Fuck Disney.

you know how they say that if you want something you have to let it go and it will come back to you.

that’s bullshit.

How do I know this?

Please allow to me digress.  We all have a thing that we want.  Some people want money, power, love, kids…whatever it is…there is a thing.  A thing that for whatever reason is unattainable.

So lets take the example of a woman who wants to be pregnant.  She wants kids.  She wants a family.  (This is not me btw)

And she goes nuts trying to find a man to impregnate her because time really is a factor here…and a lot of men are babies themselves until 50 or so, so finding a man who is ready to accept responsibility in itself is a challenge.  But she is relentless in her search because her body is begging her to try harder try harder look there… what about him?

And we get it.  We get that she needs to be knocked up because it’s a biological urge.  A FREAKING BIOLOGICAL URGE.

So we don’t think that she is crazy.  It’s a story as old as time…

But then let’s move to someone like me who has never had that alarm go off.  I had it for my business which is awesome and not exactly a human child. And I’ve worked my butt off for 15 years making it work which is a story without a straight line all on its own. But if I’m being totally transparent…I have my whole life been waiting for my Prince Charming.  I think this a good time to say fuck you to Disney.

My whole life I have tried to un-believe that there is someone out there for me.  I have tried to believe that staying present, loving my dog, being a great practitioner, and the best human I could be would be enough.  But even I know as I’m doing it, that my inside voice is wondering when I’ll be allowed out of purgatory so I can finally meet my man and have the family I’ve been craving my entire life.  When I have been present enough, not be “needy” long enough that I am finally ready to meet this man.

And life is dwindling.  I’m no spring chicken.  And I have loved…a lot…but I don’t think in the center of my heart I have actually ever been in love.  Sure, I’ve said it…but I was more in love with the idea of being in love with that person.

And for a person who spends her life giving love….to never really have felt that thing I think I’m capable of feeling is…fucking depressing.

And folks I’ve tried so hard.  I’ve gone totally monogamous for 2 year stretches where I just focus on work and myself.  Thought if I could meditate it out of me then that BIOLOGICAL URGE would reveal itself as just another unfulfilled leftover Disney fantasy.

I’ve tried dating for long-ish periods of time men who were clearly not right for me, almost convincing myself I could make it work…only to be broken in the end by my own hand, thoughts, actions…subconsciously getting me the hell outta dodge.

And I’m not unhappy.  I have an amazing life.  I get to meet amazing souls.  I get to travel wherever I want.  I get to be engaged or silent… I get to sleep, eat, and play when I want.

But even as I say this, would I rather be doing partner yoga and drinking coffee with my man then typing this trifle out?  I would rather be so blasé as to walk in the sunset holding hands with my mate. And no matter how hard I try…I can’t turn it off.

………………….

But this is fun too.  And it is second best.  Will always be second best.

I don’t know what the magic bullet is to bring the thing you most want to you.  I don’t know how you are supposed to let that thing go when it’s covering your soul.  I don’t know how long I can keep pretending that this absence which is felt so deeply is alive and beating within me.  And I don’t know what good it will do when and if I stop pretending.

I know the theory that get what you’re supposed to get.  Almost everything else in my life is charmed.  And I guess if I spent more time being thankful for that…maybe then he’d find me?

Fucking Disney.

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The Rise of the Alien Nation through Gefilte Fish

i had a dream

i was driving down 99S in Seattle with my best friend who also happens to be more like my grandmother than my grandmother was. The kind of friend who makes you a pot of soup and sends it home with you so you can work all week and not have to worry about cooking. The kind of friend who makes fresh muffins for breakfast to eat with her homemade Apple Butter that could win any award out there. And I have a strange beacon that always gives me a countdown of when they are coming out of the oven, even if I’m miles away. That kind of friend.

So we were driving, well she was driving me. And it should be said that she’s a bike commuter and has to borrow her dads car whenever she needs one, like today, I needed a ride. So she’s not uber comfy behind the wheel. She uses perfect 2:00 10:00 hand positioning.  She goes the speed limit (I know…it’s totally frustrating.)

Anyway, we were going to the airport so I could get out of the wind and cold and rain and back to paradise where my sensitive constitution belongs. When we start talking about gefilte fish.

You know it right? The love it or hate food of the jews. Served chilled in its own amniotic fluid for passover. Some mixture of white fishes and goo and goodness knows what else?
When all of a sudden I”m wracked with this knowingness. This unbelievable truth that is staring me right in the face.

“Why do they pack them in that goo?” I asked my all knowing friend.
“I have no idea,” she says.
“Oh my god. I do. There is only one reason they are packed in that otherworldly strange jelly. They are little alien eggs waiting for the mother ship to call them into life. We are possessed by aliens because we have the ‘love ’em” palate for the fish.”
All these years of eating gefilte fish smothered in horseradish and it comes to me that is how the alien invasion is going to begin.
“No wonder I keep getting more of a belly every year. They are growing!” I say. “Holy fuck, I’m going to give birth to the alien nation. Do you know how many of those fuckers I ate!”

She laughed. My Jewish Grandmother friend. But it was a nervous laugh, I could tell the difference.

“That’s an interesting concept,” she said, shaking her head and looking behind her to see if it was safe to change lanes. “I like to cut a little sliver of pickle, then take a little hunk of fish, then cover it in horseradish. I bet the horseradish kills the aliens. Do you use it?”

“Of course I use horseradish!” I said, incensed. “How else am I supposed to get the fish down my throat. All i can ever think about is that they just came out of clear jelly. It has always freaked me out. I think secretly I knew they were not right. Just not right.”

“My mom made them herself one year out of salmon. They were actually fantastic!” she said. Still not engaging me. Always trying to hide from the truth. “Really delicious.”

I looked at her confused. It was my mother who had made those, not hers. She was grasping for straws. She knew something. Something big. But what was it?”

They really were delicious the year my mom made them. I should ask her to make them again.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” she asked.

I could see the pale sheen of sweat on her brow, or it was just the florescent lights in the tunnel hitting her skin, it was hard to tell. It was clearly time for me to stop talking. I had said to much.

I threw a laugh out there to confuse her. Reached down into my personal item for the plane to find my chapstick, I was still using the gross petroleum one I had to buy in the airport because I forgot my good one in my purse at home. But they charged me $6 for it so you fucking better believe I’m using the whole damn thing.

“What?” she asked. Brow furled. Taking quick looks over at me but not wanting to have eyes off the road for too long. Novice.

“Nothing. I was just laughing at myself. Crazy ideas come with too little sleep, ya?” Was it working. Did my ultimate deflection work?

“Are you OK?” she asked. “You are my weird little friend, but you are really claiming that title this morning.”

“Totally. Totally………Totally.” i said. Convincing no one.

“This is just a suggestion, but I think you should do more Sudoko. You need some tightening up in there. Catch my drift? I’m slightly worried about you.” she said, still looking forward.

“Look. It was just a thought. I ran it to it’s eventual conclusion, and I’m over it. No aliens in the goo. We’re good.”

And she looked over at me, way too long. The lights of the airport were all around us and we were both moving and not moving at the same time. The car turned into a flying saucer and my friends eyes shrank back into head revealing an oblong head that was replaced with huge black beady eyes with red pupils. Her hand reached out from the steering wheel towards my stomach, it’s long silver fingers capped with razor sharp claws….

And I sat up screaming. Sweating and screaming. Sweating and screaming and wrongly hungry for fucking gefilte fish smothered in horseradish.

My stomach was always the traitor.

An open letter to an Ex

I’ve been trying to get over you.  To wash that gray right out of my hair.  To Calgon take me away.

I’ve been trying to find something to fill my heart in the space that used to be occupied with you. With us.

I’ve been trying.

I thought I would be done by now.  I thought I would be able to forget what it felt like when you looked at me from across a room.  What it felt like to hold your hand.  The tingles in my body so completely when you kissed me.  The feel of you inside me.  The warmth of you around me.  That laugh.  Those eyes.  Your legs.  But most of all, the way you looked at me and I could taste the love pouring into my soul.

I thought I could stop remembering.  And I thought that meant that I had moved on.

But today I was driving literally under a rainbow that I’m sure had a pot of gold at the end, and as I came out the other side I saw it all so perfectly.

So it’s an open letter…because I bet this isn’t just for you.

I figured something big out.

love

In the end, looking back from the vantage point of completeness, what I experienced with you was the knowingness of being truly loved.

Loved to the bone to the core. And I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever be able to get over.

Nor would I want to.

Right?  Why would I want to forget something as beautiful and graceful as that?

But that’s what’s making this so difficult. The absence of being that monumentally loved.

And so the rainbow glittered her fairy dust on me and I was like, “Yeah…why would I want to get rid of that?”

So I flipped it. Not the rainbow, but the thinking.  It’s brilliant actually.  I just thought….who in their right mind would try to scrub the memory of being held like a goddess?  Of being loved down to the very cells that I am?

Not I!

Here is what I got from our time, the gift you gave me….

I get to KNOW that in this lifetime I have been truly loved.

I get to know that I had that.  That i felt that.  That I loved myself enough to allow it.  That I won!

It makes my heart feel so big and so full. It makes me feel so alive!

So if it’s alright with you I’m going to stop trying to get over you and start integrating that knowingness that I am lucky son of a gun.

And maybe I get to have that again.  And maybe I don’t.  But I can know for absolute certainty what that feels like.  And for that, sweet soul…I thank you.

For that, my friend…I am changed forever.

So much Aloha.

What a beautiful gift.

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Living the Dream. But let me finish this first.

I am not a finisher.

I’m a big idea girl.

I’m a dreamer.

I make the bubbles and don’t wait to see what’s inside them.

And it’s not that I don’t care…I just want to make another bubble.

I’m a thinker.  An un-wrapper.

I’m crazy detailed about how to get it done…and brilliant at checking things off…but those are things that exist in the big picture.  I never really get at the nooks and crannies of the English Muffin…I don’t wait for the butter to melt…it’s only important that the whole thing is covered in before before taking a bite.

Understand?

I move.

A lot.

And every time I plan it and make lists about what order to do what thing…and then I hurry up and wait until two days before and freak out.  I don’t mean to, but that happens.  Every time.

Then I throw everything into boxes and decide to decide on whether to keep it as I unpack…if it doesn’t have a place it will go–i tell myself–every time.

But it always has a place.

Always.

There is always a closet, a shelf, a shed.

I do this because it’s in my genes.  I am my grandmothers grand daughter.  Cupboards are stocked to the brim just in case war breaks out, or money fails, or there is any kind of shortage. I mean any kind.

I keep home like my mother.  A home that is safe and welcoming.  A home that can help whoever needs to stop over without even missing a beat.  A home that can hold you as long as you need to be held.

And so.  I have done something completely outside of my character.  My actual cellular makeup.

I sold everything I own except what fits inside 4-32″ duffle bags.  Truth be told there were a few rocks that were sent ahead…because…I can sell my bed….but I can’t let go of my sweet rock friends.

I have slimmed down so much my skin hurts.  That my soul aches from the loss of the things that held so much history, so much memory.  Things I have loved and moved and packed and unpacked and touched and remembered their stories, move after move after move.  Things I had plans for, for this mystery moment when that particular bowl would be just the bowl to use.  Oh, the stories I’ve created.

I actually feel unrecognizable to myself.  I feel like i just dropped so many layers of memory and story and expectation hat when i look in the mirror and see my reflection it will be too bright for my eyes.

 

And so with car packed, and dog on my lap because there is no where else for him to sit…we drove out literally into the sunset.  Left a place that didn’t feel like home anymore on our way to a place that I have no idea how I’ll feel.  That all I have is trust.  That all I have are signs.  That all I have is openness.

Taking a chance.  Letting go.  Breathing differently.  Feeling less….weighed down.  Feeling….maybe still a bit of shock.

 

I didn’t allow myself to cry for these things.  These memories that evaporated like mist with each new hand that pawed over them.  These little pieces of me that hold energy and now belong to someone else.  And they are just things.  I keep telling myself this.  And now I get that energy back, right?  Now I am more complete somehow?  Now I am me, again.

Many of these things were from a time I was married, had a family, a big house.  Of a time with a bursting practice with two treatment rooms and a receptionist.  From times of lovers past.  From times of turbulence and sickness.  From times of severe creativity and joy.  From times of confusion.  From times of friendship.  So many moments.  So many memories.

I didn’t allow myself to make lists.  I didn’t listen to my grandmother on one shoulder, and my mother on the other.  I have to distinguish myself from me.  And i’m not sure I know right now who that woman is.  Not just yet.  Maybe she is bigger then I can even know right now, safe in my mothers house.

I’m told this rawness is normal after a huge purge.

This feeling of floating.

Of homelessness.  Of placeless-ness.

I think once the shock wears off and I experience the lightness of freedom as that….

i will notice my lists are shorter.

Maybe they will look more like this:

Sit.

Walk.

Love.

Feed the chickens.

Paddle Board.

Buy more sunblock.

Write a letter to someone.

 

 

Nip and Tuck

I don’t consider myself to be vain.  In fact, I forget to look in the mirrors most days (which explains my hair and wardrobe).  But for a moment today, after brushing my teeth and washing my face I looked up…right forward…instead of moving onto the next thing.

And in that moment I caught a glimpse of myself.  Freshly woken, not a terribly good nights sleep, harsh sterile lighting we have all been forced to switch to. And for a quick moment, I used my hand to pull my skin up along my jaw line. Pushing the flesh up towards my ear.  And I held it there.  For just a moment.

For just a moment I entertained the briefest thought– wondering how to make it stay like it used to.

What a bag of worms huh?  Like it used to.

Over the past few years I have been forced to realize that age-ing is out of my hands.  I can eat well, sleep well, exercise, take care of my thoughts and have a spiritual practice….but little things are going to keep happening.

It started when I noticed the skin on my hands wasn’t as tight.  I noticed I stayed sore longer after exercise.  I noticed I forget things a lot more than I used to.  I noticed all my friends were getting really gray (I seemed to have missed that bus…so far.)  I noticed I didn’t need to tell as many dirty jokes.  I didn’t need to be vulgar as often.  I was actually slightly offended by vulgarity recently…which was a first.  I’m becoming intolerant of some foods.  Little things keep me up at night.

I remember my Mom standing in the mirror, holding her face in exactly the same way.  Then pulling her eyebrows up.  And stretching her eyes to the side.  Pulling her hairline back.  And I remember vividly saying to her…”Mom, you’re so beautiful just the way you are.  Why would you want to change that.”  And I remember so clearly her response.  “You just wait.”

And here I am.  Not vain, yet wondering for a microsecond if I could be that kind of person.

There is so much juiciness in being young and beautiful.

There is so much freedom when all of life is ahead of you.

Youth is so fucking seductive.

But I am not my Mother.  And as I drop my hands I smile and see laugh lines on my face and feel so thankful for the memories that put them there.  And maybe my jowels are beginnig to show because I stretched my face out so much from the deep belly laughing I find myself in every day.  From the countless and tireless smiles that hurt my face they last so long.

I am a woman who has traveled.  And loved.  And lost.  And loved again.  I move, often.  Packing up everything and starting fresh to satisfy an itch. My heart is huge and my compassion (most of the time) is limitless…so much my heart hurts sometimes from all the love pouring through.

I have friendships that are big and bold and loving and nurturing.  They push my buttons and encourage me and hold me up.  And i give all that back and more.

I have lived in amazing homes.  And cities.  I have cooked in incredible kitchens around the world.  I have stripped naked and allowed my form to be drawn and painted.

I am becoming a master of my trade.  A true healer, like back in the days when there were no distinctions, you just went to a healer.  And I am so proud of the grace it has taken to hone all the skills.  I have nurtured intuition and danced under stars.  I have made love under waterfalls and in canyons.  I have been held, body and soul, beating in unison.  I have seen the stars so bright they are burned in my memory for all of time.

I can cook the worlds most amazing chicken stock…and this comes after many many years of trying to make it perfect.

I can tell jokes and stories and own the room from the first word…because I have learned to step into my selves.  All of them.

I can find as much fulfillment watching Netflix on the couch with the dog in my lap, as with a room full of my favorite people on the planet, as with a great book, as with dancing to amazing music, as with sitting in quiet contemplation by the fire, as with walking under huge cedar canopies.

I have seen, through the reflection of others how special and beautiful I am.  Sagging face or not.

And it is for this that I am thankful.  It is my full life of experiences and feeling and knowingness and the deep journey into my soul that allows me to see my body as just that…and me as so much more.  So much more.

So for a moment I will entertain the thoughts.

For a moment I will remember when I was that young girl.  And I will smile at her journey and continue onward, a radiant shining star…beautiful in different ways…beautiful all the same.

Racism sucks.

More to the point, racists can suck it.

I’m one, sometimes.  I bet you are too.  I am until I smack myself and pull my head out of my ass and recalibrate and remember it’s so totally archaic to judge a person on hue.  That I am programmed from hundreds of years to have that ridiculous thought…and then I forgive myself and snap back into reality.  But there are moments that I slip.

I want to be purple…with sprinkles. 

I’m not, and without a seriously intense raid on Jo-Ann Fabrics I’ll stay this Olive color I came out with.  But it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m happy, or moody, or a bitch, or inconsiderate, or over-friendly, or extra giving, or an amazing lover (I just read a funny story about how people can’t refer to themselves as amazing lovers…only people who have received said “loving” can comment…)  Boom…I’ve been told I’m an amazing lover…so you all can suck it too.

Yes, I’m angry.

Yes, It’s about Richard Sherman.  And every other person on the planet who has been judged for totally unreasonable reasons.

Yes, I know it’s what everyone is talking about and I’m not taking a side, I’m calling for this shit to end.  What we are all taking sides on is actually NOT the point.

For goodness sake.  As if it’s not bad enough that people pull race out when a gentleman that we pay millions of dollars to get all fired up and put the hurt on people does his job to amazing completion.  But the smattering of “look what an upstanding kid from the ghetto he is” is just as much bullshit as the rest.  That’s as much of a story as the other side of the argument.

The only people who really know this guy I’m guessing are friends, family, ex-classmates maybe, teammates…not the interviewers, or us from watching the taped seemingly personal interviews….

Richard Sherman is exactly the same as you and I.  Yes, I know you’re white or Asian or glittery purple.

He is a dude, trying to do the best he can with what he’s got.

And I’m going crazy seeing all these posts defending him, tearing him down…putting him back up again.

Let the man be.

Let the moment…which happened to be one of the most authentic moments in sports broadcasting that I’ve seen in a while…be.  The moment was so authentic as it happened I said, “Woah.”

Leaving me speechless is hard.

As you can imagine.

But there I was.  Stoked as hell about the win and sitting in my seat, speechless.

I want to go on record saying this Racism shit has got to end.  Period.

Let’s just let folks do what they do.  Please.

Is it that we’re bored?  WE have nothing else as a collective whole to talk about?

I’ve got something, something even more to the point than Mr. Compton Stanford being authentically fired up on camera.

Why as a people, a nation, a world do we feel we need to judge EVERYTHING and EVERYONE?

I do it daily, perhaps hourly…and on bad days every minute or so.

I know why I do it.  I do it to make myself feel better.  I’m feeling insecure and I make myself less insecure by tearing someone else down.

Boom.

What’s your reason?

It’s the same, you know it is.

So if we hold that knowledge….that we have low self esteem….and work on that bit….now we have something to talk about.  Every time we judge someone, even if it’s a nano-second…we hold ourselves tight, and reassure ourselves that we love ourselves, and if we don’t…we get to the root of that?!?  THAT, my friends…is the conversation.

That is the conversation we aren’t having that’s killing the planet, the Eco-system…that’s creating hurricanes and earthquakes…that’s tearing down the financial institutions…that’s killing our trees…our beautiful trees…our bees….our birds.

Now that’s a conversation I want to have.

Why as a people, as a nation, as a world are we so insecure in our own bodies, our own hearts? 

That’s what this is really about.

That’s really what it’s all about.

Racism, Egoism, Ageism, Anti-semitism….all if it.  Every freaking -ism.

I make fun of Jewish people and money…mainly because I’m Jewish and I wish that I could have that money gift like the “rest of my stereotyped” people.  I say it’s “OK” because I’m Jewish…but it’s not.  It’s not ok.

I’m aware of this.

I explore this.

What are you going to explore?

I’m waiting…

Heaven forbid some more authenticity floats by and we are in a position to be part of the experience, instead of separating and making ourselves scared, or horrified, or better than….let’s just be.  Feel.  Open.  Attune.  Explore.  Engage.  Live.  Participate.

Doesn’t that just seem better?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Death of Story Telling

Do you remember when phones were attached to the wall?  When they had cords that reached from room to room? And when the phone was eventually hung up, the cord would entwine and fold over on itself in unrecognizable patterns that could only be undone but holding the phone upside down and letting it untwist itself?

Do you know what it’s like when someone is telling you a really really good story?  And you are riveted…hanging on their words, the pictures they create in your mind.  And then you have to pee.  And you push that urge to the deep recesses of cognition and instead opt to stay in the land of the story teller.

Nothing could stop you from hearing it’s conclusion.  Or at least get to a part of the story where you can take a break without interrupting the natural flow and cadence of the story.

Remember how you used to be on the phone for hours with your friends….this story and that story…winding through the house…cupping the receiver with your hand to whisper the naughty bits?

And then what happened?

What happened is that someone was trying to call your parents.  And you were tying up the phone line.  And impatient adults decided they needed to break in on conversations so adults could get through when they wanted to.

And then what happened?

The death of story telling.  That’s what happened.

Call Waiting happened.

Now…you are in the heat, the core, the climax of your story…and about to lay it all out…..all your neurons are firing, you can taste the memory of the event in your mouth, the rhythm is undeniable, and the heat…scorching.

Beep.

You open your mouth to lay out the height of your action but hear an untimely inhale on the other end of the phone followed by, “Wait, hold that thought…let me get rid of this person.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

expletive! expletive! expletive!

Three things.

-They will go away on their own.  In fact, they will leave a message which will fill you in on the reason for their call in perfect detail.  Unlike pre-call waiting when they just had to keep trying back…you aren’t going to lose any messages by not clicking over.

-When you are in person with someone and you have to pee so badly your eyes might turn yellow….you still wait until an appropriate point in the story to say…”Wait, this is a perfect place for me to use the restroom…hold that thought!”  You don’t let the fateful “beep” decide an arbitrary break in the story.

-Unless someone is in need of medical attention, are using their one phone call to be bailed out of jail, or are stranded somewhere and need help…(And other obvious emergencies….) is it REALLY necessary to completely break out of your current conversation…leave for 30 seconds or more and then return?  Do you really think the storyteller can hold the same space in their story with the same excitement and conviction as before the untimely interruption?

I am a story teller.  It’s in my genes.  It’s in my bones.  It just happens like nature.  And I build my stories to unfold like a flower.  I build my thoughts like a painting…layer by layer.  And like every other culture…know we have passed information  through stories since the beginning of time.  There were no books…there were storytellers.  And cave painters I guess…

Worlds most famous story begins…. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth.”  One guess what story that comes from.

Story can’t die.  It’s in our blood lines. All of them.  And story should be given some sort of place on a special shelf.  It should be revered.  It’s a dying art.  It should be recognized like it’s on an extinction list….and work should be made to maintain stories sacredness.  *I think that’s why we love TED talks…like this one…which is a story that can change the world.

I am at fault.  I use call waiting to get off the phone with people who I’d rather not be talking to at times.  It’s true.  And if it’s business hours and I’m on a personal call and a patient or potential patient is ringing through, you better damn bet I take the call.  But when I’m in relationship with someone…we are relating…and that freaking beep happens on my personal time…I ignore it.  I always have.

Maybe I’m old fashioned.  I love those drinks.  But I would love it if you paid just a little attention to the timing of when you flip over.  Think about the other person you are in “relationship” with at that moment.

Think about the story.

Always think about the story.

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