You Are Probably Writing

No.

I was in the shower.

But you don’t need to know that.

For all intents and purposes, at a certain point in my evening I do neglect all but the most urgent of phone calls and texts and I sit and I give myself this.

This forum.

This love.

This self-expression.

This tender heart of mine needs to see itself reflected back and this is where it happens.

Self-reflection and acceptance and that quiet good spot that I find in the pause between the words, when sometimes the singing of the tea-pot interrupts the words, but more often, it is the magic in that space where I find the grace to get lost in the sound of the keys, the sounds in my heart, the voices in my head stop and the singing starts.

Sometimes most literally, singing.

I do like to crank the music when I write, it’s a way of winding down and also a way of letting go of the world and succumbing to this cozy space of mine here at the edge of the world, the edge of the city, the cusp of the Pacific a soupçon away.

Funny thing though.

I rarely go back and read what happened yesterday, though there is sometimes an imprint of it on my day or about my person and I had that today coalesce in different and surprising ways.

There was the surprise text from my ex this afternoon that sprung something open.

Broke open.

Not broken.

Heart is not broken, he did not break my heart, but it broke open more and there it was this tender, kind, sweet spot, there, just there, deep in my chest and the sun broke throughout the playground as I pushed the little boy in the swing “higher, Carmen, higher,” and the sweet text broke over my face like the sun and tears prickled my eyes.

I was not upset that he reached out and I paused.

Breathed.

Looked at the sky.

Saw the imprint of leaves over the soft clouds, the blue that was trying to break through and the shift happened.

I did not feel anger or upset or hurt.

I felt tender sweet love for him.

And for myself.

I felt fondness.

I felt compassion.

I said a little hello to the Universe, reread the text, and responded.

It felt right and I felt neither manipulated into responding nor did I feel like I was opening up some can of worms.

My god.

I think this is called moving on.

I think this is about compassion, tolerance, patience, and love, oh yes love, in all its various manifestations and convolutions.

I felt stars fall on my heart and the old light lit corners of my heart that I knew were there, but did not suspect the depths therein.

I felt beautiful, and full, and loved back.

By God.

By the child in the swing.

The birds in the air.

By myself.

We had a sweet reconnection and I know that I can be his friend.

And yes, there was some pain there, but like the fingerprints of it, not the devastation of break up and change-up and moving on and the pain of rejection.

Rather.

It was like the pain of a wound that has knit and healed and was just jostled slightly, as though to remind me that I went through the experience and came out full and returned to sanity and something else.

I felt free.

Grateful.

Oh so grateful.

But deeply free.

I have peered so far inside myself and I knew I didn’t have to keep digging through it.

I worked it out.

I did not hide from it, I sat through it, I did my process, I did my cry, I did my surrender, I thought I was ok, I realized I was a “whistling in the dark” and I went through the process some more and did more of this, more writing more work, more and then continued to keep walking toward where ever it was next I had to walk to.

Or ride my bike to.

Or sit in the back yard to.

Sometimes you just have to sit in the back yard and cry when you hear a motorcycle engine roar past.

It feels amazing and sad and good and god damn, god damn, I am so glad I keep showing up for this life and doing the deal.

I get richer reserves of faith and love and compassion and growth and it is astounding.

Small progress that I don’t even know that I am making until I can stand on the other side of the park and not be worried about what anybody thinks about me because I am doing the best I can with what I got.

What I got is good.

Feels, frankly, pretty sexy.

I’m awake.

I’m alive.

And I am sexy.

I don’t have to be dressed sexy to feel sexy.

I just get to do the work, that’s what is sexy.

That’s where the real groove is.

It just means that I am being my authentic self, my real person, this strong, beautiful woman I have grown into.

I suspected all along that she was here and I had some ideas about what “she” looked like.

Nothing like this.

This, pink hair, tattooed, smart aleck, bright, graduate school bound, nanny, with a great big smile and a wide open heart is not at all who I suspected.

It’s far better.

Far sexier.

Far more tender and open and compassionate.

Far less judgmental, intolerant and fearful.

I suspect that it only gets better, deeper, more full, this experience, this sexy, loving, bright, tender, sparkling life.

The best is yet to come.

With it.

All the things.

They too, will follow.

They always have.

Thank You For Wearing Flowers In Your Hair

She said to me this evening as I was leaving the neighborhood to hit Irving Street and play defensive bicyclist trying not to die so you can find a parking spot.

“They really suit you, I can’t get away with it,” she concluded.

“Thank you,” I said and smiled.

It is San Francisco.

Here, as the song goes, of all places, I am allowed to wear flowers in my hair.

Even hot pink roses with glitter on them.

What it felt like I was being complimented on was being myself.

Whenever someone comments on a colorful outfit or a bright pattern, or an interesting hair do, flowers, sequins, feathers, anyone?

I always feel that I am being told, thank you for being you.

That by allowing myself the freedom to express my personality, I give permission to others to do so as well.

I could be reading too much into that, but that is what it feels like and I am more than happy to oblige.

I like this me.

“She gets more and more glamorous!” My grandmother told my mother recently.

My grandmother on my father’s side who is a Facebook friend.

My mother and she re-united recently, first through the post then over the phone.  That was news I wasn’t expecting.  It was also some news of my father whom I have not heard from in sometime, news that he is still up in Alaska and well, still alive.

Sometimes I feel that I won’t get to see him again, but in the wake of all the family reconnecting I have gotten to have I won’t make any sort of assumption.

There was a time that I never thought I would see my mom or my sister again, so who knows what may happen with my dad.

I would love to see him.

Even if just to hug him and say, hey, I love you, you did the best you could, and I am pretty awesome.

Just check out all the geegaws in my hair.

Ha.

Individuality, despite my wanting to fit in and be accepted by my peers, is a huge thing for me.  I like to be different, to try, to stretch, to be fabulous.

Then, I think, ha, part of my peer group is the Burning Man community, I fit right in just fine.  Fact, most the time I am not the most crazily dressed, but I do take care to express myself and I like pretty.

I do.

I like girly.

Who knew?

I could keep writing about this and if I’m not careful I will be pulling out my crinoline to rock around the park tomorrow with my little girl Thursday.

Which, when I think on it for a minute would be awesome.

She has a black tulle crinoline with little black sequins on the edges.

I could wear my white one and we can play dress up.

Or.

Heh.

I could wear my bibs, which is what I think I am going to wear, especially since she has a pair and we can play twins that way.

If my career as a nanny doesn’t take off I can always be a child stylist.

Bahahahahaha.

Actually, I bet that is someone’s job.

I mean think of all the commercials out there with children in them, I bet there are folks that do just that, style kids.

Hmmm.

Well, for the moment, I am not looking for work, having accepting the nanny career in an unstinting manner.

“How old are they?” She asked me at the park as one crawled over the other and zipped down the slide.

“He’s twenty-two and a half months, and he’s eleven and a half months,” I said pointing out each of the boys.

“Oh my, did that hurt?” The woman asked looking quite alarmed.

“Huh?” I said, then realizing what she meant I laughed, “oh no, they’re not mine, I am their nanny.  I do a nanny share with the boys.”

The boys.

Oh, such lovers, such pumpkins, such non-nappers.

Ugh.

I couldn’t be upset though, the snuggles, the hugs, the kisses, I missed my little guys when I was down in Florida.

And should you have seen me showing off the photographs of the two of them and the little girl I care for as well; you would have thought I was the grandparent at the retirement village.

It was a great day with the boys and I loved being out in the weather.

I know we need the rain, but man, I couldn’t get enough of that warm sunshine on my face.  In fact, there was a cold front moving into Florida when I left and it was warmer here than it was in Orlando today.

That is saying something.

I got the sweetest message from my mom and I thought again how glad I was to have made the trip.  Glad as well to know that I have a few things I want to send back to my family, things that you can only get in San Francisco.

Coffee for my mom from Philz.

It turns out the last time she was here and I took her to Philz that it was the best cup of coffee she had ever had.

I had not known that, so I asked if she would like some Philz coffee sent to her and she would.  So, I will send a little care package to her.  In fact, I will do that this Friday.

I am going to be in the Castro nannying in the afternoon and there’s a Philz nearby.  I will grab her a pound and send it off.

There are a few other little things I want to send my sister and her family too.

Nice to know that I don’t have to wait for Christmas to send love.

I can just do it because it feels nice to give things.

Whether it is the freedom to express yourself or express your love.

It’s all a great big gift.

Thank you for acknowledging my flowers, it makes me happy to make you happy.

And who doesn’t like pink satin and glitter anyways?