love.

Lest I forget.

And the best thing about the photographs?

They remind me, gently of how far I have come.

When I moved back from Paris three years ago I was broke.

I mean.

I had ten dollars in my wallet.

I have come a long fucking way.

Let me tell you.

And I’m so grateful for the perspective.

And that I documented my experience.

The photographs have been a joy to relive.

Looking forward to making more.

Having more.

Allowing more into my life.

Happy.

Joyous.

And.

Free.

Yes.

Yes, please.

Yes, always.

To Dance

September 15, 2016

Or.

To not dance.

I got a very sweet e-mail message from a friend today regarding all things Burning Man and when the hell were we going to go out dancing?  And we need to wrangle our third mutual friend and do that damn deal.

Don’t I know it.

September is a tough month for me in regards to that.

It’s the only month in the semester that I have two full weekends of classes.

Next weekend.

Which means this weekend is going to be writing papers, doing as much reading as I can cram into my head and burrowing into a hole.

Unless I get asked on a date.

Heh.

Fuck me.

I’m pretty transparent as it goes.

I’m all about the books, unless there’s make out on the table, then I’m like, um, I can get up early next week and do that paper.

Ha.

Oh.

I do so love how my brain works.

I did, however, give myself an hour of reading today before work and I cranked out a lot of one of my classes.

I am however, loathe, seriously so, to even crack the syllabus for my Psychopathology class.

I got my DSM 5 in the mail yesterday.

Nothing says sexy like a $158 text-book.

This thing is a serious piece of work, I don’t know how much it weighs, but I’m going to say the 5 in the title refers to pounds.

Even though I know it means fifth edition.

This sucker is heavy.

I have the desk reference for taking to class and the gigantic one for working out of.

I have two whopper papers that are going to be a part of the class and the professor said we’ll basically be reading the entire DSM 5 by the end of the semester.

Yeah.

Right.

The full title in case you were wondering: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition.

Say that ten times fast.

The book is 947 pages long.

Now.

I have read books longer than this.

For pleasure, with eagerness and joy.

Not with dread and trepidation.

Also, said longer books were fiction, I wasn’t writing any papers on them and I won’t be going back to them for referencing the rest of my career.

Though to be up front I am hoping that I won’t be using the book all that much.

There is a substantial amount of controversy over the use of the book and how the medical model for psycho therapy has gotten its’ panties in a twist with insurance billings.

You have to have a diagnosis to get your health insurance to reimburse you.

Nobody wants a permanent diagnosis on their record.

I mean.

I joke about mine.

Acute clinical depression.

Acute clinical anxiety.

Severe PTSD.

Classic Adult Child of an Alcoholic.

So.

Let’s see, I’m a drug addict (in recovery, thank you very much), an alcoholic, and yes, I also have an eating disorder.

Anything else here to stare at?

Ha.

The thing is that I don’t really give a fuck what diagnosis I have, either on record or off.

The only thing that I don’t have is a criminal record, although not for lack of trying.

Ahem.

I sought professional help for the anxiety and depression and for three years I was on antidepressants.

I didn’t like being medicated and I was on the lowest dose possible.

I will also add that it saved my life.

I hadn’t had suicidal ideation until I got into recovery.

Which freaked me out.

I discovered later that I was self-medicating, first through food than alcohol and drugs.

And cigarettes.

God, did I love me some smokes.

I’m absurdly grateful for the help I got, help I didn’t even know existed and I didn’t know how to address all the things that were going on.

I couldn’t make sense of the trauma and abuse.

I didn’t know that the neglect and the upbringing I had were not not normal.

It was what it was and I was always surprised when I was told that what I experienced was not healthy, in fact, the very counter-indication of health and normalcy.

Yeah.

What’s normal though?

I suppose a body can get used to anything and my mind and body did what they did to get me through and I had no clue that those things which had helped me deal would eventually stop working.

And when they did.

Well.

It wasn’t very pretty.

But.

Thank God for the help I received.

I am beyond grateful.

I am graced.

Loved.

Taken care of.

“You are going to be of such service to so many people,” he said to me as we were driving back into the city from Sausalito.  “I mean, I just know it, you are going to help so many people.”

I hope so.

Actually.

I pretty much know so.

That sounds like ego, I know that, but I am in a special and unique position.

First that I have gone through the wringer, that I have gone through that puppy more than once, I have a great deal of experience with getting through.

And.

Not only getting through.

But.

Getting better.

Stronger.

More flexible.

More kind.

More loving.

To myself and to others.

But mostly to myself so that I could be more loving to others.

Second, I am extraordinarily resilient, which is just an offshoot of the first.

How I have not drown in all the muck and morass and the sadness and grief, I do not know.

I have hope.

Nay.

I have faith.

Faith like the sunrise rising no matter what, the disco ball spinning in the club, the music beating in my heart, the waves rocking the boat in the night, a cradle of love, God’s hand holding me a loft and strong.

I am taken care of.

So that I can take care of others.

I don’t take antidepressants any longer.

I manage my stress.

I haven’t had a panic attack in years.

Yes.

I get anxious, but I know what to do.

I have a meditation practice, a prayer practice, I am of service, I help out in my community.

Fuck.

People.

I go to yoga.

Spiritual giant, yo.

Mostly though.

I just do the work.

Take the suggestions.

Put one foot in front of the other.

And love.

Lots of love.

Lots of joy.

Lots of happy.

And free.

Yes.

To question the abundance and prosperity I have in my left would be to spit on the hand of God that has helped me through this all, made me stronger, more gracious, more bent with love.

A burden, no.

A gift, yes.

A perspective I am graced to have.

A life beyond anything I could have imagined.

One day at a fucking time.

It’s pretty awesome.

Seriously.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Done And Done

October 19, 2015

And done.

But.

Not done in.

So thankful to have had this day of working on all that is love and home and work and homework and heart work and everything that life entails and encapsulates.

I had a full day.

One that I wasn’t exactly sure how it was going to go off.

I insisted on letting myself sleep in an hour longer than I normally would.

Well.

I don’t know if insist is the right word, it felt almost like work, just lie here and let yourself go back to sleep.

The machine in my brain wanted me up and about and get on it girl, there are things to do, people to meet with, breakfast to cook, writing to be done, you have papers to write and so much reading, do you have any idea how much reading you have to do?

Not as much as I did this morning, but I get a head of myself.

I was able to combat the thoughts by acknowledging them and saying, might have been mumbled into my pillow as I turned over in my bed, my delicious, delightful, pinch me I’m so happy I get to sleep on it, bed, “thanks for sharing,” and go back to sleep.

It worked for a little while, I got another 45 minutes in.

Of course the next time I woke up, I was up and going.

And really.

I haven’t stopped since.

Although there have been reprieves and moments of down time today, moments when I look about me with such gratitude that I am overcome by what I have and the abundance, nay, the super abundance, of love in my life.

I have been all around the world and I have this home that has become such a home to me that I am in literal awe of what I have.

There is art and beauty everywhere.

The last piece finally coming together as a friend came over this morning to help me hang the Diebenkorn he gave me months ago.

When I look at that piece, the way it sings on the wall, the heralding of love, the colors replete and yes, matching, complimenting, extending around my room, I am reminded in subtle, and not so subtle ways, of the journey of the last few months.

Had someone said, you are going to cry this much, and feel this much pain, and yes, laugh this much, so much that you think you might pee your pants or vomit out sushi, or good forbid snort (all of which have happened in one degree or another) or that I might feel so much joy that I felt I was to burst, that I was going to see so much art, have access to it, get to bring it home and make my home even more my home, well, I would not have believed it.

Which is funny.

Since I have big feelings and the above sentence does not seem at all irrational to me when I re-read it.

Of course I changed.

My home becoming my unexpected crucible and I am replete with happiness, content in a way that I had not thought possible, though knew, really knew, was out there for me.

I have everything I need.

I have so much that I want, that the wanting is almost supplemental.

But I will tell you a secret.

Shhhh.

I am thinking again about a scooter.

I have been saving.

And I have not touched the financial aid disbursement that I have received for school.

I have gotten help, I won’t say that I haven’t, I have been gifted generously and taken care of and that has allowed me to throw a little more in my savings than I typically do.

I am feeling it out again, the scooter topic, as my knees also bugged me a bunch today and over the last week.

They buckled a little trying to help lift my bed out-of-the-way to hang the Diebenkorn and I found myself bursting into tears.

Although I valiantly tried to hide them, my friend looked at me in alarm and told me to sit down.

I was humbled.

My body, a token of constant humility.

I can dress her up, but sometimes I can’t get her to walk from here to there.

Anyway.

The scooter has been on my mind again and part of that, I won’t lie, is for efficiency as well.

How much more reading could I get in if I weren’t riding my bike to and from work and school?

What places I would be able to go to, doing the deal especially can be hard some days and I feel that a mode of transportation at night that is faster than my bicycle will be helpful.

I am hoping the little Buddy Italia in cream and avocado is still at Scooter Centre.

If it’s not.

It wasn’t meant to be.

If it is.

Heh.

Maybe I can get a better price on it than the one he offered me when I looked at it a few months ago.

Plus.

I am expecting a bonus at the holidays.

If I can hold off on spending the loan money and get a nice bonus, I maybe riding a scooter into the new year.

This is all speculation and pulls me away from the moment and the further acknowledgement that I need to give, to myself, really, I just want to acknowledge how much work I put into those sonnets–the ones from last nights blog.

I sent them off just before logging on here to write my blog.

I went through them three more times today and edited them, read them out loud, tightened them up, and then sat and dreamed on them while I wrote my Psychoanalytic Paper on Freud’s theories of Mourning and Melancholia.

Ayup.

And I used them in my paper.

Which was fantastic and outside the box and I was hesitant, but my friend said go for it, and when I consider how much work I did on them it didn’t feel like I was cheating to include them in my paper.  If anything, it felt like an acknowledgement to the professor of how much the Freudian work actually found its way into the sonnets as I was writing them against the back drop of analysis and dreamscapes.

I re-titled the work, tightened it up, and sent it out.

The collaborator poet has officially sent her poems out into the world for the photographer artist to use.

Part of me hopes he likes it.

The majority of me doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass.

I did a damn good job.

I love them.

They brought me joy.

I spent a lot more time with them then I thought I would, but I received so much in return, including a lot of insight that I extrapolated later in my paper when I wrote it.

That was my day: poetry, reading, writing, repeat.

Take small breaks, meet with ladybug, cook food for the week, do laundry, go with friends over the bridge to do the deal in Mill Valley, hang out, catch up with folks, then come home and finish all my Freud reading for class on Friday.

Thank God.

It’s done.

Oh.

Hahaha.

Don’t worry, I still have reading to do before Friday, but I don’t have any more papers due.

A reprieve.

I’m done for now.

Just now.

And with that.

Time to put up my feet.

Curl up in my bed.

Sip a cup of tea and look in astonishment at the prosperity and abundance in my life.

I am a very lucky girl.

I am.

So.

Very.

Very.

Lucky.

And I’m In

March 14, 2014

Yay.

The interwebs are now accessible to me in my own home.

First world problems.

I had started a blog in my MacWord application on my laptop, as I was not getting in, oh, my computer said I had access, the little doohickey at the top said I had all access, but no, I still couldn’t log into my OkStupid profile.

Just kidding.

It was a bit frustrating, then, bingo, I’m in.

Sigh.

It’s nice to be back home doing my writing, doing my blogging, doing that thing that straightens me out.

I have to do this because I realize that I need a daily reprieve from the idiocy of my thoughts, which last night launched into a litany of “you’re losing your looks and going to be alone forever”.

First off, head full of garbage, anyone who is in it with you solely for your looks is going to be really boring after oh, 30 minutes.  I don’t want someone who is in it only for how I look.

I offer a whole lot more than that.

And my looks, why, yes, they are going to fade and that’s not a bad thing, I could use a little softening, a little wearing down of the edge.

Anyway, what the blog does is help me get it out of my head and when I see it in a straight line, the thinking, the thought patterns, it helps me to break them down and see the fallacy of the thoughts.

I am not my thinking.

I am my actions.

I remind myself of this yet again and thank God that I have this outlet.

Even when no one is reading them.

My blog stats went way down again.

Why of course, it’s been sexy sexy weather in San Francisco, everyone is at the park making out.

It’s spring and it’s nice.

I saw a quartet of hipsters in the park today as I took my little girl Thursday to the playground at Alamo Square, and thought, how cute, one six-pack for four guys.

Hello.

Are you kidding me, where’s the rest?

One six-pack.

Four guys.

Does not compute.

At least for me.

They’re just normal dudes out sunning their well manicured facial hair on the hillsides of San Francisco with their Pacifico six-pack and casual air of nonchalant, what work ma?  We’re just hanging out waiting to inspire folks to buy our app.

Ah San Francisco.

You’re still home to a lot of weirdo’s, I see more than my fair share of them due to circumstances beyond my control, but they seem to be edging out further and further.

“Do you live out here?” She asked me at the cafe.

I nodded affirmatively, “46th between Judah and Irving, inlaw studio I rent from a friend.”

“I can’t afford to live anywhere else,” she said, “I’m afraid to move.”

Aren’t we all?

You got a place that has decent to tolerable rent, you are staying.

I know a lot of folks getting creative about their living situation and I just thank my lucky stars that I get to be here, now with internet, safe and sound, with the sea down the road and the city as my back drop.

I do sometimes think it would be nice to be somewhere that gets more sunshine, there’s not a lot of natural light in here, but it’s not bad and there is some and it’s not the dark little space I had when I was in Paris.

Last night I was waxing a bit nostalgic about my time in Paris, flipping through some photographs on my laptop before bed time, I ran out of reading material, I need to go to the library post-haste or to the book store, and with no internet I was browsing through the photos.

I suddenly forgot the cold, the dreary, the dark, and the wet and was romantically swept away into fantasy about when I move back.

And I might.

You never know.

But I will always, no matter what, keep a home in San Francisco.

I don’t foresee moving anytime soon, either, it was more than thought of, I could see doing some retirement time there, with a long stay visa, and no money worries.

That really is the only way I want to experience Paris again.

I mean, yeah, there’s a certain romance to the starving artist thing, but the reality of living on apples and packets of peanuts is not how I want to go again.

I can say I was a writer in Paris living on a shoe string, hopes, and dreams, and have a plethora of experience to back it up.

And now,  can see how I want to move forward into whatever incarnation of myself is next.

Frankly I would like to make some money.

I would like to not only have a scooter, but, yes, a car.

I want to take road trips–Utah, Wyoming, Montana, camping out under the stars, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, a drive up to Alaska–and one needs a car for that.

Preferably a Jeep Wrangler 4.0 Sport in Midnight Blue.

Just saying.

I am not dissatisfied with what I have at all.

I am just ready for the next move forward.

I see it all around me and despite my disdain of certain attitudes and lifestyles, I do want to partake of the abundance that is here.

I mean if the dudes in the park with their Pacifico can make it work, why the hell not I?

Then again, I have a purpose, and I know what that purpose is and I suspect that as long as I keep that close to my heart and deep in my routine, I won’t be dropped.

I shall always be taken care of.

I will always have wealth, prosperity, love.

Of self.

Of fellows.

This, my true blessing, internet or no, blog or no, money or no money, there’ s a reason for me, I have a purpose.

That’s why I blog.

Right there.

To remember that.

I have purpose.

Let Go Those Old Ideas

March 9, 2014

Let them the fuck go.

I had a list, she asked me to read them out to her.

Amazing what perspective and a little pen to paper can afford a person.

Well, this person anyway.

Old Ideas List–The Top Ten (I am sure there are others, but these were the ones that popped right out when I did the list)

1. I am not worthy of better

Better what you ask?  Better anything, better lifestyle, better job, better boyfriend (or even a boyfriend period) better clothes, better shoes, fuck, better underwear (I hate to air this one out, but this lady needs to go bra shopping, it is time), better toothbrush, better socks, better food (that one has slowly, significantly changed and I do a lot, uh, better, with that then I have ever had before).

2. I am lazy

Yeah, I know, I am.  But then again, no, no I am not.  What time did I get up this morning, on my day off? 7:39 a.m. I was awake, I was ready to go, but damn it, it’s my day off, loll about a little love, nope.  I was up and going.  By 9a.m. I had showered, made the bed, dried the hair (there’s a lot of it, it does take some time), made a homemade breakfast and fresh ground pour over coffee, written three pages long hand, read from a number of spiritual pieces of literature, and meditated.

By 9 a.m. on my day off.

Yeah, I am a lazy, lazy girl.

Yesterday I did all of that and rode my bicycle to work, 46th and Judah to 19th and Noe.  Worked a 3/4 day, left, rode my bicycle over to 850 Bryant, went to my traffic court deal, then rode back to Fell Street to the DMV, then over to 7th and Irving, did an hour-long commitment there, finally riding home back to my place, made dinner (nothing fancy, just an omelet, but still), then I blogged–even though the internet was down, I still blogged.

I do nothing all day long, I am sooo lazy.

Get you gone old idea.

3. I am a bad writer.

Nope.

Not really.

I mean, I am not the world’s best writer, but I am an ok writer, sometimes  a good writer, and once in a while, I can say I wrote something great.  I have had published authors read my work and say I am talented, I have had a professor tell me that I was the only student he ever had that had the likelihood of winning the Nemerov award (poetry award for best sonnet), there are people who read my blog that aren’t my friends, that I don’t know (consistently read too, for like years now, love you guys and thank you!), I have been thanked in person, over the phone, via text, by e-mail, for what I have written.

Folks would not continue to read if I was a bad writer.

Next.

4. I am always going to be single.

Yeah, pity pot, I am on it.  I hate this one, who cares if you are and you probably will have a boyfriend next week, so shove off old thought.

Somebody out there right now wants to date me, so who’s getting in the way of that?

Probably me and my old crusty thoughts.

5. I am always going to be poor.

Nope.

No, I am not.

I am not poor now.

Oh, I live below what I would like to, but I am not poor, I have many amenities, the least of which is a gorgeous bicycle, a great laptop (hey, I keep saying it’s about to die and it hasn’t yet), I have a wonderful camera, an Iphone (yeah, it’s a four, it’s still an Iphone), I have clothes and toiletries and nice candles.

I am not poor.

Poor people don’t have laptops or organic vanilla almond milk in the fridge.

6. I am alone.

Bahahahaha.

Such a crock.

I am not alone.

Two, no three people today told me point-blank, “I love you.”  I have wonderful, incredible, amazing friends in my life.  I am alone in the sense of the word only at this moment as I sit in my in-law writing, and even then, I am not alone.  I have a relationship with a little, big, something called God and if you don’t care for that, not my problem.

I have a spiritual connection to my world and I do not apologize for it.

Alone I am not.

7. No one loves me.

See above.

Such a bullshit, scared, cowardly old idea.  I am loved, I am lovable, I am worthy of love (yes, I hear you Stuart Smalley, we can do our affirmations in the mirror in just a minute–I forgive you and accept you–just let me finish my blog for the night).   I have so much love in my life, I can just look at all the photographs of amazing little people on my phone that I get to work with every week to prove that.

Then I can extrapolate that out to all the children I have been privileged to have in my life.  Next add in my mom and my dad and my sister and my aunts and my grandparents and uncles.  Then throw in a few best friends and some amazing mentor relationships, even toss in the lovers, the ex-boyfriends, the former employees I have gotten to work with, I mean, my life is a long list of love.

I just don’t always acknowledge it or recognize it, because I am too busy paying attention to an old idea that doesn’t serve me or my way of life.

8. I am not enough.

Not smart enough, not sexy enough, not pretty enough, not fast enough, the list could go on ad infinitum.

Such craziness.

I am not perfect enough, I am not a good enough nanny, I am not, blah, blah, blah.

Even I am tired of listening to this one.

I am enough.

There is no improvements that need to be made.

I do not have to self-improve.

I am just right.

End of story.

9. I have to figure it out.

Ugh.

This one is awful, it means that I have the ultimate responsibility to make everything work, your schedule, my schedule, potty training three different charges, juggling this that and the other to “make things work”.

What fucking things?

And who put me in charge?

And aren’t I just a bit presumptuous?

I don’t have to figure anything out.

In fact, it would be really healthy to not figure it out.

Let’s leave figure it out to someone else, okay?

10. I am not allowed success.

Says who?

Hell, just looking around the place I live I can see that I am successful.

It is my idea of success that is also the old idea–wealth, fame, accolades, notoriety–I have an amazing successful life.

I will continue to have an amazing life.

Just need to let this all go.

Daily.

One hour at a time, sometimes one minute at a time, and then, voila!

A new perspective, a space to breathe, a song catches in my ear and my heart swells, and I am loved, lauded, and held perfect, secure, and taken care of.

And awed.

Once again by this journey.

Maybe I Need to Do It

September 25, 2013

Backwards.

I just had this thought as I was scrolling through the pages of the Ocean Beach Yoga schedule.

A yoga studio that is a block away from my house.

So, let me count all the wonderful things that are within blocks of where I live.

Number 1 and the big one really, Ocean Beach, namely, uh yeah, the Pacific Ocean–three blocks away.

Number 2 a Muni line, the N-Judah–half block away.

Number 3 Golden Gate Park, two blocks away.

Number 4 a whole foods community co-op–one point five blocks away.

Number 5 and it could be six as well, Trouble Coffee and Java Beach Cafe–half block and two blocks away, respectively.

Number 7, lucky number seven? A yoga studio.

I have all my urban needs met–coffee, organic food market, train (if I am not on my bike the N-Judah is fantastically handy), and a yoga studio.

I have a lot, if not all my nature needs met–the ocean, the beach, the park.

I really have it all.

So, I am going to start acting like it.

The job interview for another nanny gig does not hurt either.

I got a referral from a friend for a friend, who happened to do graduate studies at UW Madison!

We spoke today and her family’s needs may not be a great match for my availabilities, but it pointed out to me real fast, that I won’t have a challenging time finding work.

The challenge is to not live my life as though things are not happening.

To keep my pennies to myself like some miser.

There is that idea that I was writing about last night, the why would I want more if I don’t want what I have?  But this, this is slightly different.

If I continue to hold onto the idea that I live an impoverished life and there are certain things, like yoga, I can’t afford, than I will continue to live a life of deprivation.

Instead, I can drop that idea, open myself to the obvious abundance that is surrounding me and have some faith that if I take a month’s worth of yoga classes I won’t not be able to afford rent.

A month of unlimited yoga is $130.

I can so afford that.

I absolutely can.

In fact, I am absolutely going to.

I don’t even have to start out that crazy, try a week and see if I like it.

I have some ulterior motives, as this week has shown me that I do have some qualms about my body shape and size.

Not so much my weight, just more that I could use some toning and sculpting and I would like to knock off that last bit of weight I put on before I get naked with someone.

I am guessing that will eventually happen with the Mister.

He moves slow, but I don’t believe that will be for much longer.

When his work lightens up I want to be there.

And this is more for me than for him, if it’s for him at all, which it rather isn’t.

See, he likes me, he’s attracted to me, I have evidence, he’s told me and nobody kisses someone like the way he has kissed me without being attracted to that person.

The man has braces on, not bifocals.

He can clearly see what I look like.

In fact, he’s known me for years, so he’s seen me at some pretty unhappy sizes.

What I look like is not going to be some surprise.

How I feel about myself will just be for myself and will boost my confidence, make me feel better about being a nanny, being physical fit to deal with the babies is actually a good deal of my work, my body has been sore and I could use some work.

Yoga.

Yoga.

Yoga.

And I love how a yoga body looks.

I have always wanted one.

So, why in the world should I not go and get one.

I can’t afford to deprive myself of something that will make me happy.

Plus, despite the beautiful weather, there will come a time, and it is in the not too distant future, when the rains will come.

November.

I can feel you sneaking in, the fall equinox just happened, I noticed the day today was shorter, and the rains, they do come.

Grey, wet, no sun.

Seattle, quit ya bitchin, San Francisco gets as much if not more rainfall.

I remember one year it was unusually bad and it was something like 43 or 44 days in a row of non-stop rain.

Even a light rain season, is still a rainy season.

And for a lady with clinically diagnosed depression, seasonal depression, and clinical anxiety, exercise is the only way to keep me off antidepressants.

I have been off meds now for just about two years.

I want to stay that way.

So, yoga, I think so.

I also said yes to meeting someone for tea next week Tuesday, although I said no, uh, I am busy, er, yeah.

Then I went to the bathroom, admonished myself, came back and said, “yes, of course I will be happy to have tea with you next week,” I have known her in an acquaintance kind of way for years, but now that I am in the neighborhood, well, damn it, I need to get to know the people.

It is a challenge.

Life.

Love.

Being myself, it is all a challenge.

But there are moments, like earlier, when I was sitting on the bench in the Panhandle with an 8 month old baby sleeping on my chest and a 16 1/2 month older toddler happily playing with leaves and acorns and a sand bucket.

The wind pushed my hair off my face, I could smell the invigorating smell of Eucalyptus, the sun was warm, the bite of autumn just a nibble and not a gnaw, the green of the grass, righteous.

I looked up at the trees and breathed in the smell deep and full.

I looked down at the baby and knew I was lucky and blessed to be trusted with his small self.

I looked at the toddler who was happy and busy and smiling and chatting with me and the dogs and giggling and squeaking (he has “squeakers,” they are retarded cute, making a little rubber ball squeak noise every time he walks.  I seriously want to do a Flash Dance Montage of him stomping his little feet in the shoes, I die every time I think about it) and know I am loved.

“Up, up,” he says to me and cuddles on me now.

I became his person at Burning Man, no going back now.

I looked inward and saw I was at peace, content, serene.

The taking care of me part looks a lot like  doing the opposite of what I tell myself.

“You can’t afford that!”

I can’t afford not to.

So, yoga, here I come.

Trying, one day at a little time to do it different.

If my brain tells me no you can’t.

My action will be yes, yes, you can.

 

 

Time To Look For New Work

September 24, 2013

Oh, I am still a nanny.

That apparently, is going nowhere.

However, now that the big event in the desert is done for a few months, the hours will be cut back.  Plus, I am not doing the North Oakland nannying and suddenly, in two weeks I will go down to two and a half shifts a week.

That is not going to be enough.

So, time to find some new work, or some more work, or I don’t know a lottery ticket.

I don’t buy lottery tickets, though, so that last may not be the best way to secure income.

I find myself curiously unperturbed about the money, it will come, it always does.

I do find the thought of having to meet new families a little disheartening.

Can’t they all be Burning Man people?

The mom in Cole Valley committed to keeping me despite not even needing me much past October in the capacity that we are currently doing–Monday, Tuesday 8:45a.m-5:45p.m. and Wednesday as a half day, 8:45a.m. to about 1p.m or so.

I do have a share on Mondays and Tuesdays, so they are both higher paying days.

Leaving Thursday and Friday open.

If I tell another person I know who works at Burning Man that I would like to work there, come on, I am good a stuff man, I will kick myself.

I feel like I have been obsequious.

The work with my friend at the design firm is not happening and though I am loath to open up Craigslist, that may be the next step.

That and putting it out to the Universe.

“Hey God!  Where do you want me to work?”

“Louder, I can’t hear you!”

And please, make it lucrative, ok?

Thanks.

Shit.

I don’t believe that’s how it works, but sometimes I feel at such a complete loss.

I have had a lot of folks suggest things and careers to me.

“Teacher, you are a born teacher,” my friend said to me one Sunday night.

“OH my God, you are soooo good at massage, I would hire you in a heart beat, be a masseuse, please.”

“You should manage one of those start-up thingys,” more specific with that one please.

“What about being a copy writer or editor?”

I have looked into a lot of careers and had a lot of ideas about what I should be doing.

All I can manage to come up with is that I need to make more money.

At the rate I am going I won’t have my student loans paid off until I am 60.

I think, maybe a little earlier than that.

55.

Let alone have some of the things that I would like to have in my life.

A yoga practise would be nice.

Really nice.

There’s a good studio just blocks from the house.

A scooter.

A new dress.

Paying off Barnaby the money I owe him for the plane ticket.

A floor lamp for the studio.

I am not asking  a lot.

But self-sufficiency and solvency.

I would like those things.

I have never wanted.

Not really, there have been moments where it seemed daunting, where the next job was coming from, the next bag of groceries, the next rent check.

But they have always come, or something has happened to facilitate my care.

If you don’t want what you have, why would more make it better?

I want what I have.

As I sit at this table, loaned to me by a friend, typing away on my laptop, covered in Burning Man stickers, which has been my faithful steed for writing in San Francisco and Paris, travelled with me and blogged in London and Rome, I cannot count myself as a person who is not cared for.

Really, really well.

I am content with a simple life.

My quality of life, my inner quality, is so vast and rich and abundant.

I am not lacking for anything.

I am enough.

I do want to sustain myself though and continue to care for myself and my needs.

So, yeah, more work has to come in.

It can be different, I don’t have to be a nanny, but you know the fall line, that line down a snow-covered mountain that the snowball is going to roll down, that line seems to easily fall toward being a nanny.

“You would make a great doula!”

Or what ever that thing is.

I can’t figure it out.

You have some suggestions, peep me yo.

In the meantime I just look around at my sweet home, decorated with my pictures and postcards, photographs, and drawings, and I see that I am so in the spot.

Some smooth Barry White just came on the stereo.

“Playing your game baby, just you and me.”

Yes.

This is a game, isn’t it?

It’s not about what I have in the bank, it’s where I spend it and the realization that work is not the answer.

It is what I do when I am not working, although doing a good job at my job feels, well, good, duh.

It is this, my writing, in the morning, in the evening, aint’ we got fun?

It’s in the long walks down by the beach.

Or along the Seine when I was in Paris.

It is about taking out my camera and capturing just this moment here, right now.

The work will find me.

It usually finds those willing to do it, no?

The life has to be what I focus on as well.

No more so than now.

If I have spare time to spare, I do have work full-time this week and close to full time next week, then I am obligated, to myself, not you or another, to get out there and live my life that I have been given.

Especially here, in San Francisco.

How fucking fabulous.

I get to live here.

It’s the Paris of the United States.

And if I can’t live in Paris, France.

I happily, gleefully, gratefully live in San Francisco, CA.

Which has never, not in all my years, dropped me on my ass.

 

But, a yeah, you got a job, you know, let me, uh, hear about it, like.


%d bloggers like this: