Leaps and Nets

"I think what I'm really looking for is some stability."

It was an unintentional confession that slipped out between fries and took me by surprise more than him. "Of course," he nodded, "it will come with time. Grad school is really one big leap of faith in which you hope the net appears in the future."

I agreed quickly, but I couldn't help but think of the bumps, scrapes, and bruises I got from the last time I took the leap. The last time when the net wasn't there. Forget bumps, scrapes, and bruises - I have wounds and scars.

But don't we all?

Maybe not from grad school (or law school) but from some time when we took a giant leap of faith and expected the net to be there in the future. And maybe the net wasn't there and maybe we will carry scars with us for the rest of our lives as a result. But maybe those scars don't hurt as much as they once did and we forget about them for longer or maybe we start to think of them as what makes us who we are and maybe even learn to love them a little bit along the way. And maybe we take the leap again.

I took the almost very same leap again. I'm proud of myself for it.

I spent Saturday walking around Brooklyn, exploring neighborhoods, thinking of the condo I want to buy someday. Someday kinda maybe soonish - as in a handful of years from now rather than a handful of decades. It's the same type of daydreaming I used to do five years ago, with thirty on my mind. It unexpectedly and quickly became impossible and that was somewhat heartbreaking.  So I put it aside and I haven't thought of it much in the past few years. But on Saturday those daydreams unexpectedly reemerged and I wondered around new neighborhoods, piecing together a new timeline. A timeline built on faith that this time the net will appear.

It's the faith in the net of which I'm most proud.

Leaping the second time took no more faith than knowing the lack of net didn't kill me the first time, so it probably wouldn't kill me a second time. Leaping the second time meant only putting my faith in my ability to survive. Faith the net will appear means more to me. It means I might not have to do it all on my own. I might actually thrive.

And if I can take this leap again and have faith this net will appear again, then maybe I can start taking a few other leaps of faith and one day believe in those nets again, too.




p.s. "leap and the net will appear" was an old mantra of mine years and years ago. i'm glad it's reappearing again.

Sunday Morning Dreams :: This Time Around

I do my best dreaming in hooded sweatshirts with coffee in my hand. I do my best dreaming on Sunday mornings looking for places to live in cities far away. (Or not so far away, as it has turned out. Because it has turned out. Deep breaths and a reminder, it has turned out. It will turn out again.)

Soft melodies and bold beats as always, and this time around words, words, words. This time around more certainty that no matter what. This time around less of a dream, less disbelief, less uncertainty. And there is you and you and you. And you, who has always been there. Even before and ever after. We are. Dreaming and doing. And encouraging. You and you and you. Thank you.

I do my best dreaming in hooded sweatshirts with coffee in my hand. I do my best dreaming with you sitting next to me, far or near.

This time around there is you.

For The Burst

Don't try to put your hand in mine.  My fist is closed; I'm hanging on too tightly.  To handles of hope or thin air.  Or I'm waiting for my nails to leave crescent moons on my palms in a tiny, perfect, red row.  I'll look down and point - I thought I had something there.  Perhaps I did, at one time.  My hand is clenched and I'm afraid to loosen my grip.  Afraid to fall into the dark bellows.  I can't see them, but I'm as certain they exist as my handles of hope.  50/50 probability, perhaps they cancel each other out and I'm just floating with tired, clamped fists.  Don't try to put your hand in mine; I can't let go; I can't hold on.

Don't try to lead me.  My eyes are closed and I refuse to open them.  I can't see you in front of me.  I'm listening to instructions louder than yours.  Their whispers come in spurts, barely audible, but they, and the space in between, drown out your good intentions at any volume.  I'm protecting us.  From saying yes to paths I know are wrong and from saying no to paths I think are right.  The confusion that follows when I don't listen closely enough.  To myself.  You'll feel it, too.  You'll look around and I won't be behind you.  I'll leave you standing alone.  Or worse, I'll stand there in tears and we won't understand why.  Don't try to lead me; I don't know you are there.

I'm waiting.  For the burst.  The explosion.  Potential turned kinetic with a catalyst, it all soars upward and then falls into place.  Where I can stand still in the present, look around and smile.  Stop preparing, creating, craving, starving for this change.  That takes its time getting here.  This place of mine, this space of mine.  To softly place my identity.  To say this is who I am and this is how I choose to grow.  To say I belong here.  I'll put out a welcome mat and hang a wreath on my front door.  I'll slip my hand into yours and ask, "Where shall we go?"

Reality, Idealism, and Magic

"The difference between you and I is that you are an idealist while I am a realist."

I am an idealist.
 
This "ohmygod when am I going to find a freakin' job" never-ending phase of my life actually comes right in the middle of "who am I and how did I end up here?" panic. Everything gets tangled up when you are not paying attention. Pay attention to yourself. I knew this once, but lost it over the years - "Be still woman, and know thyself." (-Sarah Ban Breathnach)

I told a friend recently that I don't know what I believe in anymore. Anymore. Implying that I once believed in something, and I lost it along the way.  I started thinking about things I do believe in: bills, dishes, laundry, gravity, physics. Uh, random list, right? (They are things that I am certain do exist.)

I was a Religious Studies minor in college. Translation: I took a few classes on the study of religion, not to be confused with theology. Religion orients a person to the sacred among the profane. Think of it as though you are lost among the trees deep in the forest. You have no idea how to get out of the forest or move around in the forest. You are disoriented. Until you spot one that has a red ribbon wrapped around it. Ah-ha! That is the marker that tells you where you are, which direction you are going in, and where you are headed. The tree with the ribbon is the sacred; the trees around it are the profane. The sacred orients.

There is obviously a lot more to religion than this, and Mircea Eliade would think I butchered this basic explanation, and my Favorite Professor Ever would probably cringe at it, but you get the point. Well, actually, the point is that I may not be looking for the sacred, but I have to stop believing in the profane. I actually listed things I hate (hello, dishes!) or know nothing about (physics!) as things I believe in.

I've been spending some time hanging out with Martha Beck. Have you heard of her? She's pretty awesome and a longstanding, good friend of mine. Well, except that she doesn't know it. She's more of an imaginary-type friend. And by hanging out, I mean reading her book and listening to her speak via mp3s on her website. But anyway... she offers a lot of great, practical life advice - super down to earth and rational ways to live well. That's all great, and if I was making a rational recommendation of her work to you, I'd go into the details. But I'm not. I just wanted to tell you that...

She believes in magic. Well, it's not quite that simple, of course, but she uses the word a lot. Okay, not a lot, but she uses it. And when she does, it makes me happy. It makes me hopeful. She talks very practically about finding/creating/achieving life goals - like, writing a novel. And then she says that magic happens - like when that novel is done and needs a publisher and you have no freakin' clue how to even begin to find one, you will get a flat tire when you're driving to the store one Saturday afternoon. And some random lady will stop to help you. And she, SHE will be a publisher, eventually, YOUR publisher. I love that possibility. So, I decided I'm going to believe in Martha Beck's magic. Because it makes me happy. It makes me hopeful.

(What? It's not that simple to go from believing in dishes and gravity to believing in magic? But isn't gravity kind of a form of magic? How does the center of the earth have the power to pull? Magic! How do dishes keep accumulating? Magic! (Of course!))

I know, I know. I'm still a bit of a skeptic, too. But I'm going to try believing in magic for a while, because I honestly don't think it can hurt. Especially if I implement realistic life steps that come before the magic. Someday, I'll start sorting out what I Believe in, but for now I'm choosing to believe in Martha Beck's magic. Because I think we all need something we can believe in. I certainly do.

"I work hard for idealism IN SPITE OF realities. I don't consider that a negative."

That response came out of my mouth before I even thought about it. Years later, I still stand by it.  I know that life is hard and not fair.  But that doesn't mean there can't be hope and healing and goodness.  I'm pulling those parts of life closer to me and holding on to them a little bit tighter.   

(Also, I don't think it's a coincidence that I spend a lot of my job search time on idealist.org. Just sayin'.)

What do you believe in?

To Give To The Light

I'm dancing in the sunbeams streaming through my bedroom window.  Warm, soft, bright.  I have a slight bounce and a small swivel propelled by spontaneous joy.  Not to be confused with rock-hard movement anthems designed to pump-myself-up.  This movement feels airy and free.  My speaker wires sprawl out over my bed and my computer rests too close to the edge, but I'm dancing, dancing, dancing.

I spend the afternoon with the windows open cleaning out the (figurative) cobwebs and dark corners of my teenage bedroom, preparing it for this next step.  Exorcising stale high school energy.  Stripping my bed of the pillowcases that held my tears earlier this week, earlier this summer, earlier this year.  I've declared "a new beginning" time and time and time again.  And I'll declare it again, because tiny new beginnings still move time forward.  Still move me forward.  Make heavy feet feel lighter.  I hold tighter to hope than I did the last time I grew in this room. 

I found the light of my situation here, in these sunbeams, bouncing off the hardwood floor.  I'm soaking them in and promising to release them when someone else needs them.  I'm bringing in this new season with love and light.  "Dar la luz" - to give birth in Spanish - literally translates "to give to the light."  New beginnings, sunshine, and hope - Just keep me where the light is.

This City

I'm faceless here.  I can try to walk into the coffee shop through the wrong door; and forget to cross the street because I'm too busy trying to fix my broken umbrella; and drop a tear or two huddled under the scaffolding during the downpour; and flash nearly half the city because I'm not used to dresses over subway vents; but I don't have to explain it, choke it back, hold it down, laugh it off.  I can release and reset alone, standing in a crowd - an off day in an off time period.  This too shall pass.  And they let me pass, faceless.  I am grateful for anonymity that brings peace and order to my thoughts.

I know this city offers harsh realities.  It rubs abrasively.  The concrete can skin the hands and knees when you fall, and it is hard not to trip here at one time or another.  I know it is impossible to avoid that sting.  I know that sometimes this city leaves you wishing somebody would offer an open hand. But I've found that hand, too.  The warm smile holding a door; the chuckle when I've let the shutter close too many times on the same scene - "you should read your manual!" - he doesn't realize that it's not the camera that isn't quite right, it's that my eye isn't quite right; the wave-on-through because "your bags look heavy!"; the gratitude when I bend down to pick up her son's hat that he tossed aside from the stroller.  I've found that here, too.

I know there are things I still need to learn about this city.  Like how hot and damp the air is at 5am in late July.  That the heat and night sky cling to the early morning and lay themselves out down the streets.  That the streets are almost silent even though taxi cabs still rush by and delivery trucks unload from the sidewalks.  Coffee shops and breakfast places display dark windows or a soft yellow glow from somewhere deep inside, where a single employee puts on the first pot of coffee.  It is hard to find a bottle of water at 5am.  I'm listening for the sound of early morning birds.  It's an instinct I can't suppress, but I'm not expecting to hear a bird chirp.  Instead, I'm listening to the rush of a taxi cab engine and the clank of a delivery truck suspension.  The traffic doesn't drone at 5am the way it does at 5pm.  At 5am each vehicle has its own solo.

I crave the faceless days and prepare for skinned knees.  I appreciate the kind hands and warm gestures, theirs and mine, that take on special meaning when cloaked with anonymity.  I'm walking these concrete sidewalks, next to the droning traffic and the 5am solos.  I'm where I want to be.

Text Messages and Summer Strawberries

She texts me when she gets up in the morning.  Then the text messages roll in haphazardly as the hours of the day move along, but the morning texts have become a regular occurrence.  Not automatic enough to call a habit, or with enough history to call a ritual, but it's the intent and the newness, the freshness, after all this time, that honestly remind me of summer fruit - sweet and refreshing.  In the past, I've gone months without hearing from her, worrying about her, wondering where she is, and who she is with.  Trusting her with her life decisions, because there isn't anyone else.

She turned 18 last week.  A few days ago, really.  And her birthday card is late, but she must know by now that everything I send her in the mail arrives late.  Last birthday, I didn't even have an address for her.  That summer I worried ceaselessly.  I've watched her grow over the past five years, and along the way I've tried to teach her "life things".  She teaches me, also.  Love and strength and perseverance and forgiveness and protection and faith in people, even when there are too many reasons to the contrary. We keep our roles, mentor - mentee, but oh, do I learn from her.

Five years ago, I vehemently believed that she would be a part of my life on her 18th birthday.  But don't we always believe that about the people we care about?  And yet, sometimes they slip away with the passage of time.  Or step away.  Or turn away.  And at times, with her, I thought, "Maybe this is it.  Maybe I lost her this time.  Or maybe she lost me."  It's hard to tell who does the losing when two people both cared at one time.  I'd tell her "Never."  And I would believe it with every bone in my body.  Because she needed me to believe it, to say it.  And I needed to believe it, to say it.  I'd drive the doubt away, but it was there.  It existed.  It has to exist or there would not be certainty.  And I told her I was certain.  In some ways, I always was.

These morning texts come regularly now, from this girl young woman now across the country.  They give me hope.  For another five years of learning, and perspective, and love.  For both of us.  And they give me hope for other relationships in my life that need my conviction right now.  Hope that intent and newness will come after all this time and remind me of fresh summer strawberries.

From the Department of Christmas in July

I made a Christmas Wish List many Christmases ago.  I folded it up, stuck it in an envelope, addressed it to Santa Claus (at the North Pole, of course), stamped it, and pushed it down the slot of a blue mailbox miles away from where I lived.  I was twenty-two.

The list had everything I wanted that December, from that silk shirt in the glossy magazine, to a second chance with a boy who was The Boy at the time and for a long time before and for a long time after that.  I penned down the name of my Dream Law School and other items that weren't as life-changing.  I scribbled the list in my journal, so I could point to it later and say - "A-Ha!  Christmas miracle!  I KNEW there was hope!"

I didn't get anything from the list that year.  I didn't tell anyone (other than Santa) that I wanted a silk shirt.  It was impractical and I felt silly asking for it.  So I wrote it down on my Christmas Wish List with after-Christmas sales in mind, but even discount prices didn't match my bank account that year.  The Boy turned into a "friend" and eventually a boy.  The Dream Law School sent me a rejection letter; I put it in the pile behind my acceptance letters and moved on.

Maybe I asked for the wrong things - that is what I told myself when none of it came Christmas morning or the mornings after.  I rationalized that the silk shirt was pointless in muddy Vermont, and I didn't travel anywhere that warranted a luxury shirt.  The Boy perhaps needed to become a boy, and the Dream Law School was all wrong for me because it had no real guarantees I would get into the joint Master's Program.  (I had PLANS, you know.  I couldn't have rejection tripping me up.  HA.)  I had asked for all the wrong things.  Who was I to know what I wanted and what was good for me?  I never again even entertained the idea of writing a letter to Santa.  Which somehow translated itself to never again whole-heartedly saying "THIS is EXACTLY what I want."

Looking back, I could have married The Boy and been blissful for eternity.  The Dream Law School probably was a better choice for me, even if I didn't get into the joint Master's program.  The courses better fit my career goals.  Classic silk shirts never go out of fashion, and I wasn't going to stay in Vermont forever or even another winter season.  Nothing I asked for was wrong.

But how important are those things really?  And is now the best time to judge what I needed/wanted/should have been asking for?

Maybe the right thing to put on that list was strength to endure the trails that awaited in the future that I didn't even know existed.  That would be if I was asking for things for myself and not for other people.  Because really, if I could have asked for anything that year, it would have been for my landlady's daughter not to have gotten in that car.  And for the pain to disappear from the world of my precious eighth grader.  And for the word "homeless" to stay out of sentences where the kids I cared so much about were the subject. I just didn't know all that was coming, so I asked for a small piece of luxury and education and love.

Today I am happy where I am in my life and where I went to school and I even (much to my surprise) received a gorgeous silk shirt from my mom last Christmas.  I thought of my Christmas List Wish to Santa when I opened the box.

I don't know what challenges the future holds.  Everyday I ask the universe (Santa Claus?) for the strength to face them as they arise.  In addition, I am slowly learning how to say "THIS is EXACTLY what I want" without mixing it with what I want for other people, or wondering if I'm asking for the wrong things.  If they are the wrong things, bring them on, I can handle them, too.  I'm learning how to nurture hope again.  I'm making small lists on napkins and on corners of scrap paper of the things I want.   The life changes and tiny details.  I'm thinking of combining them and sending Santa a Christmas Wish List in July.  Maybe  just as a heads up to the universe that I know what I want - and I'm not afraid to say that anymore.

Break

[written on 11-21-08, 1:27am]

I have a bed I visit, on the third floor of the store, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights when the tears feel too familiar. Wrought iron cottage style frame, red patchwork quilt, sheets with crocheted ends, folded over to let the deep red fleece catch a breath of fresh air. Standing in front of the bed, my bed... I can see myself...

-- I am lying in it, high above the ocean below, waves crashing against the jagged gray rocks. I can smell the sea air, taste the salt, feel the spray. A chilly afternoon in mid-October, in my bed, between the glossy floorboards and rugged dark beams holding up the high ceilings. Cozy under the patchwork quilt, the only softness among the hardwood floors and towering ceiling. Centered in the vast open and empty space, devoid of daily clutter and tumbling thoughts. Light from the clouds, room to breathe, the crashing waves, sweet solitaire moments --

Standing in front of the bed, my bed, I effortlessly find myself lost in the future moments of calm and understanding. I have a bed I visit, on the third floor, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights.

Goosebumps

[9/4/07]

Goosebumps tickle,
a hollow stomach cavern forms,
from resistance to shivers,
traveling up and down and out,
head to toe.

Air conditioned dark space wide open almost empty,
and too cold for late August.
Thunder claps outside, and he sees a flash,
but rest assured, it's not lightning.
I am - lightening.

My heaviness evaporates and rises;
I would follow it up,
into the bright lights,
but shivers hold me to the floor.

Rock to the guitar's rhyme,
three melodic voices,
and an out of place "shaker."
From Cuba?
Cold shivers and music's tingle combine,
inseparable.

An arm around my shoulders -
warmth to the left, warmth to the right.
Familiar friends -
it has been too long,
a new tune in an old soothing voice,
highlights of new sweetness,
sugary touches of chorus.

The old and the new,
sweet combination of warmth and chill.
Lightning outside.
Lightning inside.

That First Night

We promised we would go to the mstrkrft concert. He purchased our tickets, and honestly, we wanted to go. That first night out in D.C. required something, anything, different from our sweatpants Friday, Saturday nights of the weeks prior. My train pulled into the station three, four hours late. Her flight landed five, six hours late. Broken trains, skin rashes, thunderstorms, and standing room only, we collapsed into our dorm-room apartment with only enough time for Thai food and a quick get-away to the concert. Black lighting, techno beating, bright lights flashing, we had finally arrived in our summer city. Exhilarated until yawns, heavy eyes arrived. A projected three a.m. appearance of the main act sent us in a cab back to our dorm-room apartment before mstrkrft even arrived at the venue...

Our delayed arrivals eliminated the time for our planned Target run. Carefully packed suitcases full of t-shirts, shorts, suits, shoes, didn't allow room for blankets, sheets, pillows, towels. Our beds stood bare in our rooms. Dorm-room mattresses on dorm-room frames under dorm-room lights. Without sheets, pillows, blankets... We stood for a minute, evaluating the situation, chilled by the airconditioned air. And then we did the only thing logical in a situation like that. We unpacked our suitcases, made pillows with t-shirts, and blankets with our suit jackets. We slept under our clothes that first night. Exhausted from a day of traveling, a night of techno beats, and a year of struggles, we couldn't be more pleased with our arrival in our summer city, and nothing felt more right than that first night asleep under our clothes.

Realities

Sticky, sweaty, elbows jab. Strangers lean against each other, and the crowd sways in required unison. You're up there, on stage, and I'm down below. Trying to close my eyes, feel the beat, move alone, experience alone. Down here below your seldom gaze. Bodies packed tightly, the crowd steals my shut-eye-balance. So I look down at my feet, laugh at my worn attempt at polished nails, and promptly get dizzy, disoriented. Toes, heels, rocking, springing up, inching forward, tapping to the beat I'm searching for. A failed attempt, I look up. Face up the band, to you, with a strained neck, petite has not served me well this evening. Giving up on solitude, I join the masses watching your fingers hit note, after note, after note...

The crowd roars. Sometimes in waves, sometimes steadily. A constant reminder that I'm not alone here, even when lost in thought. And I am, lost in thought. What could be your reality - years of screaming, waving fans? Stampeding affirmation of crowds and wanderlust love thrust upon you - regularly? Yet, perhaps you love toast or despise olives? Crinkle your nose at sour milk? Common and everyday. Death and love, they must feel the same to you and I. As same as to you and he and to he and I, to us all. Most things must feel the same; a paper cut doesn't hurt less in front of a screaming crowd or from within the masses.

And then I have myself thinking, that I should ask you these things over coffee. I'd like to listen to your thoughts on realities and love and death and toast. Are you older than I? I could ask you so many things, and I, too, could tell you stories... And I have myself thinking that it's too late for caffeine; I'll have to have decaf. And I look up smiling. To you up there. And I realize I'm still down here. Is that it? Our realities?

New Beginnings

I have freshly painted peach walls with white trim. I have translucent white curtains swaying, slow dancing with the wind. Smooth wooden floors bounce the sunlight onto the peach walls. New, warm, inviting. A new room to match my new beginnings. New space to breath, to dream... to list, to plan. The romantic notions of beginnings and endings always seem to wrap themselves up with the unromantic practicalities. Arranging the to-do list of items that never change - grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning, oil changes. New beginnings always come with organizational hazards, planning dates, re-configuring communications... I just want to dream. I just want to lay back on my bed, stare at my peach walls, and watch my dreams paint themselves across the ceiling.

New Year of Last Year

Champagne glass full of bubbles from last week's new year, a pair of orange tinted nerf glasses, a boa from halloween... I bounce around the kitchen while she perfectly places the lasagna strips over smears of ricotta cheese. Slippery socks on the smooth kitchen floor, the champagne ignites a twist and a twirl and a dip and drop, bounce, bounce, twist, twirl, twirl. Guitar picks aimlessly at the strum string as I tip the champagne to my mouth. A moment of silence, held, held, held, until a unified explosion of guitar cords, beat, pop, rock, lyrics emerge from the basement. My bounce, twist, twirl, dip now have a beat, a rhythm, a pattern and a head full of champagne bubbles. Lasagna baking the oven, music below my feet, the new year starts on an upbeat with an orange tint and a feathered boa.

January 15th, and I can't wait to see how 2009 finally begins...