My Forgotten Lover – New York City

Her triage of artfully arranged photos – a sepia-toned antique truck, a fox in a suit, a black and white close up of a sheaf of wheat –they mock me from the wall of her adorable Brooklyn apartment. Those pictures, along with her library of literary hardcovers and her collection of vintage vinyls propped up against an old turntable—they bludgeon me with the same silent message – take a good look, this is the road you did not take. On a recent business trip, as I walked with my old, high school friend and her friends down the quaint back streets of her Brooklyn neighborhood, she passionately pointed out interesting details of the houses, the restaurants, the architecture and history. Her and her friends laughed as they told stories about the places they’d been together, the good times they had in this bar or that pub. They knew the best places to eat, the unique cocktail to order, the salad to die for. It was hard to push down my jealousy.

Fifteen years ago, in my early 20s I wanted to move to New York sight unseen. I was drawn to the city like a misfit to the circus. At the end of my senior year of college in 2000, still living in my Midwest hometown, I told my then-boyfriend I was applying for an internship at CBS in New York after graduation. We had the same major and he thought applying was a good idea too. He got it. I didn’t. Asshole. But I went to New York that year anyway for work, and afterward, I was equal parts swooning with desire and shaking in my pumps, painfully, literally because New York has the hardest streets in the known universe and you will walk for miles. I knew nothing about these things.

New York was exactly what I’d expected and so much more. I fell widly in love. Each time I visited I’d walk for blocks and imagine which part of the city I’d live in. I’d look in the windows of apartments and thumb through For Rent flyers. I’d eaves drop on conversations on the subway and scan job sites for postings. But I never allowed myself to seriously consider taking that leap; a naive 23-year-old, I was much too scared to fall. Loving New York City was like having a crush on a hot guy who’s out of your league. The longing can be excruciating. Eventually, I picked apart and highlighted the negatives – too expensive, too crowded, too impersonal, too dangerous – convincing myself that NYC wasn’t really what I wanted after all just to spare myself the agony of ultimate rejection. I reasoned that I had a foolish girl’s heartache and I should wise up and be more practical. Moving to New York was a dumb idea.

Like that too hot guy, I forgot about New York. In the decade since I’d last stepped foot in the city, I’ve gotten married, sued a company, lost a career, had two babies, two homes, lived in two other cities, built a second career, became a writer, and now, trying to start over after leaving an abusive marriage. My friend from high school has lived in New York City since the year I decided to give up on living in New York City. In the last 15 years, she built a successful career, a network of interesting friends, has a passport stamped on every page, and is truly happy. She goes to bed every night snuggled up to my old crush. Listening to her stories about her 15 years in the city it was clear that NYC had become her lover too, and they were very intimate, and I was very jealous.

Over the two days with her I’d been transported into some modern-day version of It’s a Wonderful Life where I was being smacked in the face with the alternative version of a life I did not choose; a life I could have lived if only I hadn’t been so fucking afraid of my goddamn shadow. If only I hadn’t been a bundle of insecurity and a needy little thing trying hard not to fall in love with a lover who had the power to shatter me into a million pieces. Maybe I too would be living in an ecclectically decorated Brooklyn apartment, and “leaf peeping” while antiquing in Connecticut on the weekends, and taking bi-annual trips to China on business?  Maybe I wouldn’t be going through a nasty divorce or be a single mom? Maybe I wouldn’t have learned the hard way that a broken heart isn’t the worst thing, but a heart you don’t follow is.

New York is Everyone's LoverAs we walked down the streets of Brooklyn after having a fabulous dinner and drinks with her friends, I told her about all the ways I loved her life. She put her arm in my arm. We were tipsy and wobbly from the cocktails. She admitted that she loved her life too. She also admitted that there was something missing. Then, her and her friend told me how difficult and daunting it was for people to meet one another in a city like New York. How impossible and improbably it can feel to find a single, similar fish, in a deep, deep sea with 13 million aquatic varieties. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d spent the entire night with three, attractive, intelligent, late-30’s women who had all been forever single. As it turns out, New York is everyone’s lover, and the prospect of having another, well, sometimes isn’t as enticing.

As I walked through the city alone the next day I thought about these lives; hers, mine, and the one I didn’t choose. I was on a break from the conference I was attending, and I wanted to walk. When I came to an intersection, I simply chose the direction that gave me the ‘go’ signal. I did this for an hour while thinking about life and the paths we take and why. I can’t say there was closure, or zero regret, or a feeling of acceptance or relief. I only realized that you take the path you’re brave enough to follow at the time. Maybe it’s as simple as the one that’s giving you a ‘go’ signal. And if you can find joy along the way, you’re doing alright. If you can look back and say I did the best I could, and if you can look forward and say I’ll try my best tomorrow, then that’s all that matters regardless of zip code, relationship status, or how many artfully arranged photos you have on your walls. Because I don’t think it’s about the walls, or their location, but about the people you invite inside them and the love that remains when everything else is gone.

Take the path you're brave enough to take

But I still really liked the one of the fox in a suit.  

Heaven Hides Inside Our Darkest Moments If Only We Can (Un)Learn This…

Each week, on my designated laundry day, I put extra effort into getting it ALL done on that day before one. more. dirty. item. makes its way into the empty basket. When this happens (which is rare) I feel like I’ve accomplished something BIG.

A satisfied smile spreads across my face when my bill comes to a nice, round, even number. I always feel the need to enthusiastically announce this, “it’s $34.00 on the nose!” as if it’s some rare feat.

I feel smug when I’m able to predict movie plot lines.

And sometimes, because I like the warm, gooey feeling it gives me, I write items on my to-do list that I have already done. There is an undiscernable satisfaction in crossing through that line and knowing, for sure… without a DOUBT, that you managed to accomplish SOMETHING that day. I see you there nodding your collective heads. I’m not the only one.

I crave nice, neat resolutions. Who doesn’t like the feeling that comes with knowing, KNOWING you completed something? I think we all want this feeling. We work hard. We put in the hours and the sacrifice and damn it… there should be a payoff. We deserve a tidy finality… ANSWERS… UNDERSTANDING… TRUTH!

Oh how our feeble brains love simple problems with simple answers. 1 + 1 always equals 2. See, doesn’t that feel good? When we understand that often things can be solved unequivocally, we get to relax a little… unfurl our white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel because  1 + 1 WILL FOREVER EQUAL 2. AT LEAST I KNOW THIS MUCH. MAYBE NOW I CAN GET SOME SLEEP BECAUSE THIS WILL NEVER CHANGE. Amen.

And so we set about life trying to add things up in similar ways. Trying to make time = money, healthy = better, religion = faith, love = marriage, kids = happy. The more put value on ideas in our heads and draw simple equations, the better we feel about life when it all adds up to a nice, neat round number.

But this is not how we are to live. In fact, I believe this causes us more suffering than any sense of safety… albeit false.

We are not meant to shut down and tune out the other possible answers. Answers that lie beyond our fear of things that just don’t add up.

20140929_104302I can tell you about a place I’ve been lately. It’s a place where there are no answers. I only catch a glimpse of it on my very best days; when I’m lying there on my back, face up, weak and broken. It is this other place, a space between things, when I am neither here, nor there.

It’s a place where I am open to whatever comes; whatever crazy, insane possibility lies just beyond the bend of my life. I know already that it doesn’t make sense to the equations I have in my head. I can see that much from here. It’s uncharted territory. Scary terrain.

You see, when you sit inside despair, a miraculous thing can happen. A simplistic ancient wisdom you’ve seen plastered on bumper stickers and posters in your Facebook feed presents itself anew and you understand it as though it was the first thing you ever truly understood.

I know, that I know nothing. ~Socrates

Because at the bottom of your life — a place where time stands still and up is no longer up and down is no longer down– there are no more tidy equations and easy answers. Hardly anything makes sense and the world from this place looks completely different from anything you’ve ever known to be true. In a way, your blinders are gone. For the first time you can see everything and not just the things you want to see. You see that sometimes 1 + 1 doesn’t always equal 2. You see that the equal sign is a myth created by man to keep us safe from the scary place where shit doesn’t make sense. You see that you know nothing. And because you know nothing, how could you possibly stand in judgement of anything?

It’s like being an infant all over again — receptive, open, trusting, vulnerable — no judgement, just faith and instinct, and a willingness to learn new things. I leave this place the moment I try to label it, make sense of it, force into one side of an easy equation.

But in my very best moments, while I’m sitting inside the sacred space of despair, I’ve relaxed into this ambiguity and uncertainty. I let go of the steering wheel for just a moment and I trust that there is something better waiting for me just beyond the bend of my life. With these new eyes I can see that the universe is not conspiring against me, but instead, unfolding before me like never before. It is both scary and exhilarating, fearful and loving. It makes no sense, and yet feels like the deepest wisdom I’ve ever known.

It is everything existing at once, in tandem. It is paradox. And I embrace it without trying to understand it. Quite simply… it feels like heaven.


The Push

I have a thing for bald eagles. My affection began on a cold March morning on the island of Kodiak, Alaska. I was working. I’d just gotten off a small plane from Anchorage and I was driving to a small local hospital for a surgical case. As I drove my rental car in the icy, early dawn, down a narrow, two-lane road dug into the mountain side, I saw a few bald eagles fly in front of me. I followed their path up the mountain where they perched on a bare tree. As my eyes focused, I realized there were hundreds of eagles perched in the leafless trees. When I looked back down the mountain toward the shore, I saw a cannery where even more bald eagles were swarming like seagulls. The surprise of seeing so many of these relatively rare birds swooping and flying above made me giddy with laughter. I couldn’t stop smiling. I was positively awe-struck.

There’s a bald eagle who regularly sits like a sentinel on a street light over the one of the long floating bridges here in Seattle. I saw him there often the last two years on my way to writing class at the University of Washington. I named him George. George became my talisman. As I began to cross the bridge each week I’d say, “okay, if I see George today then what I’m feeling is right, and if I don’t see George, then what I’m feeling is horse shit.” There’s a 50/50 chance I’m going to see George.

Eagles have no real predators. They’re at the top of their food chain. They are powerful, graceful, majestic, stoic animals. They represent freedom; the reason they are our nation’s symbol. In the winters, and during migrations, eagles are solitary animals. But in the spring, when it’s time to mate, they return to the same nest, the same mate, year after year.  They are monogamous. The dads even stick around to co-parent the babies.  Mama eagle and daddy eagle share the duties of feeding and defending the nest for about six weeks, that’s when they literally push their babies out. Six weeks, then push. I would be the world’s best mother if it only took six weeks to raise babies with equal help from their father AND I got winters off. Seriously. Best. Eagle Mom. Ever.

But the hardest part about being an eagle mama would be the push. Imagine. You’re perched on a cliff side or the top of the tallest tree, you have your two, skinny babes who you’ve basically just given birth to and kept alive for six weeks. They’ve never spread their wings, not even once, and yet, you must hurl them from the nest and hope they fly. Now imagine you’re the baby eagle. You’ve never flown, and suddenly, your loving mother picks you up with her massive claws and tosses you overboard, hundreds of feet in the air with nothing but air and faith to hold you up. Pretty harsh.

As a mother of a newly minted Kindergartener and 1st time pre-schooler, I have done some pushing. Each time I have to let go, I hold my breath and pray. I wonder if mama eagles feel the same way? But if I’m honest, at the same time – in the wild, chaos of a messy divorce – I feel like the child who is falling. Many days I feel like I’m descending with nothing but air and faith to make me believe I have wings.

I suppose eagles would never really know the majesty and privilege of being an eagle until they discover their wings… I suppose my babies won’t either… and neither will I… and maybe none of us ever would. It’s only learning to use our wings that allows us to know the freedom of flying.

But oh, The Push. It is the most agonizing thing, and yet, at the very same time… it feels like the greatest act of love. As if maybe there’s balance in this messy, messed up mess. Like the ecstasy of flying BEGINS with the fear of falling, and the hardest things in life contain the GREATEST amounts of love.

Will we ever stop being pushed from our safe homes and off the cliffs of life? If we’re never forced to rely on faith, will we stop being faithful? Will we forget we’re eagles if we don’t use our wings? Is that the point of it all? Learning to fly and then teaching others how to fly, too?

Tell me George. Is what I’m feeling right?

Bald Eagle Wisdom

Letting Go of the Shoulds and the Coulds

I didn’t think I was going to cry that much. I thought I’d be stoic and happy and excited, mostly, but I guess sometimes I don’t know my own heart.

I started to tear up as we got in the car to drive to the bus stop. I saw the neighbors outside. Their son is the same age as my daughter, and although he’s going to a different school, he’s also starting Kindergarten today. A threesome, they were taking the obligatory “first day of school” photo. The dad was dancing  trying to make his son smile. The mom was making sure his hair was fixed and his sign was straight. They both got a chance to take a picture (that wasn’t a selfie) with their son. I choked back a knot in my throat as I pulled away.

Then we got to the bus stop. Some other neighbors were there, a foursome, mom, dad, little brother and their daughter who is going into Kindergarten at my daughter’s school. They chatted, played man-to-man while I worked a zone defense with my two. I took a few selfies, only one turned out.

Then I watched her step onto the bus and the tears came hot and fast. He should be here, I thought. He shouldn’t miss this. But he did. Because that’s one of the punishments the ex doles out for divorcing him — refusing to be anywhere I am even if it’s a birthday party, a dance recital or the first day of Kindergarten.

I got in the car and drove to her school to meet the bus. I wanted to be there when she got off to show her where to find her classroom. I wanted to deposit her safely at the door; see her walk in for the first time. As I drove I silently shook my shoulders and stifled my sobs so my son wouldn’t hear me from the back seat. When I parked, I quickly texted him a picture of her going off to school. I have to try, right?

As I pulled up, the school walkway was full of moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas all saying goodbye, wishing the little ones a good day, giving kisses and hugs and taking more pictures. You’d think there were a bunch of rock stars walking into the building with as many cell phones were in the air. I guess there were.

He shouldn’t be missing this, I thought again. How can his hatred overshadow this? I tried to get angry but I couldn’t. I was just overwhelmingly sad. I hurt for her. But of course she wasn’t fazed, or at least it never shows. In 8 months she’s gotten used to the idea that mommy and daddy never talk, and are never in the same place at the same time. She knows this is how it is, and isn’t yet aware that this isn’t how it should be. She doesn’t know that these two adults, her parents, should be able to set aside the hurt and the anger and come together for her sake. She doesn’t know these things yet.Yet.

I don’t get to pick her up from the bus when she arrives home from her first day of Kindergarten. I won’t get to give her a hug and ask her all about her day because it’s her dad’s night. I’m going to try to call later, but there’s no guarantee he’ll answer his phone or respond to my text. This is another punishment he doles out for divorcing him; refusing to let me speak to our children when they are with him.

As I pulled away from her school the tears came still, but they were more in resignation than sadness. Because in her 5-year-old-wisdom I realized she’s right. No matter how much I wish things could be different, they aren’t. Know matter how much I KNOW they should be different, they probably never will be. Because this is how it is, and there is a certain amount of freedom in letting go of the shoulds and the coulds. Maybe she knows that already and it’s ME who is the one who doesn’t know yet. Yet.

As I flipped through the pictures I took of her first day of Kindergarten, I uploaded a few to Facebook and Instagram. Then, as I often do, I lingered over a few and studied her face; the moment she saw the bus coming, the moment her brother pushed me out of the way to give her a kiss and she lifted him from the ground, the moment she walked down the hall and didn’t turn back…

1st day of Kindergarden

The more I looked, the more I wanted to cry. But then I noticed something truly astonishing… I’m an editor by profession and I spelled Kindergarten wrong.


Then I laughed myself silly. I laughed so hard I cried for a whole other reason.

Oh life with your irony and pain and constant changing of the rules. Thank you for reminding me not to take myself too seriously. Seriously. I needed that. 

Have fun at school, sweetie. I know you’re going to come home and teach me so much more than you already have… and I can’t wait.



P.S. This is how your brother feels about you going to Kindergarten… or garden… or whatever… at least I tried!

Brother with sign

P.S.S. Nothing’s perfect, but we do have to try. 

Love you,





What Happens When You See Humanity Instead of Skin Color: A Very True Story

Over a year ago, on a weekend trip to Vegas, two black women sat across the indoor fire pit from me and my two friends. At the time, my two friends and I were hardly life-long buddies. We’d met just that year at our daughter’s gymnastics class.  We were stay-at-home moms in need of a break from the daily chore of childcare and house cleaning. One of these friends was Filipino, and the other, white, just like me.

It was our last night in Vegas. We decided to go to a dive called Fireside Lounge in the back of a 24 hour restaurant called The Peppermill. It was across the street from our cheesy, deep-disounted hotel, Circus Circus. We decided we’d just sit and talk for a while, then decide what to do. Here we were, privileged, suburban, stay-at-home moms, exhausted from the previous late nights and debauchery, now lamenting our return to reality the next day. The conversation turned more serious. We talked about our marriages, our unhappiness, our dreams for something better. We had a few drinks.

As the alcohol and the generous portion of nachos lifted us out of our worries, I decided I was going to talk to those two other women across this unusual fire pit centerpiece of gas flames surrounded by iridescent, blue bubbling water.

fire pit Vegas II

One woman had glasses and shoulder-length, black, curly hair. She was wearing a black t-shirt with a colored photograph of another black woman emblazoned across the front. There were birth and death dates. The other woman had long, impossibly bright, red hair pulled back into a chignon. Her top was a tight, black midriff. Her jeans were mint green and painted onto her curvy body. She had long, painted fingernails. Her makeup was beautifully done, her large, dangling earrings grazed her shoulders, and her fake eyelashes touched her eyebrows. She sat with her legs crossed tight holding a giant, frozen drink with a tiny umbrella and two long straws.

I approached them for a reason, but the reason’s not important now. Basically, I wanted some advice about what to do on our last night in Vegas.

As I started to get up my two friends pulled me back. Told me no. “We don’t know them,” they said. I don’t care, I said. Because by this time I was a little tipsy, and when I get tipsy, I get friendly, and fearless, and I wasn’t going to let the fact that I didn’t know these two ladies deter me from a mission.

I sat down close to the woman with glasses. I explained to her that we were a few moms from out-of-town and I needed to ask a question. At first she looked at me like I was insane, then her eyes brightened and she said, “Girl, you asked the right black woman the wrong question.” We laughed ourselves silly. Then we spent ten minutes asking each other the basics; names, hometown, reason for being in Sin City.

The woman with glasses was Shelby. She’s a mom of three, two boys, one girl, two in college. When I asked the other woman with the bright red hair her name I didn’t quite hear it. She said “Dana” but what I was expecting was something more exotic and ethnic, like Donnella, or LaDanya. I repeated one of these versions asking again. She leaned back a little and gave me the biggest side eye and yelled, “Dana… A, B, C, D… DANA!”

I immediately recognized my assumption and began laughing hysterically. We all did. It became the running joke for the evening.

Ten minutes later the five of us were headed out to the parking lot to Dana’s large SUV. On the way, my friend elbowed me. “What have you gotten us into!? This is crazy!”

Trust me, I said. I didn’t know if they could trust me. But I felt like everything was going to be okay. I felt like I needed to let go in this moment, and go with the plan. Sure, we didn’t know these two women for more than 10 minutes, but sometimes you never know what amazing things are in store if you can’t trust yourself and let go of your doubt and fear.

Dana and Shelby sat in front and me and my two friends sat in back, me in the middle. And when the five of us women got in the car, five semi-strangers, one Asian, two black, and two white — something amazing happened. After five minute more of chatting and laughing, talking about men and other hilarious things, we were just five women sitting in a car in a parking lot. We ended up walking back to the lounge arm in arm, tripping over ourselves laughing and having to take breaks to squat and breathe.

Back inside the Fireside Lounge, around this water and flames fire pit, the laughter continued. We got more comfortable. I learned Dana had a son and was a cosmetologist. I asked about her hair. I asked if it was real and she said, “Don’t act like you can’t see my roots!” And I said, “Well NOW I can!” We laughed and bumped shoulders.

We talked about our kids. We got out our phones and showed our pictures. There was as much pride in Dana’s face when she talked about her star football-playing son, as I had in mine when I told her of my baby boy. We congratulated each other on being good moms.

They told us why they were there. They lived in Vegas and came there to commemorate the anniversary of the death of their good friend, Talisha, who died of breast cancer the previous year. Shelby’s shirt held her image. Fireside Lounge was her favorite place. And now it was sacred.

Over the next few hours the five of us caused quite a scene. We were raucous and loud. At one point I laughed so hard I had to get up and walk away because I thought I was going to hyperventalate. One of my friends kept saying we should be quiet, that people were staring, but I was having none of that nonsense. There was a vibe in the air, and I was going to ride it all the way to the end.

At some point an older, white woman with short, white hair came up to us. She said she couldn’t help noticing how much fun we were having and she said she would LOVE to join us. We waved her into our little circle but she declined because she said she was with her husband and “we’d eat him alive.”

We laughed so hard we cried. We made fun of each other some more.

A few moments later a young, black woman came up. She said the same thing. We waved her to come join us but she was with her mama and she had to take her home.

Toward the end of our night Shelby and Dana got into a heated discussion over which was better, fire or water. They debated the qualities of these two elements. Shelby said water is what makes things grow. Dana said fire is what keeps us warm, cooks our food. Shelby said we wouldn’t have food if it wasn’t for water.

In an instant, that conversation crystalized everything that happened that night. I interrupted them, “NO, NO, NO! It’s both. We need both to make this beautiful.” And then we laughed and hugged and became Facebook friends.

Then one of those roaming, Vegas photographers came by to take our picture. Dana primped and pulled forward her red bangs. I fluffed my hair. We all straightened up, adjusted our shirts and asked the other if we had something in our teeth. We held up our drinks — except Shelby because she didn’t have one — she held up the nuts. We laughed some more. We scooched together.

Fire Pit Vegas

I don’t know about the others, but I entered that night heavy, full of self-pity and worry about my future.  I walked away light as air, dancing on laughter, and love, and feeling a part of a whole. I see Dana and Shelby now on my Facebook feed. They are unique in my list of friends and yet, to me, they are the symbol of this amazing night in Vegas. They remind me of what happens when you’re not afraid to be human, and more importantly, not afraid to see another person’s humanity.

Magic happens when you let down your guard, let go, and stop holding on so tight to the belief that one way is better than the other; when you finally accept that you need both elements, ALL the elements to make something beautiful; a favorite, sacred, magical place.  You need fire, AND water. You need black AND white, AND every color in between. It’s not either/ or… it’s AND/ BOTH.

This picture hangs on my mirror in my bedroom. Each time I tell this story and pull out this picture, I say that the orb on Dana’s glass was Talisha. She was the missing third. She brought us there so we could laugh at ourselves, see how silly our assumptions about each other can be, and remind us that if we can get past our fears and prejudices… there’s a lot of love in the world. Enough to lift us all up and ride it to the end.







Like a Feather: My Life’s Lesson Right Now

The last “big” purchase I made on our joint credit card, before we went our separate ways, was a black, thigh-length, down-filled, winter coat. Although it was January, it was already on sale, and I bought it from fancy-schmancy Nordstrom for $150.

I needed a new coat. The one I had been wearing for a couple of years was from Costco. It was white and had gotten dingy. One of the pockets was ripped and every time I put my hand inside, I felt the inner-lining. The zipper was starting to go too.

I splurged on my new coat and I loved it. It was light-weight, but warm, and could even smoosh up into a small ball inside a built-in pouch for travelling… or clubbing, whichever.

All through the rest of last winter, in some of my darkest  moments of separating from my husband, this black coat was my cloak; my warm, full-coverage hiding place with deep pockets and a high collar. But there was one tiny issue. Every now and again, while driving or sitting in writing class and staring off into the ether, a tiny feather would float past my face.

Sometime in February, my 2-year-old son crawled on top of the counter and knocked off a glass ornament which shattered into a million pieces.  This ornament was filled with soft, speckled, brown feathers. It was symbolic to me. Every time I saw it, it reminded me of a phrase -- a saying which encapsulates how I want to live in this world: “Like a feather on the breath of God.”

Like a feather on the breath of God, Hildegard Bingen

So all throughout the cold, dark winter I kept seeing feathers float past me at random moments for one of these two reasons. And wouldn’t you know, as soon as summer came, and the coat was packed, the doors flung open, my daughter started a “feather collection” from ones she’d find in the yard or on walks. Now, whenever she finds a feather she puts it in a yellow bucket for safe keeping. My son finds feathers too. He holds them up to his big sister and says, “Brookie, I found another feather for your collection.”

This morning, as I sat on my front porch and drank my coffee, I talked with my children about love. I don’t remember how the conversation began, but I remember telling my daughter how very loved she was by everyone — me, her daddy, her grandparents, her brother.  And she asked, “And God?” And I said, yes, especially God. He loves you most of all. Then she turns to me, in her infinite 5-year-old wisdom, and says, “Why isn’t God a she?”

Touche, darling, touche.

So I said, “OF COURSE God’s a SHE!”  I told her God is a he and a she, but if she wanted to call God “she,” then I would too. Done. Henceforth in our house God shall now be a “she.”

Just then my son looks above my head and yells… “Look Mommy, it’s a feather coming down!” And sure enough, right behind me, there it came floating — as light as could be.

My daughter jumped up the steps behind me and caught it in mid-air. “A bird must have just flown by and dropped it!” So excited to have seen a feather falling from the sky.

So I said, “Yes, and she was beautiful, and must love us so much she wanted us to have one of her feathers.”

I was thinking that feather was from God. And that it was a sign, like all the other feathers over the past seven months. And suddenly that moment became one of those moments. Moments when you stop, and pay close attention to everything around you, take in every detail, memorize every sense, and then lock it away in your memory bank to unfurl on cold, winter days.

And so I looked at my babies, really looked at them. I studied them like I would a fine painting in the Louvre. Their lightened, summer hair falling everywhere; the way my daughter constantly sweeps her’s out of her face with her right hand; their smooth, soft, tanned cheek bones; a new, tiny freckle on my daughter’s nose and all 20 of those tiny dirt-filled fingernails. Those smiles, oh, those little teeth hurt me so deep. It all made me want to cry. And so I did. And I told my sweet little girl that I was so happy I was going to cry. Then she put her hands over my eyes and said in the most cheerful voice something I said to her on a rough night a few days back when she was feeling sad, “Let those eyes cry. Let the tears come, Mama. You’ll feel better when you do.” She is a special one, this girl.

I’m going through the toughest trial of my life thus far, and yet, I am being reminded all the time that it won’t last forever. The pain will rise and flow and fall and rise again on a burst of unseen air, and then it will disappear into the atmosphere again. It will move through time and space as unpredictable as the wind, and yet, if I can stay soft and light, I will not fall, and I will not break.

This is not at all what I want to do most of the time. What I want to do is go all Mama Bear, claws out, teeth bared. What I want to do is yell at God for how utterly ridiculous and unfair this life can be, and ask how HOW! could anyone behave this way?!?

But God knows all this already, and she is telling me what I must do in spite of what I want to do. She whispers to me softly, like breath, that this too shall pass. She’s telling me that the sooner I learn to trust and let go, to float and fall and rise again… the better off we’ll all be.






The Most Important Thing of All

20140703_144701One day last week I watched casually as my 5-year-old daughter held a thimble-sized sticker in her hand the shape of a triangle. Her eyes squinting and her mouth opened slightly, I could see she was immersed in concentration. She was trying to apply this tiny sticker to Chelsea’s Clubhouse, a new toy we purchased that day. I watched silently as time and again her small hands couldn’t quite arrange the sticker exactly where it needed to go — on a yellow plastic piece the shape of a flag with an indentation the same shape as the sticker. She stuck it on and pulled it off a few times. The last time she pulled it off, it ripped, and she let out a frustrated grunt. Uuurrrgh.

“Do you want some help, sweetie?” I offer, already knowing what she’s going to say.

“I can’t get this on right. I want it to be perfect.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye because now she knows what I’m going to say. “Don’t tell me that nothing can be perfect Mama, ’cause it can!”

I smile because I appreciate the strength of our bond, that we can read each other’s thoughts.

“Honey, there’s no such thing as perfect.” I say, like I always say when my perfectionist first-born wants to get something just right; her arrangement of stuffed animals, her drawings of rainbows, or her worksheets of practiced letters and numbers. She wants it all to be perfect.

“Perfect isn’t what’s important anyway. Tell me honey, what’s The Most Important Thing?”

She lets out a sigh because I have asked her this question since she learned how to speak and she knows the answer without having to think.

“Trying.” She says like a bored teenager.

I smile. “That’s right baby. Trying is THE Most Important Thing. As long as you try, that’s all that matters.”

I’m divorcing her father. It’s not going well. My soon-to-be ex was a professional contrarian in our marriage. He defended this habit of contradiction as “enjoying debate” or, “I just don’t see it the way you do.” Sure, he was bound not to see things the same way sometimes, but ALL the time? I swear if I said I thought the air was chilly, for him, it was balmy. If I said the dinner was excellent, he’d say the steak was horribly dry and the service atrocious. If I said I wanted to go to the beach, he’d make a case for a hike in the mountains.

If this tendency was strong in marriage, you can imagine how much fervor it has gained during divorce.

In spite of my best laid plans, life has not turned out the way I’d imagined. I suspect this is true for a great many of us. I did try though… to make it perfect. I went to school, got good grades. I went on to get great jobs and promotions. I got married at the average age of 27 to someone who looked great on paper. We saved money, bought a house. I stayed healthy, had 2 children, 2 years a part, before the age of 35… a boy and a girl. Everything was unfolding as planned… until it didn’t.

Until life happened on life’s terms and I was thrown into a turbine of impossible choices such as: Option A. catastrophe, or Option B. oblivion.

No. No ma’am. There is no such thing as perfect. 

Today, my daughter tells me, hands on hips and a look of smug satisfaction, “Guess what? Daddy says you’re wrong. He says there IS such a thing as perfect. And he says that it’s ME. I’m perfect.”

Oh lord.

I get down to her level. My mind spins off into a million directions trying to hide my frustration and think of how to explain this so she understands.

“Honey. No one is perfect. Not me, not you, not your daddy, not your brother, or grandma or grandpa. There’s not a single one of us who is perfect.” I have her attention now. I take her hands. “But, and this is an important part, we are all just fine the way we are.”

She stares at me. “But daddy says… “

“I know what daddy says but listen to what I’m telling you right now, sweetie. No one is perfect, but we are all just FINE the way we are. Repeat that for me, please.”

She repeats it not looking at my eyes, her attention already diverted to other things. I bite my lip and wonder if she understands but I know if I press further I will lose her completely. I know this subject of perfection will come up again, and I will repeat this mantra again until it is committed to her memory, just like The Most Important Thing.

She goes about onto another project and I say a silent prayer; it is for understanding, faith, forgiveness and strength.

When her father came to pick her up this afternoon I had to carry my son out to the car because he had just woken up from his nap. As I’m strapping him into his car seat my daughter says, “Daddy, tell mommy there IS such a thing as perfect?”

He lets out a quick laugh from his gut that sounds like “ha” with your mouth closed. Of course he says nothing to this request because he won’t even look at me let alone speak to me. I hear her repeat this plea as I shut the car door. “Tell her!”

“I love you, have fun!” I shout as they pull from the drive.

And as I walk back into my empty home I say another silent prayer; for understanding, faith, forgiveness and strength.

Because I am not perfect, and all I can do is…  try. It is The Most Important Thing of All.



Learning to Breathe Again: On Being a Divorcee Cliche

I’ve been studying writing and literary fiction at the University of Washington for the last two years. I’ve learned oodles about the craft of writing and story telling and I love it so. It makes my brain hurt and my heart soar and my soul sigh in sweet relief. One of the first things I learned about is the dreaded hallmark of bad writing… the cliché. Never, ever, EVER use clichés. Clichés are lazy; a sign of immaturity and lack of creativity and originality on the author’s part. Clichés are the death of good writing!

But right now, my WHOLE LIFE is a cliché.

henna tattoo feather

Don’t worry Mom, it’s henna.

Mid…okay LATE… thirties female, newly divorced with two small kids seeks red wine for comfort. Also, lurks on dating websites, dives head-long into yoga, buys vibrators off infomercials and contemplates getting tattooed. Up next, attempts her best impression of Mrs. Robinson.

See. Cliché.

Going through a divorce (my kind of contentious divorce, anyway) is a trauma. It’s a grenade exploding in the middle of your life. There is a shell-shocked aftermath. A time when your ears ring so loudly you cannot hear the world; all its messages lost in translation. The air is so heavy and thick with acrid, poisonous smoke that you choke, then panic for fear of asphyxiating. You spend weeks, months even in this state trying to find one safe place to take one clean breath. Just one. If you can breathe, maybe you’ll live.

Then, after the imminent danger has passed, you begin the cleanup process. You sweep up the cracked and blackened picture frames of smiling faces from a bygone time. It knocks the wind out of you instantly. You clean out closets stuffed with mementos from “before” and your hands shake with anger and fear. One day you get a wild hair to organize the detritus in a corner of the garage and you find some dusty snorkel gear. That snorkel gear puts you right back into the blast on a rolling tide of emotions so violent you have to sit down right there on the garage floor to steady yourself. Breathe, just breathe.

And all of this happens below the surface. In the murky depths so filled with pain and sorrow you’re too afraid to take anyone down there with you. You leave the world and its people up on the surface along with the easiness of your anger and sarcasm because at least up there, up there there’s air. Like trauma, divorce carries with it a kind of PTSD. In this deep, dark, personal space, a space as intimate as your previous marriage, is where you, and you alone reside. Just trying to breathe.

After the blast, and in the early phases of post divorce, this empty, airless place and it’s shrapnel are always somewhere on the edges of your life; in back of junk drawers, at Costco in the frozen aisle, at the beach in the summer, in the curve of your son’s face after a growth spurt… in your daughter’s toes. When you see these things, it steals your breath again and again leaving the taste of smoke in your mouth. And then you must remind yourself again to breathe. Just breathe.

I’m six months post blast, and I’m learning over and over again how to just breathe. I’m still cleaning up the pieces, still getting the wind knocked out of me. But as I grow stronger I’m also taking the frayed threads of my new reality and spinning them into something brighter. More beautiful. Something full of sunlight and the smell of lilacs and daydreams that make me giddy with possibility. It’s not easy though. It’s actually very, very hard work. In fact, I get tired a lot. I lose my creativity and inspiration and that’s when I turn to my overwrought clichés.

The other night, at 1am, wine glass in hand I sat on my back porch and sang sad songs alone, to no one. Actually, not to no one because my neighbor heard me, and called me out the next day. “I heard you last night, singing.” I didn’t know what to say. For a brief second I was mortified. I was busted being this predictable cliché of a sad, lonely woman. But then I realized that I didn’t care.

Because nothing in my world is easy right now. There’s not one damn thing that’s simple, including breathing, and while the whole world is being hard I’m going to take the path of least resistance. I’m going to be an immature, simple, mindless cliché, and I’m going to embrace that shit like the spare pillow on the empty side of my king-sized bed. Because while I’m floundering around in the dark, murky waters of divorce PTSD, I might as well have a nice glass of red, an expensive vibrator and a playlist of Sam Smith to keep me company.

Keep your windows closed neighbors… I have a feeling it’s going to be a long summer.







What Maya Angelou Knew That We All Aspire to Learn

What Maya KnewSaturday is Dr. Maya Angelou’s memorial at Wake Forest University. I will take time out of my day to honor this woman for the wisdom she so generously passed on to me, and the world. What a bold, courageous woman she was; writer, poet, actor, singer, songwriter, director, editor, professor, ambassador for equality… a model for anyone wanting to live an inspired life. This woman knew a great many things about life. Things we all aspire to know which is why we listened so intently.

Oh sweet, wise Maya. Whenever I’ve been in one of life’s valleys I find it hard to use my own words to express what I’m experiencing. Too mired in the bog of my own circumstance, unable to get any true perspective, I seek comfort in the wise words of others to carry me through to higher ground. Many of Maya’s simple phrases held me up through these difficult times.

“When you know better, you do better.”

This one helped me break up hard blocks of guilt that kept me chained down to all the times I failed. It helped me forgive myself for all the ignorant and arrogant self-righteousness; the unbending stubborness, all those actions and words spoken out of fear, and all the times I hurt others out of a selfish need to self-preserve.

“When you learn, teach, when you get, give.”

This is a big reason I write. I know some things now after 36 years, and I want to pass them on. In spite of hard times, this life has been good to me. I want to give something back to it; do more good than harm. I’ve heard Maya say that when something bad happens we must say thank you. “Thank you God because I know you have something better in store for me. Thank you.”  I write so I can say thank you over and over again.

“When someone shows you who they are believe them; the first time.”

I’m still learning this one, Maya. I know it by heart, and I remind myself often, but I’m still learning.

“Courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.”

Being brave is hard. So hard. You have to be brave to be kind, to forgive, to love, to stand up for what is right. I remind myself of this every time I want to lie down and let life happen to me instead of make life happen for me. Being brave… it is the most important thing.

Maya’s only son said his mother possessed an “unshakeable faith”. She believed “the hand of God was in everything” — in words, actions, thoughts, and intentions. She wouldn’t even let profane words be spoken in her home. One time, a party guest across the room told an offensive joke. Before he was finished, Maya made her way over to him and promptly escorting him out the door. “Not in my space,” she said. She believed words had a kind of tangible power, and if you let the negative ones into your space, they will infected you like poison. This is why I rarely press publish without having, and understanding, the intention behind my words. And making sure that intention is good.

I’m positive this woman had a direct line to God. I’m sure He spoke through her to remind all of us, of universal truths. Truths we all know inside our hearts, and yet need people like Maya to remind us of. Her words held the weight of truth and transcended time.

After all these years of listening to her words, I find it ironic and hopeful that her last immortal tweet reminds us to listen to ourselves. To get quiet, and really hear our own voices. Because Maya knew what so many of us are still learning… that in that stillness of our hearts is the only space you get a direct line to God.


Maya Angelou last immortal tweet


(photo credit: Oprah Winfrey Network, Dr. Maya Angelou’s Master Class)

This Single Mothers Mother’s Day

She learned about Mother’s Day at her preschool. Every year the teachers spend days making special projects for us Mommies. They splatter paint canvases on “Jackson Pollack Day” which they wrap in hand painted dish towels and tie with a bow. The kids fill out ad lib style questionnaires about their mommies and paint pictures of flowers.  Then we have a special “tea” where the kids sing songs and serve us punch and cake. With all this preparation my daughter began talking about Mother’s Day two weeks in advance.

I’m going through a contentious divorce. I filed in January and it was my decision. Since then, I can count on half a hand how many times I’ve had a civil conversation with my ex. At this point, he won’t even allow me to approach his car to help strap my children in their car seats. My 2-year-old son has started mimicking his father’s angry tone and yells, “Mommy get away from Daddy’s car” whenever he pulls into the drive. It breaks my heart more than my ex ever could.

Last week, when my ex came to pick up the children, the first thing my daughter asked him was if he would take her to the store to buy me a Mother’s Day present. I cringed. I knew he wouldn’t. I knew her request would fall on deaf– no, angry, vengeful, cold-hearted ears.

I would have had someone else take her to buy a present but there is no one. I live 1200 miles away from all my family and most of my friends. I moved to this city to be near my ex’s family; a family that also refuses to speak to me because they choose to believe the only side of the story they know. I suppose believing anything else is too painful.

First, I tried like heck to convince my daughter that I didn’t need a store-bought gift, but when that girl gets an idea, there is no derailing it. (I wonder where she gets that from?) Then I sent my ex an email about my daughter’s request because he refuses to speak to me in person. I pleaded with him to please help her buy a gift. I told him I would reimburse him for whatever it costs –just please help her buy one. I told him we shouldn’t set the precedent that honoring our parents is an unworthy cause. But most importantly, I didn’t want my daughter to show up on Mother’s Day empty-handed. That’s a horrible feeling, to stand in front of someone you love without a thing to offer.

But she did. Because hell would have to freeze over TWICE before my ex would even look in my general direction with a feeling other than contempt and malice for “gravely ruining his life.”

I knew being a single mother would be full of moments like these. Moments when your hands are tied, your back’s against the wall, and all you can do is hope that it is enough to just open your arms and say, “honey, I love you, YOU are all the gift I’ll ever need.” Moments when your heart would shatter into a million pieces for things you cannot fix. Maybe that’s ALL of motherhood though.

For better, and often worse, I’m a relentless self-improver. Every failure, every trial, every obstacle put in my way is an opportunity for personal growth; a way to find deeper meaning; learn something new about me or the world I live in. I have become ruthless at removing negativity from my space — be it someone else’s or my own.

But what happens when you’re out of options? What happens when the only path forward is not littered with lessons in self-improvement, but appears to be only one of endurance? To put your head down and simply endure.

I have only one answer to these unfixable problems and unendurable endurances. It is the answer that calls out to me each time I fall down the rabbit hole of self-improvement. It is the answer that whispers much too softly when I’ve run out of questions to ask. It is the only thing worth a damn to me anymore.

And it is love.

Love what is happening to me as though I’d chosen it for myself. Love the shit out of whatever pile of shit I’m standing in, and trust that it’s happening for a greater reason than I can know right now. Love thy neighbor, thy enemy, and everything in between. And love myself enough to collapse into the embrace that says, “honey, I love you, YOU are all the gift I’ll ever need.” Because someone believes that about me too. And it’s so true.

So come Father’s Day, I will help my children buy a present for their dad; a man who “hates” me. I will buy him a gift so that my children won’t have to show up at his door empty-handed. I’ll even tie it with a bow and zero malice. And I won’t even ask to be reimbursed because there are many things in this world more valueable than money. mother's day

And this is one of them.