Love Story

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I think déjà vu is a strange thing.

I felt it today while sitting in the church during the ceremony rehearsal. The angle at which I was sitting, the light that was coming in through the windows, the people and the sentiment all felt right — like we were meant to be there, and like we’d began the chapter years earlier.

I’m not sure whether the initial feeling came through in real life or a dream, but if it was the latter then it was one of the most clear, telling dreams ever.

“I can’t believe I get to marry him,” the bride said to me on our way to the rehearsal. “And I think that every day.”

When the déjà vu thing happened, I wondered if it wasn’t simply the universe tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “It’s not déjà vu, it’s what you’ve wished for her for a long time. It’s what you pictured her day being like. And it came true.”

I like to think, in this case, it is a wish coming true…because the love is practically tangible, the emotion pure and the faith steadfast. During the rehearsal, I remembered back to her words and it seemed the last piece of the puzzle was in place: she found him, yes, but it was witnessed by family and friends for all to see, and so that the belief in love could be told and retold for generations to come…so that all generations can continue to seek it.

Tonight I am thankful for the déjà vu moment which felt more like a wish coming true — like the cherry on the cake. It is a beautiful example of good things happening when you least expect them, and when they’re meant to happen.

Weather or Not

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There are some things in life that are impossible to control.

Others’ actions, the stock market, the weather, and on and on.

We can make all the plans in the world, but the universe operates as it’s supposed to. After all, how does the quote go?

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.”

Others may not give us the response that we want, or that we feel we deserve. A day might be ruined by them, we may shoulder a burden that they bestowed upon us and we may find ourselves in a dark place.

We can focus on the rain and in the process miss the silver lining when the sun starts to break through, or focus on the beauty the inclement skies highlight — beauty that seems extra gorgeous and that we may not have otherwise seen.

Whether there is weather or whether there is calm, whether our plans go accordingly or they fall apart, there is always beauty to behold. It just may not be in the form we originally thought it would be.

At the end of the day, weather or not, there are countless blessings that are waiting to be remembered. For blessings and for blue skies that can always be found if we look hard enough, I am thankful.

Travel Tuesday

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I’m not sure if it was because I’d embarked on some crazy vegan diet shenanigans, whether it was the altitude, my early morning cocktail or if it was due to getting three hours of sleep last night. Whatever it was, it gave me buttercream dreams somewhere over New Mexico.

I woke up after dozing for a short while — a brief slumber which had allowed me to gallivant through a cake-centric version of CandyLand. My dream involved twirling atop a massive chocolate cupcake with a pile of vanilla buttercream frosting on top. Don’t bother to wonder about the feasibility of such twirling, given that the frosting was likely knee-deep in my dream — it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that there was a lot of it. Gobs, in fact.

When I realized what prompted my dream, it sped up my coming to. Nope, there wasn’t an opened tub of Betty Crocker buttercream frosting in front of me on my tray table — it was a fellow passenger who had been enjoying (read: sucking on — loudly) a butterscotch candy. The hard, transparent, golden kind — like the ones out of a bulk bin at the grocery store.

Definitely not as good as frosting.

My insta-sleep was the byproduct of exhaustion paired with the Most. Delicious. Screwdriver. Ever. I’ve never squeezed lemon into mine, but I did today. Holy tastebud rejoicing. Leave it to Virgin America to surprise me yet again.

Tonight I am thankful for making it through my manic Monday to my travel Tuesday, for a strange state of sleep high above the states below, and for a long-awaited, post-vegan-diet cocktail made extra sweet by a squeeze of tart, sour lemon. Such a week of opposites thus far — here’s to the rest of the week full of delightful wedding festivities!

Power through

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I knew it was going to be a long day, but I didn’t think it’d be this long. I nearly forgot to blog, something that shocked the heck out of me.

The day before a trip is always the longest — for me, anyway. Part of it is driven by my need to have things in order at the casa, lest I never return home again. This time, however, I have neighborly eyes to tidy up for. One will be watching my elderly cat, so all the cleaning that I should’ve done over the weekend got jammed into tonight. Fantastic.

Today was even more painful because I’ve been up since 4am — why, I have no clue. Too much on the noggin, perhaps. I had a new employee start today, a new business pitch happened today, and then you have mi madre in the hospital for surgery. That’s quite a day even leaving travel out of the equation. Oh, and let’s not forget the nail I broke tonight while packing, as well as the not-so-undercover blemish I located. Thanks, universe. I knew I could count on you.

I’m dead-tired, but I’ll be able to collapse in my seat on the plane in a matter of hours. I just hope I can keep my eyes open long enough to order — then consume — a screwdriver, after which I have big plans to catch some shut-eye at 36,000 feet.

I don’t know what kept me going today, but I’m sure it’s a mix of duty, desire and character. Those times in life where our world demands that we power through are sometimes the most trying. We know something good is waiting for us, and it’s almost a cruel joke to have to work so hard for it. But when we do, and when we finally get there, isn’t the reward sweet?

Tonight I am thankful for the tiny, hidden reserve of energy that powered me through the evening, and for the breather that a direct flight across the country promises.

Morning Keys

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It was faint, but I knew it in a heartbeat. It was the sound of patient, dutiful learning.

Yesterday morning’s walk took me through a familiar neighborhood, past a house that I’ve passed time and time again, but there was a new sound coming from it.

It was a sound I knew well, because I lived it for more than ten years. Piano practice. Steady, diligent piano practice.

I wondered if the practicing was ever accompanied by the study of music theory like it had been for me almost 30 years ago. I wondered if there was a metronome clicking away next to the pianist, like a stern, no-nonsense school teacher rhythmically thumping her ruler. I wondered if there was a competition or a recital on the calendar, and I wondered if any of the same Mozart or Beethoven pieces would fill the house the way they filled mine growing up.

I used to hate practicing. In fact, I wrote notes to my parents and left them on their bed on numerous occasions. Pale yellow highlighter on white paper (I liked making it difficult to read my requests, apparently) scribbled out my wishes in ways only an eight year old can conjure up:

“If you loved me, you would let me quit.” It seemed logical enough to me. After all, practicing for hours on end was little fun compared to hours of playing with friends or with Barbie dolls.

The most I got during all my years of lessons was a slight adjustment to the songs I was learning. Instead of classical, I was allowed to switch to contemporary pieces. So the learning continued, and I had a renewed interest in it. They never really gave in to my quitting at the time it mattered most, though, and I’m glad they didn’t. Not being allowed to take the easy way out during one’s younger years is…priceless.

Sometime during high school, however, the lessons stopped. Wouldn’t you know it? I missed them. I wasn’t checked out of music entirely, as I traded the keys for a bass guitar as well as a six-string. But shelving the lessons was yet another adjustment that brought about a new chapter of piano playing. It was a chapter driven by my own creation, my own melodies and my own interpretation of how to make a spirit soar and how to quiet a soul. Instead of going the classical route thanks to composers past, I was going my own route. It felt amazing. Music rooms in my college dorms became my go-to activity when I had down time, and more than once someone would knock and ask to come in. Maybe they missed their own years of piano lessons, too.

I don’t think I was ever one to practice in the morning, as late afternoon and evening feels more familiar when I think back on those years. But tonight I am thankful for yesterday morning’s walk which took me down memory lane, and for the stick-to-it-ness that my parents — as well as a few piano teachers — instilled in me. Quitting is easy, but sticking with something and finding a new love or appreciation for it is priceless. For knowing the value and benefit of not giving up, I am most grateful. Thanks, mom and dad.

Things I do.

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I’d been looking forward to my mani/pedi all week. The toes needed some love, and I decided to go the gel route on my hands. I have no idea why.

The last time I had gels, they were done by someone who — instead of soaking them off — would Dremel them off. While the gel color was perfect (shameless plug for the Gelish “Sweet Dream” shade), the process was nothing short of horrifying. Having the color drilled off wasn’t pleasant. I stopped going after peeling them all off one time, resulting in my actual nails becoming paper-thin and prone to feeling like they were swimming in lava every time I took even a lukewarm shower. They eventually healed in time.

I revisited the gels today — a mere five hours ago, in fact — and just finished peeling them all off once again. While the shade of pink wasn’t exactly what I wanted, it was close enough. The main issue is that there was a clump of color that needed removing along one side of my thumb nail, and I went at it a bit too vigorously. As such, I ruined the nail entirely.

Then I saw another nail that needed its own clump removed, so I tried again. I ruined that one, too. One I can deal with. But two nails ruined = two too many. So I spent an hour peeling away, and finally got back to my natural nails. Nails which now weren’t any thicker than tissue paper. Familiar, no? Heaven forbid I go back to the salon tomorrow for a repair job, or wait two weeks and have them soaked off like a normal person.

I do some pretty dumb things on a fairly regular basis. If there’s fattening food in the house that I’m tired of looking at, I’ll get rid of it…by eating it.

I have a bad habit of buying Weight Watchers snack cakes for those rare instances when I have a sweet tooth, but when I finally enjoy one, it’s never just one. It’s, like, four. And four defeats the purpose of buying Weight Watchers snacks in the first place.

I buy travel-size shower gel when it’s on sale, and forget that I have a stash at home. When I bring it back to the casa and open the cabinet, I am reminded that I am a hoarder of miniature, pleasant-smelling things. I suppose it could be worse.

When I take a break from washing my car myself and get it washed somewhere, I usually do so without checking the forecast. Naturally, it often rains 2-4 days later. Wash wasted.

The notion of going to Starbucks for a refreshing iced beverage usually hits me right after I’ve brushed my teeth.

I have yet to realize that tweezing, while cathartic, is a poor activity to select when things are weighing heavily on my mind.

I’m allergic to cats that aren’t mine, yet whenever I pet a new one, I have an uncanny knack for touching my eyes or nose, thus setting my person into a fit of itchy-faced sneezing for the next hour.

I don’t doubt that I’ll get gels again, and that I’ll find a way to mess them up once more. I’m sure I’ll repeat my low-calorie snack feasting, thus making them worse than the fully-leaded-yet-smaller-portioned version. I’ll probably find a million and one more things to do that make me question my own intelligence, but at the very least I can be guaranteed that it’ll be more writing fodder down the road.

There are some things that we do that seemingly lack even an ounce of sanity, but they’re things that make us “us.” So long as those things aren’t illegal or detrimental to our growth, I think we’ll all be OK. The sometimes invisible, underlying force behind all of our quirks, our habits and our brainless moments means that we’re not perfect. And, really, who would want to be? What a boring world we’d live in. Tonight I am thankful for all of my imperfections and oddities.  Here’s to yours, too.

Catch and Release

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Have you ever been at a loss? I have. In fact, I’m at a loss right now.

It’s a loss that lacks an exact definition, but there’s nothing lacking about its presence. It’s definitely there.

In my spirit, there’s a hole. How to fill it, I’m not sure. I don’t believe that it can be solved with a person or a thing, but some deep thinking or meditation may help it to form a bit of a protective scab.

Sometimes I get this general feeling of agitation going on. I hate it. It leaves me feeling very unsettled and, similar to how I feel seconds after waking, my mind feeling a little mushy. It can’t find words to articulate its frustration, but it knows it’s there. I know it’s there.

The only words I’m sure of right now are, “I just don’t know.” I found myself mumbling them out loud tonight as I shuffled around the house. I’d be deep in thought about things and out they’d tumble — a non-answer to a bunch of rhetorical questions I ask only to see if I can somehow get back on track.

If you tore up little pieces of paper, wrote a bunch of opposites on them, tossed them into a tiny container and shook it vigorously, that would be a good start to explaining how I feel inside right now. The words are plentiful; here’s a sample:

Here. There. Left. Right. Up. Down. With. Without. Go. Stay. Yell. Cry. Elation. Depression. Rage. Peace. Breathe. Drown.

I feel like there’s no in between. It’s one or the other, white or black — but I can’t tell you why. Not because I don’t want to, but because I simply can’t. I’m at a loss — for why, for how I got here, for words. All was well, and now it’s unsettled, at best. If I had a compass in my hand, the needle would be going haywire.

I know I’m not unique in how I’m feeling. While others may have a particular solution or go-to activity when they’re feeling like this, I didn’t have one tonight. Hitting the hay seemed as good an idea as any, but then I’d miss a day of blogging (gasp!) and that would be no good. Bad for the writing muscle, bad for momentum, bad for the nearly year-and-a-half streak. So writing it is.

When I sat down, I didn’t expect to find a solution to feeling unsettled. Good thing, because I’m still without one. That said, the ditch feels a little less deep and the ground feels a little less shaky after talking it out. Sometimes tackling an emotion and pummeling it for a while can show it who’s boss, and that seems to have ended up being the case here. The old catch and release thing can extend to a number of areas in our lives, and it certainly did tonight. Avoidance is one way to deal, but tonight I’m somewhat relieved to know that catching the negative has released some positive — and for that I am thankful.

Country Road

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The official start of summer was just around the corner. It was May of 1997, and I was heading home to California from Michigan after a long spring semester.

The drive normally took me four days if I didn’t drive at breakneck speed, but then again, I was motoring along in a Plymouth Colt at the time…so how much speed would I really ever achieve? If I put in 15-hour days, I could make it home in three, but my late departure from campus on a Friday afternoon had shot down any of my usual roadtrip expectations. It was time to go with the flow.

Long about Fort Wayne, Indiana, I heard something snap under my hood, flutter around bit and then go quiet. My speed wasn’t affected and, save for the snapping sound, my car sounded OK. But 6 o’clock was 15 minutes away and I didn’t want to risk not having it looked at. I noticed a sign for an auto mall just ahead, so I pulled off the highway and stopped into the nearest dealership, praying they were still open. I entered a sea of BMWs. My Colt seemed beyond out of place.

The guys in the service bay were milling about, chatting with the salesmen and probably counting down the minutes until they could crack open a cold one. I explained my situation (read: solo girl driving home to California from Michigan, mysterious under-hood noises, assistance would be lovely) and they obliged. In my car went while I shuffled around the lot for a while to kill some time. There was still some daylight left when one of the sales guys walked over to me.

“It’s a nice car, isn’t it?” he asked. I was checking out a Z3 that must’ve been in its first or second model year.

“We can go for a ride while you wait, if you’d like,” he offered. I was instantly suspicious of his intentions but, after closer inspection, I realized he only had one arm. That, combined with the fact that it was still light outside, prompted me to accept his invitation.

“Why not?” I said. Off we drove.

It was one of the best drives I’d ever been on. He found a few winding country roads, effortlessly steering and shifting as though his other arm was there — but just invisible. I think I giggled the whole time. I tend to do that at high speeds.

After a good forty minutes, we headed back to the dealership. The sun was creeping lower, and a warm haze was settling across a massive, golden field. Barns were back-lit. Small bugs began to emerge for their evening festivities; they stayed close to the ground, creating airborne sparkles whenever our headlights illuminated them.

Back at the dealership, the news was good: it was only an A/C belt, but something that would’ve been necessary once I reached New Mexico, Arizona or the California desert. The service department should’ve closed at least an hour earlier, but nobody seemed to mind sticking around to help. To this day, it’s one of my warmest, fondest memories from my time in the Midwest, and I’ll forever be grateful for their kindness and assistance in getting me on my way.

I think I only made it to Terre Haute that night, but my heart was still back on those county roads and wishing it could wander through those fields. For that brief diversion from my focus on the highway and the universe’s reminder to relax and find the good in a potentially frustrating situation — to find the county road amidst the chaos — I am thankful.

You first.

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They say that when you get married, it’s most important to know the other person really, really well. Inside-out, from head to toe.

I disagree with this. I think it’s most important to first know yourself, then the other person.

I say this not as someone who’s passing judgment or as someone who claims to have all the answers. I say it as someone who, on a near-daily basis, questions everything I ever thought I knew about myself and who cringes to wonder what I would’ve been like with someone — for someone — had I married at a time when I clearly didn’t know myself that well. Or at all, really.

I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up. I have habits that I assume I’ll one day outgrow — until I realize that outgrowing them probably should’ve happened 20 years ago instead of things miraculously changing during my 36th year of life. I occasionally spin myself up over the smallest things, with no help from anyone else. I like to hog the bed. Sometimes I don’t pick my clothing up off the floor. I’m not the best at doubling recipes because I’ve cooked for one for a long time. Granted, with the exception of not knowing what I want to be when I grow up, none of these really has much to do with how well I know myself, but I have a hard time letting people in and letting my guard down. And I guess for anything to happen, those have to be the first things to change.

Some days I feel like I know myself, then I’ll read something in the news and wonder about my stance on an issue, on policy, on a candidate. Then I realize that my brain is easily turned upside down by arguments that can be made for either side of the coin, and then I’m back to square one: I don’t know…I just don’t know. I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure. And so the circle continues.

The problem with the way my brain works is that it’s very linear. First this, then that. Before Z happens, X and Y need to first happen — and God forbid Y come before X, because we don’t need to upset the apple cart now, do we?

It’s a problem that has plagued me for the better part of my adult life, linear thinking is. But in reality, it doesn’t always allow for the unexpected bend in the road, the flat tire life throws at us, and it certainly doesn’t stand for throwing caution to the wind. But sometimes I like throwing caution to the wind, and once again I’m at odds with myself. Sigh.

Nope, I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I do know that it’s likely impossible to know myself 100% before I’m good and ready and able to be with someone else. When does it ever happen like that? It’s a ridiculous expectation to place on oneself, not to mention it completely discounts any positives that someone else can bring to the table — can bring to you…positives which ultimately end up helping you know yourself even better than you would have without them.

And missing out on that would be a shame.

Tonight I am thankful for realizing that life, love and any sort of pursuit of another doesn’t have to be an all or nothing thing. It can happen when it’s forced, yes, but it happens in a more rewarding manner when we simply allow it to occur — whether or not we know ourselves as much as we hoped we would. Some say that preparation is the key to success, but I prefer the other phrase: preparation is the mother of victory. Because even if it opens the door simply to personal learnings or growth, that’s certainly a victory in itself — significant other or not. No need to rush to tie the knot, no need to put a life-long label on someone. Just good old-fashioned learning. And if anything beyond that is meant to be, then it shall in its own time.

Kill With a Smile

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Billy Joel is one of my favorite musicians. The first concert I ever went to was one of his, and he’s responsible for my pre-teen love affair with the state of New York. I used to open up the encyclopedia and sketch the entire state, counties included. When a stray cat we took in ended up being pregnant and giving birth to a litter of kittens back in the late 80s, I named one Nyli — short for New York/Long Island. I’d have given anything to live in the Hamptons. Little did I know, one day I’d live just across the sound in Connecticut; I still wish I’d have lived in New York instead of Norwalk. I think the state has a magic that I missed out on — a magic that isn’t obtained through proximity or osmosis; you have to really live there, really be, see, smell, taste and feel it. As a result of not doing this, I ruined the East Coast for myself, and am relegated to admiring New York from afar.

I went for my evening walk earlier and wasn’t really in the mood for it. The air was still and warm, warmer than it had been over the weekend. Somehow I started to develop a blister on the fourth toe of my right foot, despite not being a newbie when it comes to four-mile treks. Something about my walking pace usually inspires me to default to a couple of songs: “Silver Bells” (I have no idea why) and Joel’s “Uptown Girl.”  Neither was coming to mind tonight, so I did the best I could and passed the next hour with thoughts of the previous day’s red-tailed hawks, musings about why there were at least three helicopters hovering over the Disneyland area (turns out there was a bomb scare) and tried to keep my mind off that pesky toe.

Somewhere in between my personal game of trying not to step on newly-fallen-but-not-yet-lifeless jacaranda blooms and dodging bees, I looked up long enough to see a woman motoring towards me in her wheelchair. My blister-in-training and disgust with the warm evening suddenly seemed to mock me, as if they were saying, “You thought we were bad? Try being in one of those. Forever. No walking to exercise, no walking at all. Just sitting.”

She was on her cell phone, but still managed to smile as she passed me. I smiled back and continued on.

Another Billy Joel song came on the radio a while ago when I sat down to write. While not written about anyone in a wheelchair, one of the lines made me think of the lady I passed earlier when I heard, “She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes.”

Her smile earlier tonight made my heart hurt. It hurt because she clearly felt she had enough to smile about while the rest of the world likely looked on at her with some degree of pity — and how dare I feel pity for anyone without having knowledge of their story. Perhaps she defeated death and is relishing her life, regardless of the chair. Perhaps she beat a coma and now enjoys nothing more than feeling the evening breeze — warm or otherwise — in her hair, despite the chair.

You never know. We never know about anyone, in truth. We only know what we see, or what they allow themselves to share with us. So many times there’s far more just beneath the surface, not unlike an iceberg.

Tonight I was reminded of all the things I take for granted — my ability to bend down and tie my shoes on for a multi-mile walk, my ability to stand up, period — and was instantly smacked in the face by reality in the form of a smile that won’t be kept down. It was a smile that has seen more struggle than my darkest hour (and certainly a ridiculous blister), and a smile that reminded me to suck it up and carry on.

Every day. No questions, no doubts, just a whole lot of doing.