Fun Dating Myself

I gave up the Jewish dating site.  The first person to contact me was disrespectful and disgusting.  The second one was an 80 year old man from Florida.  As much as I would have loved to find a sweet Jewish man on their site, it's clear that the men were looking for their sweet Jewish girl and I'm not her.  I was able to get a refund and subscribed to a more diverse dating site. I was planning a night at home, but there was a moment when I couldn't unsettle the sticky film that was squeezing and scratching under my skin.  The ex is going through something that has nothing to do with me, but because I'm not suffering in a way that satisfies him, he makes his hate palpable when he directs his rage at me.  I didn't like the way his ire was affecting my joy, and I had to get out. It's not about him.  It's fine that he doesn't like me right now because normally I don't care.  I'm just not used to being disliked.  The feeling is uncomfortable, but it has nothing to do with him.

I started at Pan Pacific Park.  The last time I was there was in 2008 and I remembered all of the young families and the feeling of contentment that settles along the slopes and pathways.  Don't let the irony of the holocaust museum sharing that space slip past you. There is joy when you honor the sorrow of the past and learn to move forward.  There were people playing sports, and throwing balls to their dogs. I spread out a blanket and worked on my dating profile.

The sun began to set and before I left, there was a cute and fluffy white puppy that ran to me and kissed my face.  Then she flopped right in front of me for belly rubs.  Her owner was mortified, but I didn't mind.  You can't complain about kids or dogs when you choose to lay on their level in a park.  I left after the sun set and the chill in the air was making me shiver.

My next stop was Santa Monica.  I walked the pier and ran into that photographer that always greets me with a smile and a handshake.  Last time I saw him he gave me a hug and it was a little creepy.  Tonight there was a hug too, but my perspective shifted enough that he's not so creepy and it's just who he is. I treated myself to chile relleno at Maria Sol. It was time to walk over the memory of a romantic dinner that happened in 1997.  It was slightly nerve wrecking to walk in alone, but once I was sitting, it was natural to smile at the other diners around me.

There was a drunk couple in front of me and they were my entertainment for the night.  She was wearing what could only be described as a onesie.  I've put my kids in enough of them to know what they look like.  She kept sitting on her boyfriend's lap and the woman at the table next to us expressed her disgust.  There was nearly a brawl in front of my table and I kept wondering if I should pick up my drink or my purse.  In the end, the angry table next to us left.  At some point, the drunk woman was surprised that I was eating alone and offered for me to join them.  I politely declined.  When they left, the waiter found a half empty bottle of Ciroc they left behind.  A couple of times, the manager threatened to throw them out.  I understand why he didn't.  Their inebriation could have been his liability.

I was thinking about the date she was on, and the one I was on with myself.  I didn't have to worry about being with a sloppy lush and embarrassed. She kept telling her boyfriend to STFU and I couldn't imagine talking to someone like that.  Especially if I wanted him to believe I loved him.  It was a relief to be alone.  I was enjoying the views and likes my new profile was getting and I messaged a few people back.  It is funny to me that I'm younger than some of the men I was looking at, but too old for them to date.  At the same time, I was rejecting a few men that were too young for me (28) and others that were too old (50), so I get it.

After dinner, I walked to the end of the pier and watched a ham of a seal swimming in the water.  I'm sure he was hoping some angler would toss him a fish or two but we all just wanted pictures.  The anglers held onto their catch but the fish were biting tonight.

There were a couple of young men standing next to me and we struck up a conversation.  They were really cute but I couldn't help but feel like they were too young.  There was something about finally really opening up to the idea of dating that shifted my perspective just enough.  I didn't feel like a cougar.  Well, not until I left and thought about it a little more.

I headed home by the streets again and stopped at the Hustler store because every date should make me blush at least once.  I answered two calls on my date myself night and I decided I would ignore all calls except emergencies in the future. If I had been on a date with someone else, I would have ignored all calls.  I played really loud music and sang even louder on my drive home.  It was good.

Beauty in Rough Winds and Angry Waters

I headed to the beach, but today was different.  It was windy and my first views of the ocean caught my breath.  That hasn't happened for a while. It wasn't a block of darker blue beneath a block of blue sky.  I could see the white waves where the surface of the water was being pushed by the winds and breaking the normally calm sea into white crested waves.  It was beautiful.  Standing on the sand, the waves were larger and pulled farther toward me.  The violent crashes came in quicker succession.

There was something about the abuse of the wind against the waves that was beautiful and uncomfortable and it spoke to me about the storm that is my right here and right now.  As cool air numbed my hands, the winds blew away the mark of human trails across the sand.  The choppy sea looked different and picturesque.  Little waves generally shine in peaks reflecting the sun, but these waves were forced into small crests of white.  There was beauty in the chaos.  It was really cold and I left Will Rogers to check out Venice Beach.

Venice Beach is one of those places I like to see once every handful of years.  It is a mix of amazing that I really love to see and "Dear Lord, get me out of here unscathed." Will Rogers has a more natural sand line with heavier, wet sand that stays where it was intended to.  Venice was plagued with mini sand storms that flew up in sheets.  I walked along shops where I was asked if I "blaze" which I do not.  I'm boring that way.  The sun was filtering through the palm trees and I would have taken a picture, but the sand blowing cold air and the men asking for more of my time was uncomfortable. Then it occurred to me that I wouldn't really want to walk alone with closed shops once the sun sets.  I headed back to my car, watching the athletes for a while because, well, yum.  Then I headed back home, taking the streets back to PCH, then Chautauqua Blvd. to Sunset. I wanted to try something new. The sun winked behind the mountains while I was on PCH and the painted sky ushering in night highlighted the many beautiful homes I am starting to look forward to seeing on my drive on my favorite curvy street.

I suppose my lesson is that there is beauty in the chaos and storms but I have to look for it.  I have to be aware that it will be uncomfortable and painful, but if I open my eyes to look for the pretty parts, I will see what I'm searching for.

When I got home I decided to try another dating site.  My niece laughed at me and said, "good luck with that," when I told her I wanted to look for a nice Jewish boy.  I suppose for a shiksa like myself who can't even pass as sephardic, finding a purple unicorn might be easier.  Maybe that's the point.  Maybe I'm just looking for someone to hang out with so I look a little less creepy when I'm people watching or venturing outdoors.  Either way, I'm enjoying these profiles from men who are less creepy than what I had been seeing and full of humor.  I think one or two "about me" sections made me teary eyed because of their tender honesty and sweetness.  These unicorns exist!  It's the morning and my account is still active and it has pictures.  I haven't subscribed yet, and I'm not sure I will, but the looking has given me smiles and laughter and right now that might be enough. It's been a chaotic few weeks but I'm finding the beauty in the storm.

Update: I'm at an appointment and a very attractive Jewish man started flirting on my dating app. It ended because I wouldn't cooperate with his sexting fantasy. He is now blocked. He wasn't my purple unicorn, but now I have a subscription. At the moment where I wanted to run out for Ben and Jerry's and maybe a good cry, (because he was being a jerk) an older man next to me started singing in Hebrew. It was beautiful and uplifting and hopeful with a heavy hand of sorrow. It was a low ballad, and when I told him it was beautiful, he sang another song to me and it was louder and it was the sweetest balm.

I Can't Keep Playing Hide and Seek

"The man who thinks a thousand dragons sufficient to watch a woman, when her inclination takes a contrary bent, will find all too little; and she will engage the stones in the street, or the grass in the field, to act for her, and help on her correspondence." - Pamela, Or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson

I'm really trying not to hide lately but hiding has been my default.  In new relationships I was so driven by who I wanted to be with, that I often shifted their perspective of me so I would fit, not giving credence to the fact that my value from beginning to end would always end up more meaningful to me in the end. So far they have all left my daily life, and I'm still here. I lied because I didn't believe in the value of my thoughts or feelings.

I'm a bookish broad.  I love a good story with romance and magic and very little sex.  I'd rather read through loads of build up in angsty infatuation than literary porn without satisfaction and a set up for real life disappointment.  Besides, not every author's idea of kink is a good fit with mine.  I used to buy Amazon gift cards to hide how much I loved new books.  I'd spend an extra $25 on a grocery store receipt to hide the books I was buying. I loved reading and losing myself in novel after novel, but felt that was something to be ashamed of because it brought pain to the ex.  I made him jealous because I spent so much time with my favorite authors in my head that his value was then in question.  It was like going on a date with your face glued to your phone.  It was very rude of me. The insidious irony is I still believe that no matter how much I believe in the freedom to read.  There are people that have died for that right.  (Are the gaslights dimming, or is it me?)

I wanted to print out pay stubs for the job I had earlier this year.  I set up a password for the Paychex system they use and I saved it on the computer, but the computer I saved it on was the one that stayed at the company I no longer work at.  As I was explaining this to the person on the phone helping me reset my password, I was laughing about never working for that temp agency again.

I told her about the last interview I went on for this agency.  I didn't want to go to begin with.  It was farther than I would want to work. I got there and the people I was interviewing with had this really strong dislike of people in general and I didn't like being there for the little while I was there.  It was like that spidey sense we all get when we are sitting with someone that means us harm.  You feel it in raised hairs and tingling at the back of your scalp.  You know it without having words to nail it into finality.  I bombed the interview.  It wasn't on purpose and maybe it was just my personality.  Either way, I was okay with not working there.  The agency rep ripped me a new one like I was a child.  I took it because that is what you do when you need a job, but we hung up and I decided I don't want a job where my boss would send me somewhere I told her I didn't want to be and have her pitch a fit because I wasn't grateful for her lack of interest in my needs.  It's not servitude I'm looking for but service to a company I want to retire with.  The actual company I was at would have fit that bill, but I'm looking forward to the open possibilities before me. I'm okay with the idea of waiting for a company that suits my needs and not just a paycheck.  I hit a few beaches that day because it was a day for  Beach Days and Bombed Job Interviews. I decided I would no longer go on interviews that I didn't want to go on and it was a liberating feeling.  That was another way I was hiding.  I was hiding in looking to take jobs that wouldn't fit my needs because that's what family and friends and society as a whole thinks I need to do. It felt good to decide the needs of my children and myself are most important to me. I need to send my boys off to school in the morning and have dinner with them at night.  I can't spend most of my night in traffic and give away the little time I have with them in shared custody.  I can live with crock pot dinners, but I will not only see my children as they sleep and every other weekend. My last job showed me that I could find passion in what I was doing.  I could wake up excited to go to work.  That's the bar I've set and I don't want to stumble below it any longer.

For so long I hid behind my marriage.  I fell into the idea of fate and destinies and I knew I married the right man, so it was so hard to let go even after he left me.  It was hard to see that I was wrong.  He left and I hid behind the ring I still wore and the marriage license that is still valid.  I was hiding behind a vow he broke and a covenant he walked away from.  I was hiding behind scriptures and ideals and refusing the norms that are part of who we are as a society.  My turning point was in a nonchalant admission of "I'm dating," and a leg kicked out in petulant defiance that made me feel that dating wouldn't destroy me.  It's been blogging about past loves that remind me he wasn't the first forever I was willing to commit to.  I've had 2 long term boyfriends I would have given forever to, and 3 other boys that strung me along because I was willing to be walked on for the forever I saw in their smiles.  There were also many, many Mr. Right Now contenders that aren't worth an individual mention. I never took statistics, but if that could happen in a span of 8 years before dedicating the next nearly 16 years to someone else, that tells me he might not have been the one, especially when he was happiest with me when I was hiding myself from him.  I can accept being wrong because it's better to have been wrong than to admit that my forever destiny is to be let go.

I'm not hiding today but a lot of times I need the reminder not to. Sometimes the effort for transparency is more difficult than I like to admit, especially when it involves conversations with my parents.  In stepping out in other uncharted territory, I'm learning that in doing, I am more capable than I imagined in my fear.  The past week has been filled with unfounded terror, and there have been specific moments when my doubts were crippling. I was letting my insecurities harden into bitterness and it was stealing my joy.

Yesterday was a really good day.  It was a day of unexpected blessings and encouragement. It was a day that reminded me I can't be intimidated in a corner if I'm busy being the greatness I choose to live. I'm not hiding today.

Spring Forth Through Winter's Heartache

"April is the cruelest month… breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." – TS Eliot, The Waste Land Eliot nailed the angst coursing through this month. There's too much to do and my heart aches with longing to be more than I can right now.

There's a blending in the flow of memories that dovetails the many into a nebulous "he" and each sin is muted and sharpened by the collective act of their rejections.

The place where I was in the mixing of "we" flows in chaotic jagged edges. In leaving me, they took too much and I was unable to do more than breathe and ache. I am a series of ripped seams and messy scars. I'm moving in fits and starts because I must. I can not stagnate. I will not.

There are steps being walked through. Tiny steps. Baby steps. I need to trust that I will not fail myself once more in attaching my hopes to another crumbling ledge by placing my hope in the hands of another fleeting love.

I see the winds have cleared the clouds and the cool air is tempered by a warm sun. The rain drops and drying tears of yesterday bring new growth. Decayed leaves mulch tender roots, keeping moist what would otherwise dessicate in death. There's an unspoken promise that is stronger than words and it flows in honeyed nectar in each flower that blooms. Each dawning realization is a promise to be better than I was.

Gates have creaked open in stiff disuse and what is without will grow within and I await the cool dusk where I stand a little taller under the warmth of a fading sun. Reaching. I wait for the fury that rages with the fall of night in hushed anticipation of my sleepless slaughter of self because each day I am stronger with a boldness of courage I can't always feel.

Where certainty falls short, faith holds my firm belief.

Sleepless Nights

Long after dusk settles into indigo night, the stars shine proudly with haughty indignation. Clouds filter through windy skies in a dance of shadow and light.

They see the thoughts that intrude through sleep and wake racing thoughts from fitful slumber.

Whispered memories tell me I'm not enough and there is no beauty or jewel within.

I know the lies but can't separate them from truth without the light of his vision to see through.

I know to look in opposing views from the perspective he gave but memory shifts and I only see the failures painted over me by his artful brushstroke of rejection. 

His bright light shines too far from memory to cast more than a haze of soft shadows dancing in the periphery.

My anchor becomes a distant memory in a dream imagined from hopeful fascination.

All thoughts of self disappear in him.

His words.  His laugh. His joy. His shy smile and his proud stance.

My surrender.

Our words wash over me and I'm surrounded by his dreams. His accomplishments. What he does to make him be who he told me he was.

His beauty blinded me from seeing who he was.  What was still fades and I have yet to see.

But I'm no longer blinded by the radiance of who I made him to be.

I see that in fitting our world around him, we left no room for me.

I see the spaces where I fit were outside of who we were and the empty spaces were full of my longing.

I whisper to the approaching dawn the ideas that form a weapon against insecurities.

You are amazing because of who you are and not what you do or what pleasures are found in you because you are worthy of being pleased.

Murmuring lips whisper prayers for peace and a love that sinks below skin and settles in the marrow of my bones.

I am enough to be and in the acceptance of my limits I find I have an abundance.

I'm Curious.

I have an insatiable curiosity that is generally only satisfied with exhaustive research. When the boys were little and before Kid3 came along, I read about cowboys using ashes from a campfire with bacon grease to clean their dishes.  I was curious about mixing fat and lye and creating soap.  That directed me toward learning about cold process soap.  I spent hours online looking up recipes and videos.  I wanted to see pictures of what the trace stage looked like.  I made a few batches of cold process soap.  It smelled delicious and it was a gift to be able to play with chemistry and create something new.  Working with lye is extremely dangerous and I stopped because the fear of my child picking up a cup of lye water was terrifying.  Getting the measurements perfect by weight was another issue.  My soaps were a little alkaline and unkind to delicate skin. I may pick it up again.

Soap making required dyeing my soaps.  I explored mica for pigmentation, and started exploring geology as more than the pretty rocks I've always picked up.  It was about seeing how ground up rocks could lend bright and bold colors during the trace phase, because any sooner and the batch would seize.  I started learning about other dyes, and this was when I first learned about foods using ground up beetle bodies for color.  I exhausted that research until I was disgusted.

I was using waxes and carrier oils and found melting and burning points fascinating.  What would make beeswax take forever to melt over a low flame, when coconut oil was liquid at room temperature?  I could tell which oils were which by how long it took to melt and the color and scent.  Cocoa butter smelled like chocolate and shea butter was almost unscented.

Making soap led to making lotion bars and lip balms and bath bombs that fizz with citric acid and baking soda.  I used beeswax for all of it because what else do you do when you buy a pound of it?  I went through a stage where I wanted beeswax candles and honey in the comb and I wanted to know all there was about beekeeping.  I wanted to know about smoking them into calm and how the queen determined the health and life of her colony.  I loved that each bee had a job and how organized they are.  I was interested in the flavors that certain flowers would impart and how each batch of wildflower honey would taste different depending on the season and what is in bloom.

My Pinterest addiction only feeds my curiosity. Or maybe it's the other way around.  I have boards on rock hounding treasures, leadership, new ways to learn, woodworking, and needle craft, life hacks and homeopathy. I loved learning that brewed and cooled tea could ease my kid's sunburn.

I signed up for another dating app.  This time it lasted a whole hour or so, with a picture uploaded and everything.  I haven't done that before.  It took about that long to realize I wasn't interested in meeting anyone, but I really wanted to know what 40 year old men in the dating arena look like.  I was curious about what they are looking for and what they think someone like me is looking for.  I've already made my profile private again, but it was fun to window surf.  I'm sure I'll revisit this before I go on a first date. And that first date will be with someone I've met in person first because that is where my comfort lies.

Having Babies as an Act of Faith

When I was younger, I didn't see myself having kids.  They were messy and demanding.  I didn't even see myself getting married when I met the ex. I liked picking my date each night and it was like putting on a persona with each of them because I was good at being what I thought they wanted.  It was lots of dress up and pretend and nothing was too serious.  Okay, so keeping track of who I was dating and what I wore on each date and where we ate or what we did required more work and brain power than it was worth, but I was happy to do it for as long as I did. And once in my lifetime is enough to teach me I prefer dating one person at a time because I'm happiest when I'm obsessing over one person at a time. Even when I got my fertility tattoo, it wasn't about procreation, but about fertility in thought and creativity. There was something that felt right about the ex.  I didn't see an endless fantasy of right now and fun, but a lifetime of caring for each other.  We spent the 6 months we dated doing a lot of night fishing and making wishes on falling stars.  I felt I could live like that for the rest of my life. I saw something special in him that made me feel like it would be good to bring children into the world that would learn to be just like him.  The dream in my head didn't pave the course of our reality.  I had no idea that children would change everything, including how much I would want to avoid large bodies of water, or how much their wants would guide my actions.

There was something so amazing about getting called by the doctor's office the day after a routine physical to tell me I was pregnant.  There was excitement and I was inexplicably happy about something I wasn't sure I wanted just the day before.  The ex was right next to me when I got the call and from the bits and pieces he could hear, he understood and the news made him so happy he cried.  Every bout of morning sickness was silly and fun.  I laughed after I puked because it happened so rarely.  He went to most of my prenatal visits for that first pregnancy. We explored every single stretch mark that traced the growth of my belly and the life blooming within me.  I developed the pregnancy cradle, where my hand was constantly drawn to my belly, to touch the child that I knew was there because I was told he was. It's often how I can tell if someone else is pregnant.  We want to touch our babies, even when they are only our secret.

Once Kid1 was born, the reality of how unmotherly I was really set in.  I had sisters and in laws and my own Mom at the hospital, coaching me to support his head, and burp him gently.  My nurses had a firmer hand, and they had their own pitying looks to depart with.  I didn't feel like I might know what I was doing until he was a few weeks old and one of the wise sages telling me what to do couldn't calm him, but I did.  Her inability highlighted the fact that for his whole life, I had been doing what she told me I was doing wrong, and he told me I was doing it right.

After Kid1 and Kid2 were diagnosed with autism, we found out we were having Kid3. At the time, the odds were somewhere around 1 in 150 kids would be diagnosed with autism.  Six months ago, Autism Speaks was holding that statistic at 1 in 45 according to the newest government survey.  Either way, I was two for two and probably had some insane gambling luck I should have tested out. Our families gave us a hard time about a third child we couldn't afford. Some time when I was defending our choice to risk a third child with autism and not terminate a surprise pregnancy that I wanted, I realised what a true act of faith having children can be.

Bringing life into a world full of death and pain on the news and world wide is an act of faith.  You have to believe that there is enough good in the world to keep your child safe.  There is no way to be within arms reach of your children for 18 years, so you have to trust that there will be friends, family, teachers, clergy and strangers that will not harm your child, although they will have opportunities to. You have to believe that in your life, you will be the example of a person that will contribute to society, rather than take advantage of society and the weaker ones that make up our society.  You will want to give every benefit of your labor to your children while instilling generosity in their gratitude, and a servant's heart to give of themselves as well.

In being a surrogate mother after my three children were born, I was acting out faith that each of my three couples will continue finding ways to consistently choose to love each other.  In agreeing to carry their children and go through fetal testing, I had to believe that months of shooting hormones into my hips wouldn't end in a terminated pregnancy and the emotional burden of turning my back on all of my beliefs about abortion.  I was believing in my ability to safely bring children into the world and to send them off and potentially never know how they are doing and what kind of people they will become.  My faith was based on the love and care they offered me as their surrogate and I have no regrets. I quietly remember each birthday and reminisce through each scrapbook I put together for each pregnancy from time to time. I don't miss the children, but the feelings of love and hope that met every phone call, meeting and shared appointment.  I miss the friendships of parents that would never have met me in a perfect world. It was amazing to have a cheering section and experience all of the joys of pregnancy with none of the worries outside of a happy and healthy child or set of twins.

I believed in the covenantal bond of my marriage being a cradle of nurturing that would see our children into adulthood.  There's been a necessary shift, and now my belief is that as parents, we will do what we can to ensure the emotional wellbeing of our children, even if I can't see or talk to the ex without having to quiet my rage.  I forgive him but it's a choice and I'm still letting go of my anger because my emotions are not chosen. I have to feel them as they flow through me, and choose to redirect my passionate rage into open hearted joy. I believe that no matter what I face as a single parent, there will always be enough of what we need.  For 50% of their lives, I will have to be both parents and that means putting my selfishness and unease aside, even if that means allowing their boundaries in my home.  I have to give them space to be and allow the idea that growing up means allowing them to grow away from me, in the way they have since birth.  And it means I will have to accept that there will be times when they will need me to coddle and support them because the great big changes in their lives can at times be bigger than they can handle.  I have to put my pain aside for their needs, and believe that it is what is best for them, even if for a while, it goes against what my selfishness needs.

As much as I love being pregnant, I'm not sure another child will come from my body. Yes, I'm talking about a seventh pregnancy. Birth control pills did their worst and gave me pulmonary embolisms.  It's a side effect risk and I am quite good at odds, apparently. I will never be able to go on hormonal birth control again. I am fertile and a pregnancy would be high risk.  And yet I don't believe in abortion. That just means one day I will find myself in a complicated conversation and today I don't have to make any decisions.

What I do believe in is the good in children and I have 6 siblings through adoption.  I would adopt.  I believe in children, even if I have days where I can't believe in me. The best part of adoption is teaching a person that they were not a surprise, but a perfectly planned and chosen member of a family that was missing them. Birth parents in this way have honored us in their selfless sacrifice. I love being part of an adoption family. 

Good Grief

Being an inner city kid means I was greeted with  the death of my peers much sooner than any child should see it.  We grew up being told to stay away from gangs and drugs in school but you can't tell a person to unsee what they saw in school and outside of school.  On my first day of Junior High, school let out and I walked home along with the rest of the after school exodus. I transferred in from a school in Brentwood to my home school because I didn't want to have to keep riding a bus into a nicer neighborhood. I got to the Mcdonald's on Sunset and Fountain, and right in the parking lot was where I saw someone get jumped into a gang.  I was relatively sheltered.  My sisters took a special interest in my friends.  My parents made sure I was dropped off and picked up until I told them I wanted them to stop.  I was generally a good kid until I was a rebellious  and legally responsible adult.  I didn't skip school and if I did, I would ask for permission and because I did it so rarely, my requests were granted.  There were a few people I knew and connected with in superficial friendships that died before they had the chance to go to a prom or finish high school.  I was blessed to have grown up with extended family.  With heavy laden holiday tables and kisses that were wet and warm and hugs that hold you together come the loss that is part of a cyclical system of life.  The day of my aunt's funeral is a vacant loss of memory.  At some point I snapped out of it.  All I remember was dropping an orchid in a really deep hole because it was a plot dug at double depth to later accommodate my uncle.  That afternoon the kids were home with us and I was in bed with my ex.  At some point the kids got into the eggs and I had a dozen and a half broken and seeping underneath the fridge.  I remember the ex had had enough of my depression and he needed to leave for a while and I was scraping dried eggs off of the floor and not understanding the profound loss I felt.  There were other family members who have slipped beyond the veil into fading nostalgia and bittersweet memories.  Each of them had given me so much love that I was so lost when it hit me I was left with memories.

When I was in high school and Selena died, I didn't know of her music enough to fully mourn her loss.  I got to know the sound of her voice posthumously and will still be moved to tears in singing, "Como La Flor," and "El Toro Relajo," even though I have no idea what that second song means.  My spanish is limited to food and love.  Two years of high school language and I only remember what I learned in kitchens with boyfriends and mothers that felt I needed to eat more.

We lost Aaliyah just before September 11 when our nation suffered the greatest loss in my memory. Tragedy is the tree of life our nation has been grafted on and I won't say one series of losses is greater than any other.  There is no pleasure in comparing the pain that marks us all.  All of these losses were more than just saying goodbye to a talent.  It was more than geeky fandom.  It was releasing a part of our youth, our heritage, held together in melodies that spoke to our hearts when we couldn't find the words.  Mariah Carey, Toni Braxton and now Taylor Swift will take a huge part of me with them when they belt out that final swan song. It is in saying fare thee well to people that made us laugh and feel through acting while we set aside the emotions we felt to borrow theirs for a while that we honor their gifts and offer sacrifices of solemnity.

Driving down a street lined with Jacarandas in bloom, of course I thought of the artist formerly known as Prince.  Like most of my generation, I grew up on the sound of his soul. There is a profound duty to those who are blessed with the emotions of loss we suffer.  To lose someone means we were once gifted with the grace of their walk or the way they carried themselves in the face of their plight of existence. We are supposed to regret their parting, even if we haven't heard their voice in years.  We are meant to sing their songs and relive the heartache they walked us through. We owe them a moment to reflect and respect the feelings they helped us understand, or laugh through.

It feels natural to grieve the loss of a life we held so much expectation for and reliance on.  What I'm also learning to mourn is the loss of a dream or an idea or a level of comfort.  There is a loss and the loss helps me to celebrate the tremendous joy I feel in doing what feels empowering. It helps me to relax into the task of resting.  It helps to expect that the valley I may be in has a peak that is coming where I can be more than I imagined.

Ambulance Ride

My first ambulance ride was about 9 years ago.  There were no lights and sirens.  The seatbelts were tucked into the bench and I held my little boy's hand as the ambulance drove from County USC Hospital to Kaiser Sunset.  He was stable and he was being transported for observation. Kid3 was 8 months old.  I didn't process the fact that there was standing water in the bathtub or that it could be a hazard to the baby crawling on the floor. He wasn't walking and I didn't know he could pull himself into the bathtub until he pulled himself into the empty tub about a week later.   Kid1 was home alone with their Dad and had his hands in the tub with a Lego Boat he wasn't even allowed to play with when his brother was awake because Legos are an obvious choking hazard.  When I got home with Kid2 and Kid3, I was unloading groceries and the ex was running out of the door.  We had one car at the time and he was ready to escape the moment I walked in.

I was having a tickle fest with Kid1 when Kid2 started tugging on my shirt.  My nonverbal autistic 4 year old son saved his brother's life.  My baby was in the cold water on his back, arched and blue faced.  I pulled him out and tried to remember CPR.  I took the classes and knew the drills but in that moment I forgot it all. I pushed on his little belly and water flowed out of his mouth. I didn't realize I could have made things worse if he had aspirated that water.  I was frantically screaming for someone to call 911. I was screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to help me. I was home alone and so helpless.  I didn't have neighbors to call on because they saw too much. We didn't invite them in because they saw enough from outside.  I found a landline phone with my limp son in my arms and called for help.  The ambulance came and the paramedics took him away.  His chest was rattling in air and he was otherwise unresponsive. We only had one car at the time and I was stranded at home with two children.  I waited until my sister came, or maybe it was my mother in law.  I just know that I waited for them and the ambulance took my son.  One of the fire trucks stayed, then took me to my son.  It was agonizingly slow.  They obeyed all traffic laws and carefully kept an eye on me because I was a caged animal.

My house was a mess.  I had been at the store, and my major clean up day at the time was Sunday evening. (They go to their Dad on Wednesday, so that's my new day.) I was tickling my son and preparing to get to work.  I picked up here and there throughout the week, but caring for two children, aged 5 and 3 with sensory integration dysfunction and a crawling 8 month old that started walking at 9 months meant my house was a disaster.  Dealing with the messes on my terms meant I was angry a lot less and able to play with their trains and Playdoh. It meant not freaking out over yogurt on the ceiling and peanut butter on the walls.  It also meant the house was a hazard. I didn't have help and it was less stressful to not invite people over.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was held at a distance until they were sure I wasn't trying to kill my son.  It was standard practice for the situation.  They see that on a regular basis and had to imagine the possibility that I could do the unthinkable because other mothers had thought it. They interviewed my family and neighbors.  They asked if there was abuse in the home and my Mom later asked if there was because she suddenly wasn't sure what she had seen and what I had said because I was not living like the daughter she raised, spitting fire and raging at the world.  I was in someone's shadow and I was still defending my position there.

My neighbor across the street expressed her concerns about the times I was yelled at or other times she saw anything that wasn't love.  She saw power and aggression and she reported what she saw and for years I didn't want anything to do with her because she saw what I refused to acknowledge.  This is the same neighbor that filmed what my ex took out of the house when he left and offered to call the police for me.

Two days ago my chest pain was extreme.  I couldn't stand up straight and the band of pressure was squeezing me painfully like I was placed between two icy plates of stone.  For a person that has willingly given birth 7 times, I can say I never want to relive the sensations I felt Wednesday. It was hard to stand, and I was slick with sweat.  I called 911 and stayed in bed, barely pulling on yoga pants and a tank top. I asked Kid3 to help me and get dressed and I've never had his obedience react so swiftly in the months since I've become a single mom.  When they arrived and asked me to sit up for them, I vomited in a waste basket as several paramedics watched and checked my vitals.  They moved sticky contacts from my chest to my legs to get the best possible reading. I was given pills to chew and a spray under my tongue because I was presenting as a heart attack, and they checked the important things.  I was given baby aspirin.  I had to take it during IVF because studies show baby aspirin helps keep you pregnant through the first trimester of an IVF pregnancy and it's not a taste you forget. It was becoming clear to them it was probably stress, but still felt I needed the lights and sirens on the way to the hospital.

It's different when you're the patient.  Normally I'm hyper aware of everything, but there was a haze of activity.  I don't know how many paramedics arrived.  I don't know what I was given. I remember being put in a chair and being bumped up a flight of stairs and out of my front gate in a bed that was a chair but was a bed because that felt better to me. I didn't even notice being swabbed before  I was stuck so they could check my blood sugars. I just know that my neighbor across the street held my son's hand and called my family.  She met me at the hospital and took Kid3 to his Dad for me.

My nurse asked about my stress levels. I told her it probably was just stress.  I explained the way my life looks right now and that I was sending my kids to be with their Dad.  It's the same stress I've had for months but some days are harder than others. At some point I was given Ativan and the giggles started before the pain subsided and I drifted off to sleep. They should bottle that stuff and call it happiness because it was like being drunk only I wasn't and it was like being high . . . which is probably why it's not handed out like candy or sold over counters.

Right when I was being discharged, my Dad picked me up.  My neighbor still checked on me throughout the night and into the next day.  I have good neighbors and I owe her homemade brownies or something equally less stressful than macarons or homemade toffee. My Mom and Stepdad came by.  My sisters have been calling me.  I feel loved and cared for.  I am loved and cared for.

I've been resting for the last couple of days. I've been sleeping when I feel I need it and I've replaced coffee with cocoa.  The only marathons I'm contemplating are on Hulu and Netflix.  I may start a Xena Warrior Princess Marathon because I loved that show when I was younger.  And Star Trek because . . . Well, no explanation is necessary, but I'll be sipping Jasmine tea because I don't like Earl Grey.  So now my geek is showing but it is who I am.  I'm still happy.  My joy wasn't stolen. I just need to give my body the rest it needs when the stress builds.  I could've built a castle with my shoulder load on Wednesday and if I'm lucky, there will be no more ambulances in my future.  The next time I see a paramedic or firefighter, I will thank them for their service the way I first started to almost 9 years ago.  I still thank every one I see because of the handful of people that saved my son's life and kept me calm when I was afraid for his life.

The Day I Knew I Wasn't a Teacher.

After I finished my undergrad, I took the CBEST.  I passed all areas in one day without studying.  Not studying was because I don't know that I was taking it seriously, but I felt good in knowing I am smart enough to teach kids.  I majored in English because reading and writing are my passion.  Studying literature tried to kill that passion, but most English majors go into teaching or law. Teaching is a fast track career in comparison to law school, and my kids wouldn't have to become orphans to the stacks.  I wanted to see what teaching would be like before committing a year and a half of my life to a teaching credential. I was brought on as a substitute teacher at a local college prep school.  I had a long term teacher's aid position with kindergarten and a lot of hopping around through all of the other grades.  I also had a long term teaching assignment as a high school English teacher. I was covering a couple of classes at the end of the day, a few days a week for a teacher that found a better opportunity teaching a class in a local college. I won't go into the bad side of private schools for students or teachers, but I will say I will never again teach at one, nor have I ever wanted to put my children in one.

The kids were great.  They were bright and friendly and energetic.  There were a few girls that reminded me so much of myself as a teen.  I wanted to wrap a sweater around them and tell them they were so much more than what they looked like.  I wanted to prove to them they could get attention from their work, and they didn't need it from the football team or a Dad that was always travelling for work or at work so he could pay her tuition fees.   There were lots of bright exchange students and kids that were so hungry for the attention that comes with being smart as a birthright.

One afternoon, I had the high school English class break into groups of three.  Throughout class as is often the case, some lunch time drama was spilling into class and rather than break it up, I let things fall where they did.  Don't get me wrong, when the kids talked about a fight after school, I was the first person to bring it up to the Dean.  When bullying became teasing through text, I confiscated cell phones. This was different.  This was a boy acting like a jerk, and thinking he could get away with it.  I'd seen him do this throughout the semester and didn't intervene before.  This time, she said (loudly and with authority) that she had taken it long enough. She went into a fully expressed tirade and I stood silently and let it continue until she was done. She stood up for herself in the last few minutes of class, then stormed off.  I quietly had a friend of hers go get her and come back to me once the bell rang. After hiding in the bathroom, they both came back.

The rest of the class started to tease him, and I intervened enough to regain some decorum.  We spent the last two minutes going over the papers they were critiquing for each other.  I couldn't quite find my joy in making their papers bleed red with corrections.  I felt conflicted because I knew what I was expected to do and didn't do it. Once the bell rang, I assured this boy I would have a talk with this girl, and to try his best to get on with his day.

When she returned to class, I had her sit for a bit with her friend and promised I would be held accountable to their next teacher. I won't forget how her delicate shoulders were still trembling with what she had done. It was a free period, and I wasn't in a hurry.  She calmed down enough to start explaining why she was justified in telling him off. I stopped her.  I told her that she didn't need to make me feel better about her choices.  I told her that friendships are a two way street and if you find you are becoming the road instead of heading in the same direction together, it's okay to find a new direction and travel buddy (a lesson I've needed to remind myself about my marriage repeatedly).  I also told her that the changes that teenagers go through can mean an uncomfortable shift and we hurt the people we trust the most, but that didn't make it his right to make her a punching bag.  It also doesn't mean it's too late to heal their friendship but it would require her to decide it's what she wanted.  I asked that next time standing up for herself might happen out of my classroom so it's not a reflection on my ability to keep order in the classroom.

I went home that day and thought about the situation and how I handled it.  I saw what I should have done as a teacher, and couldn't see how I might have done it differently because I didn't want to.  That was the day I knew I wasn't cut out to be an educator.  I can't teach people how to do what is right in the classroom when the Mom in me was standing on the table and cheering her on for standing up for herself and kicking the patriarchy in her life.  That, and I couldn't find passion in the classroom.  I watched the clock right along with the students.

Being On Guard

I let my kids play on my cell phone.  The worst that could happen is they might ignore a call or text and when they are all with me, the rest of the world matters much less anyway. I'm not setting up dates or sexting with anyone and anything that might upset them gets deleted.  They don't need to see angry texts from their Dad any more than I do. Last night Kid3 swiped left from my home screen and my top Siri Suggestion was the picture of a man I had been texting.  It was nothing too serious, and special enough that while it was what we were making it, I wanted it private and only mine.  He was beautiful and masculine and smart but now he's just a random contact with a great contact picture linked to his Facebook profile.

Immediately Kid3 wanted to know who he was because he could see what I did when I saw that man's face. He wanted to know who was talking to his Mom because the reality of another man taking his Dad's place is something he wants to face with his eyes open. His curiosity was piqued and teased with the sense of intuition that I felt when I knew there was another woman in my ex's life before he decided he was leaving. I knew as much as my son knew in seeing this chiseled face and the smirk of a juicy secret that there was something worth looking at and questioning. I assured him that I'm not dating anyone and the one person that makes me laugh and giggle on a regular basis throughout the day is only a friend. Right now, it's the truth. Honestly it was the truth when we were still texting and I was obsessively analyzing each word he sent. As far into the future as I can see, it will remain the truth until I meet a man worth changing my relationship status.

Yesterday I had 3 kids at the pediatrician.  We were running late and skipped breakfast so when I'm awarded Mom of the Year, I will skip the vending machine breakfast and the fast food lunch on the way to school in my acceptance speech. I forgot to make sure my order was wheat free, and I spent the night in pain. Dharmic balance, right?  I had a small chili from Wendy's and my milder discomfort was chest and back pain that woke me up throughout the night.  Envy me, I dare you. (There is a point, keep reading.)

Lately my dreams each night tend to lose focus by morning and I'm left with vague impressions and generally a good mood. Last night was different and I realized it was in letting my guard down. Usually before bed I rehash what I've done and what my next day will accomplish.  I enjoy flooding my mind with what I want to do and focus on.  My dreams then take on an adventurous flair where I am my own hero.  Sometimes I will have lucid dreams where I'm fully aware that I am dreaming, and I will visit people or have conversations where I am my own tour guide because I know I'm dreaming. In pain last night, the only focus was finding a comfortable position.  My dreams defaulted to the last two men I have wanted to think about lately. I actively redirect my thoughts when they cross my mind, in fact. They were pleasant dreams, but dreams I hadn't entertained in a while with intention.

When you are so driven to protect yourself, the hard shell that covers you makes it hard to see the sunlight and harder to breathe in the beauty around you.  Your vigilance searches for an attack and that search will usually find something, even if it is only in your head.

In my awareness of redirecting my thoughts each night, I lose out on the specifics of happy dreams.  I miss the joy that comes from letting my mind wander into the places where there was happiness, even if that joy is now a series of melancholy memories.

For my sons, one day I will meet someone amazing and I will decide he will be able to meet my kids.  My sons will be hyper aware and looking at this person in comparison to their Dad.  He'll treat me in a way that is better than their Dad treated me toward the end.  They'll see how happy I am and feel guilt because that's how this will play out.  They'll be angry because they can't control these changes in their lives. They won't see that there's someone so great with kids I will trust that he will be gentle with mine.  They will only see the consequences of choices they have no decisions in. They will always be on guard and it will take an amazing man and lots of patience to help them see otherwise.

Today I will not allow skepticism and doubt to rob me of the beauty I might miss.  I will let my guard down and there will be joy and pleasant surprises.

Love at the Start of Things

Late night musings.

I love the first hints of new life outdoors. Small animals are being born and it's probably a good time to visit the zoo.  Old plants are shooting out young buds of bright green leaves and the blossoms that have died away are starting as small fruits preparing for a summer and fall harvest.

I love the first week of school when kids are in school and I can walk into Target and breathe deeply along with the collective sighs of mothers everywhere that are basking in the first break in a long summer of arts, outings and too many playdates with the consequences of parenting you don't always agree with and without adult libations.

I love Mondays.  I spent many years looking at Friday as the start of my busy time.  It was kids coming home and excited about the weekend.  It was the start of the yelling and fighting and a house full of boys.  It was a weekend of being a short order cook running on too little sleep and breaking up too many fights.  Monday was mine and the time when I could recharge and reflect. Now Mondays after a kid free weekend mean my boys come home.  After so much silence, I'm excited to see them and hug them and surprise them with random tickles.  I love every other Friday for the same reason. But Mondays are special.

I loved being a student at the start of each quarter.  I loved the long line for my parking permit where I took the time to make new friends to complain about the line with, and picking out my textbooks in an empty bookstore the day before the quarter began.  I loved new pencils and pens and highlighters.  I loved index tabs and post it notes in every color being sold.  I enjoyed a good syllabus.  Most of them were a straightforward itinerary and list of expectations.  One was so full of humor that I still have it from some time before 2004.

I'm big on meeting new people.  I'm an ambivert with strong introvert leanings.  I like it when I push past my shyness into full comfort.  I can be intense and a bit too much at times, but I like that being shy is a choice at that point and new meetings and tender beginnings are the best time to see that.

I love a new book.  The start of a story in any format is always special, but I love the start of a new hardcover.  I love the smell, and the stiff binding.  I love the weight of it and the sound of pages clapping closed.  I love meeting new characters and paying attention to the differences in the tone of their voice.

I love blank pages because I'm not confined by what I've started and the story that hovers in my mind has the space to span widely across my heart, building and breaking in moments that are too large for quiet reflection.

I love it when I meet someone and as we talk I can see that they understand me.  It's not that they can see my point of view, but that there is a shared experience lived independently that binds us into a unique communal camaraderie. The experience helps us to articulate an open rapport, jumping past explanations and into expressions that go beyond what happened and open the door to the meaning we find in the paths we took through it all.

Reflections on a Great Weekend

A friend was teasing me about my desire to be a rescue effort on the news when I told him about my Saturday shenanigans. He thought it was hilarious as I was explaining how amazing it felt.  He sounded so much like my Dad as we were messaging on Facebook. His sense of humor and the amazing feeling of accomplishment had me in fits of giggles and full belly laughs. I really wasn't trying to be reckless in ignoring the signs warning me to not trespass because it was dangerous.  I wanted to explore and relive a few memories.  I've been thinking about it since I blogged This Water Baby Is Raising Her Standards.  I finally did a couple of days ago and shared the exhilaration in Rewriting the Past in the Present.  Today is about reflection.

Preparation

Dad was shocked and slightly appalled that I would hike in river shoes, a bikini, skirt and tank top.  I didn't think about sunblock and didn't bother when I saw I already had tan lines before hitting Santa Monica. When I headed out, I remembered that I mainly walked down the cliff before.  I had forgotten how fearless I was because I felt protected.  I had a hand to hold mine and a guide to tell me where to put my feet.  It was very much like walking before because I was leaning so much on someone else's strength.  This time my feet slipped and shifted in the soft dirt of crumbling rock. It was up to me to find solid footing and maintain balance.  I spent most of the time downhill in a crouch, holding onto solid rock where I found it. My confident goat hopping didn't happen until I made it down to large boulders and smaller rounded rocks where everything was mainly horizontal. I remembered my tennis shoes sliding through algae slick rocks and taking forever to dry, and never smelling the same.  I went in rugged river shoes and though it was still slippery, I had a better ability to remain vertical.  Good things happen when you aren't a lovesick puppy watching your man instead of walking hazards.

My Dad has silly ideas about rigging me up to rappel down the cliffside in hiking boots, but I was happy to do it the way I did.  And Dad's way makes me giggle.

Danger

I never thought about the danger.  It was about wanting to see what I had seen before. Really, I was looking forward to the many starfish I had seen.  It never occurred to me that it was too dangerous or that I couldn't do it.  I did it before, so there was no reason I couldn't do it again.  It never crossed my mind that the years between then and now would strip away my ability to do whatever I felt like.  Maybe I needed to prove to myself that capability begins as a mindset, but I already knew I could do anything I'm motivated to. I was afraid.  At times I was terrified, but I wasn't about to let fear stop me.  I had a goal down that mountain and below those waves. I wanted to see and do and be.

Change

I wanted to see the starfish and when I didn't, I had to know what happened to them.  I had to know if the seascape would have shifted in 20 years.  I did.  Believe it or not, I'm far less reckless than I once was.  I'm still pretty insanely impulsive on some things, but for the most part I'm more cautious than I should be.  When my bravery hides, I coach myself until I figure out how to conquer my fears and pick up that phone or climb that wall.  And my confidence is strong, but not like it once was. It looked familiar, but the sea life changed.  The creatures in the tide pools were all new neighbors as if they old ones had moved out.  I don't remember seeing sea slugs and hermit crabs before, or maybe I was just too excited about anemones, urchins, mussels and starfish.  I had to know and see the similarities and differences.  There were so many more hermit crabs than I remembered and they were so tiny that I could have probably set a couple on my fingertip if I wasn't so squeamish about their spider like crawl.

Souvenirs

20 years ago we tried to bring home some animals, but they were dead and stinky by the time he brought me home.  I had no plans to bring anything home Saturday for that reason.  My trip was about doing and mainly seeing. I also had no pockets and kept my car key and phone in my bikini top. It was an area ripe with life.  I imagined taking home a shell and not seeing the creature inside of it.  It would have been smelly.  Then I considered rocks and sea glass but thought maybe there should just be a next time with pockets.

Next Time

I don't know what my next trip to San Pedro will look like or how long I'll wait to go back.  I may never go down there again, or I may decide I need that amazing boost next week or next month.  Well, maybe not.  Part of being Mom means being the example I want them to follow. My kids will likely go to the Cabrillo Beach Aquarium, but I wouldn't take them down that cliff. And there are so many more places in my home town left to explore and no one to stop me from doing so.

Right Now

Right now I'm still basking in the badassery that kept me riding a wave of excitement and joy.  My body is still sore but I can at least avoid wincing when I walk up and down stairs or squat.  I think my body forgot it could do what it did and it's angry at the reminder.  It's like a happy set of battle scars that remind me I'm pretty phenomenal.  It hurts in a good way.  It reminds me of the amazing I just lived through when something tries to bring me down.

Today was filled with really low moments.  I usually love Mondays but today kinda blows as far as my start to a busy week. It's natural to have an amazing weekend and then Monday blues, but today was especially difficult with tears throughout the day for various non blog worthy reasons.  That just means the week will pick up and dust me off in amazing.  Life is cyclical and you can always expect rainbows after a heavy rain.  At least I do.

Custom Made Kicks

Greeting a friend, I told her about my week.  It was a good week as far as my weeks go. Still unemployed and Kid3 had been tantruming and banging his head on walls to the point where he gave himself goose eggs, but it was a good week. I did the dangerous and scary and conquered a cliff.  (Rewriting the Past in the Present) It was awesome! The person near us asked about kid3, and I explained the separation is hard on him and sometimes more so than others.

She wanted to try her shoe on my foot.  She wanted to compare her divorce to mine. I wish I could say that no one has gone through what I have, but my story really is a cliche.  Most divorces just are not one size fits all. No one can make any of us feel better for what we do or what is done to us. No matter what, it will chafe and leave you raw in delicate places.

"I know people that stayed together for the sake of the kids.  I didn't.  I decided the fighting was too much.  Is that what you did?"

I wasn't inclined to lie to her.  There's no point.  I couldn't make her feel better about her choices in telling her about mine, so it came out. It was a matter of fact statement that didn't have the energy or desire to hide something I didn't have a choice in.

I ripped off the bandaid and it didn't bleed all over the place.  It was a statement of fact much like telling her my birthstone is amethyst.  It was like saying my favorite color is green.  I was thrown away. It is a fact and nothing could or should be done about it. It is what we've made it and I'm choosing to accept that.

"No.  My husband left me.  He chose what we did and I didn't have a say so.  We didn't decide together. He didn't give me the choice."

I used to feel like it takes two to get together and two to break apart, and for so long I refused to let him go. We didn't fight and I thought we were happy. I didn't know that I should have been looking for it so I didn't see it coming. 

The thought valve wouldn't shut off and I remembered that he vowed to never give me another cent and he's been good to his word as far as the courts will allow.  He took me off of his medical insurance but won't divorce me because then I could request alimony. Years and children and promises became monetary value and visitation and kids that won't answer my call or his for that matter.  I hinted at things in An Open Letter to the Man That Abandoned Me but most of the stuff he's done and that I have done back came out when I was bleeding all over the place on social media or in conversations that always got back to him.  I eventually got it under control enough that places where I was spilling my heart out wouldn't stain his shoes.

Today's thoughts washed over me in icy pain and the shock was real, but I remembered it's low tide, and the bandage that was ripped off didn't take that thick layer of skin with it.  I wasn't bleeding all over the place.  I also wasn't hiding his actions in my shame.  I let go of that shame and I didn't see it happen. It was wrapped around me and must have blown off in a warm wind during a moment of joyful laughter. I don't want his shame back any more than I want him.

I didn't have a choice last year, but last year has nothing to do with the choices I'm making today. There isn't a record book that says I have to take the same path repeatedly. I can offer forgiveness and grace because those are choices, just like we choose to love. Just like I chose to let go. There's sunshine outside of his shadows.  There's lightness and frivolity in me that I thought had died. There's no waiting for him to move on with a new girlfriend, because that's been done and I got through that as well.

Today the floodgates were opened and the torrent that would have washed me away took a handful of moments from me.  There was no blood seeping out of me and left in the places all around me.  No tears were shed and the anger flashed like fire and burned out in pale grey smoke, leaving the acrid smell of destruction, but nothing more. There are no singe marks and the lack of visible destruction shows me how I've grown.

There wasn't a huge emotional fallout, although I did give in to a Mcdonald's craving that is already coating my insides in greasy salt and too much sugar as I raced to finish a strawberry sundae before it melted and hot fries before they turned into cold disgust. That might just be an emotional fallout from the body that is in so much aching pain from that hike yesterday.  I feel like it needs a great big thank you in replacing all of the calories burned.

Rewriting the Past in the Present

I woke up early yesterday and decided I wanted to walk over memories made in San Pedro in 1997. It was my first thought at 6 in the morning. Actually, I waffled back and forth for a few hours while in bed, thinking I would take a niece. One didn't answer her phone and the other two were busy being productive young adults.  I checked the weather report to see if those insane winds we just had would revisit and threaten my comfort at the beach. No crazy winds and it's too hot to not wear a bikini.  I've been to the beach alone plenty of times, but to go alone in a bikini is another thing altogether .  I almost stayed home, but I noticed the toe nail polish I chose earlier this week matched my bikini and took it as a sign and finally left after 10. The boyfriend I had in 1996-1997 was a special guy.  He was German and El Salvadorean.  We met through friends.  He knew them before he left Los Angeles for Far Rockaway, New York where he finished out high school with his grandmother because he was out of control in gang life here.  He came home with an accent that I will always have a thing for.  I think it was just the way he straddled ethnicities and racial identities the way I do.  He didn't fit in one place just like I couldn't and he felt like home. He was the type to remember every month anniversary with flowers.  He remembered I'm not fond of baby's breath and each bouquet was unique and beautiful.  He designed a lot of them himself. Before he bought his Mustang, he would hitch a ride with his best friend who was dating my best friend.  Once, he rode his bicycle from his home in North Hollywood to my home in Elysian Park just to see me.  He always had a hiking adventure planned, or wanted to take me out somewhere special.  He bought me a couple of dresses, and had a great sense of style. He once bought himself a jacket but gave it to me when he saw how much I loved it and how happy it made me. He made serious things fun, and sensual things funny.  I was devastated when our relationship ended. There were other men and a whole marriage happened since then, but I had always cherished this one memory in San Pedro and it was time to walk through it with the clarity of time.

I took the 110 Freeway to the very end.  I remembered when he drove and I fell asleep.  Falling asleep while someone else drives is always a sign I feel completely at ease and trust the person I am with.  I think falling asleep with someone else means you feel safe enough to give them your vulnerability.  I remembered waking up on the way because he had decided to race someone else on the freeway and the speed change and swerving woke me.  I startled awake, freaking out a bit and he laughed at me.  I laughed too, and only now see I would have been justified in being angry that he was always driving recklessly with little regard for my safety.

I got to the Korean Friendship Bell and walked around for a while.  I remembered holding hands and walking around the bell.  He was so happy and he looked all around, but I was just focused on watching him.  We stayed on the concrete path around the bell, but I didn't yesterday.  I wandered around the grassy hills all around because I wanted to explore all sides.  I want to see all there is to see.  I love a good view and forgot how much I do in the flow of being so much to other people.

I drove a block from the Friendship Bell and parked at Pt. Fermin Park.  We had hiked down from the park almost 20 years ago, then we ate Cheetos and  made sandwiches from all that he packed in the lunch he surprised me with.  Today I hopped the wall like we did before.  The fence seemed bigger today than it did before.  The "No Trespassing" signs were everywhere. And people were still ignoring them. I wore a bikini today with a tank top and skirt over it.  I put on my river shoes at the car and hiked down the way we did last time.  It was steep and at times completely terrifying.  I forgot about it because he made me feel safe back then. I focused on one step after another, and secure places to hold onto while the dirt shifted and wrapped around me feet, sliding me further along than I planned in many places. When I got to the bottom, I started hopping from rock to rock reminding myself of a goat, shocked and excited that I made it all the way down the cliff face without falling or injuring myself.

I walked around and looked at the life in the rocks. There were sea urchins and anemones.  There were so many tiny hermit crabs in the small tide pools.  In one area, I saw three sea slugs at once, and clams with long arms reaching out to hold on during the rise and fall of the tides and violent crashing waves.  The High and Low Tide schedule I had gotten from a lifeguard in Malibu informed me that we were already at low tide, and as I watched, I remembered seeing millions of starfish, when I couldn't spot one today.

At one point I saw a man hike over the rocks from the eastern side of the shore.  He stood at the base of the cliff, ready to head back up and he seemed content to enjoy the waves that were crashing and flooding around my ankles as I stood on boulders and watched a rocky shelf appear out of the Pacific. I smiled his way because it was a friendly place to be and everyone there was happy to be there. He waited and when his girlfriend joined him, I could see she was wearing strappy sandals.  I remembered with gratitude the last time I was there and I was warned to bring sensible shoes and had a hand to hold and constant guidance over the rocks.  I could remember and feel the love through all of these years and it was a great feeling as I released that memory of his gentle kindness.  I took a moment to reflect on the selfishness I witnessed today and redirected my thoughts as I saw the parallels in this stranger and my own life. It was Magic Mountain and Disneyland all over again, where we lost kids for a while.

As the rocks spread out before me, I realized that even in low tide, the water would still reach me, and wash around my ankles.  It still splashed the hem of my skirt even as I could see rock formations that were completely hidden when I first arrived.  It was this profound moment when it dawned on me that even in low tides, the waters will reach me, but they won't over take me because they crash so far away from my place - my focus, that the little waves don't matter.  It was a life lesson that I could apply to the roller coaster that is what started as a marriage.  Some days the waves splash much more painfully than others, but I'm at low tide, and it's nothing like it was in those first months where everything was devastating and the water raged above me and there was no air to breathe or a sun to warm the chill of the icy waters.

I decided to hike back up on the other side where that couple had ascended the cliff.  I turned and took a picture where  I thought I had reached half way.  In reality, I was only half way to Sunken City.  Sunken City was a small community of bungalows.  The cliff began to fall and the homes were evacuated and relocated.  Two of the houses fell into the sea, but the place is full of bare foundations covered in graffiti. While waves lapped around my feet and sea life swayed in the tide pools around me, I could see several people up there, watching me, and I assumed it was the top of the cliff, but lower from where I hiked down. The climb from Sunken City to the park was the most difficult. It's possible that if I had explored a bit I might have found an easier path. I reached the top and it felt amazing to do so.  I kept looking back and thinking, I could have died, and how dumb this idea was because I'm a Mom.

But I didn't die and it felt amazing to do it on my own.

I kept smiling because I did it.  I did it without twisting an ankle, falling, or scraping my hands or legs. I broke the law in going past the signs that were placed for my safety.  I went down, then up the side of a cliff without a buddy or even letting anyone know what kind of shenanigans I had in mind.  My sister knew I was planning on going to San Pedro, but I didn't mention the climb.  If I had one of her girls with me, I wouldn't have made that part of our adventures, but I felt fine doing it alone.  I also talked to my Dad and he wanted to know what I was getting into.  I told him I was on a field trip in San Pedro and he mentioned how much he wants calamari.  I told him he could meet me at Santa Monica later and we could have dinner.

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I arrived in Santa Monica and sunbathed for a while.  I chose a spot near the pier where there is no swimming a fewer people. I had already hiked in my tank top, and spent the day sans sunscreen (poor planning) so my awkward tan lines are a product of that, but I spent some time on a beach in my bikini, completely alone.  It took a while to realize no one cared what I looked like.  It's a truth I once danced in under the protective gaze of a husband and my constant vigilance over our children. Alone on the beach surrounded by other people . . . no one really cared about my stretch marks or soft parts and the ones looking sent a smile of appreciation.  I didn't bother to go in the water.  I am fully aware of how cold it is, and the icy sting on my ankles and calves in San Pedro were enough.  I walked up and down the pier and again saw that friendly photographer.  He found a ladybug on my shoulder and handed it to me, saying it was good luck.  His smile was friendly as always.  He opened his arms for a hug, and I returned it with half of one.  My instincts are telling me I'm not comfortable with him in that way because how I feel about a hug says a lot, and I will probably avoid that part of the pier unless I'm walking it with someone who wants to hold my hand.  I mainly wanted to see what people are catching, but I haven't seen any fish yet, so I'm probably not missing much.

I stopped in the aquarium under the pier to ask about the missing starfish.  The guy charging admission told me there was a virus that attacked them a few years back and there aren't really any in our waters anymore.  He told me to give it three or four more years because the last time he was scuba diving, he saw some tiny ones and they're coming back.  He was impressed with my observation and I had a few moments of joy at the attention to my curiosity.  I'm always curious, but it's not always a good thing to be. I left and wondered if I should have flirted with him, but didn't feel inclined to correct that.  I was still enjoying the way it felt to hike up that cliff and that feeling left little room for any romantic endeavors.

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It was my Dad and sister's first trip to Bubba Gump.  More than that, I was open to including them in part of my day, without altering my plans completely to make someone else happy. It was the first time I had been there since going with my family - with my ex.  It was nice to see their food joy and see them enjoy the pier as briefly as they did.  It was last minute, so they weren't prepared.  I walked them to their car and then walked to mine where I pulled on a pair of jeans, then pulled off my skirt.  I slapped on my Uggs because they keep the sand and cold out and walked along the shore to catch the sunset before walking along the pier again where I offered to take pictures of strangers that were trying to catch their coupledom in a Santa Monica Sunset. I sat on a bench and smiled at the day I had while a musician played Greensleeves.  I spent some time singing along to some K-ROQ classics with Rock and Roll Jesus, and one of these days I will take a picture of him. He sings and hustles almost every day of the week.  Most of them do, and I admire that. I had a bag of cotton candy to myself.  It was my reward for not drinking my calories at Bubba Gump when I had their unsweetened tea.

I left and took the streets again.  This time I thought I'd take a new street, which is something I used to do all of the time and how I found my way to Will Rogers.  I used to just drive and take streets that were interesting.  When I was younger, I kept a Thomas Guide in the trunk in case I got lost.  I got a little lost last night and when I asked Siri to rescue me, I started laughing at how far off I was.  I pulled over because I didn't trust her sense of directions, and looked at the map and saw where I went wrong.  I made two left turns where she was sending me right, and I knew where I was again.  That is growth for me.  My greatest adventures through Los Angeles used to be in getting lost and mapping my way out of it.  Then I dated gang members.  My ex was the only one to get jumped into Vet status, and that was after we had started our family.  No one got jumped out. They're still gang members. They will always be afraid to "get caught slipping" in a rival gang's neighborhood.  They will avoid certain areas in the off chance someone will recognize them, and it's not as simple as saying you have the wrong person.  For some reason, it's possibly worse to deny you're the person that made really bad choices.  I remember getting lost around the Citadel with the ex.  I went into a full on panic attack.  Last night getting lost gave me joy and great belly laughs.  I laughed at myself and laughed at how exhausted I was, and how much I was enjoying the ride home.  I even smiled through departing Dodger traffic, and decided it's time to look for a schedule because that area affects my escape hatch trips.

It was a lovely day and I'm so glad I listened to Goddess Gloria when I met her in that child support court and she suggested I re-do that memory in San Pedro.  She was right.  It was a good memory and he was a great guy, but he had a cruelty streak that I saw in how he treated my younger brothers.  I would never introduce him to my sons because of that.  It wasn't okay then when I was a selfish big sister, but I'm a mom now and it's my job to protect my kids.  I take that seriously.  He had a problem with accountability.  Nothing was ever a result of his actions, and I have enough sins of my own to cover.  He's another person not worth looking up, but that memory was special and I needed to see it for what it was and making new memories - memories of my accomplishments and my growth made yesterday so much more than what happened in 1997. And my old lady knees feel great. It's my calves and thighs that are looking for a day of soaking in epsom salts in my jetted tub. It hurts to move but I'm smiling.

Shadows and Clarity

We can split our lives into before and after and it would still lack the meaning to make sense. What was before made sense for then.  It was right to do and be and exist in the spaces we occupied. That time of a language spoken without words and thoughts pouring out in hope into the distance between us was everything and all, but is nothing now.  What was then can't make sense now because none of it fits like it once did.  It just doesn't fit. I imagine him now in the spaces of the nothing we share. The vision of time and distance help me see where he was real and large and where he was small. So small and insecure. The shadows looming above him are my creation. The shadows are false armor and his strength was in my shadows of light.  I see where I imagined him as he stands alone and the ripples of memory wash around him, stripping my fake for his real. I was trying to save him when I should have saved myself from him.

This island is my home and the forgiveness that pardons me shines on my skin, warming the cold cavern that once burned with passion. Embers fight the darkness but refuse to burn out. The haze of memories taste of citrus tang, and spin under the light of the moon with blinding clarity.  All I see is what was real and the place he once claimed as home was full of my light and now he walks in shadows I don't care to see.

The Authority of My Life and Choices

  I was talking to one of my sisters about my drive last night and how it dawned on me that I had been living the last several months as though I was still subject to someone else's rules. Even when my children are gone and the house echoes in shared custody solitude, I am on my own, but subjected to the authority of what I've always done, whether or not previous choices were mine.  It made me examine the rules I live by and who I give authority over my actions.  It made me look at what I bow down to. Yesterday it was a revelation born from my field trip.  I had this idea that a beach day should be a whole day.  It was the idea that it had to be lived out the way I had always done it because that's how it's always been done and it's the way other people have said I should do a beach trip. There was so much freedom in acting on my every whim to visit several places in brief moments. I stopped where I wanted to and stayed long enough to see and feel and be.  My latest struggle is for the power and authority in my life and my choices.

God

My parents love God.  My Dad kept a poster on the wall with the alphabet and characters in Hebrew because he was reclaiming a lost heritage in learning all he could about it. For Dad, faith comes in studying the bible and doing what it says, as he sees it. My mom reads her bible early in the morning and reminds me that God is in control.  Trust Him, and it's a lesson she reminds herself of. My parents had bible studies in our livingroom.

I grew up in a Foursquare Church.  I was baptized on September 11, 1994.  We went to Sunday school each Sunday morning and in the afternoon we went to a Thai Presbyterian Church.  My parents were open to allowing me to go to other churches.  I went to Baptist and Catholic churches with friends.  I went to Synagogues and Buddhist Temples (my Mom grew up in Thailand and was Buddhist until she married my Dad). They drew the line at a few places, but I saw it as an arbitrary line. In my teens as part of youth group, Mondays we had Discipleship Groups.  Wednesday nights were youth group services where I was part of the worship team.  I loved singing and in honesty, it was performance, and not worship.  There was inauthenticity in my praise and I could never again be on stage for worship for that reason. Fridays we had more fellowship.  Tuesdays and Thursdays I was learning karate at a Christian Martial Arts Dojo. God/Jesus/The Trinity was what my parents valued and it was a great way to be with other kids in a safe place.

I went through my rebellious years.  I refused God and church and rebellion became me knowing God is real but deciding He had nothing to do with me. About 5 years ago I started taking my family to church again because I needed to let go of my anger. There is community in shared belief, but there's also the belief that there is something in charge of everything, big and small and that there is a plan and that plan is amazing if you believe in it.  I'm not perfect.  I lust after strangers and have a newfound affinity for male Crossfitters everywhere.  I get angry and it takes a little longer than I'd like to let go of it.  My rage is based on my lack of control and my beliefs are based on willingly releasing control because He knows the plans He has for me and they are greater than I can imagine. I believe in a bible that tells me to remain faithful to a husband that has rejected and abandoned me. I still struggle with the fact that I no longer want him because I believe the bible says I'm not to move on with my life, but my God wouldn't want me to remain in an abusive situation, even if I can't find the verses to back that.  I read that God hates divorce but hear He loves the divorcee, and my struggle is in knowing that the anger and pain can turn into bitterness and at times I feel I can't control my rage.  I let it go, I give it up and I forgive the ex so it doesn't destroy me and any future relationships.  I've been entertaining the idea of dating, even though I am still very married.

Attention

I love attention. I love posting something and obsessively reading my comments.  I love checking my Wordpress views, or hearing the little alerts that tell me I have a like or a new follower.  I don't like my own posts on Facebook or Instagram but I can see the allure in doing that. (I just refuse to be that person.  Everything I share is solid gold, so naturally I love what I shared because in my sharing, my awesome is showing.)

In the 5th grade, my teacher's wife wrote a song, and culled her singers from her husband's classroom.  We did a two day filming at the VA property in West LA in a Japanese garden (go past the golf course past housing) where I was part of a classroom singing a song on Almost Grown (a season long drama) and having a kid crush on Raffi Di Blasio, because he was adorable. My freshman year was about Leadership and Drill Team.  I loved standing out.  I was a singing, dancing drama kid in high school.   I spent several months as a television extra in 2000.  It was great to have a job where I was booked because of my looks.  I was cute or pretty according to the casting directors and that was enough to get a job where I could look for myself walking in the background of my favorite shows.  I have a reel somewhere from the beauty contest on The X Show (1999 men's show on FX) because someone in the mall thought I was hot and would look great in a lifeguard bathing suit, several sizes too small. Being an extra had it's downside.  I had the biggest crushes on certain celebrities and those crush fantasies died when I saw how petite they were. It wasn't about short men, but men that looked like little toys to me.

I like to see who is watching me when I go out, even if they don't say a word.  I like being seen. When I was younger, I would wear low cut shirts or short skirts, but I don't do that anymore because I feel I should dress and act a certain way as a mom.

Motherhood

Before I was a mom, I was bar hopping, shooting pool, smoking cigarettes and binge drinking.  I got my first tattoo from a friend's Dad on their living room floor with a tattoo gun he made using a walkman and a stick of deodorant to transfer the design.  I was living out whatever fantasy I felt like and there were no rules because I was doing my best to break all of them.  When I got pregnant with my first, I immediately wanted to be a good mom.  I wouldn't even eat chocolate because chocolate has caffeine in it and caffeine affects lung development. My mom is amazing but it took a long time to see it.  The first glimpse of her amazing was during the first few months with a cholicky infant, on my own all day and night while the ex worked, and was jealous that he couldn't get more of my attention when he was home, (and that's where his first girlfriend met those neglected needs, and the first time he made me feel like his failings were my fault). I called Mom while sobbing and thanking her for not killing me in my infancy.  At the time, I didn't know I had the baby blues, but in the second half of his first year, I could see the many ways my mom showed us her love for us and I wanted to be that mom.

Parents

So much of what I see as acceptable falls on the authority of what my parents taught me about being a good child, daughter and person.  It follows their values and ideals.  As a good child, I need to be quiet and obey what they tell me. I need to sit quietly and accept what they say as the gold standard, no matter what I think about it.

The other day, my Dad was explaining a situation to me a second time and justifying his actions to me.  I was in the middle of looking for seashells along a beach, so I stopped him to ask, "I don't mind the retelling, but are you telling me so I understand why you did what you did, or because you feel bad and need to make yourself feel better about your actions? It's okay to decide you're wrong.  (He started telling me about the history of this relationship.) There's no reason to be stuck in what you have done when there are so many rewards in what you can potentially do."

As their child, I need to be nice and put the family first. God, family and education were what they taught us and through all of it, I felt the responsibility of being ladylike from my Dad because my mom reinforced hard diligent work. I used to hate her work ethic because I wanted her around and she was always working.  When I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare.  I would dream that my Dad killed my Mom, dismembered her body and put it in the barbecue.  Then I would wake up in a panic and look for her but she was always at work.  Being home alone with Dad in those first few moments after I woke up were terrible but he never knew about my dreams.  His PTSD is a family gift that keeps on giving. Dad may believe in negotiation, but my Mom is the one that has the analytical business mind.  Her English is something she's always been embarrassed by, but she speaks Thai and English, has a huge heart with more generosity than most, believes in and rewards hard work . . . I could go on, but this is about me.

In the conversation with my sister, we were talking about her going out to dinner with her daughter and how it wasn't the financially responsible thing to do, but then we both said, "why not?" (That was about our Mom, and had nothing to do with how we want to live.) We make space, give time, and put money toward what we value and what we value cannot be dictated because then we would be living someone else's dream.

Marriage

I'm not a fighter in relationships.  My fight is a silent treatment.  It's not in anger or as punishment, but more that I try to hide my words so they don't hurt others.  If my words are raging in my head, and causing me pain, I imagine the devastation on others would destroy someone I was usually so careful to shelter and protect. Maybe I should have seen him as less fragile. I'm much more interested in sacrificing so snuggling could happen.  I'm a hugger and snuggler and a giver by nature, but at one point I felt I needed to give so much of myself that I believed putting myself second was about making him happy and his happiness was good for me as well.  There was a backlash.  I would hide things or lie. There was lots of lying because I felt a certain way that didn't seem okay to him, so I hid who I was in senseless lies. I didn't see where his happiness became the only thing that mattered to me or him.  I didn't see how I taught him it was okay that I was second.

Patriarchy

My sister told me about an issue with her insurance agent. He tried to diffuse her ire by bringing up the brother in law that introduced them.  He asked how our brother was doing. She is a better person than I am, because that shift of authority onto a male without any connection to the transaction would have angered me further.  Tonight I went to the movies with my Dad.  He likes to talk through movies, and during the credits I pointed out the people watching the scrolling screen and suggested they might have been listening for the score.  He said he likes it when his kids teach Daddy something.  He meant it as a compliment, but I saw him infantilize me in calling himself Daddy, which isn't a name I've used since I was little.  A few months ago, I would have soaked up the compliment, and I'm not saying I reject it.  What I see is how he needed to fit his idea of me into a concept that didn't make him feel like less for the ideas in me that are bouncing around independently and in spite of him. I feel owned by the rules and values of a society that is still making strides in equality because we just aren't there yet.

Fitting in.

Fitting in means I'm willing to acquiesce myself into what goes against who I am in a way that makes others accept that I want to be around them. For the most part, I'd rather hide the truth than face the reality of who I am. Tonight I told my Dad about my blog and I very nearly lied about it.  I don't want to write under the weight of his judgement but it means more to be honest and authentic. I told him how to find it, but admitted I'd be okay if we never discussed what I write in it.  The power falls into what I've seen other people do or what would make fewer waves.  I'd rather be flexible and content, but so much of how I live and parent has to do with what others think and I have to make an intentional effort to put my kids first in terms of what is comfortable to them. I'm a pretty transparent person, but we live in a world where it's not normal and not typically accepted.

Me

I'm walking in a new authority.  I decided it's far better to belong.  I will be me in authenticity and passion and I will walk in faith that I am acceptable as I am, without needing to change to fit in. In the age of social profiles that are created to show others the best side we can possess, it's hard to just be who you want to be.  I can alter your perception with the angles and half truths I illustrate myself in but it is a constant challenge to not do that.  I don't use filters but I will crop out parts I of my body I want to hide.  The value in being authentic and refusing to hide is impossible to quantify.

I live in an indulgence of what feels good, and it can be excessively epicurean, but it makes me happy. I'm drinking alone right now. It's Whipped Cream Vodka with Simply Lime.  I feel good right now but I'm sure there will be editing in the morning.  When people ask how I feel about a movie, I'll usually say it was good because I assume most people don't really want to know what I think.  Tonight my Dad asked, and I told him.  I tore it apart like literature because that's what I do, and for the first time, I took ownership of my thoughts, no matter what I thought it would look like.  For my job hunt, I've been excessively picky because for the first time I'm directing my career and making sure it makes sense for me and my family.  That feels empowering and amazing. My autonomy isn't complete, but I'm getting there.

Your turn.

Where do you sit your power down, and who holds the authority over your choices?

A Panopticon Lesson on a Field Trip

I took a trip to Zuma Beach because it was suggested and I wanted to go.  I've had friends suggest ways to go out and meet people, but this trip wasn't about meeting people.  It was about getting out and exploring and doing something for me. I wanted to go and I was excited. I took the streets over 40 miles and I kept passing places that I had always wanted to see.  I was always interested but didn't have company or time.  Or I felt like I didn't have that freedom over what I wanted to do. Laying on the sand at Zuma, I watched surfers and birds.  I enjoyed the warmth of the sun.  I applied for jobs and secured an interview for tomorrow.  In that space where I was watching a young family build sandcastles I was thinking about my next trip and where I wanted to go, and that's when it occurred to me that this was my moment.  I didn't need to wait for next time or perfect conditions.  I would go and do what I had always wanted because this moment - this day was mine, and I was done giving up my time for the responsibility of what I was supposed to do based on someone else's rule book.

With joy and purpose, I headed south and stopped wherever the ocean was too beautiful to keep going.

A new favorite beach is Malibu Lagoon State Beach.  There was so much life everywhere.  There were birds and in one of the pictures I actually caught a fish jumping out of the water.  There were sea shells with live creatures still in them.  The lifeguard was so full of information and on his suggestion, my next long trip will start at Point Dume. He handed me a tide schedule and I plan on catching a grunion run this year.  I had been wanting to for over 20 years, and now I can stay out all night if I want to.

I stopped at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine on Sunset in Palisades.  It was beautiful and peaceful.  People drove into the parking lot with smiles and yoga mats.  There is a sign asking to turn off phone ringers.  It was beautiful and in some ways surreal.  It was interesting to see the Windmill and Houseboat near the shrines and statuary.  There was this beautiful cove of greenery.  I was so in love with how I felt that I took a selfie and forgot a more private picture for the blog, but I loved the way it felt, so I'm sharing it.

My day ended at Will Rogers Beach.  I sat in my car, watched the waves and ate my dinner.  I watched the runners and skaters and bike riders.  I smiled, and said a quiet thank you to a few men that cared about their bodies as much as I did in that moment.  Then I started practicing that not so obvious look that is a covert check out and far less creepy than my lack of impulse control. Before the sun went down behind the clouds, I took a nap.  It was a really good day.

There was a moment while I was laying on a blanket and watching the men in wetsuits as they straddled their boards, and realized I could go to all of the places I passed on the way to my destination.  I decided the present moment was mine to take and that was huge because I was giving myself permission by deciding I didn't need permission. It happened around noon at Zuma Beach, but the gravity of it didn't hit me until I was driving down Sunset on my way home and passing Vin Scully Avenue around 8 or 9.  For years I felt confined to the plans and agendas of other people. I had always felt like I needed company or permission.   I didn't have access to time that was my own for dreams or frivolity. Here I was, spending an amazing day proving to myself how remarkable this new freedom is, and then it hits me, we've been sharing custody since the start of October. It's the middle of April and I'm only now deciding I could go and do what I wanted to do.  It was a shock to finally see that my restraints are in my head as ideals of what I am supposed to be or how I'm supposed to spend my time.  I am my own warden.

I Need Some Space

I was just talking with a girlfriend about the spaces we need. I don't have many girlfriends. Having more than one female friend is a new area of growth for me, and even then I don't call the ones I rely on.  I see them when I see them and open up completely when I do. There are a few amazing exceptions, but for most of my life, I have had a hard time making a connection with other women.  I've heard people say that women are too full of drama but that's not my cop out.  I was never all that girly and that lack of girliness was obvious and uncomfortable. My loaner and somewhat Tomboy side is my weakness and my strength. I'm not into purses and shoes, but I love hand me downs from my sisters because they come from my sisters.  I get my retail therapy in grocery stores because I love food.  I hate clothes shopping.  It's necessary at times.  I get that, and I will shop but I hate it.  In high school I wore a 36DDD bra.  At my largest I was wearing a 40G.  I'm not a fan of looking for clothes that I love and can never wear. I play in makeup sometimes, but I'm not an artist.  It doesn't always occur to me to wait for someone to walk around a car and open the door for me because I can do it myself.  I still don't know my way around a curling iron and only got the hang of a straightening iron in recent years.  In Junior High one of my great (male) friends named me "Lion Lady" and he loved to pull my puffy mass around my face.  (I didn't mind.  It was better than being called Chewbacca for the same reason when I was younger.)

I had a friend right after high school that always wanted to hang out and I loved nights when all I planned to do was stay home and do laundry.  She wanted to be attached even then and her need for connection ended a friendship I couldn't appreciate.  Most of my friends at that time were guys.  We hung out and drank together.  This was my pizza and beer crew. We hit night clubs together.

I watched my male friends in their relationships.  Part of it was the maturity level we were at, but they needed space at times.  They were ready to romance their girlfriends and hook up with others in between, but they needed their time with the boys where they could claim their brotherhood meant more than whoever they were playing with that night. I'll spare you the phrases that rang loudest while they were pounding beers and smoking cigars and cigarettes. They needed space to reset.  I understood that.  They were gaming on a console or balling on the courts.  They were street racing their rice rockets. It was a thing. This was their reset.

When the ex wanted to go out with friends and paintball all weekend, I got it.  When he wanted to go on concert tours for his rap music, it was okay.  He was chasing his dreams.  When he wanted to go deep sea fishing all weekend, I remembered to wash his fishing clothes separately so we didn't all have to smell like fish guts and sunscreen.  He needed to reset with the boys and I understood it and didn't complain.  My job as mom was to be with my kids.  That was how I usually felt.  It was the life I accepted.

I had my impressions of what a mother was from Joan Cleaver but more so from my own parents.  They were usually hard at work or sacrificing for our family.  Dad took a road trip across America and that was when Mom decided she was done.  Their divorce was final the same month I turned 18. I have never even seen either of my parents drunk or high.  Dad used to smoke pipe tobacco.  It was cherry vanilla, but they were the example of family first that I grew up with. My adolescence had a reality check and rude awakening once I became a parent.  I couldn't do what I wanted to, and I felt I was supposed to want to be a stay at home mom.  When I found out about my ex's first girlfriend after we got married, I decided I needed to finish my schooling. I needed something that was mine and had nothing to do with being wife, mom, daughter, or sister.  I needed something that was selfish and all about me.

After one of my last finals at Glendale Community College,  I was planning on meeting a friend and his girlfriend at a local bar.  He was one of those guys I used to hang out with.  I was one of the guys to him and one summer he picked me up after work every day and we would stay for a while at Manhattan Beach where he was learning to body surf  and I was soaking in the sun.  We'd go through an 18 pack at my place and he'd fall asleep on the couch. I covered him with a blanket and he called me mom. That evening it was just hanging out for drinks at a local dive bar. It was really one drink.  I ordered a Cape Cod that was too strong and slowly nursed it, begging my ice to melt and sucking on my lime wedge. I ordered a second one I couldn't finish. My ex insisted on taking me and we didn't have a sitter so he waited in the family van right outside with our kids while I had a drink in a bar.  We had been married around 4 or 5 years at this point and I had learned by then that going out wasn't always worth it in the end, but I really missed my friend.  As a wife, eventually going to Target or the grocery store meant he would call me around an hour after I left to make sure I was okay and coming home soon because the kids were being kids and he needed help.  Then I would get home and usually unload and put all the groceries away myself.

Now we have shared custody. My time alone starts tomorrow after they leave for school.  I'll have a five day stretch to do whatever strikes me as fun.  I'm thinking of heading to the beach in jeans with a sweater because I expect it to be cool.  I'll watch waves and pack a lunch. I may take the streets there and back.  I'll come home and taste the burn of alcohol and I won't worry if I've had too much to drink or acted too drunk.  I'll put on loud music and probably dance in my underwear while drunk because that sounds really fun right now, but my kids are home and I will not stress them out with my need for freedom.  I'll watch bad television and read mediocre prose with a good storyline.

I like these spaces.  I don't want to give these spaces up.  These spaces make going solo on expeditions my first choice and dating is not an option if I want to keep these spaces as my own. These spaces help me see the abuse in the spaces I didn't have. Even if checking on me was framed as needing help, it was control that was taken from me. These five days are mine.  I'm eager for the chance to kick the joy into them.

Under Construction and the 6th Street Bridge

I visited the Sixth Street Viaduct today.  It's being demolished and replaced because it's not safe in our shake happy state. I could go into the North American and Pacific plates and the mysteries of Alkali Silica Reaction, but I'm sure not everyone finds it as fascinating as I do. My earth science geek out can wait.

It was a field trip suggested by a friend from high school.  He's been the reason I've been taking so many field trips lately.  I told him I was staying home and job hunting as my latest career move and I conserve gas for the necessary outings.  He pushed me to just enjoy myself and I'm really glad he did.  I love my field trips and I've found so much healing along beaches.  My next trip is Zuma because he says it's his favorite and he makes it sound amazing. Tomorrow looks promising. I can job hunt using apps between selfies and iPhoneography.

He's one of those friends that always leaves me in better shape than he found me in. Every so often he wants to know how I'm doing and he gives me just enough push to encourage me while guiding me. He's a salt of the earth kind of man with just enough sweetness to let me know he's always going to be a heartbreaker. We talk about my kids and he reminds me this will be okay in the end because he has an optimistic streak even I'm envious of.  I remembered how shy he was and he reminded me it's because I was always flirting with him.  I had forgotten about that, but I've always had a thing for guys in football uniforms so I wouldn't put it past me.  It wasn't intentional and he didn't make me feel bad about it in reminding me. We're just friends but there are moments when he'll call me love, or ma, or princess and I feel loved and not so thrown away.  He was the only one I wanted to talk to when I was having chest pain and eyeing that hot Italian ER doctor.

He suggested I check out the bridge and I asked if I could just wait to see the pictures he takes, because writing screenplays and capturing artful pictures is his thing.  It was one of those moments where he was calling me a princess. In my defense, he had just suggested I don't carry a large bag because it would make me a target and I was thinking about needing an escort. In most of what I do, I don't have an escort. I was thinking about not going because there is construction dust. It's a hard hat area . . . full of construction workers . . . Okay it was the thought of that last bit that had me sold. His warning on my mind had kept me in my car for the most part. I drove around and under the bridge, but I only got out of the car for a quick couple of minutes because I was wigging out about muggers and rapists at 10 in the morning lurking around dilapidated and graffitied buildings that were crumbling and abandoned in a quiet area in Central Los Angeles.

On my way home I thought about the bridge being destroyed.  I watched the machines pick at the concrete for a while.  It is falling apart and unsafe, but it still took so much work to chisel it away.  They used water hoses in jetted streams along with heavy machinery.  For such a large task, there weren't that many construction workers.

It made me think of my life in the last year or so.  There were times when structures were being demolished and it felt entirely lonely.  The beauty I saw in the past was being destroyed and it was hard to watch and painful to live through.  I didn't use a hose, but there were plenty of tears to help wash away the debris. I couldn't imagine what my life would look like as my own. My team was tiny.

Rebuilding started and I missed the foundation being poured because I was so busy missing the old me.  My construction and support team has gotten larger.  There have been a few men working hard to build me up and restore my confidence.  I may have even used one or two as a tool in strengthening my self esteem. I sometimes feel bad about that. There has been so much undeserved family support. The audience that watched me fall apart under the loss of a marriage I couldn't imagine living without watch me grow in silence, or offer quiet acknowledgement that they're glad I'm no longer begging for another chance to prove I'm willing to beg for scraps. They stop in from time to time and have watched my frame being erected.  They're curious now that the wiring and plumbing are in and the mudders are sealing seams in my drywall.  I'm feeling stronger and I can see my amazing when I look in the mirror and that is pretty epic. I can see what the architect envisioned when the structure was destroyed because of the first major cracks from a slipping foundation.