The Tortoise and the Hare

A long time ago but not so far away, a writer was living with one of her best friends. This woman (the writer) had always wanted to be a writer, from the time she was a little girl pouring her heart out in her diary, and she was talented and worked hard (I have read much her writing). Her friend (the roommate) was more all over the place--smart, beautiful, and clearly talented, although it was totally unclear in what. She tended to be too distracted by the details of life and her own mental struggles to do much about it. Also (and this will become important soon), the roommate was pretty set for money, for whatever reasons. The writer, as is often the case with writers, was not.

So they lived together happily, the writer toiling away at her craft (writing, revising, reading, teaching, checking in with her agent who was submitting her writing, getting rejected, writing more, revising again, struggling to come up with her half of the rent, etc.) and the roommate flitting around, cooking, dating, and wishing she had such passion and purpose. One day, inspired in part by her deep admiration for the writer, the roommate thought why don't I take a crack at writing too. So she sat down and spilled out a memoir about her particular mental struggles and how they caused her to lead her life. It was quick writing, quick reading, quite funny, and oddly touching.

The writer was excited for the roommate, knowing how she was always searching for something meaningful to do. She read the material, gave her advice and encouragement, and helped hook her up with an agent. Then, before you could utter the words "six figures"...can you guess where this is going?

The roommate got a huge book deal. It was very exciting, super quick, and for a lot of money. Now, the writer had never wanted anything but good things for the roommate, but this was a bit hard to swallow. Where was her book deal? She was the one for whom it was a life-long dream. Where was her money? She was the one who needed it, who had worked so damn hard for it. Every morning when she woke up and every night when she went to bed, there was the roommate, a sudden walking personification of everything she wanted and could not seem to get. She was consumed with envy.

For someone as kind as the writer is, a person who had taken refuge in the Buddha, this felt particularly wrong, so she went to her Rinpoche for help and he said this: every time you feel envious of the roommate, make her a salad. Do something kind, and caring, and good for her health, no matter how you feel. So that is what the writer did.

Newspapers and magazines announced the exciting book deal, and the collander in the sink filled up with greens. Wow, the publishers are throwing a big book party, something they almost never do anymore. Chop, chop, chop on the broccoli and peppers. It's been optioned for a movie! Throw in some dried cranberries, maybe hearts of palm? The Today Show appearance went great, only Oprah is left! Time to head to Chinatown for the really exotic vegetables--the grocery store is no longer cutting it.

As you can imagine, it was not an easy time for the writer. The thing is, it wasn't all that easy a time for the roommate either, no matter how it looked. She still had these same mental struggles, book deal or no, and with all of the publicity and excitement, she spun a bit out of control, began dating the wrong guy, and got involved in some things that were really not good for her, and that were very difficult to kick once you started. As the writer watched from the next room, wishing desperately that she could help but growing more and more powerless to do so, she learned something. It might take years, maybe forever, to get that book deal, but she had her writing, her passion and purpose, right now, every day. No one could take it away from her, and it was the most valuable thing in the world.

Fast forward to today: the writer is no longer in touch with the roommate, but she very much hopes she's doing well. The writer is finally supporting herself by writing books. It doesn't look quite the way she thought it would--she's left New York, and they aren't always the books she thought she'd write--but she is grateful and happy and talented and works hard, as she always has.

Blessing on all of your writing. It is the most important part.

Her Public

I'm pretty sure my 11 month old daughter loves me. I know I am greeted three times a day, every day, with the kind of reaction Ed McMahon might receive if he arrived at one's door arm-in-arm with Santa Claus. And she seems to be pretty happy to spend a lot of time together--at least I think I'd be able to tell if it was all just a scam, just a heartless ruse to get more bananas out of me, whatever it took.

Until we leave the apartment, that is. Once we hit the streets, all bets are off. You can basically consider me the horse she rode in on, the waiting limo, the vehicle necessary only to connect her with her adoring public.

Walks in the stroller are fine, but dull. Swinging at the park can be fun enough, but frustrating: people tend to pay attention to their own kids there. Give my daughter the subway or the bus any day: a large car packed with bored people, trapped with nothing better to do than to watch her. The wide smiles, the head tilts (all the way to the left, scrunched-up half-smile, then all the way to the right--all while keeping eye contact), the wave/salute, and, when necessary, the uproarious, squalking peacock laugh that gets even grumpy traders, commuting home after losing 10 million dollars, to crack a grin...the girl has an arsenal that would put Shirley Temple to shame, and she can't even walk or talk.

Tonight we had dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was pretty empty when we arrived, as we tend to beat the early bird crowd by about 15 minutes. At first she was able to make due: there were hostesses playing peekaboo and busboys with big smiles. But it wasn't enough. She began to obsess about getting the attention of the one busy table behind her--it was quite irritating for her, actually, the way someone at her own table kept trying to feed her things when obviously she needed to keep her body turned 180 degrees in the highchair in order to face them.

Luckily, things soon picked up. As more people began entering the restaurant, she welcomed them each with a hearty salute. Some smiled back, some laughed, most didn't actually notice, but she didn't care--she was in her element. Then Ricky Martin's voice came out of the speakers, singing La Vida Loca, and this party girl's cup runneth over. She swayed side to side in her high chair, laughing and kicking...and she even had to give mom and dad some props, as they were the only ones in the restaurant who seemed to know the same seated dance.

Putting on her coat and leaving was a buzz kill, but she was tired--holding court like that takes a lot of energy. And I don't mind being the background, the scenery, the blue screen to her adventures. I know who she comes home with every night.

Chocolate

It was cold as I pushed the stroller around today, but Isabel wouldn't let me cover her hands because they were far too busy gripping her toys. As has happened before, I found myself unable to put my own gloves on, knowing her hands were exposed to the chill. Not as any kind of sacrifice, but just because I felt my hands should know what her hands were feeling.

After a few blocks, we stepped into a sunny patch and she had to squint her eyes against the glare--again, I didn't pull my sunglasses out of the diaper bag, knowing her eyes weren't protected.

Soon after, it occurred to me: Isabel doesn't really eat sugar yet. Bananas and pears are about as sweet as it gets for her currently.

Oh well, sucks for her. Yum!

Nourishing, Neutral, Depleting

I am going to start putting all thoughts and actions into three simple categories: nourishing, neutral, and depleting. And while neutral doesn't have to be negative, it can become so if there's too much of it. (Eg. dish washing, laundry, and cleaning are necessary neutrals, but there's a danger of depletion if you do too much of them. This is one of the many reasons people have husbands.)

So, some examples inspired by recent events:
• attending Jennifer Lauck's writing life workshop: CRAZY nourishing
• choosing conversation over sleep at every juncture during this trip: nourishing, b/c of the quality of the conversations
• throwing your heart into helping to empower and heal women from trauma: profoundly nourishing
• laughing hysterically at all the new tricks your almost-11-month old has learned in the 4-1/2 days you've been away: also profoundly nourishing

• reading People magazine voraciously as the plane takes off b/c you hate that part: neutral, but necessary (and fun, I'm not going to lie)
• unpacking: probably neutral, I wouldn't know. Maybe tomorrow?
• adding a third thing even when you don't have one because you totally buy into JL's rule of threes: neutral

• worrying about how in hell you are going to keep up with all of these incredible writers you have been admiring from the shadows: depleting
• the mental and emotional drop, a little sinking of energy as you realize it will be many months until you see these amazing women again: depleting, and totally worth fighting
• checking in online to see how things are going for Britney in rehab: VERY DEPLETING

And blogging after a glass of wine: PRICELESS.

So happy to be here

I am completely humbled by the positive energy flowing my way. I am overwhelmed with gratitude and excitement. Very few pistons are left firing in my brain at the moment, after moving directly from the red-eye into baby-land this morning, so I am saving my reading for tomorrow when (I hope) some synapses are popping back to life. That, and I couldn't take the computer into the bath tub, although the thought did cross my mind.

The only coherent thought I have left, after emerging from the heavenly salt and lavender bath I have finally taken, is that I need to buy some pj's made of soft, good quality material. I am too sacred now for this cheap stuff.

Love.

Sacred Mess

Stay together friends.
Don't scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
--Rumi

I annointed two kitchens with coffee this weekend, watched it erupt out of cups and pots, the dark liquid running along counters and dripping on floors, as hands with towels rushed to contain it and voices immediately comforted: no problem, don't worry. There was a lot of stuff around, a box of tissues here, a notebook there, gleaming laptops strewn on the floor among pillows, plates of nuts and cookies balancing precariously on oatmeal rugs, cream couches.

Sweaters nestled in loose wrinkles on shoulders and around collarbones, hair softened and curled in the humid air, socks and slippers snuggled unevenly on ankles and around toes. Eye makeup didn't stand a chance, as tears welled and rolled down cheeks, noses pink with emotion and empathy and love.

In the evenings, when smaller groups gathered, glasses fell off the side of the hot tub like apples from trees, knocked by passionate arms that could not be contained, moving with the rising voices and laughter in the night sky. They fell behind there, don't worry, there is no glass in our pathway.

The chaos of women's voices was a gorgeous, messy music, and our chorus leader, conducting with hands large enough to hold us all, took our breath away at every turn. There will be no turning these voices off. Until the middle of the night they pierced the air; belly laughter, open-mouthed gasps, and heartbroken tears, in concert together.

Finally, the last of us must separate, for a short time tonight, and a much longer time tomorrow. I brush the crumbs and pistachio shells off the sheets where we've been sitting and climb in. Okay, I will go to bed now. But I will never really be asleep again.

Getting Off the Train

I don't know when this trip began. Was it when I drove the U-Haul to New York after two years of waitressing and playing in Chicago, hurtling down whatever highway it was with my right thigh in tatters from the cat in the carrier next to me who, despite the kitty valium, spent 18 hours with his paws snaking wildly through the bars, clawing at my flesh. I frantically parked the U-Haul, deposited my stuff and my treacherous cat at my parent's house (he was declawed before you could say the word 'upholstery'), rushed to the mall to buy my first real “work” clothes, took my mother’s hair appointment (at her urging) to try and shape my hair into something remotely corporate, and jumped on the train to New York City, my first real job in publishing, and my first sales conference. Donning my new navy Ann Taylor jumper, collared shirt, heels, and name tag, I entered a suite filled with people wearing jeans and Hawaiian shirts who preceded to ask me for Eagle snacks all evening. My career had begun.

Or was it two years before that, when I pulled up to the blue and white walk-up on Newport St. in Chicago in my packed Plymouth Sundance, fresh from a summer-long post-graduation trip across the country and back with the first love of my life, my college boyfriend of 3 years who I knew I'd be leaving come September, and did. A wild group of girlfriends awaited upstairs and one of the many rooms in this run-down but bright and beautiful apartment had my name on it. My heart raced and I smiled wide as I stood on the sidewalk with my hand over my eyes to block the sun, looking up at the beginning of my new life.

Or maybe it was two short days prior to that, when I pulled away from my parents house in New Jersey to drive to Chicago and into my new life, away from my parents and two younger sisters whom I love, from the family home I grew up in from 2nd grade where I would never live again (okay, except for two short stints while apartment hunting in NYC, but those are other stories), from six years spent at a terrific private girl's school filled with great friends who would turn into amazing women, from four years at a wonderful small college filled with a posse of the closest girl friends a girl could have and I have to this day, and that dear boyfriend who, despite all the boys that followed, was bested in my heart only by my husband nearly 10 years later. I spent the first several hours of that trip playing Annie's Song over and over, sobbing and singing at the top of my lungs.

I can't pinpoint it, but it has been a loud, busy, and wonderful trip, full of many late nights at the office and many other late nights at bars and apartments full of booze and laughter and, in the early years, cigarette smoke. There were lots and lots of manuscripts, there were big disappointments and huge successes beyond (or because of) my wildest dreams. There were plenty of boys, as varied as the sky is wide. There was some yoga, but still there wasn't much quiet...there was too much busyness, and rushing, and noise. And while there was so much love, there was also way too much time spent turning things over and over in my mind, too much worry, too much obsession, too much static, and no spiritual direction at all.

I am profoundly grateful for my life, full of people I love dearly. I don't want to change them--but I am ready to change myself. I am a mother now. I have left the corporate world after 12 years. I have gotten off the train, walked down the steps into the grass, and I’m looking around. It's quiet, if I let it be. I can see some sky. I hear wind in the trees. There are new women walking towards me. I smell freedom, and something new. And I am open.