for this life.

I am so thankful for this woman, every day I am thankful for her. I'm thankful for the friend who sends me links to anything my favorite writer is doing, this friend I can text back and forth with on a Sunday night to discuss birthday cakes for our kiddos and wedding shoes and everything in between, this friend who's pulled me back from the ledge of craziness more times than I remember. I'm thankful for the man who put ear drops in my left ear just now as I squirmed around the bed like a caught fish. I'm thankful for the girl who touched my cheek while reading the Bear story for the fourth time today; it gets read before her nap and before bed. I'm thankful that when it was her turn to read it she said, "Once upon a time there was my daddy and my Rhi and my Eva. And my pink skirt." I stare at her a lot, just smiling. Or crying because it's all too much, in the most wonderful way. And I stare at Ben and I spend a lot of time saying thank you for this life.

I'm thankful I went to the gym six days in a row this week and that both days this weekend involved long walks. And sun. And "I Spy/Hear/Smell." And Sloth stopping to inspect many things which is a gentle reminder for us humans.

I'm thankful that I've stayed true to my "30 day and then some plan" to write every day (even if I don't post on my blog every day.) I'm writing; I'm flexing the muscle I too often allow to get dusty.

Because once a week, usually, hopefully, this woman posts a mini essay on her FB page I read in the middle of the produce section at the market or on the train and everything gets quiet and I remember the point of this life, my life. We are here to tell the truth about our stories; we own everything that happens to us. And nothing gets done without self-care.

Since I'm now watching "Contagion" for the second time in a row it's so painfully, clearly time for bed. Good nights, good weeks, all of us, deal?

(The following was from Anne Lamott's FB page this morning. She's the queen.)

This is the last Saturday of my fifties. The needle isn't moving to the left or to the right. I don't feel or look 60. I don't feel any age. I have a near-perfect life. However, I grew up on tennis courts and beaches in California during the sixties, where we put baby oil on our skin to deepen the tan, and we got hundreds of sunburns. So maybe that was not ideal. I drank a lot and took a lot of drugs and smoked two packs of Camels (unfiltered) a day until I was 32. I had a baby and then forgot to work out, so things did not get firmer, and higher. So again, not ideal.
My heart is not any age. It is a baby, an elder, a dog, a cat, divine.
My feet, however, frequently hurt.
My skin broke out last week. I filed a new brief with the Fairness Commission, and am waiting to hear back.
My great blessing is the capacity for radical silliness, and self-care.
I'm pretty spaced out. I don't love how often I bend in to pull out clean wet clothes from the washer, and stand up, having forgotten that I opened the dryer that's above, and smash my head on the door once again. I don't know what the solution to this is, as I refuse to start wearing a helmet indoors. I don't love that I left my engine running for an hour last week, because I came inside to get something, and then got distracted by the dogs, and didn't remember I'd left the engine on. It was a tiny bit scary when a neighbor came to the front door to mention this, and I had to feign nonchalance, and act like it was exactly what I had meant to do all along.
I backed into an expensive truck in the parking lot of Whole Foods last month. Boy, what an asshat THAT guy was. My bumper had fallen off in the mishap, and I had to tie it back on with the shoelaces from my spare running shoes. Sigh.
Wednesday, the day before I turn 60, I am having a periodontal procedure that Stalin might have devised. How festive is that? But that night, my grandson and niece will pelt me with balloons, and we will all overeat together, the most spiritual thing we can do.
Mentally, the same old character defects resurface again and again. I thought I'd be all well by now. Maybe I'm 40% better, calmer, less reactive than I used to be, but the victimized self-righteousness remains strong, and my default response to most problems is still to try and figure out who to blame; whose fault it is, and how to correct his or her behavior, so I can be more comfortable.
My friend Jim says, "I don't judge. I diagnose." That's me.
Spiritually, I have the sophistication of a bright ten year old. My motley crew and my pets are my life. They are why I believe so ferociously in God.
Politically, I am still a little tense. I love that Obama is president. I love Obamacare. My great heroes at sixty are Gloria Steinem and Molly Ivins.
Forgiveness remains a challenge, as does letting go. When people say cheerfully, "Just let go and let God," I still want to stab them in the head with a fork, like a baked potato.
This business of being a human being is infinitely more fraught than I was led to believe. When my son Sam figured out at 7 years old that he and I were not going to die at the exact same moment, he said, "If I had known that, I wouldn't have agreed to be born." That says it for me. It's hard here, and weird. The greatness of love and laughter, the pain of loss, the bearing of one another's burdens, are all mixed up, like the crazy catch-all drawer in the kitchen.
This doesn't really work for me.
If I was God's West Coast rep, I would have a more organized and predictable system.
So we do what we can. Today, I will visit a cherished friend post surgery, and goof around with her kids. I will try to help one person stay clean and sober, just for today. I will loudly celebrate my own sobriety, and also the fact that my writing has not been a total nightmare lately. I am going to go for a hike on these sore feet, and remember Gerard Manley Hopkins, "The world is charged with the grandeur of God." Charged, electrical with life's beauty and light! Wow. Then I will probably buy the new issue of People magazine to read on the couch before my nap, and a sack of the black plums at the market that seemed overpriced yesterday, but not today.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

the job is merciless.

writing is your job, and this job has a night shift, and a weekend shift. it's merciless, and your boss is a tyrant. your customers are fickle, demanding. if you let them down, they will eat you alive.

i read this a few days ago.

i printed it and made notes in the margin. i read it again. i put it in my purse and forgot about it. i dug it out, all covered in bits of raisins, and read it again.

writing is your job.

it's merciless.


i'm reading this right now. it's beautiful and funny and full of rich moments like this.

for me writing is about control. or, more accurately, loss of control. maybe you are a writer, and you agree because writing for you feels more like walking on the beach or getting a massage. well, maybe you and i should never meet for coffee.

this. women like this whose words i read and smile and laugh and cry to myself, often on the train, all the while thinking, i wish i could have lunch with this woman. we could talk for days.

both of these writers are true. this job, this life i want is merciless. it will never let up. and 99.99% of the time i do not feel as though sitting down to my computer is comparable to walking on the beach.

and yet, neither of these things scare me. they don't make my choice or path any easier. they just are. and it doesn't change anything. i still go to work.

i believe...

patty griffin and rainy days were made for each other
sometimes there is nothing better than starting the day with an empty office for an hour and a half
days we can ease into are gifts
completing two workouts before 8:30 warrants something special, like new post-its
there is nothing remotely sad about being excited by post-its
sarcasm is important
a gal can never have too many polka dot shirts
or ones with stripes

3:00.

around 3:00 pm most days I reach the point where I know I should stop the coffee and switch over to green tea.

some days i do and i always feel the difference. i sit at my desk and think, is this what it's like to meditate? is this what it's like to be good at yoga? this is good. i should do this again tomorrow.

the days i do it are usually better than the days i pour a third cup of coffee and contemplate a chocolate run downstairs.

but i've trained myself to stop and listen.

this is hard.

some days it's less hard.

our days can go in a dozen different directions, but i'm grateful that this one is ending with a dog burying his head in my lap because he knows how i need it.

thirty days in a row of writing. day 1. why do we close our eyes?

at church this past weekend i had a moment with eva i'll put away in the forever file.

we'd just come back from receiving communion and were kneeling to pray when she asked, why do we close our eyes?

so we can get quiet and talk to jesus. when i close my eyes it helps me be quiet in my heart so i can talk to him and say thank you.

say thank you?

yes, for all of my blessings, like the little bear in your book. 

it was such a lovely, innocent moment i want to remember forever. and her question made me think of the other big times i've closed my eyes. one of the biggest was nearly eight years ago when i studied in florence and cried on the terrace of our sixth floor walk-up.

i cried because i was homesick and heartsick and scared of everything. i sat on white plastic lawn chairs and prayed, please let me let this place change me.

over and over and over i cried these words.

and then i started to whisper them.

and then i sang them. because i learned to do it.

i got quiet.