Say It Like You Mean It

Spring Thinking

Sat, 6 Feb 2010 11:16:52 -0800

When someone asks you what you do, what’s the tenor of your response? I don’t mean the content, but the tone. Are you upbeat and excited? Or is your response flat or even grumpy?

For years, my response was genuinely enthusiastic. I talked about it with passion. Recently, I noticed myself saying the same old thing in a new, uninspired way. That made me take a closer look at what I was doing and, more importantly, how I felt about it.

It was a kind of Spring Thinking and, like spring Cleaning, it required that I assess the garden after a long dormant period and set about cleaning it up. I raked the debris, pruned the dead wood, planted seeds and otherwise prepared for the blooming season.

It was the best thing I’ve done in years – for myself and for my clients.

To do this yourself, which I would insist if I knew you better, requires that you be willing to eliminate or phase out the work that’s no longer rewarding and plan for new work that is.

To follow the metaphor, stop picking the low-hanging fruit – those projects that are easy to get, have been filling your basket for years, but may be past their prime. Instead, prune the tree to cultivate branches that will bear an abundance of ripe fruit.

If you do this, you’ll be surprised by all the opportunities for growth you didn’t see before.

Here’s what you can do to make your tree, or entire garden, thrive:

Juicy Fruit
List the juiciest projects you’ve been involved in over the past decade – you know, the ones that really fueled you. These can be work or volunteer projects, professional or personal activities. Catalog the ones that energized you the most.

Current Crop
What’s in your garden now? How did you spend your time over this past year? What were your big projects – those that took a lot of your time, talent and attention? Catalog these.

How Does Your Garden Grow?
Now compare the two. Did you spend your time this past year on the juiciest projects? Or were you tending a garden full of things you don’t even like? This is really important since many of us are wasting our energy on work that doesn’t feed our soul.

Pruning
Every spring for years, in my real-world garden, I did a hard pruning to my Hydrangea tree. And every year I thought I’d gone too far and killed it. But every single summer it sprouted bigger, greener, more abundant leaves and flowers. This is what you must do in your metaphorical garden. Cut away the dead wood so the work you want will have a place to grow. Be deliberate about this. Revisit your catalog of juicy fruit and figure out how to grow more of that now.

You know what happens when you leave your yard unattended for any length of time. You can see the damage – the way that invasive plants take over and choke the life out of plants you love. Don’t let that happen to your work or your life. Start now with a bit of Spring Thinking.

Dexter, Adieu

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 16:14:16 -0800

I’ve always said that I want to come back as a pet in my own household. I’ve had three pets as an adult – Mosely, Madison and Dexter - and loved each like I’d given birth to them myself.

They’re all gone now. And I still cry when I think of them.

Mosely died of a big heart.
He was the sweetest, cuddliest cat I’ve ever known. He used to jump into bed every morning, tap me on the shoulder (my cue to roll onto my side) nestle into the crook of my arm, knead his little paws into my armpit, and purr in my ear. One day, while laying in my lap, I noticed his labored breathing. Twelve hours later he died of hydro cardiomyopathy. His heart had grown too big for his body and was pressing against his organs until they could no longer function. My heart still aches when I think of him.

Madison died after years of living large.
Madison was a fat cat. If he’d been human, his belly would have overhung his pants; he’d most definitely show butt crack; and you’d cringe if you saw him heading toward your row on an airplane. He weighted 18 pounds, snarfled his food like a dog and when napping, looked like a platter of meatloaf. He died - a mere shadow of his former self - from cancer. I loved his appetite for life and emulate him when an elastic waistband allows.

Dexter died the way he lived.
This Brittany pup came bounding into our lives with an energy that went far beyond his five-week-old size. He howled the entire ride home, separated from his mother before I thought he was ready. He gripped my heart with long-forgotten sadness.

With such a young puppy, it was important that we trained him to establish who was alpha. When he misbehaved, I was supposed to grab him by the scruff of the neck, flip him onto his back and hold him in place until he submitted. Are you kidding me? I’m alpha in every part of my life. But with Dex I was all who’s-my-little-pookie-poo. Alpha, ha!

Getting Dexter was Brian’s idea. He really was Brian’s dog and when we split up, Dexter went with Brian. They lived very happily together. And when I came by, Dexter greeted me like I’d been there all along. You gotta like this about dogs.

One day, while playing off leash at his favorite nature preserve, Dexter’s head got caught in an animal trap. Brian tried to free him but he couldn’t. He carried his best friend, dead, in his arms to his truck.

Brian called me within hours to tell me what happened. I sobbed. Images of Brian carrying Dexter with the trap around his neck still haunt me. The only way to make sense of it is to think that Dexter died living as we all should - “off leash” - doing what he loved.

I set out to write a farewell to Dexter at the time of his death. I got partway into it and then couldn’t go on. That is, until today. Out of nowhere, I had a couple of free hours and decided to write. I found the beginning of this piece and took off.

Then I realized why. Dexter died one year ago, nearly to the day. On December 15, 2008, Dex left us.

Adieu, Dexter. Adieu.

Yourtopia

Thu, 1 Oct 2009 16:46:07 -0700

Henry David Thoreau, the great author-poet-philosopher-naturalist once said:

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve imagined.”

Think about that for a minute. If we all lived the life we’ve imagined, where would we be – as individuals and as a community?

Utopia? How lovely.

But everyday life has a way of closing us off from thinking any bigger than what to make for dinner or how to navigate traffic. There are those days when going confidently in any direction, toward our dreams or to the drugstore, can be challenging.

We all have the list of what we’ll do someday. But the dreams remain dreams – the life we imagine, not the one we live.

So how do we live the life we’ve imagined? How do we make our dreams come true? We do it, simply, in small, but intentional steps, every single day.

This has been a year of major change. I sold the house I built and made a home for many years. I left the friends and community I’ve known my entire adult life. And I moved to San Francisco. What’s not evident are the thousands of tiny steps I took to get here.

As part of my big adventurous year, I decided to go to Burning Man for the first time. As I prepared, people warned me that the return back home might be difficult. They said I would likely feel post-burn depression. When you experience something transformative, everything else, by comparison, feels flat.

Yet, here I am, feeling energized and happy. Instead of feeling let down, I feel pumped up. So why is this? I think it’s because my daily life isn’t all that different from playa life. Instead of it being a transformative experience, Burning Man was an affirmative one. It didn’t make me different. It made me better.

It did this by showing me how to live more fully at the extreme edges of the things I love most. If I go back to the Gratitude Journal I wrote several years ago, I can trace the genesis of this experience. From this daily exercise of recording the things that made me grateful, patterns of joy emerged. They were connections with people, appreciation of nature, getting physical and being engaged by new and inspiring ideas.

The exercise “My Ideal Day” also helped me focus on what I wanted in my life. I wrote “Take in the view of the water.” I spend every day mesmerized by the Bay from my new home on the hill. By writing these things down, I was slowly making my dreams come true.

I’ve had the Thoreau quote on my fridge for a very long time. I’ve read the words a zillion times. They’ve seeped into my daily life to remind me to live by them.

Thoreau’s experiment on Walden Pond was his own kind of Ideal Day – his very own utopia. That’s how many feel about Burning Man. It’s how I feel about my life. I’m living it just as I had imagined.

If this is my utopia, what’s yourtopia? Write it down. Send it to me. And I promise, it will come true.

Burning Fashion

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 19:20:10 -0700

“What are you wearing?”

How many times have you said or heard that one? Or fretted over what to wear, or not to wear, to this or that?

Burning Man is no exception.

It has its challenges with the temperature extremes, the pervasive dust, the mode of conveyance and the logistics of camp life. You really don’t want to get your fabulous train stuck in the spokes of your bike or your long fluffy coat dipped into the hole of the porta-potty.

Black Rock City has its own dress code. I used to think it was entirely random, but I’ve come to see there’s a method to it. The fashion has a kind of let’s get-things-done, let’s get-it-on vibe. Think micro mini with a tool belt or fur hat and panties. It’s sexy yet sensible. Like camouflage pasties.

Some people put a tremendous amount of energy into their playa wear. You’ll see elaborate costumes that are truly art. You’ll also see shorts, tees and hiking boots. But that’s rare. Mostly what you find are folks expressing themselves with their version of what’s fun and functional, sexy and serviceable, for a week at a desert carnival.

Kurt encouraged me to look at photos, talk to friends, go shopping, have fun with it. Once I got going, I had a ball finding and planning what to wear. I am, if nothing else, all about the gear. Apparently, I did okay. Kurt, my campmates and total strangers loved what I wore. And so did I!

Kurt, having gone to Burning Man for many years, has amassed a wardrobe – most of which is shoved deep in an army duffel, surfacing only in time for the next burn. Some of these clothes I had seen, some I had not.

Kurt’s night-time playa look, which he also adopted for events where he cared to look good, was flat-out hot. Kilt, boots with lots of hardware, tiny tees or loosely cut tuxedo shirts, colorful scarves, sometimes a vest, cape or beret. The man looked gorgeous. I mean gor-or-or-geous!

Unless, of course, it was daytime. His playa daywear needs some serious help. Like a burn of its own.

There was one garment in particular that deserves a roast. Kurt’s lavender, polyester house dress.

Imagine this: a lavender-colored uh, dress, shirt, robe – I’m really not sure – that buttons down the front, hangs to mid-thigh and is shiny in that way only cheap polyester can be when it’s trying to look like silk. In the harsh sunlight, caught at the wrong angle, it hurt your eyes.

Kurt tried to call it a muumuu. I just call it unfortunate. It really looks like something an old woman would wear – only if house bound for the past decade or two. It’s the kind of rag that would repel the fur of her 16 cats and never show Jello stains.

Can you picture it? Well, now, place it on Kurt’s tall lanky frame and add to it a safari hat (with a skull-and-cross-bones bandana) and hiking boots. Still with me? Still holding down your lunch?

Kurt wore this outfit the last day we were at Burning Man. Our camp loved Kurt, but hated this garment. Apparently, he wears it every year. And despite their not-that-again groans, he wore it, for our entire last day there.

On this particular day, our camp set out on bikes for a rambling, self-guided art tour. On the way, we visited the Giant Wedge. This was an enormous wedge made of wood and astroturf that you climbed up and then slid down – on a sled, saucer, scrap of cardboard or fabric. It was wildly fun.

Kurt, being the gracious guy he is, was the last to go. We all stood at the base to cheer him on. Up he went, purple poly whipping in the wind. Down he came. Poly house dress flying up around his waist, exposing his bare package like a tiny child sitting on his lap yelling weeeee!

Honestly, it’s the best that outfit looked all day. And hopefully, will ever look again.

Footnote: I asked Kurt to read this and give me permission to post it here. He was such a good sport about it. He felt badly about his muumuu, not realizing how much we all hated it. He’s promised to make it disappear. I think I should find him some fun daytime playa wear. It’s the least I can do for roasting him so.

Burning Man

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 18:52:22 -0700

As Kurt and I were heading to Burning Man, his mom called with her final good-byes and well wishes. She sent us off with this very cute comment: Devon wondered if I'd survive the desert where there would be no salad.

No salad. No plumbing. No shower. No bed. No cell phone. No internet. No nothing.

Many of you who have known me for a long time likely have been scratching your skulls over this. Amy Harcourt, in the desert, for a week, camping, by choice?! Isn't Burning Man a bunch of hippies and freaks, flying high on merriment and mescaline? Why's our sweet Amy going there? Some of you stopped scratching long ago and turned your hands to applause, cheering me on as I planned my big adventure.

Now, most of you want to know: How was it?!!!

Burning Man was the most incredible experience I have ever had. I loved everything about it: the heat. the dust, the tent, the real-world oblivion, the freaks, and yes, even the porta-potties. My first text message upon my return was to tell Devon "There was salad!!" No lie, there really was.

Kurt, bless his creative, well-connected heart, got us into the "city" early by volunteering to work on an art project. This meant that we were there as the city was coming to life and before all 45,000 people descended.

It meant that we were treated like sultans, with freshly prepared meals made by generous and loving camps, committed to feeding the artists. It meant that we met and shared meals with the most interesting and creative people, including the french filmmakers whose documentary on the Burning Man Temple had been a large part of my motivation to go (long before I ever met them). It meant that we went to the hot springs (which are closed off once the city gates open) for a soak under the full moon.

Our first few days were heaven, until the rest of our camp arrived and the city began to swell. Then heaven turned to paradise. A dry, hot, dusty paradise filled with beautiful people, scenery and art.

For me, everything is about the people. And here was a city that, for one week, formed a community of creative, smart, loving creatures. No matter where you were, you could easily engage with anyone. Burning Man is a gifting society. There's no commerce except for ice and coffee. So people come wanting to give -- of themselves, their time, their goods, their service. There are entire camps devoted to things like:

Serving pancakes, grilled cheese or sushi; outfitting you in fun costumes (Sex Filth Avenue); teaching about brain chemistry; decorating your bike (Pimp Your Bike); hoola-hooping while sipping champagne; sun salutationing; finding your inner diva, devil or dirty girl; cleaning your body and everyone else's (Human Carcass Wash); flying kites; meditating; eating corn dogs. The booklet of activities is astounding! I just found Naked Wet Twister right next to Evening Nature Walk. How does one choose?

Nowhere else would I turn to a dreadlocked stranger to share my cup of coffee (for a nano second I wondered if I might catch something like a cold; then knew I was more likely to catch his warmth). At the end of a long bike tour through the playa (the vast open area at the city's core), we stumbled into a camp serving iced cold, fresh-squeezed lemonade. A cute young woman handed me a cup with a sweet smile and said, "You have the most perfect breasts." She wasn't hitting on me. Just saying what came to mind in the moment. It's a world defined by that kind of interaction. And one I found most perfect. Kind of like my breasts.

The other constant turn-on was the setting. Black Rock City springs to life on the site of an ancient dried-up lakebed somewhere in Nevada. The setting is completely flat and encircled by mountains. Above the mountain ring is a vast cap of open sky. Any time, day or night, the sky will surprise you with its brilliance. Wedgwood blue infused with light. Gauzy clouds bleached white at high noon, dyed orange-pink at dusk. Billions of glimmering stars. And a bright full moon.

One morning my bladder woke me up too early. I tried to ignore it, not wanting to leave my cocoon. Defeated, I wrestled myself free from the tent and slogged toward the porta-potty. And then I saw it. The most spectacular sunrise I've ever seen. I stood in awe, rooted to the earth, unable to turn my back on it. I nearly peed my boots. When I finally broke free of its glory, I caught the eye of another early-dawn drifter and without words we said "I know."

And then there was the art. After all, Burning Man is an arts festival. The level of creativity was beyond anything I'd ever seen. I couldn't fathom how someone had come up with a given idea or how they'd executed it out here on the remote and harsh playa. This kind of innovation comes from a passion and dedication that's so pure, so intense, that nothing can stop it. A major theme of Burning Man is fire and I believe that it is this fire that forges the creative will to make such awe-inspiring art.

I had many favorites, but the work of art that will live with me forever is the Temple. This year, a three-story, open-air structure shaped like a lotus, the Temple is the repository for our sorrows, joy, apologies and forgiveness. I could not stand foot in it without crying. I would wander around, marveling at its architecture, at the way it touched the sky and the thousands of words, photos, and mementos people left on its walls.

I was there alone one day at dusk. An older woman had just finished writing a farewell when she turned to leave. Her face hung in folds of deep sorrow. She saw me and I opened my arms. We embraced. Then we parted. Three days later, the Temple was burned to the ground.

Its real beauty is that it is ephemeral. It exists for a short period of time. Yet lasts forever.

There was a small note scribbled by the Temple's architect. It said that now, having stood in the Temple, he knew why he'd always loved to build and why he became an architect.

That inspired my own note, to Kurt. In red Sharpie I wrote: "Now I know why you found me."

To Be All This.

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 06:16:40 -0700

“Isn’t it wonderful that we can be all this?” she said, pointing to the ultra-chic grey wool dress she’d dropped to the floor of the dressing room and then to her sparkly hip-hugging bell bottoms and fringed halter top.

“Mmmmm. Yes it is.” I said, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall.

I was on a shopping expedition to find fun and funky costume-wear for my big adventure to Burning Man. Where better to do this but Haight Street in San Francisco?

I was drawn into this particular shop by the riot of color and texture in the front window. Spandex, faux fur, sequins, feathers and more flashes of hot color than an acid trip at a Mumbai wedding.

I had to touch everything in the store. On sensory overload, I gathered an armload of fun bits and was led to the communal dressing room. The square room was lined with mirrors on all sides, broken up only by photos of men and women dressed in fabulous Piedmont creations.

In the center of the room stood an attractive woman. She had the kind of patrician good looks I see all over this city. Simple. Sophisticated. She wore a stylish grey wool dress that matched her pale eyes, a string of pearls I’d bet once belonged to her mother’s mother, leather pumps at the end of bare, long shapely legs. I’d guess she was a successful professional, mid-forties, kids in private school and happy.

She dropped her dress in the uninhibited way of confident women and stepped into an outfit that, if liquid, would have been bubbly, sweet and immediately intoxicating.

“I love that you went from that to this,” I said, pointing to the dress on the floor and the glittery spandex on her body. Checking out her new, bad self in the mirror, she said: “Isn’t it wonderful that we can be all this?”

Well put!

We can be any kind of woman we choose to be. Good mothers and loving daughters. Best friends and life partners. Business women and community leaders. And we can do it in life’s equivalent of grey wool and grandma’s pearls just as well as in fur bikinis and feather boas.

Empty House. Full Heart.

Wed, 13 May 2009 04:28:14 -0700

I just sold the house I’ve lived in for the past decade and the process of downscaling its contents was a dopamine-serotonin rush -- the heady chemical reaction we feel when we’re in love.

It started in a bit of a panic. The sales agreement required that I move out within two weeks. How was I going to empty out my house -- rooms, closets, cupboards, drawers, basement, garage -- and vacate so fast? Garage sale? Craigslist? Swap meet? Arson?

The answer came from Kurt in three powerful words:

Crap Redistribution Day

It’s like a garage sale, but no money changes hands. Everything you want to unload is up for grabs. The only catch is: if you take things for yourself, you need to help disperse the things no one else wants. So you stay until the end or come back and take a bag, box or truckload to charity.

Any one of my friends will tell you that I have really good crap. Even if this crap was no longer really good for me. I was selling a big house to move into a small city apartment. I had some serious unloading to do.

So I sent the word out and friends came on Sunday morning to roam the house and find their treasures. Having been in San Francisco for the winter, I hadn’t seen most of them for six months so it was particularly exciting to see their smiling faces -- over armloads of good crap.

Juli was the first to arrive. She spotted a small container of plastic cocktail toothpicks and an economy-sized box of Saran Wrap and practically squealed. When I had unearthed them from the back of the cupboard, I almost pitched them. Who knew?!

Ally’s young daughter, Mirren, found my Baby Butter Ball, a baby doll in a wicker basket that I’ve had since I was ten. I never really knew why I carted her from place to place all these years since I’m the anti-pack rat, carelessly tossing items that are safe-deposit-box important. But when I saw the look on her little face, I knew.

My former neighbor Brad showed up on crutches and somehow gave them to my friend, Amy, for her injured and uninsured brother. Brad emailed later to say how good that made him feel. Brad’s four (yes, four!) young boys found my wireless whoopee cushion (there is such a thing although don’t ask why I had one!) which no doubt will provide hours of fun -- until it breaks or someone gets hurt. But I do know where they can get a good set of crutches.

My closet giveaways were fun. Beth looked way more gorgeous in my clothes than I ever did! Gina, feeling sad about love and loss, discovered the sweater Brian knit years ago and embraced it like an old friend. Little Olivia, my personal trainer’s daughter, wore one of my race medals like a diamond necklace.

I was reminded of how good friendships carry on, no matter where we live. And each of these friends had taken with them something they loved that would remind them of me.

I think of the years of enjoyment Wendy and her family will have as they lounge in the hammock; tell stories by the fire pit and serve guests with my grandmother’s silver. And when they do, I will be there in spirit. And in good crap.

Amy’s Crap Redistribution Day began at 9:00 a.m. and by noon, everything was gone.

Three short hours produced years of joy. Something that began as major anxiety -- how will I ever get this all done and move out in time?! -- turned into major release. It was, and still is, an intoxicating feeling of being liberated, alive and very much loved.

When it was all over, I left an empty house with a very full heart.

Kurt in a Skirt

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 21:16:13 -0700

Me: I met him.
Wendy: Yeah, so what was he like?
Me: Fantastic. And different.
Wendy: Different? Like how?
Me: Well, uh, he likes to wear kilts. And eye make-up.
Wendy: Uh-huh.
Me: He spins fire. In a skirt.
Wendy: (Laughs)
Me: I think it’s Scottish. Or may be just weird.

Kurt was certainly different from anyone I had ever met. I was immediately and overwhelmingly drawn to him. My attraction seemed to be in spite of, and because of, the things that made him seem so different.

He has a wide range of interests, on which he knows a tremendous amount. He runs as deep as he does wide. He has substance. And passion. The kind that makes kilt wearing and fire spinning and other “weird” things seem not only normal, but necessary.

He lives truer to his values than most anyone I know. And makes wearing a skirt about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I wrote this little poem shortly after meeting him. It reads so much better with a Scottish accent. So try on your best “care-t in a scare-t” and enjoy.

Kurt. Kurt.
Kurt in a skirt.
How I like to cavort
with this fun-loving flirt.

For he is so tall
and I am so short.
Together we make for
mighty fine sport.

Kurt. Kurt.
Kurt in a skirt.
May he always resort
to this big-hearted squirt.

Cycle Logical

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 05:43:26 -0800

She wrote something on a scrap of paper and looked up at me through her thick eyelashes, a sly little smile on her face.

I was telling her about my cycling weekend with friends. About the challenges of really hard climbs and the rewards of fast descents. About how we pull for each other when we’re tired or conserving energy. And the synergy of a pace line where the group performs better by working together. I described the trust you must have to ride close, as well as the forgiveness you need to show when your friends are being squirrelly (No matter how skilled you are on a bike, you still have those accidental swerves, brakes and sorry-I-didn’t-see-that-dead-possum moments).

Eleni was not a cyclist. But she listened as if she were planning to become one – in the next ten minutes. She leaned forward and handed me the scrap of paper. It said:

Cycle Logical

I laughed. There’s nothing logical about perching your backside on a tiny bit of leather for hours at a stretch. What woman in her right mind would willingly clad her behind in thick padding and spandex? There’s little sanity to climbing a steep hill or mountain pass, barely able to turn over the pedals. Careening down the backside on skinny tires is equally insane. Add to all this sheer drop-offs, gravel, motorists, critters, road kill, rain, human error and you’d be hard-pressed to come up with anything short of a straight jacket.

Yet, the ranks of dedicated cyclists are legion. And most are quite sane (if you squint). While not very logical, it is deeply psychological. Eleni had captured it perfectly in two simple words – it’s a sport, an activity, a way of life that impacts its participants in deep and meaningful ways.

I began cycling as an adult the year I turned 40 - by all standards a late-bloomer. I took to it immediately and believe it’s changed the course of my life.

But why cycling? Why not, say, running marathons? Helping the needy? Baking pies?

The answer came to me the other day when I saw a child riding her first big-girl bike. How did I know it was her first? If smiles had words, her would have been “Look, look, look at what I’m dooooo-ing!!! Oh, oh, oh! Look at meeeeee! I’m flying!!!”

Do you remember the moment your training wheels came off? Remember how one of your parents, or both if you were blessed, kept raising the training wheels until it was safe to take them off? Then they held on to your seat and ran next to you until suddenly they weren’t there anymore and you were moving all by yourself? Do you remember what that felt like?

Freedom. Autonomy. Power. Bliss.

It’s forty-something years later and I still feel this way when I ride my bike. And when I’m doing it with friends, add to the emotional mix

Connection. Trust. Joy. Love.

Eleni had listened to me talk about cycling and was struck by how easily I used it as a metaphor for life. Isn’t it though?

Life is a series of ups and downs, challenges and rewards. If you face every hill with trepidation, you never experience the joy of what awaits you on the other side. If you rely too heavily on yourself, never asking or accepting help from others, you’ll surely bonk. If you rely too heavily on others, never taking your turn out front, no one will want to pull for you.

Then there’s the sheer fun and beauty of it all. If you can’t laugh over getting lost, falling or heading into a a relentless headwind, then you’re taking life too seriously. If you don’t look up to enjoy your shadow cast across the cornfield or the heart-stopping view over the bay, then you’re just not paying attention.

These are the most basic of life lessons. But it’s the basics we most need to be reminded of. Whether you ride a bike, a horse, a bus or a wave, think about how they’re metaphors for living. And not just living, but living large.

Taylor-Made

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 18:19:04 -0800

I live on Taylor Street, Nob Hill, San Francisco.

You know how fun that is to say?

Every time I walk up to my building, I think, “I can’t believe I live here.” Not because it’s the most perfect space, but because I have a place in this most vibrant of cities that I call home.

The story of this place is tailor-made.

I was planning a trip to San Francisco to look for apartments and began my search on Craigslist. The first place I liked had two apartments that were opening up in time for my move here. I contacted the owner and she and I had a very nice chat. Turns out her building has seven units and she leases three of them furnished to people like me, looking for a short-term stay that requires more than a hotel. It all sounded great so we made a Monday morning appointment – hers would be the first apartments I would see. She gave me the address – 840 Taylor.

I found a number of other apartments and made appointments for those as well. I was going to have a very busy week. But I hadn’t rented a place since I was in my twenties, so better to see more than less.

The day before my trip, doing a last-minute search, I found another apartment that looked and sounded charming. It too was on Nob Hill. The tenant, who was planning to sublet the place, suggested we meet Monday morning. Since both places were in the same neighborhood, good idea. I asked her to text me the address. She did. It said “840 Taylor”.

If I could quote the number of apartments for lease in this city, I would. It must be a staggering figure. And somehow, I managed to find three apartments, all in this one tiny building. Coincidence? Serendipity? Pure synchronicity.

I fell in love with the building on Taylor instantly. But I had to see others before making a choice. I saw some that were horrible. And a few that I liked. But my heart kept going back to Taylor. I knew when I saw it early that Monday morning that this was going to be my next home.

The unit I chose is charming. It has 10-foot coved ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, hardwood floors, ornate moldings and a lot of space for a one-bedroom. It faces South so gets wonderful sunlight mid-morning and mid-afternoon. It has cute little balconies and a rooftop deck.

It also has a tiny city-apartment kitchen with no dishwasher, garbage disposal, microwave or toaster. It was coated in so much dust (to which I’m severely allergic) that I looked like ET for my first few weeks here. It smells, on occasion, like the adorable pup that usually lives here. And because it has no central or radiator heat, it’s freezing cold when the temperature dips below 60. Before you think “Oh, poor California baby” think about your private bits on a toilet seat when it’s 53 degrees -- not outside, but in your bathroom.

Lest you wonder “What just happened to our Polly Amy?” let me reassure you.

When I discovered there was no microwave, I thought “How will I survive?!” I cook everything in a microwave, from oatmeal to eggs to veggies. The only kitchen utensil I brought from Michigan was my all-time favorite silicone vegetable steamer that can only be used in a microwave. It’s been rendered useless. I’m thinking of wearing it as a hat. I figured I’d have to buy a microwave. Until I discovered how much better food tastes when cooked and heated on a stove or in the oven. And even though it takes longer, I like how it slows me down.

The tenants whose apartment I’m subletting are very sweet and extremely conscientious. They had their housekeeper do a six-hour cleaning before they moved out. In her defense, she must have been blindfolded, drunk, and cleaning with her feet – in casts. There was dust that looked like fur. And fur that smelled like I don’t-know-what. Seriously, I’ve yet to identify the smell. A cross between cilantro and vomit.

But thanks to my local family network, I found an amazing professional janitorial service to tackle the dust, mold and fur. The day of the cleaning, two kids showed up at my door. Tattooed, pierced Mandy and geeky, cycle-nut Gabe turned out to be the best thing since sliced bread – toasted in your broiler. Man, could they clean! And they were so nice. They’re now on a monthly schedule Chez Taylor.

And the cold -- that too has been remedied. I’ve been freezing because I haven’t wanted to use the wall-unit heaters much. We only factored into my lease limited, not constant, usage. How was I to know I’d be so cold? It’s California, for Buddha’s sake! How cold could it be? At home it’s in the teens, but in the 40’s and 50’s here, I’m sitting at my desk in veggie steamer and gloves.

After complaining to Kurt about how miserably cold I’ve been, he basically told me that I had to use the heaters. He reminded me that I’m the person who used Metro Car, a far more expensive way to get to and from the airport, because it improved my quality of life. Duh! I’ve turned up the heat and am so very happy.

Yesterday morning the power to half my apartment went out. When I arrived back home late in the day, the building manager was still waiting for PG&E. As I trudged up the stairs with bags of groceries, I noticed a pretty wreath on apartment #1. How sweet, I thought. Maybe I should do that. And then I saw another, on apartment #2 and #3 and on every door up to my own.

Welcome to Taylor. Where I will most likely leave my heart.

Haiku

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 08:36:09 -0800

Small, red, crescent path
mirrored in water below -
Like life, full circle.

Japanese treasure
hidden from everyday view.
What wonders we find!

Journeying at dusk,
through shades of unfolding green,
stirs my ancient soul.

Inspired by a recent run, this haiku:

Seagulls overhead,
near the pier, soaring above.
So close. Oh no! Splat.

OMG

Fri, 5 Dec 2008 07:10:27 -0800

I live a block from Grace Cathedral, a magnificent church perched atop Nob Hill. It has particular appeal for me since it evokes the best of France and Italy. It looks like Notre Dame and has “Ghiberti Doors” from the Florence Baptistry.

I’m not a Christian, but I have visited churches all over Europe and find them fascinating. So it was odd to me that a month into my stay here, I still hadn’t ventured into this magnificent cathedral on the hill. I had rested in her shade, watched her transformed by the setting sun, heard her choir through an open side door, but had not actually gone inside.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my family got into an animated discussion about religion and belief in god.

I learned that my brother, a liberal former hippie and not particularly religious man, believed in god. Always had. I discovered that my 24-year-old niece, struggling to find her way right now, relied heavily on her belief in god to get her through this tough time.

We were all raised in a Jewish family. But I don’t feel any connection to my Jewish roots, religiously, culturally or socially. I’m deeply spiritual and believe that all things are intricately connected and, as a whole, create a force that’s much greater than any one of us. I also believe that we have an inner light, love or essence that is greater than the body we inhabit and the ego we believe ourselves to be. This universal connectedness, coupled with our inner light, is my notion of god.

With these thoughts top-of-mind, I passed by the Cathedral with my niece, the most free-wheeling, spontaneous member of our clan. She wanted to go inside. I hesitated, started in with some excuse and then stopped myself.

The late afternoon sun set the stained glass ablaze. The flying buttresses soared to the sky. The hush of ancient prayer enveloped us. I had barely crossed the threshold when the tears began to roll.

“How can you not feel the presence of something larger in a place like this?” I whispered to Rachel.

She took my hand and squeezed it. I thought, I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But it could all go away and this moment, this very moment, would live on.

“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

For no matter what lies ahead, there’s so much more to love and sustain us right here and now.

Fear and Loving in San Francisco

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 13:57:19 -0800

Before leaving Ann Arbor for San Francisco, a friend asked me if I was scared. The question surprised me. It had never occurred to me to be afraid. “You’re so brave” she said. I didn’t feel very brave.

Until a week into my stay when terror unexpectedly struck.

One of the things I looked forward to most about spending the winter in California was riding my bike all season long. I shipped my bike. Had her all tuned up. Got the city bike map. Had my route planned.

And then I froze. For days on end.

I was terrified of riding the couple of miles of hilly city streets to get to the parks or the Golden Gate Bridge for safer, more enjoyable riding. What if I had to stop midway up a big hill? What if I couldn’t unclip at the light? What if my tire caught in a cable car track? What if? What if? What if?

I wasn’t new to all this. I have ridden countless miles. I have negotiated traffic. I have climbed incredibly steep hills. What was my problem?

In a small city apartment, my bike and I share living quarters. No garage. No basement. She’s there in my living room, in full sight, all the time. I love looking at her. She’s silver and sleek. Quite handsome, I would say.

But something was different. I spent days staring her down. If she had a mouth, she would have said “WTF, girlfriend?! I schlepped across the country to get here. I was manhandled. Pushed. Poked. Tightened. Screwed. And for what?! To sit here and look pretty? Quit being such a pussy. Let’s go!”

Forget her foul mouth. It was her unbridled sense of adventure that was really pissing me off.

Days went by and I couldn’t stand her taunts. I screwed up my courage and suited up for a ride, secretly telling myself that all I needed to do was get to the Bridge. I could then turn around and come home if I wanted to. But I needed to do this part of the ride -- the part that terrified me the most.

I live in a four-story walk-up. So I carried Little Miss Giddyup downstairs and stepped outside. I did my quick pre-ride checklist. Oh, I’d forgotten my sunglasses. I trudged upstairs in my bike shoes to get them. Back out on the street, no more glare, but wait!. Where’s my helmet? [expletives omitted -- I was worse than my bike]!!!! Back up again. And then back down.

By the time we hit the street, I was sweating, exhausted and more than a wee bit annoyed. She, at the other extreme, was giddy and rearing to go.

The sun was shining. The temperature was ideal. I couldn’t back down now.

I walked Madam Fearless a short block straight uphill and then eased us into traffic. The instant I got on her saddle, I knew we’d be alright. One block into the ride, I felt I’d done this for years. I easily navigated traffic. I hit the lights just right. I zipped up hills. I even knew my way!

I felt so incredibly urban. So powerful. So brave. I began to contemplate a career as a bike messenger.

Getting to the Bridge was easy. I mean really easy. How could I have been so afraid? And why would I ever think to turn back?

The journey across was exhilarating. I love to be surrounded by water. To be suspended above it, on my Sweet Steed, was very exciting. At the end of the Bridge, we had a choice. We could turn back or tackle the hill to our left. There were tons of people out and I caught the eye of an older cyclist. I asked him if it was as tough as it looked. “Nah! You’re in good shape. Go for it!” That’s all I needed and we were off.

Wow. Wow. Wow. I headed straight uphill and the view over the Bay toward the city knocked me out. I took some pictures at the top, but none can capture what I experienced that day.

Fear. Courage. Joy. And Freedom.

Left Coast Lies

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 17:32:16 -0800

I was raised in the suburbs. Went to school in the cornfields. Spent my adult life in a college town. I've never lived in a big city. Until now. I'm on sensory overload and happier than I've ever been.

There are sights, sounds, and smells that feel so unique to this place and to my experience of it.

Favorite Sights
The panoramic views of the Bay that reward you as you crest the city's many hills. The slices of blue sky and water, framed by picturesque cityscapes, that you catch as you round most street corners. The burnt orange girders and trusses of the Golden Gate Bridge, against a bluebird sky, as I'm riding my bike under them.

Favorite Sounds
The clang of a cable car bell -- unmistakable and unlike any other sound I can think of. The fog horns heard from the Farmer's Market at the historic Ferry Building on the Embarcadero. The pipe organ and choir wafting from an open side door of Grace Cathedral at sunset Sunday evening, as if to punctuate the most graceful part of the week.

Favorite Smells
The deeply soothing smell of ancient eucalyptus trees as I run through the Presidio or ride the Marin Headlands. Food. Food. And more food. Being a city of foodies and walkers, you smell delicious things from every sidewalk. Pot on Polk Street Saturday night. You gotta love the boldness of a small group sharing a joint in front of the movie theater.

This was the first missive I emailed to friends and family on the launch of Amy 2.0. I’ve captured it here in my blog to remember it for a long time to come.

If you're wondering about "Left Coast Lies," here's the origin. Left Coast is obvious. The lie part comes from a game Kurt plays after trips. Upon return, he'll say "So, tell me some lies." It's an invitation to get creative and spin an unlikely, but amusing, tale.

Here's to many more lies ahead.

Leap of Faith

Sat, 1 Nov 2008 08:04:04 -0700

I’m sitting in the airport waiting for my flight to San Francisco. In many ways, it feels no different than any other trip I’ve ever taken. The same Northwest terminal. The same Starbucks redeye. The same weary travelers. But this trip is altogether different. It’s the first big step in my life out west.

I’ve spent the past two weeks saying goodbye to friends and packing up pieces of my life to take with me. I turned in my car yesterday, transforming myself from a lifelong suburbanite, dependent on a vehicle to mail a letter, to an urbanite who will walk and public transit to everything.

On my last day in Ann Arbor, I walked into Espresso Royale to meet a friend and ran into an old colleague. Kay and I hadn’t seen each other in 15 years but fell into easy and animated conversation.

She was telling me about her life, her now 20-something daughter, and the ups downs of it all. Without knowing that I was about to embark on my new urban adventure, she told me that she was living by these words:

“Sometimes the only means of transportation we need is a leap of faith.”

Amen, Sister!

The Guest House

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 18:02:02 -0700

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

(The Essential Rumi, versions by Coleman Barks)

Baby Doll

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 11:46:47 -0700

They were walking down the street. The brother far ahead with his karate outfit sticking out from under his down coat.

Mom and daughter stopped right in front the window where I had been nursing a coffee for much of the morning.

Mom took the baby doll and positioned her more securely in her daughter’s arms, then took one hand and continued walking.

Just then, the daughter looked up at me and I smiled through the glass. She smiled back. It was just a tiny smile at first, but then it grew into a big, beautiful grin as she craned her head to keep me in view.

I continued to smile as the incision from my hysterectomy started to itch.

Powerful Beyond Measure

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 13:51:25 -0700

Last week I was thinking about the things that hold me back. It all came down to a long-held belief that if I’m really myself, I’ll be too big. “Too big” is my short-hand for being self-actualized and feeling that I’m too much and will end up alone. Isn’t it safer to be big enough to inspire yet small enough to not threaten? Just as I was sitting with these thoughts, literally, sitting at my computer thinking about all this, an email came in from Susanne with the following quote. Funny how life serves up just what you need when you need it most.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?  Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn't serve the world.  There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so  that other people won't feel insecure around you.  We are all meant to shine, as children do.  We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine,  we unconsciously give other  people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear,  our presence automatically liberates others.”
-- Marianne Williamson

As I sat there crying, I thought of what Steven Pressfileld, in “The War of Art,” had to say about what holds us back. His ideas go to the core of my fear that if I am my own True Self, I will be alone. He says:

“Fear That We Will Succeed.

That we can access the powers we secretly know we possess.

That we can become the person we sense in our hearts we truly are.

This is the most terrifying prospect a human being can face, because it ejects him at one go (he imagines) from all the tribal inclusions his psyche is wired for and has been for fifty million years.

We fear discovering that we are more than we think we are. More than our parents/children/teachers think we are. We fear that we actually possess the talent that our still, small voice tells us. That we actually have the guts, the perseverance, the capacity. We fear that we truly can steer our ship, plant our flag, reach our Promised Land. We fear this because, if it’s true, then we become estranged from all we know. We pass through a membrane. We become monsters and monstrous.

We know that if we embrace our ideals, we must prove worthy of them. And that scares the hell out of us. What will become of us? We will lose our friends and family who will no longer recognize us. We will wind up alone, in the cold void of starry space with nothing and no one to hold on to.

Of course this is exactly what happens. But here’s the trick. We wind up in space, but not alone. Instead we are tapped into an unquenchable, undepletable, inexhaustible source of wisdom, consciousness, companionship. Yeah, we lose friends. But we find friends too, in places we never thought to look. And they’re better friends, truer friends. And we’re better and truer to them.

Do you believe me?”

Yes, I believe him. And like Goethe said, I will find genius and magic in it.

From Six to Infinity

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 14:04:16 -0700

I sent out a call to my girlfriends to consider their six-word bios and it set off the most wonderful wave of thoughtful, inspired creativity.

Here they are (and more on their way)...
For the full story on each, see the notes below. The thought behind each is almost more fun than the bios themselves.

Embrace imperfection. Transform reality. Splendid moment.
-- Wendy Kern

Hands and voices carry me onward.
-- Rachael Criso

Live, love, appreciate, moment to moment.
-- Kathleeen Nolan

Intrepid traveller, jettisoned baggage...going where?
-- Debbie Tennant

Small pleasures + big hearts = Living Large.
-- Susanne Kocsis

Open, joyous, warrior heart, beating now.
-- Amy Harcourt

Wendy
Okay, once again after reading the six word bios, I went blank, nothing. I couldn't even open Amy's blog for inspiration.

And tonight while cycling, gasping for air on a wickedly steep hill, promising I'd never eat Tostitos as a pre-ride meal, it hurled out of my head...

Embrace imperfection, transform reality, splendid moment.

When I had no more gears left to downshift, I looked to my left and the sun was a beautiful orange ball and in an instant I knew my bio. Such clarity.

Rachael
I've been thinking about the 6 word bio.

I wanted to make mine a sentence (just to add a different constraint) and wanted to convey that without all the fantastic, motivating, helpful, loving people that I have (and have had and hope to have in the future) my life would be less fun, less interesting, less challenging, less fulfilling (just less, really). So, I'm not sure if this conveys that but, here it is:

Hands and voices carry me onward.

Kathleen
Ok, so I've been pondering this one and feeling uninspired. I took a beautiful long walk last evening with Doug, telling him about this 'challenge' as we crossed parks of the west side, checking out homes and yards. This morning I read the title nine bio's and then Amy's, Wendy's, Susanne's and Margie's. A few minutes later I heard Doug say " here's mine": 'work play justice truth, less carbon'. All I can say is that laughter is one of my words!

Then I read the careweb pages of a friend whose 16 year old son is being treated for acute leukemia. They are looking at 3 1/2 years of treatment. He is doing really well, several months in to his treatment. His Mom ended her update with what i felt was a perfect 6 word bio; 'live, love, & appreciate moment to moment'. (ok, not quite 6)

Debbie
I finally found the two words to finish my bio, so here is my condensed biography:

Intrepid traveler, jettisoned baggage... going where?

I feel like I completed a homework assignment!
xo

Susanne
Small pleasures + big hearts = Living Large

(oops, I didn’t use ‘inventive,’ but that’s nice too)

Amy
My bio came to me within minutes. I had returned the day before from a bike camp where Marc did a tai chi meditation we know so well -- “I will greet each day with an open heart, a joyful heart, a heart of a warrior.” As he said these words early that morning in the stillness of a beautiful park, I was brought to tears. No surprise there! And so my bio became: Open, joyous, warrior heart beating now.

Six Words

Mon, 2 Jun 2008 17:55:33 -0700

I picked up my mail tonight and in the stack of junk, found the new Title Nine catalog. I’m a big fan. Of their clothes. Their philosophy. Their name. And all it’s meant to women over the past 36 years. On the inside front cover, I found this note from the company founder, Missy Park:

“I recently read about an online magazine which asked folks to submit their biography in six words. It got me thinking about the T9 take on the 6-word memoir. Could any of us find six words to encompass all that fitness is and does for us? Here’s some of our first attempts:

Life lived in 90 minute increments. - Renee, Marketing
Muddy car interiors and sandy feet. - Christina, Merchandising
Work smart. Play hard. Sleep well. - Sarah, Web
Climbed high. Fell far. New beginnings. - Rebecca, Creative
Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. - Jen, Retail
Stronger than I thought I was. - Jessica, customer Service

And what would your six words be?”

So, of course, it got me to thinking - what’s my six-word biography?

Open, joyous warrior heart beating now.

I’d love to hear yours. Please post it by clicking on “Add a Comment” below. Or email me at amy@defiitivemarketing.com

Road Kill

Sun, 1 Jun 2008 17:53:44 -0700

I was flying down Huron River Drive when something by the side of the road nearly threw me off my bike. I steadied myself and circled back to see what it was.

This thing – crushed and barely recognizable – looked somehow familiar. I could tell that it was once quite beautiful.

I stood there staring at it for a long time, making out images in the dried blood, contemplating the loss of something so vital. The sweat under my jersey cooled and I wanted to move on. I started to leave when I recognized what it was.

This was his heart.

He must have lost it somewhere along the way. It looked like it had been there a very long time – long before he met me. How had I been down this road so many times and never noticed it before?

I wondered if he knew it was missing. Did his chest feel empty or did muscle memory deceive him?

At that moment, I knew that if I continued to pass by this spot at top speed, I would get hurt. With time this heart would decay and the stain would disappear.

I took one last look, clipped in and pedaled off.

Art credit: Starry Eyed Kid

My Vie en Mauve

Sat, 24 May 2008 05:39:03 -0700

You sound kind of blue.

I’m actually feeling mauve. You know – blue with rose-tinted glasses. They’re taped to my head right now.

That’s so you.

I know. Ma vie en mauve.

Smooth Round Stones

Tue, 20 May 2008 17:33:37 -0700

The fabric of the chair rides rough against my bare calves. Why did I wear a skirt? I look down, nervous, not sure what to say, seeing my hands in my lap.

My hands look so much like my mother’s. They’re strong, capable hands, both feminine and beautiful.

I didn’t know then that I would soon see my mother’s hands folded across her distended abdomen, gentling rising and falling with slow, labored breath. I hadn’t yet heard my brother say, in an uncharacteristic whisper, how beautiful her hands looked – just as the rise and fall stopped and she left us for good.

This man sitting here before me asks me to tell him a bit about myself. I look up from my folded hands and tell him my story.

My mother left us when I was four. My father remarried that year to a woman who, five years later, left us in the middle of the night. Seven years later, my dad remarried again, this time to a woman with two children and as many cats.

I tell him that these events made me a strong, independent woman.

What I don’t mention is that my mom left her three children and husband for another man, moving 2,000 miles away, only to be left by him within the year.

I don’t tell him that my dad, with three children to raise, remarried that year out of necessity, loneliness and spite.

I fail to mention that I called his second wife mommy and loved her son more than my own brothers. I don’t tell him about the tumult she brought into our lives or all that she took when she ran away just five years later.

I don’t mention that when my dad told me he was marrying for the third time, I objected and he told me he didn’t care.

He ponders what I’ve said, leaving a gulf of silence between us. He then asks me if I know any four years olds. No one has ever asked me that before.

I think of the only four-year-old I know, Rachel, my oldest brother’s daughter and my only niece at that time. I think of the dimples that adorn the backs of her elbows and the way her bangs catch in her long eyelashes. The image crumples me and tears rain into my lap.

I cannot possibly imagine Rachel without her mother, Susan. Or imagine Susan leaving Rachel. How could that ever happen?

But it did. It happened to me.

I am here, in this therapist’s office for the first time, because my mother, my real mother, is dying. She lives many zip codes away, yet has been my closest friend. This year of cancer and eminent death have brought with it feelings I have surprisingly never felt toward her, feelings of anger and distance. I am 24 years old and don’t know what to do.

This man, this stranger, looks thoughtfully at me and says that I am reliving the emotional experience of the first time she left, a time I cannot remember. Her impending death is the ultimate leave-taking and as I feel it coming, in a way I couldn’t have twenty years before, I relive it with all the pain I’ve since forgotten.

Unable to meet his eyes, I look down at my hands, now wet with tears. I gently stroke each fingernail, her fingernails, like round, smooth stones polished by years of melting ice.

So this is a story about love and loss. It is a story of memory and grief. And ultimately, it’s a story of forgiveness.

Age of Silence

Mon, 19 May 2008 05:02:55 -0700

I recently read The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. The book moved me so much that when I finished reading it, in tears, I immediately began reading it a second time. This is a gifted writer who’s rendered unforgettable characters and a timeless story of what it means to be alive.

Among my favorite passages are those that are excerpted from the book’s fictitious manuscript “The History of Love.” One in particular, called “The Age of Silence” captivated me. I’m a verbal person and have always loved words. I’m quick to use my cell phone, email, text and any other form of instant communication. That’s why the following passage meant so much to me.

What if we had no words?

Take the time to read this. It’s beautiful and full of meaning. Better yet, read it and tell me what you think. If you can do it with a simple gesture, all the better.

“The first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people’s hands, nothing we say now that could not be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely.

During the Age of Silence, people communicated more, not less. Basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life.The labor of building a house, say or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one’s face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that too, was saying something. Naturally, there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contact was made with one’s lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture, not all dissimilar, for Now I realize I was wrong to love you. The mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they didn’t go around with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they’d understood correctly.

Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable since they gave people a reason to say, Forgive me, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I’ve always been right to love you. Because of the frequency of these mistakes, over time the gesture for asking forgiveness evolved into the simplest form. Just to open your palm was to say: Forgive me.

Aside from one exception, almost no record exists of this first language. The exception, on which all knowledge of the subject is based is a collection of seventy-nine fossil gestures, prints of human hands frozen in midsentence and housed in a small museum in Buenos Aires. One holds the gesture for Sometimes when the rain, another for After all these years, another for Was I wrong to love you? They were found in Morocco in 1903 by an Argentine doctor named Antonio Alberto de Biedma. He was hiking in the High Atlas Mountains when he discovered a cave where the seventy-nine gestures were pressed into shale. He studied them for years without getting any closer to understanding until one day already suffering the fever of the dysentery that would kill him, he suddenly found himself able to decipher the meanings of the delicate motions of fists and fingers trapped in the stone. Soon afterwards he was taken to the hospital in Fez, and as he lay dying his hands moved like birds forming a thousand gestures, dormant all those years.

If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms -- if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body -- it’s because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what’s inside and what’s outside was so much less. It’s not that we’ve forgotten the language of gestures entirely. The habit of moving our hands while we speak is left over from it. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up: all artifacts of ancient gestures. Holding hands, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together. And at night, when it’s too dark to see, we find it necessary to gesture on each other’s bodies to make ourselves understood.”

Homage to Wendall

Sun, 18 May 2008 19:04:19 -0700

Wendy and Amy. Amy and Wendy. No one can keep us straight. Probably because we look so much alike.

Wendy and I have been friends for twenty years. She’s the only woman I know who can look absolutely stunning - with crumbs in her hair.

She navigates the world like Mr. Magoo (I once watched her cross six lanes of traffic, still talking, oblivious to the cars whizzing around her and me back at the curb waiting for the light to change) but has the keenest insight into people and situations.

Wendy will nail the most complex problems, from math to parenting, and then bungle the simplest expressions. Her kids have taken to saying “Uh mom, don’t say that, okay?” when she’s attempting something hip.

If you want to know how incredible she is, just look at her children - Nick, Adam, Emma and me. Look how good we all turned out!

Wendy is that rare combination of serious and silly; stoic and sensitive; sturdy and soft. She has the highest pain threshold of anyone I know. But will coo her sympathies if I’m complaining about a paper cut. It takes a lot for Wendy to cry. But she’ll be the first to laugh at herself.

Wendy is Japanese and believes wholeheartedly in luck. Everything - from rock-star parking spots to $20 bills in jacket pockets - appear as if by magic.

I’ve argued vehemently that it’s not luck at all. That it’s the way she lives her life and her attitude of abundance that make these things appear. That, and the fact that she loses things (like $20 bills) and then finds them.

We’ve finally agreed to disagree. So she’ll be the most surprised to hear me say that I’m the luckiest person on the planet to know and to love her.

Ideal Day

Thu, 15 May 2008 08:40:07 -0700

Wake up gently, refreshed and happy.
Stretch, kiss, hug.
Walk barefoot through the garden, taking in overnight changes.
Wander or sit with a cup of strong coffee.
Take in the view of the water.
Eat slowly and read for a bit.
Sit down and write really good fiction.
Get outdoors and get physical – cycle, run, walk, paddle, ski, yoga.
Stop to eat well and long with great company.
Apply creative thinking to the Project du Jour.
Email, phone call or coffee with a friend that’s full of girl-power synergy.
Head out for a meeting somewhere fun and inspiring.
Retire to the fire and the view of the mountains.
Cavort in the moonlight.
Slip into bed, kiss, embrace, drift into peaceful sleep.
Remember this day and be grateful.

Kurt got the idea of this “Ideal Day” exercise from a book whose title he can no longer remember. When he showed me his Ideal Day, it actually brought me to tears. It was so thoughtful -- as in, full of thought -- and instructive. I’ve cribbed ideas from it verbatim. My favorites include “Stop to eat well and long with great company.” and “Cavort in the moonlight.”

In the spirit of paying it forward, I’ve shared my Ideal Day with several friends who have felt inspired to do their own. Bobbi asked me how closely my current days are to this Ideal Day. Her impression, which was accurate, was that they’re not far off. My Ideal Day will really evolve when I live near water and/or mountains.

Gratitude

Thu, 15 May 2008 06:03:14 -0700

Many people think about their mortality and worry that they'll never accomplish all they want to during this lifetime. I think about life very differently. If asked what I hope to achieve in life, my answer's really simple. I want to wake up the majority of my days excited about what's on tap, whatever that might be. If I greet most of my days that way, I will die a very happy woman

I heard a story about a man who began blogging every day as a way to keep himself honest and focused on what mattered most in his life. During an important year of my life, I did something similar, although much more private. I kept a gratitude journal.

Every night when I got into bed, just before going to sleep, I wrote down at least five things from the day that I was grateful for. Some days I had to make myself stop at 15, 16, 17...

They were small things like being woken up by the brilliance of a full moon or big things like a friend reminding me why she loves me. Over the months, incredible patterns emerged. I could see, in my own hand, what made me happy. And without even knowing I was doing this, I was constructing a life in which I was surrounded by those things.

Interestingly, I’m writing in my gratitude journal again. The fact that it coincides with starting this blog is no coincidence. Noticing the small stuff along the way and making note of it has a kind of magical way of bringing good things to life. For this, I am truly grateful.

peace.

Wed, 14 May 2008 17:18:52 -0700

it does not mean to be in a place
where there is no noise, trouble
or hard work. It means to be in
the midst of these things and still
be calm in your heart.

I don’t know where or when I first encountered this poem, but when I redid my home office, during my separation from Brian, I framed and hung it on the wall. I saw it every day to remind myself to find the stillness within. It worked and continues to today.

I have learned to be at ease without knowing -- without having all the answers. And by being comfortable with uncertainty, I’ve found that infinite possibilities open up in my life.

Luna my Una

Wed, 14 May 2008 17:18:50 -0700

“Love me under a solitary moon and I will be your every sun.”

The words came together as if driven by their own need to congregate. I stared at them for a very long time.

He was not my moon. Nor me his sun.

Yet this was what I wanted. To be loved in the steadfast, variable way of the moon. To love in the daily, nurturing way of the sun.

These words, tiny placards of magnetic poetry, have been on my refrigerator for years. They came to me as my marriage was slowly dissolving.

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“I knew immediately that you were a ray of sunshine in the world,” he said, explaining what drew him to me. These words, pixels on my computer screen after our first coffee, warmed me.

I mentioned being awoken by the light of the full moon. “Are you a moon or sun person?” he asked. “Moon!” I declared, to which he smiled broadly.

He began calling me Luna.

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I was running through the Presidio, listening to music. It was a blue bird day and the late November sun skipped across the Bay. The song in my head repeated “You bring the sunshine, sunshine, to this heart of mine.” The song had come from him.

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I started thinking about a gift. I wanted to make something that would touch him. A drawing? A painting? A story? No, music! There were so many songs with beautiful images of the sun and moon.

The CD cover I made included a photo of the moon and sun, sharing the sky at the same time, and these words: “May every sunrise hold more promise, every moonrise hold more peace.”

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“Dearest Luna,” the note began, “You’ve brought a light et une joie de vivre to my life.”

Then he gave me a gift.

It was a bike jersey. The bright colors formed artwork – the yin-yang of the sun and moon. Her rays cradling his face. His lips pressed to her cheek. The phases of the moon wrapping around each arm.

It was perfect.

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Since meeting him I’ve thought about the poetry on the fridge in a different way.

“Love me under a solitary moon and I will be your every sun.”

I am Luna.
He is light.
We are love.

Live with Intention

Tue, 13 May 2008 18:20:47 -0700

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
And that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
- Dawna Markova

To Infinity and Beyond

Tue, 13 May 2008 13:41:49 -0700

In January, I had a brunch at my house to celebrate the new year with many of my favorite women. I asked everyone to come with a word that summed up their feelings about 2007 and another word that captured their hopes for 2008. It was a moving experience, as one beautiful, soulful woman after another shared their words and their hearts.

My words were “prosperity” for 2007 and “infinity” for 2008.

I chose infinity because if I’m truly myself, there’s no limit to how large I can live. This is an extraordinary feeling and comes after years of worrying about being too much. But here I was, celebrating the bigness of life, and enjoying the bigness of me, with my very big friends.

2008 Words to Live By (in no particular order)

Sally = Savor
Juli B. = Emerge
Debbie = Change
Bobbi= Transform
Wendy = Foreplay
Susanne = Inventive
Stephanie = Change
Renee = Gratitude
Kathleen = Openness
Beth M. = Calm Nurturing
Margie = Inspired
Rachael = Presence
Eleanor = Hopeful
Amy Kl. = Courage Grace
Heidi = RAT (Re-evaluate priorities, Appreciate, Time for what’s important)
Marcia = Hope
Julie F. = Adventure

I want to give credit to Bobbi for taking the photograph above and for introducing me to “The Not so Big Life” and the flower “game” we played. Credit also goes to Amy, who gave me the idea of the word game.