Posts Tagged ‘restraint of pen and tongue’

What Would You Buy

January 8, 2019

With one dollar?

He asked me to write it down on the note card.

Then he asked what would I buy if I won $10, then $100.

Then $1,000.00

And $1,000,000.00

And also.


My friend had talked me into buying a couple of lottery tickets right before New Years, he always does around New Years and at first I balked.

“You’re one of those people,” my friend told me, we were just leaving Reno.  She had been working at a casino in Wisconsin and was driving cross-country with me to help me move to San Francisco from Madison.

“What do you mean?  I’m one of ‘those’ people,” I asked, but you know in my head I think I sort of knew.

“You’re one of those people that they warn us about at the casino,” she finished.

“Really?  Come on, how can you tell after twenty minutes of me playing slots?”  I asked skeptical, but as I mentioned, perhaps there was a little inkling of knowing what she meant.

She broke it down and yup, I pretty much qualified as one of those people.

I still do.

Which is why I’m pretty careful about not gambling, playing the lottery, buying scratcher cards, going to Reno or Vegas for a fun weekend of playing slots.


Something inside gets a little wacky.

Gambling can easily become an addiction and I found out later in life that my mom had a gambling addiction in addition to a few other things.

Some things run in the blood.

So when my friend was like, hey just buy a lotto ticket, its tradition, I balked at first.


He explained himself and I thought, ok, maybe.

I bought two.

I didn’t win.

But for a day or two occasionally I would think about what I would do if I did win.

Pay off my student loans.

And my best friend’s student loans and probably a few friends in my Masters degree cohort too.

I would definitely quit working, as a nanny, I’d still work as a therapist, I think its important to give back and I’m a good therapist, and I think that having something constructive to do is important.

I would travel a ton.

I would go to Paris and take the Belmond Simplon-Orient Express from Paris to Venice.

And I would upgrade to the suite, which is 3,500 Euro for one way.

God it’s a pretty train, all art deco and fancy and stuff.

Then Venice.

Which I have always wanted to go to and have not made it there yet.

I would get skin reduction surgery for the excess skin I have from my weight loss.

I would buy some pretty clothes.

I would buy a flat in Paris.

I would buy a house in San Francisco.

I would buy a house in San Francisco.

I’m going to buy a house in San Francisco.

I have been writing an affirmation now for a few years every morning in my writing that goes something like this, “I own my own home in San Francisco.”

It really has seemed a bit of a pipe dream, even though I had someone tell me to look them up when I entered my Master’s program when I was ready to buy a house.

She was assuming I would eventually come into a decent amount of salary becoming a therapist.

I’m not quite there, but I am beginning to taste the reality of it.

I actually think I can buy a house.

I really do.

Even here.

In the most expensive market in the United States.

This feeling is pretty new to me, only having happened in the last 24 hours.

Yesterday I had  a huge resentment surface around my current landlord.

There is a gigantic water leak in my hallway entry, a leak that was not just drip, dripping, but literally soaking the hallway to my studio.


There is not an actual leak in my studio, it’s dry, but the hallway from the entry door to the studio is sopping wet and my landlord happens to be a contractor, I was aghast when it happened a couple of weeks ago and even more so yesterday and the day before.

I got angry about it.

It’s pretty obvious that he’s not doing a thing about it and it’s rather disgusting to walk through.

That and I’m pretty sure, though I haven’t quite figured out what the correct amount is, that he’s overcharging me utilities.

I made a call to the Tenant’s Union last night to go over a few things–like I don’t have a heater in the studio, which I found out was illegal, and it’s been super cold.  I bought out-of-pocket a space heater, but it doesn’t seem much of a solution and apparently my using it is blowing up the utility bill.

Something smacks weird in all this and add-on to a few drunken loud parties, pot smoke in the garage leaking into my bathroom, and some domestic fights that I have heard and I had pretty much made the decision yesterday that I was going to honor my lease but after it was up, get the hell out.

It’s just not quite the right fit.

It’s better than what I had and I will be honest I looked past one red flag that I probably shouldn’t have.

I did some inventory around it and discussed it in detail last night before doing the deal up in the Castro.

One thing that came out is that I have been practicing faith around my finances instead of fear, I have for a few weeks now.

The buy out monies that I pre-paid the first six months of rent will run out in February and I will have to pay rent out of my pocket and I’ve been concerned.


It is $1,000 more than what I was paying.

So I have been doing contrary actions.

Tipping more when I get a coffee or going out to eat, and I’m a good tipper (once service industry, and I did it for two decades, always service industry), giving a little more when asked, paying my bills early, making a car payment when one isn’t yet due, etc.

Believing that I will have enough and acting as thought there is more money coming in.

Yeah, I was miffed about the utility bill and my landlord saying I owed more, I mean, dude, you owe me a heater in my unit, you should pay the fucking bill, is what I wanted to say, but I also did restraint of tongue and pen and text and figured it would be much better to talk with the Tenant’s Union before I talk with my landlord.

I just paid the bill, wrote a check, and I also said, I’m still going to use the space heater.

The studio is god damn cold.

It’s winter.

It’s been a cold winter for San Francisco and the unit is not insulated, so even when it warms up it doesn’t hold it for very long.


After I got my anger out and had a good talk and then listened to a good talk, I said I was going to have the faith that I didn’t have to actually look for a shitty place, I will be able to afford something better.

Then my person said, “why don’t you just buy a house?”

I was like, Jesus, you’re right!

I am going to buy a house.

The lottery ticket, like I said didn’t yield a win, but it did put the desire to be a homeowner square in my face and I have thought for a long time that I might be crazy, but somehow I was going to end up owning a house in SF.

San Francisco has a Below Market Housing lotto for new homes that are built to accommodate those in the city that can’t afford to buy market rate houses.

I have to attend six hours of workshops and do a 1 on 1 counseling session before I can enter the lottery, but once that’s done, I can apply to every listing that goes up.

Guess who signed up for their first workshop last night?


That’s right.

And I have this feeling.

I really do.

I am going to buy a house.

And it’s not that far away.

I can feel it.




May 3, 2016


I hollered out loud scootering down Lincoln Avenue like a maniac.

I have no idea if any one heard me, but I am laughing out loud thinking about it.

I had previous to that moment been a little in my head.

I was feeling small and sad.

I texted a lot of people right as the day was ending.

I had an unexpected thing happen and it threw me for a loop and I found myself in a quandary trying to decide how to proceed.


There’s a start.


Do the next thing in front of you.

I have two small boys in a bath tub, attend to that, wash the hair, condition it–it was not suppose to be a bath night with hair washing but how the 3 year old got cheese dip in his hair, well, it’s a long story, suffice to say, hair washing happened.


God I love these little boys.

Even when they drive me bats.

It took me a good fifteen minutes to get the little guy into the bath, he’s definitely going through a bit of a rebellious phase, and he did not want a bath.


And of course once I managed to get him in the bath he did not want to get out.

So often that child could be me.

But, but, but, I’m all focused on this thing here and I want this thing here and it’s not good for me, but so what, let me get all engaged with what I think is right and you’re wrong and fuck me.

I’m an emotional three year old.


I do have some tools and mama opened up the tool box and took them out.

I prayed.

I texted my people.

I got some fantastic suggestions.

I couldn’t really use the phone, mom and dad were down stairs and I was not inclined to have the conversation be overheard.

I never am.

I’m either on camera or the monitor and I would rather just keep it discrete.

I can text at work and that feels ok, as long as I am paying attention to what is going on with my little guys.

That being said.

I practiced some restraint and I am grateful for it.

So grateful.

I am also grateful to know that I have choices and though, yes, for a little while I did feel small, sad, and though my heart hurt, it didn’t hurt for long.

I had a bit of conversation in my head about how to respond.

No response is a response, Martines.


No, is a complete answer.

And this nice little tidbit, I don’t owe anyone a reason or a response.

I can choose to not engage.

I can choose happy.

I can choose light.

I can choose joy.

I can choose to get up early on a Monday and go to yoga and work so hard that my arms are literally shaking, I mean, I am holding the pose, but I can see the muscles in my arm twitching and vibrating from the strain of holding the pose.

That was a first for me.

My arms had quite a bit more of a work out than I was expecting.

But it did lead to an enormous release of energy and I was able to turn my heart up to the ceiling in a certain pose and suddenly.

Light and happy.

I saw a crown.

I saw a bunch of daisies.

I felt a wash of joy.

I felt dipped in happy.

It was a pretty swell feeling leaving the studio this morning, climbing into a super hot shower after, putting on my favorite Big Mac vintage overalls and zooming out the door and off to work.

Just a little early so I could throw some gas in my scooter and also get to the post office before I went into work to send off my mom’s Mother’s Day package.

It felt good to do that.

Get my mom’s gift into the post.

I’ll be in school all weekend, though I am sure I will find a minute to reach out and call, I wanted to make sure that I had the package in the mail before the week got a head of me.

I showed up.

I got present for work.

The family wasn’t there.

The boys in school.

The parents out.

It was really sweet and nice to have the house to myself for the first hour of work.

I kicked through most of what I needed to do before the mom came back, cleared with me the day and what to do for dinner, talked about menu planning for the week, and also got my doctor’s appointment approved for next Friday.

I had a nice little Monday afternoon reunion with the boys when they got home from school and did a lot of reading with them before heading out the door to gather a few things from the market, the cleaners, and Lucca Ravioli.

I also found a bird’s nest.

It was so beautiful and small.

It was in the middle of the sidewalk, soft grasses and small twigs, tiny little white pin feathers all interwoven.

I took some photos, gave it to the oldest boy and enjoyed the small gift of beauty that I was given.

So many small gifts of beauty.

Perspective being one of them.

“Of course you feel sad,” he said via text.

“Have your feelings.”

Oh yeah.

That’s right.

I get to have feelings and they will be fleeting.

I can be sad.

I can feel small.


Then I can let go of those feelings and reach for others.

Which is why I was hollering “I choose happy, I choose light!” at the top of my lungs on Lincoln Avenue as I was riding my scooter home.

I choose to not engage in a story or make a drama.

I choose to be happy.

I choose to be an artist and joyful and silly.


“Are you really 43?” He asked me as we leaned up against The Addams Family pinball game at Free Gold Watch.

“You do not act 43.”

“I really am,” I said.

Forty fucking three.

And astounded with happy, joyous,




All the fucking time.




January 9, 2016

But no cigar.


No reader.

I should say.



Anything I can do about it?




Practice acceptance, patience, tolerance, kindliness, and love.


I did my best.

I was nice to the woman on the phone and I could tell that I was not the only impatient student wondering where the fuck their reader was and why was it not already ready and don’t you know how important I am and how valuable my time is?



I didn’t.

I just laughed.

And I got grateful that I once again, called before I took action.

One of my readers is actually supposed to be done tonight, as of 10p.m., that was the report from the woman I spoke to.

The other?

Early next week.

I was about to say, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” but I restrained.


Restraint of pen and tongue (and occasionally e-mail) how you save me all the time.

I laughed instead, was sympathetic to the woman on the phone, said, I might come down tomorrow and grab one of the readers.

Or not.

I’m indecisive,to tell you the truth.

My time is valuable and it feels like a waste to go down to that neighborhood twice to pick up readers.

Especially since I have been down once already.

I have been doing the reading online, which is not preferable, not at all, I’m such a better reader when it’s paper and in front of me and I can underline and highlight and stick post-it notes to things and star things, and yeah, hard to do that online.

I do spend considerably more screen time on my computer than I ever thought I would, but I am not to the point where I feel comfortable doing that much reading on it and I’m certainly not the type of person who takes notes on it during class.


I see to many of my classmates not paying attention in class, on their laptops or phones or whatever device they have that they are taking notes on and it’s a text or it’s facecrack or social media or youtube and I find it distracting, and I’m not even doing it.

I can’t imagine how I would not succumb to the lure of being online.

Sit at my desk, typing happily away, taking “notes” when in actuality I’m surfing the web.


I just have a notebook and a lot of pens.

I suppose I am a little old fashioned.

But that’s just how it works for me.


To go downtown tomorrow and get the one reader that is available or wait until next week and get both the readers I need.

My time is precious so I’ll probably wait until they both are available and focus on being patient and continuing to read what I can online.

I also have received three of my text books for this next semester of classes.

I will be spending some time looking over my syllabi and seeing what I can read for the class with the texts, the syllabus wasn’t posted the last time I checked, but I heard a rumor that it was up.

I haven’t gone to my files to look at it yet.

I have gotten lots of e-mails and updates and this, that, the other in regards to the upcoming semester.

All sorts of fun stuff, from here’s more to read, to hey, guess what, even though the semester is starting next week, you don’t get your financial aid until February 10th!


I might re-think my hair geographic.

Although I think I can pull it off.

January does have five weeks in it, that’s an extra pay period.

I shall see.

I don’t want to cancel and when I did my spending plan I had not included the monies that I was expecting to receive from financial aid disbursement, although it was definitely in the back of my head.

I am not going to fret.

There really is nothing to fret about.

I’ll have the cash.


I won’t.

If I don’t do my hair this month, I will next.


I believe it’s there.

I’ll just be clever and re-locating money from one category to another in my spending plan.

The nice thing, that, knowing, to the penny, how much I spend on things helps me to know what kind of money I actually have to spend.

If I want something that is more than the amount budgeted in that category, I can relegate funds from another area.

My overhead is pretty low and I’m creative.

I have abundance and I am well aware of it.

The fact that I have clean, somewhat dry clothes (it started to rain on my way home) on my back, a sweet, clean, well lit, cozy home to come home and dry off in, food in my fridge, a phone that works, a scooter in front of the house, a bicycle in the garage, I have so much.

I am super grateful.

I have enough.

I am enough.

It’s awesome.

Sort of like the dinner I had tonight at work.

Swordfish sashimi; kimchi, black salt cod, chicken yakatori, and trumpet mushroom yakatori.


I went with the family to Rintaro on Folsom at 15th.

So tasty.

Plus lots of soba tea.

The family took me out for a late birthday dinner, which was very sweet of them to do.

And it’s nice to be so well thought of and so cherished and taken care of at my job.

I suppose because I cherish and take care 0f them.

It’s a two way street of lovely reciprocity.


Life is good.

Even when I’m not getting it when I want it, my readers, or the weather dumps some rain, on my bicycle parade, I am so loved and taken care of, I can’t really fathom complaining about a thing.

I am.



Lucky girl.

It’s Starting to Look A Lot Like Graduate School

July 22, 2015

Despite the curt, not too pleasant, and dare I say, preachy e-mail I received today from the financial aid department in regards to the inquiry I sent out yesterday.

I got your point lady.

You could perhaps not be so rude.

But then, what is that?

Me, being the director.

Me, wanting things my way.

Me, me, me.

It’s all about me.

How funny that I am going to get a Masters in Psychology so that I can become an MFT and help others.

Or not funny.

The only way through, I feel, so often, is by helping others.

I popped a resentment when I read the e-mail which basically set me straight with no shortness of sharpness, again, I remind myself, no need to shoot the messenger, restraint of pen and tongue and e-mail.

I restrained myself.

Instead I did a quick spot check inventory and made some calls and when I heard myself checking in with a friend over the phone while I was out with the boys at the park kicking around a bunch of soccer balls on the courts at Mission Playground, I heard it.

I was whining.

It wasn’t blatant, but I could hear it in the playback of the conversation, we were cut off and I’m actually rather glad I didn’t continue to hold my friend hostage to my whiny pants.

I got right with God instead.

I did the rest of the work and I called a bunch of ladies and asked how they were doing and I listened and, why yes, my perspective changed.

How very nice it is.

To take contrary action.

That the solution is not focusing on my problem, but helping someone else.


I do have to ask for help too, it seems, despite wanting desperately to not have to rely on others, I do have to get help.

And apparently I have to get professional help.


I sort of recalled that being a requirement of the course, and of course, it makes sense, doesn’t it?

If I want to be a good therapist, I should go to therapy.

I have to accrue 50 sessions of therapy.

I am not cognizant if I have to do this on my own dime or if it’s part of the tuition package.

It is, however, a requirement.

I found the document when I was printing out my syllabi for school today on the printer at work.

I joked with my employer that I may have to forgo the extra money for the hour of overtime I have worked this week to pay for the paper.



It was a relief to have made some forward movement.

I can see that I need to continue to take further action, there’s always going to be an action to take, just the ordering of the books, getting the syllabi, the interaction with the financial aid department, the humbling of myself to ask for more help, the acknowledgement of the lack in my upbringing when it comes to things of this nature.


I’ve been in school already and it’s not even started.

I’ve learned a shocking amount about myself, my fears, my desires, my hopes and how to continually let go of shame and reach out when help is offered and accept it gratefully.

Not always gracefully.

But gratefully, yes.

I, of course, did not print out all of the syllabi, I realized later as I sat in The Church Street Cafe before heading over to Our Lady of Safeway at 7:15p.m.

I had missed two of them.

However, the printing of them and seeing them in front of me and opening up my laptop, I took it to work today, was all the action that I needed to get started.

I booted up Amazon and I started plugging in the books in the search engine.

I bought all used.

I bought 7 total.



Not too bad.

I paid it out of my own pocket instead of stressing about getting down to the financial aid office and asking for a book voucher to buy them.

I still need to acquire the readers for all my courses.

Every course has an additional reader included in the materials.

I am going to head down to Copy Central on Saturday and get the class readers and get going on the reading.

I also forwarded the Master Promissory note signature and paperwork to the financial aid department, nicely, oh so nicely worded that e-mail was, burn ’em with kindness.

I suspect one day I’m going to go into the financial aid office and have myself a good chuckle when I meet the woman I’ve been interacting with the last couple of days.

I am certain she is harmless and frankly I cannot imagine a more thankless job than being an administrative assistant in a financial aid office at a college.

I am certainly no the only loony student who has cornered her on the phone or via e-mail I am sure.

I can’t think of a worse job, maybe meter maid.


Things they move a pace and it’s nice to see it coming together.

And I may still get to go camping next week.

I had thought I would be leaving for the Grand Canyon on a long road trip on Saturday, but as it turns out, the family I work for had a change of plans and won’t be leaving for their vacation to Lake Tahoe until Tuesday.

My friend asked if I could play hooky on Friday.

God, don’t I wish.

I can’t call in sick though, or ask for a private day off.

I haven’t any more sick days and my vacation days are all lined up.

One week for the retreat for school.

One week for the “retreat” out in the desert in the High Black Rock Desert.

It’s a spiritual event.



It is.


Instead of viewing the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, I’ll be visiting Mission and 2nd Street to pick up my course readers and getting a jump on the reading.

Fingers crossed all my books for the courses come in by the retreat.

I realized that because I choose regular shipping I’m going to be cutting it close.


I’m ok.

The books are ordered, the course readers exist and I know where to get them–thank God the copy store is open on the weekend, and I have an idea of what action to do next.

I’m going to school, yo.

This is really happening.

I’ll probably keep saying that until I’m in my second semester, just FYI.


Hell Hath No Fury

May 27, 2015

Like a woman scorned.

And don’t I know it.

I had lots of things to  say tonight, lots of words, lots of engaging things that would lead me to make an amends to a certain person at some point.

What’s the point?

Self-righteous anger does not serve me.

Nor does taking anyone else’s inventory.

It’s always myself I have to look at, what’s might part?

I was a big old Charlie Brown.

I went for the Lucy, the ball got swiped, and I’m assed out looking at the sky.


Didn’t I just go through this?

What the fuck?


I responded.

I started back down that road again, I did.

No one else compelled me to revisit it.

I was riding my bicycle home through the gloaming, the park darkening quickly, the few joggers out with their headlamps on, a handful of hardcore frisbee golf kids hanging out around the first tee on the disc golf course, but mostly, just me, the wind, the chill, the thoughts in my head, and the sky above.

I was thinking about how I am the better person and how and what and when and this and that.

And whoa.

Slow down.

There is not a better person, there is his experience, and there is my experience and I have come out of the experience a better woman.

Not better than another.

I am not the better person, I am just.

A better person.

For having had the experience.

I realized as I was riding my bicycle a number of things that did not happen around the break up and how grateful I am for that, and how hard I worked to not let any of the following happen.

First and foremost, I didn’t drink.  I didn’t pick up a drug.  I did not start smoking again.  I did not do any kind of crazy risky behaviors that would land me in the hospital, I did not have a bunch of crazy wild one night stands.


And I didn’t eat eighteen boxes of donuts and twenty-two pints of Hagen Daaz icecream.

I had all the feels.

ALL of them.

I wrote about them.

I inventoried those little fuckers.

I did work.

I discovered that I don’t like it when I lose my voice in a relationship, I don’t like being on a pedestal, I learned about how I want to date in the future, I learned about what I want from a partner I learned more about how I need to communicate with people in my life and with myself.

I deepened my spiritual life.

I renewed my vigor and commitment to doing my blog.

I tried some online dating.

I tried asking some guys out.

I tried not doing anything.

I paused when it was applicable.

I took action when it was applicable.

I resolutely turned my attention to others and their needs.

I didn’t check out.

And I am not about to act like the scorned woman now.


I have some honor.

And the still quiet voice of a friend in my head.

I was riding past Lindley Meadows thinking about what it will look like when I get married.


I went there.

Decorating out the park.

Where the lights would go.

Who I would invite.

Pure fantasy landia.


It had been supplanted with an honest share from an uncomfortable chair that after the last time I did work around a sexual ideal what I really wanted was this: a sober, non-smoking, heterosexual, monogamous, spiritual, fully self-supporting, creative, sexy, passionate, kind, healthful, man.

Who I want to be married to.

The dirty secret is out.

I don’t need children.

But I want a marriage.

Old fashioned.

Strange to think about in this day in age.

But there it was, right at the heart of it.

And then when I reviewed my ideal, knowing, without having to be told, I have achieved al those things in my life.

I am sober.

I am monogamous.

I am heterosexual.

I am creative.

I am financially self-supporting.

I am sexy.

I am passionate.

I am spiritual.

I am enough.


I am more than enough.

Worthy of love and lovable.

So when I got the text, oh I almost wrote something else there, ah, restraint of pen and tongue, restraint of pen and tongue and blog, saying, in a nutshell, meeting up is not a good idea.

I just responded.


I agree.

Deleted message from said ex.

I had already deleted his number and the Facebook and social media channels are clear.

I didn’t say anything else.

There was nothing left to say.

I did feel like, for a moment, it passed, that I had the break up twice, but with none of the fun stuff like having sex one more time or dramatic frothy emotional appeals in public.

Not that I need to have those things to know when to let go.

Baby won’t you let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Baby, won’t you let me go.

There was a bit more to the text, but it’s not my place to pick apart here.

That voice I heard.

My friend’s voice.

Drifts back into my head, just like it did on my bike ride home.

And then I breathe and recall the sun on my face, we were at the beach, sitting and watching the waves, it was just a few weeks before I started seeing the ex and my friend said with complete candor, “oh, I could never date a woman who blogs, what if something happens?  All my foibles out on the web for anyone to see, I just couldn’t do that.”

And I knew.

I can’t write about the ex.

I can only write about myself.

My process.

My feelings.

My inventory.

The feeling now is.

It is definitely over and I won’t be seeing him any time soon.  No texting, no flirty messages on Facebook, nothing.

Moving on.

Letting go.


And again.

And again.

And then.

Just a little more for good measure.

Because I want an open heart and open arms for the wonderful person who wants to be with me, the me I am, with openness and candor and authenticity.

I won’t be distracted again.

Restraint of Pen and Tongue

February 5, 2015

And text.

Text me no texts.


Two and a half weeks is not the 90 days we agreed on, and what you are feeling is none of my business.

And yeah.

I am feeling it too.

But that’s not your business either.


I got a text message from my ex and I knew better than to respond.

Did I want to respond?

You bet your happy ass I did.

Did I think about responding?


Did I respond?


I read it a few times.

I will admit that.

I woke up to an incoming text this morning at 6:54 a.m. and rolled over thinking it’s a little too early to be getting up for work, but I do have to pee.

I didn’t really want the text in my brain, but when I hopped out of bed I did see that the light was shifting and I was curious, do I just get up or do I sleep a little longer.

I saw it was too early to get up and I saw that my ex had sent me a message.


Don’t read it, don’t read it, don’t read it, go pee and go back to bed.

I knew if I read it I would spend the next hour that I could be sleeping thinking instead.

Not a restful thing to do when I am in the middle of a long work week.

I agreed to work late today and on Friday to help the family out and I realized that I need to be careful with this, they’ll take what ever extra I will give.  It’s not that I wouldn’t mind the extra cash, it’s more that I don’t want to hide out in my job, it’s an easy thing for me to do.

Check out by keeping busy.

And especially at this point in my social life, I want to keep the door open to dating.

In fact, that was what compelled me to act as if I was ok with the text that I got.


Forget you.

I’m not writing about what the text said.

Suffice to say it was sweet and inviting.

I wanted to respond.

I wanted to say how I was feeling.

I was feeling a lot.

But I was also not going to let the morning get away from me, I have a routine which saves my ass and I took care of doing that without looking at the phone until after I had a chance to address my needs.

Then I realized that the early morning text was not from him.


The text message that had awoken me from my slumber was from another person.

Somebody who I do wonder what the fuck he was doing up at that hour, but that’s another blog for another time.

My ex did send me a text, but it had been last night at.


1:54 a.m.

I had been sound asleep, the little whistle from my phone had not woke me up, I was deep in dream land.

I read both texts.

The one from my friend and the one from my ex and I realized.

I can’t respond to either one of them.

I had suspicions about the rational mind-set of my friend and I didn’t want to engage in a conversation.

I had reservations about contacting my ex.

I want to move on.

I am healing.

It’s over.

Leave me alone.

I miss you too.

So what?

I am not supposed to be with my ex or we’d still be together.

What do they say?

Oh yes, ouch, rejection is God’s protection.

In case you didn’t catch it, let me not put too fine a point on it, but, my ex broke up with me.

Oh, it was happening in my brain before he pulled the trigger and told me, it had been happening in my heart for a few weeks, and I had basically had the pre-break up break up conversation at a cafe prior to it actually happening–which was nice, I got to process through a lot of emotions before it actually went down.

But let me not beat around the bush.

He broke up with me.

I reminded myself of this.

Walk towards the open door.

Don’t bang my head on a closed one.

I reminded myself of this too.

“Be the ball Martines,” Shadrach said, “let the man who wants to be with you come to you.”

But not after I’ve already been rejected, and not because you want comfort or have feelings, not my business.



I get to have some more feelings.

I knew I would not respond even before I made the phone calls that I had to make to be accountable to myself and my recovery and make sure that I was following suggestions.

Sometimes I don’t need to be told though, I just knew to take the next action in front of me.

So with a big deep breath and a prayer on my lips, I stared up through the blooming tree on the sidewalk outside work and looked at the deep blue sky, blue like his eyes, and read the text one more time.

Then I deleted it.

Then I went and did my day.

It was uncomfortable.

I was sad.

I am sad.

But grief, even when I think it’s gone, can come back, and though sad, I am also proud of myself for knowing that this bit of pain now is less than if I had engaged.

Then I did it.

The last suggestion.

Delete his number.




I know you are right, and frankly, I want to be happy, not right.

So this afternoon as the last of the sun was crashing over the tops of Twin Peaks and settling over the sand box at the park, I pulled up his number in my contacts, looked at his picture one last time, and deleted the contact.


It’s done.

I’m free.

Softened with sadness, but not broken, just broke open more, a soldering of my heart and, there, yes, more love.

Just not from the direction I was expecting–the courage to walk through the difficult things and change, I would have done things different in the past.

My ex doesn’t need to do a thing.

I am the one who has to change.

Who gets to change.

I know how strong my inner compass is and I rely on it.

I also know that this work will pay off with great dividends as I walk towards the open door.

Towards the man who God want me to be with.

My side of the street is clean.

And I am available.

Sad, yes, for the moment.

But this too shall pass.




Let The Un-Friending Begin

January 21, 2015

I jest.

Sort of.

I had to de-friend my ex today.

When we parted ways on Friday I asked him if we should un friend on Facebook.

He said no, but he would unfollow me and I said I would do the same.

He requested 90 days no contact.

I agreed.

Four days in I get a shared post from him on Face Book.




Not allowed.

90 days.

Not 4 days.

I believe, that’s really the only fair way to be, I haven’t contacted him in regards to it and it was innocuous, but it brought a pang to see his name on my phone alerts.

I spent the morning doing some extra writing and when the time was right I made some phone calls.


Un friend the man.

Not because we can’t be friends, I suspect that given time, yes, we will.

But that it is just too soon to see anything related to him.

Why hurt?

I have been withholding from scrolling through his Face Book feed and looking at the updates, but until I un friended him there was the temptation to do just that.

I deleted our message history, I took down the photographs, I went back to single, and I practiced restraint of pen and tongue.

I have written nothing in my blog to say it was this person and he did these things, said this, or acted in this way.

I don’t want to be that person.

I have integrity and I believe he deserves privacy just as much as I do.

To that affect I also un-friended two of his close friends who friended me when we first began dating.

There is nothing to our relationship except that I was dating their friend, outside of that, not really a connection and as such I purged them too.

It felt uncomfortable to do it.

Although I knew, oh, I did, that it was the correct thing to do.

It was the thing that was going to spare me a lot of unnecessary pain.

There are no victims.

Only volunteers.

I choose today to not cause myself more grief by social media stalking.

No thank you.

I have better things to do with my time.

In fact, I have a lot of things to do with my time.

I ran the list of things down to a friend I bumped into in the Mission while I was working with the boys.

She said, maybe you got enough on your plate.



There is that.

I do have a tendency to run away from my feelings by keeping myself busy.

Then tonight at dinner, Udupi Palace, in the Mission, I rattled off what I am up to this week and my companion said the same thing, basically, slow down, be sweet to yourself when you are in pain, or sad, let the feelings come.

I have to say I am more surprised to have had the depth of emotion over the relationship.

It was short.

But it was intense and a lot of stuff came up.


I didn’t blog about much of it, as it did not seem fair to process my emotions around the relationship on my blog while in the relationship.

I relegated that writing to my journaling and morning pages.

“Have you been writing a lot of long hand?” A friend intuitively asked.


I had let down the blog a little bit, not posted as often, posted trivial’ish posts, but man, I was writing.

“It shows, your blogs are really good,” he replied when I told him I was still putting pen to paper and doing more so with that since I was not blogging as much.

And let me be fair to myself, I was still blogging.

Just not every day.

The first couple of weeks we were together my writing was sporadic and I brought that slowly back in line.

My ex also asked about that a number of times “did you blog today?”

I am a better person when I write, I suspect that it helps me process something in a manner that is spiritual in nature, a kind of cleanse, an end of day summarazation, on retiring I review my day, I look over what I did, what I could have done better, how I felt.



Perpetually human.

Suspended and open.




I miss him.

There I said it.

But I am grateful that it is done.

It was done a few weeks ago and just the process of walking through the ending with proper closure.

I am ready, though, to not miss him.

To get on with my life.

I know that means that I have to allow the feelings to happen, anger, disappointment, sadness, a bit of grief, a bit of regret, a soupcon of maudlin misery.

It’s not too bad.

It’s just a feeling.

It will pass.

The good news?

You’re going to have feelings.

The bad news?

You’re going to have feelings.

I am a pink glittery heart of crystal, all refracted and shiny and sparkling.

My inner emotional weather is not flat grey.

The two shades are pretty together, sometimes a compliment, but ultimately I have to find someone who wants all my glitter pink tattooed froth.

There is a deadly seriousness under this all.

But at my heart, in my heart, my emotional interior.

It is pink.

Satin pink.

Shimmering pink.

A rainbow of happy warm light.

Sometimes it is white light, but mostly it is soft and rosy and serene.

I am finding my way back to that.

The pink is shining through the grey clouds and as the stars wink on the horizon above the indigo sea, I know, I know emphatically, with all my romantic self that there is abundance, so much abundance for me.

I left my heart un protected.

I once thought that was a stupid thing to do.

Now I know that my heart is a big girl with big girl pants (pinstriped in silver glitter, not everything needs to be pink) and that she can take it.

Because I am not heartbroken.

Yes my heart has been broke open.

But it is not broken.

It is just bigger.

More capable of holding whatever comes for me next.

I suspect it will be more, and more and more.

(And it breaks my heart).


Big Week

July 15, 2014

Go slow.

Icing ankle.

Go slow.

Take ibuprofen.

Go slower.


Oh well.  So it goes, the going slow, has to go slow, ride the MUNI, slow your roll, bring it down, the temptation to go faster, get more in on the day, move, any kind of real movement.

Not this cautious, tepid, shuffle that has been propelling me forward through the hours of the day.

I have a nanny share everyday this week.

Which is my optimal goal always, having a consistent five-day a week share would alleviate all financial woe, not that there are that many at the moment, I am holding steady, all the help that my friends and family and anonymous folks out there (who did put that folded twenty-dollar bill in my purse?) who have helped me through the four weeks of no work has, well helped.

At this point, the help has to be coming from me.

So I find that I have to sit when I want to stand.

That I have to walk slower when I would like to stride.

That I have to take the steps one two, one two, instead of one after the other, on and off the train, up and down the stairs at work.

With the extra work, comes extra work.

Mostly in my brain, slow down kiddo, I told myself as I pushed the stroller up a slight incline in Golden Gate Park.   There is no race to be won, there is nowhere to go, and so, well, go slow.

It is almost a constant iteration of stay in the present moment.

Shameful to say that I haven’t been present much over the weekend and coming into today at work, rehashing last year’s event, trying to figure out what I needed, what the family needed, how to make it work, how to take care of myself.

Which is why I apologized today.

That was not what I was expecting and I saw that I had hurt my employer without even realizing, wrapped up in my own agenda and my own fears.

Sometimes I forget that the entire world doesn’t speak my language.


Just because we are going to the same place doesn’t mean that we won’t get there having utterly and completely different experiences.

I had no idea.

But we worked it out.

What came to light is that my employer feared a sudden departure, a change of plans, by me, that I would up and decided that nope, it’s too much and bounce.

That happened last year.

A nanny working for someone in the upper echelon’s of the organization had her nanny split without warning.

There you are in the middle of the desert with no nanny and a huge job to complete, one which you have spent all year working on, and your child care is gone.


I remember it well as I helped find a replacement.

I don’t even know if the woman who I suggested help was able to help, but I remember being aghast that someone would do that.

My employer fears this from me.

That I will split too.

Because I did something I vowed I would not do, I brought up last year and said I was not happy with how it went.

I had not brought up last year ever with her as I felt that I had made my bed and I needed to lie in it.  To then bring it up a year later, felt like an attack, and left her panicked that this year I would pull some shenanigans and leave my duties.

It turns out we both needed clarity.

I will be working a lot this year.

More than I worked last year, but I will be compensated for it.

And the knowing for me is the biggest thing.

And the knowing what my needs are and stating them at the time rather than alluding to another time.

I have more practice to do, more room to grow, more to learn.

In an odd way, I feel like I have to regain her trust, this was not something that I was even thinking about, giving the impression that I am flaky.

It shocked me that she would think that I would quit.

Whatever I am doing or not doing, this has to change.

I am a person who lives by their word and I don’t want to live a dishonorable life.

I have already done that.

Moving forward all I can do is communicate better.

I think we worked it out.

I think its going to be fine.

Losing someone’s trust because I failed to communicate my needs is a painful lesson and not just for me.

I am not going to beat myself up for this, I learned and I can only hope that I can regain that trust.

In the end, as brash as this may sound, I may never know if that’s the truth, if she’s ever really going to trust me to not bail.

I know I won’t.

How do you assuage another’s fears?

I do my best to care for myself and let the other person have their experience.

I am human and made a mistake.

My amends was to promptly apologize, then and there.  And to listen and I did.  It was uncomfortable, admitting wrong is not a comfortable thing to do, but it is the thing I needed to do and the only way to move forward with honesty and integrity.

The lines of communication are open and I will continue to work on keeping it that way.

And showing up.



My ankle is not the only thing that needs healing.

My brain does too.

Thank God I have a solution.

Show up and be of service and let go of the results.

I do the best I can and grow from here.


“I wish you a long, slow recovery,” he said with a dry chuckle.

Seems that wish has been granted.

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