Posts Tagged ‘women’

The Last Moments

December 18, 2018

Of my 45th year.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

I will be 46 years old.

It’s a surreal number.


All of them have been a touch on the surreal side ever since passing 40.

But now, well, as I edge closer to 50 than 40 and my body slowly starts to fall apart, I can say yeah, I’m getting old.


At least older.

And I’m not kidding about the body thing.

I mean.

I can still shake my booty on the dance floor, or in my house as it stands, I just did some dancing to a really lovely remix of “Take You for a Ride on a Big Jet Plane” and I really did break it out.


The signs of getting older are there.

Despite wearing my hair up in gigantic poufs today and donning pink glitter eyeshadow.

I don’t have clients on Mondays after my nanny gig, so I like to play a little with the makeup and the hair.

But you know.

There’s some wrinkles underneath that glitter and there’s definitely some grey hair in those poufs.

And, you know.

I’m ok with it.

I like who I am.

I have worked really fucking hard to get here and my body has managed to carry me through.

So what if it looks like it’s been well-traveled, it has.

Every wrinkle and grey hair a testament to how far I have come.

I did have a moment though, last night, when I was getting ready for bed and I was like, enough with all the stuff.

My aesthetician did some work to remove a patch of collagen that has been bothering me for years recently and I have to touch it up every night and morning to make sure it goes all the way away and I have begun washing my face with actual cleansing foam instead of soap.

She was horrified when I told her I washed my face with soap.

I felt like I was getting scolded by my mom.

So now, I use some cleansing foam and yes, I always use sunblock, she made that a big ass deal years ago.


I sound all sorts of bougie right now.

I hadn’t seen my aesthetician for eight or nine years, I used to go to her when I had really bad cystic acne.

That is one nice thing of getting older, that damn acne finally went away, but I had it well into my early thirties.

In the last few years I have noticed my skin getting a tiny bit dryer and last year I noticed that I had stopped getting black heads at all.

I used to still get those guys.

It seems that the oil in my skin is drying up.

So now I use moisturizer too.

I’m sure these are things most women much younger than me are doing, but you know, I’m a simple lady with the routines, so this adding in of stuff feels new.


Now I’m wearing a night guard at night so I don’t crack any more fucking teeth and have to get any more crowns.

No thank you.

But it’s weird.

And I have to remember to put it in at night, adding another thing I need to do, on top of also taking my reflux meds.

I swallowed the three tiny pills and popped my mouth guard in and snorted.

It has begun.

I’m taking pills at night and wearing a night guard next thing you know I’ll be wearing Depends.



I’m a lucky bitch and I know it.

I don’t look my age, so now that Mother Nature is actually showing me that I’m not immune to this whole getting older thing, I just want to respect it and embrace it.

I don’t want to struggle against it.

I’m going to be 46 in the morning.

And if it’s anything like 45’s been, it’s going to be a pretty damn good year.

In my 45th year I graduated with a Masters in Integral Counseling Psychology.

I traveled to D.C., New York, Paris, and Marseilles.

I got hired at a private practice internship and started subletting an office space as a licenced Associate Marriage Family Therapist.

I danced.

I sang in my car a lot.

I took walks on the beach.

I loved really, really, really hard.

I cried a lot.

I wrote a lot of poetry.

I started my first semester of a PhD program.

I’m one week away from finishing the semester!  I just posted my final discussion post and turned in my final project for my Creative Inquiry Scholarship for the 21st Century class.

It’s been a damn good year.

I’m happy with who I am and where I’m going, even if I cannot see the final destination, I don’t really need to know that anyway.


And I moved!

I went through a buyout and walked through a tremendous amount of fear.

I bought my first ever couch.

And it’s pink velvet, so there.

I’ve done a lot of therapy work and feel better about myself and supported in the work i do as a therapist as well.

I bought art from friends.

I pushed myself out of my school, nanny, internship shell and got back into the fellowship in San Francisco a bit more.

I ate a lot of apples.

I like apples.

I wrote a lot of Morning Pages.

I wrote a few blogs, not as many as I might have considering the issues I had there for a while.  But huzzah!  I have, with much help, gotten the two sites separated and I was happy to post my first blog on my therapy site tonight.

I’ve had a damn good year.

I’m a very lucky girl.

Or woman.

I suppose at 46 it’s time to really step into that women role.


Except when I wear my bunny slippers.

I don’t care how old I get, I’ll probably always wear bunny slippers.


So here’s to making it alive, sober, abstinent, happy, joyous, and motherfucking free, one more time around the sun.

Thanks 45, it’s been fun.

Bring on 46.

Baby, Oh Baby

July 25, 2017

I got some good snuggles today from my friends twins.


The gorgeousness of them is devastating.

The heft and weight of a baby sleeping upon my shoulder has to be one of the most beautiful feelings I have gotten to experience.

I’ve held a few of them.

The smell of baby, too, such amazingness.

Makes me feel very human.

I joked with my friend that it was a good thing I was on my period or I would spontaneously conceive holding the babies.

I’m 44 years old though.

I am pretty much at the point where if it was going to happen it would have by now.

I wonder if I had things different, if I had gotten better faster, had a better childhood, yada, yada, yada, if I would have had children.

I certainly could have gotten pregnant in the past.

I was not always the most on top of it lady in regards to my sexual interactions.


I was not using protection.

I guess I just got lucky.

Or unlucky.

Depends on your perspective.

“You are going to make such a great mom,” is something that I have heard more times than I can count.

It is always such a compliment.

“I see you with children, I can imagine you with twins,” said a woman I used to work with years ago.

I was a twin.

Maybe there’s something there, but twins tend to skip a generation in my family, it’s doubtful I would have twins from that perspective.

I have done a lot of nanny shares, so juggling two babies is not outside my realm of experience.

Being with my friend and her twins reminded me of that, doing the nanny shares I have gotten to do.

Huge gifts those experiences.

I have been a nanny for over ten years now.

I have had so many children, from that perspective.

I have raised many children.


None of them have been mine.



They have all been mine.

I have gotten to experience a depth of love that is vast and profound and I am always, ALWAYS, surprised that I have this deep capacity, this well, of love that seems to be infinite.

I have thought.

“I can never love another child as much as I love this child, this baby, this little one, right now in my arms, fallen asleep on me,” all the heavy, sweet, luscious love that has been in my arms, there is no way I could have more of that.


Every child.

EVERY child I have picked up I have felt that love, vast and universal and profound.

It astounds me.

The profundity of it.

The gift of it.

I think.


You have gotten to have all the experiences of unconditional love that you didn’t get when you were little, you got to see all these children being loved and taken care of, you have witnessed so many first smiles and laughs and the sweet dreams and yes, all the other milestones that are not as much fun but help shape the vast enormous and extraordinary experience of watching a child grow.

I have borne witness to miracles.

Again and again.

Each child a mystery and opportunity to again learn the face of God, the rosebud mouth that purses for milk from the bottle, the drowsy scent that arises from the warm body, like some sort of baking bread smell that intoxicates me and lures me back for another long inhale of sweet baking baby.

I must have smelled the twins every other minute.

Fresh baby.

So delicious.

I don’t know if I am sad that I haven’t had my own children, for I have had a wealth of children.

I do know and I can acknowledge that for many, many years I would not even entertain the idea of having children.

I knew my sister wanted babies.

And she had two.

But I always thought, nope, no children for me.


I have not had a one.

Nor a pregnancy.

Not once.

Not even really a scare.

Knock on wood.

But yeah, since I’m currently on my cycle, I don’t think there’s anything happening there.


I know so many women who have agenda, must get partner, must get pregnant, must, must, must.

I have heard it from contemporaries, community, women in my fellowship, desperate and straining against their own body clocks.

I feel it.

I have felt the clock tick tocking in the corner of my uterus, and there were times when my hormones had me clocking any man who gave me a spare glance, but nothing ever took.

I used to think, after I got sober, you know, give it a year and I’ll be in a relationship and then you know, a great job, and you know, a book contract, and a movie adaptation and then a house, and you know, a couple of kids.

That was a drawing I did in therapy.

I might have had about two years of sobriety at the time.


I forgot about that picture.

It was an assignment my therapist asked me to do.

Draw my home, draw my goals.

I feel I might have that drawing stashed somewhere in my piles and stacks of notebooks, but I can describe it pretty well.

I am standing, pregnant, with a girl, I think I somehow indicate that it was a girl in my belly, with a little boy holding my hand, blue eyes, dark hair, and there was a man next to me holding my hand and we were all smiling, the house was three stories, I mean I went for it, and had a back yard and garden and a brick patio, it had a swing set and slide and a tire swing, I mean, come one, everyone needs a tire swing, it might have had an apple tree.

The inside of the house that I can remember having colored in was a library, with a fireplace and a big deep leather couch and a cat curled up on the hearth in front of the fireplace and bookshelves so full of books.

I had a study on the third floor, my own office.

I also drew things in the a small circle around a globe.

I wanted to be a world traveler.

I drew an airplane circling the globe and a tiny Eiffel tower and I think islands somewhere.



At two years of sobriety I figured, won’t be too long now, I’ll have a husband and a little boy and a little girl, a house and office and books and I’ll be a writer and we’ll all travel together and it will be perfect.

I was 34.


I am 44.

None of those things happened.


That’s not true.

The travel did.

I have gotten to do a lot of traveling since I drew that picture.

The house I modeled it on was an Italianate red brick Victorian in the Mission that has a back carriage house and I could envision there being a garden back there and a swing set.

The man.

Well, he was a mystery.

Life hasn’t given me what I expected.

Fact is.

I have been given more than I could have dreamed of.

I have been given an astounding amount of love and so many opportunities to grow and so many times have I gotten to experience the unconditional love of a child that I don’t feel that I have lost out on some important life experience.

If anything I have heard from many people that they envy the life I have created for myself.

It hasn’t always looked pretty and I’ve fallen down and had to start over and I am now in the process of becoming something entirely different from what I set out to be.

But ultimately.

What I really wanted.

The thing that I wanted the most, the most, the MOST.

Was love.

And I have been showered with love.

Washed in love.

I have been given so much love I can’t breathe sometimes when I see it.

My heart is so full and I get to love right back.

The extraordinary experience of letting myself be loved.

Love in all its forms and sweetness.

And there is no end to it.

There really isn’t.

And I feel that is the key.

That I am not searching for something I think I am missing.

I know what I have.

And it is invaluable.

There is no price tag on it.

And it worth everything.

This love.


Not only is it worth everything.

It is everything.

And so.

I wish you the same.

That you be so graced and so touched with love.

You must know.

Deep in your heart.

How much you are loved.

So much.

I haven’t the alphabet for the words to spell it out.

But you.



You are poetry.



March 8, 2015

I just got home from a celebration of ladies.

I think that’s what a group of gals should be called, a celebration.

Not a school, or a pack, or a clique, or a posse.

A celebration.

These women are amazing and it was with much glee and joy and laughter that I spent my evening in Oakland.

Oh yeah.

I took the trek.

It was worth it.

The N-Judah alone took almost an hour, what with the crowded train, the longer wait between trains, weekend hours, and the fact that it was the Chinese New Year’s parade downtown.

I got onto a packed train.


And it was the second stop from the beginning of the line.

Add to the mix the folks that had made the trek out to the beach, it was fine beach weather out here today.

I had me some sit outside in the sun time before I headed over to the East Bay, oh yes I did.

Prefaced by some get right with God and a bicycle ride to and from the Inner Sunset, some coffee and catch up and check in at Tart to Tart and a little bit of grocery shopping.

I did not cram eighteen things into my day before heading over either, although I was wanting to.

I am slowly, slowly, learning the art of slowing down.

It has taken years.

“You will make a great therapist,” she said to me tonight sotto voce at the dinner table.

We held hands and talked.

It was her celebration, but in the bringing together of the women, it was a celebration of us all.

I got a little toast for getting into graduate school.

Another lady for starting a new job with a big, big, big company.

One woman for committing to partnering up and moving in together with her boyfriend.

That’s a big move.

Cheers for a trip to Bali.

A toast for another lady about to do her dissertation in PsiD.

A trip to Bali.

Burning Man plans.

Atlanta plans.

Of the ten woman at the table, eight of us are going to Atlanta.

It’s going to be off the chain.

I’m not sure Atlanta knows what’s coming for it.

I sat silent at times, looking around the faces of these beautiful, smart, funny, my God so funny, women, and was absolutely awed that I got to be in their company.

Beauty permeated the group, but not just the physical, though, truth be told, we were the best looking party in the place, the noisiest too, perhaps, but definitely the table having the most enjoyment in the restaurant.

The laughter loud and fast and silly and intoxicating, but not drunken or stupid or vapid.

What an astounding group of women I thought to myself, world travelers, lovers, friends, co-conspirators, women with big hearts and dreams and goals.

I thought about what I had and was grateful.

I have a place at this table.

I am invited to partake.

I could have talked myself out, but I have been making a concerted, for me, effort, to get out of my comfort zone a little every week and be of the world.

I can get very easily caught up in the routine of writing, work, doing the deal, and more writing.

I can get caught up trying to make things look perfect and controlled, getting the grocery shopping done at this time on this date while negotiating my laundry and cooking and food prep and the doing instead of the being.

I need a full busy schedule.

But I need this community too.

They inspire me and when I am inspired, I get to do the same for others.

“Oh, I love your blog,” one of the women said, out of the blue at the table between courses.

I had oysters to celebrate, God I love me some oysters, and as I flipped the shell over of an tiny, briny, delicious bite of Miyagi drenched in lemon juice, I realized how much that same woman had inspired me years before I had gone to Paris by her own little world tour walk about.

To hear that she read my blog warmed me.

I will be continuing in this vein by attending a baby shower in Berkeley next week and then the following by going to out to Alcatraz to see the Ai Weiwei exhibit with a darling girlfriend.

This is how I get to be.

When I allow myself to be.

Surrounded by bright women who move me with their grace and joyful spirits.

“Look around the table, look at your community,” she said to me.  “You belong, and you’re going to be amazing.”

She’s a therapist.

She should know.

She confided that she always thought I should pursue therapy but question whether as a therapist it was something to encourage in me considering our relationship and common bonds within our community.

It was such lovely validation.

“You are so serene, you can sit and you are so calm,” she smiled at me.

I felt seen and was honored to hear it from her.

I told her my goals.

Three years graduate school.

Two to three years interning.

Private practice by the time I am 50.

That really sounds like a reasonable goal to me.

Yes, it’s about 8 years out.

And yes, I am fine with that.

I can see it.

You see.

I can see it.

I can see the space and it is bright and beautiful, warm and inviting, full of light and art and grace.

Like the women sitting around me at the table tonight.

I can see it.

I am honored to get to walk this path with these women and I hope to do them well.

I desire to put the best of myself forward.

I am going to stumble and I am going to be an idiot and I am going to forget the warmth of that fire and yes, I’ll try to isolate too, but I will always find my way back.

And the space between the time at the table and the time by myself will grow shorter as I realize that I am not alone, that I belong.

That I have a seat at the table with them.

An honor and a privilege to be included.

That there is a place for me.


You Are Sexy As

February 2, 2014


He said to me tonight before dropping me off at the house.

“Warm, and friendly, and funny, you date a lot right?”  He finished.

“No,” I responded, laughing a little, nice to have someone think that, “not so much, what would you suggest?”

And he laid it out.


I love having guy friends.

He gave me some awesome suggestions and to be told that I am hot and attractive and sexy by someone who I think is a great guy and a peer, means a lot.

A lot.

I don’t know what it has been, what has been the change, I suspect the constant work I have been doing, not so much self-improvement, but continuing self-acceptance.

Self-acceptance with my job.

I am a nanny.

I am a professional, career nanny, and I will pursue this as my, well, heh, my career.

Instead of saying this is just something I do until I find that right career for me.

“You have zero to invest here,” my friend said to me last week, “you have your skill set already, you have your experience, you know you’re great with kids, you have it all.”

Accept it.

It was sort of like that tonight with my friend, listening to him extol my virtues somehow something clicked and it sort of sank in and wait a second.


You are right.

“Let me tell you something though,” he said, “girls got this radar thing too, you know what I am saying, three dates in and he wants to marry you, guys got that too, you start talking about the big picture and they will back the fuck off, they can smell it.”

He continued, “like, whoa, slow down, I don’t even know if I want to have sex yet, let alone hash out where we’re going to be in the next year, ease off.”

“I know what you’re saying,” I replied, remembering a guy I dated about three years ago, hot, younger, super sexy, great kisser, but he was so about getting into it and planning out our kids names that I was like, uh, slow up there Romeo.

It put me off, which when I reflect back is funny, because I think he figured it out before I did and withdrew, then, classic, I was like, why isn’t he calling me?

Uh, I didn’t want to date him, despite the six-pack.

“You know,” he continued, “guys in San Francisco are a little spoiled too, women out here are bold and they go for what they want and they are liberal, San Francisco is really a matriarchal town, women run it, but guys know it and they’ll get lazy, like if she really wants me, she’ll ask me out.”  He looked at me, “know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said, “so….”

“So, go up to a dude and say, hey, here’s my number, I think you’re attractive and if you think I’m attractive, call me, and then, like, let it the fuck go,” he finished.

“Works like a charm,” he said, “you know so and so, she did that with me and I was totally into it.”

“We didn’t end up going out, but look where’s she at know, engaged and shit,” he paused, “whatever, just go out there and have some fun.”



That’s what it is about right now.

Embracing this present and having some fun.

“When you get up in the morning, smile,” she said to me today over coffee at Tart to Tart, “it will change your day.  I promise.”

I believe that.

I told her what my plans were for the day and what principle I was working on.

“Oh, go dancing!” She said, leaning up straight, “dancing is so good for you, yeah, it might be goofy, but go find out.”

And, well, it was a little for me.

I went ecstatic dancing today.

Not totally my thing.

But it was also really good to dance for two hours.

It was not my first choice in music and I felt like it took me a long time to get relaxed into the dance (I like my music a little faster), it was a little too woo woo for me, but there were a few moments where it picked up and I was able to really let go and that felt great.

To be in my body, moving, shaking it out, dropping into the music, abandoning to the physicality of it.

Made me want to go dancing again.

It felt good to, to see my friend, to meet new people, to be in a neighborhood I don’t get to as often, to allow some openings into my schedule and try something new.

You never know until you try.

I am thinking I will have to try my friends suggestion too, and keep it light.

Really light, just go have fun, don’t expect anything and see what happens.

“And when it happens, when you really bang,” he said taking his hands off the steering wheel and clapping them together,” when you really connect with someone, you fight for that shit, because it doesn’t happen that much and you don’t have to be compatible and maybe you fight, but you hang onto that shit, it’s fucking worth it.”

It’s pretty simple, but not easy, it means changing the thoughts and ideas of a lifetime.

But you know if I can willingly accept my career path I can get my to the dating too.

“Are you seeing anyone,” she said to me tonight, “you look great.”

“Nope,” I said, and why, I wanted to add, is it important, why is that the first thing you want to know?

Being in a relationship won’t make me, being with someone won’t complete me.

I am a complete woman.

I am the cake and all that.

But yeah, a guy to compliment the crazy sunday with a cherry on top would be cool.

So, here’s to doing the uncomfortable.

Whether it is work related, relationship related, life related.

Here’s to getting into the mix.

“Hey, I like you, I have always found you attractive,” I practiced in the mirror thinking of someone I saw tonight, “here’s my number if you ever want to go out, give me a call.”

“I can do this,” I said to my reflection, and then I laughed my ass off and danced around my room.

I am fucking funny too.

That meant as much if not more, more really, then being told I am sexy, but you know that didn’t hurt either.

Good to have friends in my corner.

Wouldn’t be anywhere without them.

Close To Home

November 4, 2013

I did not go do anything wild and crazy today.

Unless you consider hula hooping on the beach wild and crazy.

It was unexpected, but I would not go so far as to say wild and crazy.

I got up earlier than I expected, thanks Day Light Savings Time, and had a quick bite to eat before heading up to Trouble Coffee and Coconut Club to get a large coffee with my housemate and head to the beach to take a walk.

We talked about the guy and the me, and the me getting the fuck out-of-the-way.

I should have walked away from it a long time back.

I recalled, last night, as I was typing something a confidant had once told me, “stop banging your head on the closed-door and walk to the open one.”

Please, dear God.

My housemate suggested I write his name in the sand and let the tides take it.

The ocean does have a tendency to erase all the noise in my head.

I didn’t even get the first few letters out before a great wash of tide rolled in and splashed up on me and I shouted in surprise and no small joy.

I love being down at the beach.

I am enamored of it as said to a new friend I met today down by the shore, a neighbor out for a stroll with a large coffee in his hand, this one from Java Beach, my other favorite spot to kick it on a Sunday, when the sun is out and the patio is not too overrun, it is a great place to sit, watch some local flavor and read the Sunday paper.

Today, though, it was the beach that called.

That water washed all my worries away.

It was just sea and sand, salt and air.

God damn the way the air smells is so good.

So good.

I cannot wait to get back in and do some more surfing, although there was no surfing, that even had I a board and a companion to go out with, to be had today.

The water was not having it.

I did not see a single surfer out.

The waves were wild.

High, violent, aggressive.


Beautiful to watch though and I took a few photographs of the beach and the water and my friend and I strolled along talking about working out, how she could run me through a few things, I was adamant about not exercising today, I just want to walk on the beach, I said, to her when she suggested we do it briskly.

“You know, a brisk walk,” she said jogging up and down in her hot pink Nikes.

“Nope,” I said again, “I will go down to the beach and you can sprint ahead of me.”

Neither the stroll nor the sprint happened.

Instead we were captured by an elf on the shore with hula hoops.

A 49-year-old Chinese woman who turns out is a healer with a large business on Lombard Street where she teaches meditation and does healing work and acupuncture.

“That sure looks like fun,” my house mate said to the small sprite of a woman, in her blue jeggings and red yoga top.

The woman had a gold and pink hula hoop that she was putting through its paces.

I was rather amazed at how much she was doing and she was having a great time doing it.

Next thing you know my house mate and I are also hula hooping, meeting Kim our neighbor, and talking about meditation and the spiritual pulse points of the city, how they have moved, and yet, here, out here at the ocean, they have yet to be sullied.

We hooped and laughed and danced around in the sand.

The ravens and sea gulls waged war on each other, swooping and calling, chasing above the foam for the prize food capture one had snuck out from another.

Children waded in shallow pools where the outgoing tides had left large shallow dips of water reflecting diamond lights of brilliance.

“Exercise need to be fun,” Kim said, laughing.

I handed her back her hoop, she showed my housemate a trick and they both giggled, 40, 44, 49-year-old women, dancing on the beach with hoops, making friends where least expected.

I turned a cart-wheel.

I turned another.

I laughed out loud.

I did a third, getting dizzy, but joyfully so.

When was the last time that I had turned a cart-wheel?


I am sure of it.

We must have stayed and hooped with her for over an hour.

We drew an admirer who also happened to be a local and the surprise group stood hooping and jumping and stretching and listening to the ocean, talking about how we all got where we were and exchanging numbers and e-mails.

After a tender footed walk back to the house, I had left my flip-flops on by the entrance to the beach at the Great Highway cross walk and they were gone, my housemate and I separated for a quick hour to eat lunch and do a couple of chores.

I got my bedding washed and shot out a few e-mails.

Three o’clock rolls around and we head out to the store to get weighted hula hoops.

We are both converts.

Despite not having success, the stores were sold out, apparently we are not the only hoopers in the neighborhood, we did gleefully chat about ordering a bunch online and having some hooping going on.

Surfing, swimming, hooping, walks on the beach, cartwheels, what the heck is going on?

Beach life.

I am really getting into it.

It is really good for me.

My day aside from the beach was chill, made some soup, did a little shopping, hung out with my housemate and did some writing.


This blog here marks my third writing of the day.

Not too bad.

Not sure I am going to follow all the dictates of the write a novel in a month, but I am sitting down, have done so every day since the 1st of the month, and I am writing.

Already I am surprised by what is coming out.

Who knows where it is going, but I am going to be there to be a conduit for it.

That’s the best I can do.

That and be absurdly grateful that I am a conduit at all.

That somewhere, something, some divinity, muse, God, Universe, love, has words to share with me.

I am gifted.

Not because I have talent, that is debatable, but because I have been given a present.

I just need to not be so scared to use it.

Going to the beach help clear the cobwebs from my head.

From my heart.

From my eyes.

That and some unexpected exercise and new friends and neighbors converging to do what we humans do best, connect with each other with love and respect.

And play.

“Go on! Try! It’s fun,” she said to me.

I took the hoop.

And got some happy.

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