Hanging up the saddle

I don't like to have people touch my face. It feels too personal: if I don't know you that well, there's no reason for you to be going there. It's funny, the gestures that different people find intimate. I knew one girl who liked to pat people's faces, touch their hair; to her, this wasn't a big deal, and she didn't think it was a big deal if you did it to her. The intricacies of putting your arm around someone of the opposite sex, or of having someone of the opposite sex put their arm around you: not a big deal if the arm goes around your shoulders, but suddenly a much more uncomfortable situation if it goes around your waist. At least for me. And even the arm around the shoulders can be a big deal if it stays too long. Arm around the waist, hand on my lower back, or holding my hand while I'm standing next to you: to me these things feel like you're trying to say I belong to you, and unless you're my husband, I don't.

Two or three things I know for sure

Few writers can grab your heart and wring it the way Dorothy Allison does. I read her books years ago, but every now and then a line or two that she's written will play in my head. The title of her memoir especially.

What do I know for sure? I repeat them to myself - my central tenets - over and over again to ward off the anxieties that besiege me. Anxiety is a terrible thing; being struck by lightning is one thing, quick and easy. Anxiety is like being chewed to death by little mice. The constant pounding of your heart, the difficulty breathing, day in and day out, like drowning slowly with the sun in your eyes, knowing the surface clear air is near but unreachable.

So what do I know for sure? "Cast all your anxiety upon Him because He cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7.
The love of God. My husband. My family. Certain friends.
This, too, shall pass.

It's more than most people have, more than most people know.

Birds and Bees

On today's to-do list: build a small cage around our strawberry patch to keep away marauding birds. I hate birds, even pretty ones (hummingbirds excepted), and the blue-jays and magpies that surround our house are at the top of my list. They've been picking off the strawberries as they ripen. This is unacceptable.

Other things on the to-do list: clean out old letters/cards. I have to admit, I'm something of a packrat. My husband, too, although less so. Between the two of us, we have quite an archive of correspondence. I have cards I received twenty years ago, from people I no longer remember. I have really personal cards from people I can't remember having been that close to (admittedly, my memory for such things is not long). I think I've kept every scrap of paper that anyone has ever written me, no matter how insignificant the message or the relationship. While it seems sad to toss away a fifteen-year-old message asking me if I want to go shopping, I think it's time to put these in the recycling bin. Of course, I'm going to continue to keep some of them, the ones from people who still matter to me, the ones with really meaningful messages.

A subset of the old letters/cards category is the memorabilia of past relationships. Both my husband and I had a "box" for each former flame. Going through these boxes was amusing - we've been together for so long that it felt like rifling through someone else's life, like gossip, rather than anything we had personally gone through. It did, however, make me feel old. Were we ever really as young as we sounded in these notes? I can't remember having been so young that it seemed important to keep things like receipts, showing where I'd been and when. And yet, they were there, in the Boxes. I do remember cutting paper snowflakes, which, when unfolded, said "I love u." Embarrassing to think of now. Hopefully, somewhere out there, my exes have already destroyed any Box they may have kept.

My husband, being a boy, had fewer such embarrassments. The same can't be said for his ex-girlfriends, who should be very relieved to know that these Boxes have now, finally, all been laid to rest in our shredder/recycling bin. The stuffed animals and other assorted gifts have been packed off to various charities. Ah, de-cluttering. Makes me feel like a new woman.

Back to Reality

Went surfing here in California yesterday. It's hard to believe it's the same ocean as the one I swam/surfed in, in Hawaii. The water is about forty degrees colder here. The waves are bigger and meaner. Whereas the water in Hawaii was crystal clear, the water here is murky and seaweed-filled. It was one of those days where it felt like I couldn't do anything right in the water. Huge clumps of seaweed kept getting tangled up in my leash, impeding movement. The currents were strong, and I felt like I spent most of my energy just trying to stay in the same spot, so I didn't have much left for paddling for waves. And the waves were closing out. I stupidly paddled into a couple of bad closeouts. That's one of the worst feelings, being washing-machined. The waves tumble you. If you're lucky, you're just disoriented when you come back up. If you're unlucky, the force of the wave throws you toward the bottom of the ocean, where you can hit your head on a rock (which has happened to me), or get your leash tangled on a rock and get trapped. If you're lucky, when you come back up the coast is clear. If you're unlucky, you might come back up to see a surfboard (your own or someone else's) hurtling at you. Or, as happened to me yesterday, you come back up just in time to see the next wave - a wall of water - coming at you and you have to dive back under before you have time to really even catch your breath.

Back!

Just got back this morning, on a red-eye so I'm a little fuzzy-headed. Hawaii was awesome (as is to be expected). Temps in the eighties, perfect waves, water a beautiful aquamarine. Didn't have my own board so had to rent one, which was the only not-so-great thing. The rental boards kind of sucked. I had one that was like a boat. Not sure what happened, but that board definitely got the best of me. Came out of the water bruised all over, and I hadn't even fallen! It was like I got bruised just touching it. Still, it was incredible to be in the water without a wetsuit and to not be at all cold! And sitting out there, I saw these tropical fish swimming around in the water near my feet. The water was unbelievably clear. We hiked Diamondhead, and even from the top, we could see the bottom of the ocean below us. Thanks to my sister for the trip, which was such a great bday gift, it more than made up for a not-so-great birthday.

Reve

- ...Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?
- A man may do both.

- The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien

Counting Blessings

One of the unexpected benefits to not working - at least, not working a regular job, or maybe just a law firm job - is a renewed appreciation of what a beautiful place this is. Seasons had always escaped me before: no matter what month it was, what the weather outside, my office always looked the same, and my office was all I saw. Now I actually get to go outside during daylight hours, and it's pretty amazing. I'd forgotten how blue the sky is here. It's full-on spring now, and the trees are budding, plants are flowering everywhere. Even just driving down the street to the grocery store is a pleasure.

On an unrelated note (although this could still fall under the category of blessings), I am so happy that we didn't get rid of our stove. It's one of those electric, ceramic ones. When we first bought the house, I was adamant that it had to go (as I've mentioned before, I'm something of a Luddite in the kitchen). I wanted to replace it with one of those hulking gas Viking stoves with the roaring flames. In the final event, though, there was too much else to do, we didn't have a gas line running to the stove and would have had to have someone out to put one in (and I have no success with contractors), so we just left it. I'm glad we did. It is SO easy to clean, it heats up much more quickly, and, I think for that reason, cooks just as well as a gas stove.

Temper

What's the inverse of schadenfreude? Pettiness, maliciousness - not exact enough. A lack of gratitude for what you have, constantly believing that the grass is greener elsewhere, that someone else's life is (undeservedly) better than yours. These feelings plague me. The only thing I can say for myself is that I am ashamed of them, and, with my rational mind, I know that there is no one I would trade places with for even a day. I have been incredibly blessed, far more than I could ever deserve. I think at the root of all my negativity is my anxiety. It's like an evil mushroom sending toxic sprays out into the ground all around it. I've always been an anxious person, always been a worrier, but it's been worse lately and I don't know why. So many people out there have real problems: where their next meal is coming from, illnesses, etc. I only have neuroses. Isn't this what will power is for?

Getting a Grip

I was stood up by yet another contractor yesterday. Lovely.

I feel this low-grade anxiety humming in the back of my head like a motor. I've spent a lot of time lately trying to pinpoint its source, but not much luck so far. Instead, I've been acting like a mal-adjusted sprinkler head, spewing discontent in random directions. Well, not so random. It's more like a heightening of frustrations I already had. Thankfully, I'm going on vacation next week. (Can I call it a vacation, even though I have no "real" job from which to vacate?) Unfortunately sans husband, but it'll give me time to hang out with my sister. Who knows, maybe Hawaii will help me unwind. Looking forward to the surf.

The Ark, Reprised

When you get married, one of the things you have to get used to is how all your friends suddenly become "couple friends." Nearly all of our friends (at least, the ones we've made since we've been married, and not counting the ones who were our friends pre-wedding) come in packages of two. It makes sense, I suppose: everyone works hard, you don't have much time to spend with your spouse/significant other, so when you go out you want to go out together. I know I don't enjoy going out without my husband.

We went out with such a pair of our couple friends a few nights ago, and the couple phenomenon was duly noted amongst the four of us. Our friends then shared that one of the things they often discuss is, should a pair of their couple friends break up and they could no longer keep both of them in their lives, which one they would choose to keep. (It was a little awkward; my husband and I glanced at each other, both of us wondering which one of us they had decided on.) But normally, I don't think it's a tough decision. Even with couple friends, there's almost always one you feel closer to, the one who is the reason for the four of you hanging out together at all, usually the one you met first.

Becoming Handy

Rule number one of home ownership: things will break. Corresponding rules: plumbers charge > $150/hour (clearly I entered the wrong profession); contractors charge a gazillion dollars an hour, and, moreover, will not return your phone calls or keep appointments;
and, finally, your average, run-of-the-mill, non-bankruptcy-causing handyman has gone extinct.

Corollary to the above rules: you must learn to do many things yourself. Unless, of course, you have a lot of money and don't mind spending it all on routine house maintenance.

So, here are the things I have learned to do since purchasing the house:

• diagnose common plumbing issues;
  
• replace toilet fill valves and other toilet anatomy miscellanea;
• install drapery rods and other window treatments;
• engage in minor sprinkler repairs;
• dig holes and plant stuff;
• caulk many, many things (it's amazing how many problems can be solved by a tube of caulk);
  
• find studs;
• drill holes and attach stuff.

I've gotten to know my local Home Depot very well.

And I've gotten to spend much quality time with my sewing machine, making drapes, matching pillows, etc.

In addition, I now have a yard (both front and back) full of living things whose lives depend largely on my vigilance. Many, many hours a day are spent watering, weeding, digging, spraying, etc., etc. Someone suggested using a gardening service, but, being descended from my father, a master gardener, I feel like that would be a blow to the pride and honor of my family, not to mention cheating.

With all of this, who has time to work?

Tennis

To me, the best songs are the ones that remind me of something. I heard Alanis Morissette on the radio today. While I was in New Zealand, my cousin played her first CD non-stop. It was in New Zealand, skin cancer capitol of the world, that I first played on an indoor tennis court. Actually, it was the only time I've ever played on an indoor tennis court.

Tennis saved me during high school. Only in my hours on the court could I forget about the body of which I was so ashamed (believing myself to be fat and ugly). Only on the court did I feel in control. During the summers, I would sometimes play seven hours a day; sometimes with a friend, sometimes with one or another of my coaches, sometimes by myself, practicing my serve over and over and over again, till my eyes were bloodshot from staring into the sun. There were nights when I couldn't fall asleep, replaying certain points in my head, seeing the tennis ball in vivid color behind my closed eyelids, a zahir. I played till my hands blistered and bled, till my muscles would no longer support me. I wrote my college essays about tennis.

And tennis extracted a price from me. The pains I have now - my knees, my wrists, the shoulder I dislocate time and again - are all from those hours I spent. Moreover, tennis cost me one of my best friends at the time. I was voted Most Valuable Player our senior year, and she never forgave me for it. We both knew she was the better player, but I won more matches and our coach and teammates loved me for it.

I wonder sometimes what she's doing now, if she's happy. I wonder how well we ever knew each other, and if she would recognize me if she saw me now. I don't often play anymore. I've long since lost the trophies, misplaced the pictures. I wonder if I've really changed all that much, or if tennis could somehow save me again.

Phasing Out

above these walls of concrete and glass, these cars, these people, and me, the sky is a cotton-candy blue pulling apart in wisps of white cloud, close enough to reach it is tasteless. i sit in the car in the cold with the engine off and behind the strip mall i see hills green from winter rain, peaked with radio towers like the spindles of a magic loom to put me into a deep, deep sleep from which i can only be awakened by magic. safe in here and people's voices only come at me muffled, their faces through the glass like animals in a cage at the zoo with me safe on the other side. bright morning california morning but it all feels the same.

Procrastination

Last night's dinner: baked mahimahi breaded in a mixture of ground macadamia nuts, coconut milk, flour, and bread crumbs, and an artichoke risotto. I used rice vinegar in the risotto, which added an interesting flavor - I kind of liked it. I'd had an artichoke risotto in Rome, and was trying to re-create it. Ditto with the mahimahi, although that was not in Rome but somewhere in the U.S. I was winging it and a little nervous about how everything was going to turn out, but it worked.

These are the things I think about while I should be writing.

Awesome Love

Benny Hester sings a song called "When God Ran." It starts off with a list of some of God's characteristics: "Almighty God, the great I am, immovable rock, omnipotent, powerful, awesome Lord, victorious warrior, commanding king of kings, mighty conqueror." Then it goes on: "And the only time, the only time I ever saw Him run, was when He ran to me, took me in His arms, held my head to his chest, said 'My son's come home again.' Lifted my face, wiped the tears from my eyes, with forgiveness in His voice He said, 'Son, do you know I still love you?'"

I think I manage to avoid some of the obvious sins, but I've left God, hurt Him, many, many times with my not-so-obvious (to the world anyway) sins. Like my lack of faith. Despite the countless number of times that He's shown me how much He loves me, whenever I get into a rut or things stop going my way, I feel like He's abandoned me, or that He's let me down. I stop believing in His plan. Especially when it comes to my career-life, I've spent the last few months wondering if He has a plan for me at all.

I've been struggling to deal with the after-effects of giving up my career as a lawyer: the loss of salary, the loss of prestige, and of concomitant self-respect. My husband ran into a partner that I used to work for, who told him that I was one of the best associates he'd had. Immodest as it sounds, I knew it already. I was a good lawyer, a very good lawyer. But that just makes it harder for me to feel like I've done the right thing, dropping my job when I was doing so well.

What makes it worse is that my mental struggles over the rightness of what I've done have made it harder for me to write. And that, in turn, makes me feel even worse about giving up my legal career. All of this sends me whining back to God: "Why, Lord? Why are You silent? Why aren't You leading me/telling me what to do?"

I've been looking for signs, even though I know God is more subtle than that. I had to leave the house today to run an errand. I was wearing my college sweatshirt. Driving over to the store, I was, as usual, thinking about my job-less state and wondering whether I should just give up on the writing thing, feeling bad about being "unemployed." It was the middle of the afternoon, the time of day when those gainfully employed are not free to run around to the stores. An old man in line ahead of me looked at my sweatshirt. "I went to that college," he said. "Are you in school there?" "Graduated," I said. He looked at me, "Graduated and not employed?" I muttered something and left to go wait in another line. I can't stand nosy strangers. But the same thing happened in the other line! Another old man, another conversation about my sweatshirt, another remark about how I'm not working.

Coincidence? Some sort of sign? And if so, of what? Is He trying to tell me through these various old men that I should get a real job? I feel like I'm having a panic attack, my anxiety rising up through my throat and choking me. Lord, I do believe. Help me in mine unbelief.

Weight

These are the things that make it hard to get out of bed in the morning, that weigh down on you like a craggy boulder crushing you with sharp edges.

We used to live in a poor neighborhood of a big city. Not poor as in working-class or blue-collar, but poor as in food stamps, prostitution, drugs, and drive-bys. People were killed in the gas station two blocks from our apartment. A bullet from the street came in through a wall and hit our downstairs neighbor in the hip. On the corner of our block, a girl was killed when she stumbled into crossfire between two drug dealers.

In this neighborhood, there was a fortress of an apartment building. In this apartment building (not ours) lived people who were only in the neighborhood temporarily, usually students or professors, and who were all white. A big fence surrounded the yard behind the apartment building, but it was a fence made of wrought iron and you could see through the pillars to what was inside. In the yard was a big playground structure. Nobody from the apartment building used it. Probably too afraid to let their children outside. I was walking past it one day, and saw two little neighborhood boys standing on the outside of the fence, staring in at the playground. They were probably five or six years old. Just stood there staring. I watched them for awhile, heart breaking, and then I kept walking, knowing there was nothing I could do. When I turned around farther down the street and looked back at them, they were still there, still staring.

There were no other playgrounds in this neighborhood that I ever saw. Driving by an abandoned lot one day, bordered on one side by an abandoned brick building and on the other by a gas station frequented by toughs driving old American cars, falling apart but still equipped with rims, I saw children bouncing a ball off the old brick wall. This was where they played and how they played, bouncing a fifty-cent rubber ball off a wall adorned with a huge Miller Lite ad.

But they were playing, not running with gangs, not dealing drugs. You take hope where you can get it. What gets me down is the helplessness I feel - even if I had Bill Gates' money, could I ever begin to make a dent in even just my little city, much less all the cities in all the countries in the world where children suffer?

Heavy Bass

We listen to hip hop while changing into our wetsuits, the car radio blaring, the doors open. It's almost time for a new wetsuit, but I'm reluctant to give it up just when it's gotten stretched out enough to make it easier to put it on and take it off. I've learned how to change faster, to keep up, even though I was never good at deck changes. Once the wetsuits are on, we pull on our booties, pick up our boards, and head down to the ocean. If we surf on the south side of our usual spot, the walk down to the ocean is covered with rocks. They prick our feet through the booties; walking without the booties would be miserable. If the waves are good, we're excited, practically running.

We've seen a lot of things while surfing. Dolphins, sometimes. Seals pretty frequently. Once a large crab, Dungeoness maybe, trying to dig a hole in the sand by doing the twist. We were heading down to the water one day when we saw a starfish, big and orange, lying on the beach. It had been washed in by the waves, and it had been lucky - we had found it before any predatory birds had, or a curious dog. My husband put it on the deck of his surfboard, by the nose. He paddled out with it past the waves, only letting it drop into the water once we were outside the break. Why paddle it out? I asked. Why not just toss it back into the water? I wanted to make sure it dropped into the water somewhere deep enough so the birds wouldn't get it, he said.

In an aquarium in the Bahamas I watched a starfish lose an arm to a crab. In Norway I watched a crab lose a leg to another crab; the losing crab skulked to a corner of the tank. The winner proceeded to eat the leg. Animals are cruel by nature. But then, cruelty is subjective. Maybe it's a term that only has meaning when survival is not at stake. When I was younger, I had a fish tank, fairly large and full of fish. But one day I woke up and all the fish were on the floor. They had jumped out somehow, my father said. I was only six and this haunted me for years, that my fish had committed suicide.

Although maybe it was foul play. Around that time we'd had a cat. A fat, fat cat who was meaner than mean. I had long scratches up and down my arms. We named the cat Doughnuts, because he liked to eat them. He would steal them from our plates, scratching his way to his prize. My parents were disturbed by his bad nature and gave him away. Years later, on an island in Greece, I would be scratched by yet another cat, this one black, that I had been feeding bits of fish off my plate. And I still wouldn't understand, why something I loved and was trying to care for would want to hurt me.

Cats, starfish, dogs, birds. And the world keeps turning round.

Getting Older

After the sun sets, but before the light has faded from the sky, even the most familiar places seem new and exciting. Driving down a street I've driven down a million times, the traffic lights look brighter, the neon signs pop out from the shadows. Maybe it's because, in my memories, this is the time of day that I would usually arrive in a new city when traveling. I used to love airports and the sensation of heading off somewhere unknown. It's different now that I'm older. Now, airports project stress rather than promise. It's a little like losing Disneyland - the last time I was there, I felt too old for it; it wasn't the happiest place on earth for me anymore. Is there anything left of my childhood in me?

Setting Myself Straight

I've had a rough few months, trying to deal with the psychological fall-out from giving up my high-salaried, high-status job to staying at home and making zero money. When we were buying the house, insurers, lenders, etc., would put my occupation down as "homemaker." And that has never been the woman I thought I would be.

It hasn't just been psychologically difficult. I've also been extra worried about money, lately, with the recent acquisition of a frighteningly large mortgage. To top it off, my husband is in the process of changing jobs and taking a pay cut. I'm exceedingly happy for him - it's an opportunity he's really excited about and should be better hours-wise than his current job - but still worried.

And so, many, many times, I've wanted to give up and go back to work. Work was hard, but in many ways, it was the easier route. I'm good at climbing ladders, at working hard, but in an already-existing framework. Law was easy that way: go to law school, graduate, go to a firm, work your way up the ranks. The format was there and all I had to do was fill in the blanks.

But yesterday, driving around in the hills and thinking about how to go about finding another legal job, one that wouldn't drive me crazy, it occurred to me that life is bigger than our frameworks. Life isn't a pre-printed form where you fill in the blanks. It's a blank page, where you create whatever it is you want. So I need to start creating, and focus on creating, and not keep trying to run back into the hole it is from which I emerged. I've been like Plato's cave people, only too eager to settle for the shadows. I don't want to be that anymore. I want to be enlightened. And screw other people's opinions. It's not their life.

Yeah, the money thing is more difficult, but it'll work out somehow. Sure, I made good money as a lawyer, but is that the dollar amount I would put on my life? Surely my life is worth more than that.

Making a Place

Especially when we first moved in, it was hard to think of this house as ours. I kept thinking about the person who used to live here, what he used each room for, how he lived, what he thought about as he looked at and touched and used the same things that we do now. People, or maybe me in particular, spend so much energy keeping other people at a distance. We put such a premium on privacy, on personal space. It's strange to think that no matter what you do, though, your life will be touched by someone else's, sometimes a stranger's, in fundamentally intimate ways. The house or apartment where someone lived the dramas of his life, where someone breathed his last breath, is the house or apartment you inhabit and fill with the flotsam and jetsam of your own life. It seems strange to have what feels like a strong bond with someone you will probably never know.

When I think about this, I think that maybe I should be more open to meeting strangers. Who knows what kinds of bonds we might share? I've always been the kind of person who does what I call "circling the wagons": only certain people, my family and close friends, are in the circle, and everyone else is on the outside, being guarded against. I am cynical and suspicious of people unknown to me. I do not easily let people in. It's self-protection, but how effective is it really? There will always be people whose lives will touch mine in ways that I cannot guard against.

Learning New Things

I have only been a homeowner for a few weeks now, and I have already learned so much. All about retaining walls and sump pumps and grout - phrases whose meanings were unknown to me until very recently. I have also developed new attitudes, about rain, for example. We were hit by an unexpected shower this morning (although it is now sunny and cloudless outside). And, upon waking to find rain outside my window, I didn't feel nostalgic or depressed. Instead, I thought, Great! Now my plants will get watered and I can put off figuring out the sprinkler system for another day!

Foodwise

We've become highly domesticated. Since purchasing the house, we spend almost all of our free time doing things to it. (LOVE the house, but I have to admit that I'm aching to surf.) First was the moving, then the furnishing and fixing up (still ongoing processes). Stores which I have gotten to know very, very, very well: Home Depot, Costco, Target, and Ikea (a great place to buy mirrors). Especially Home Depot, which I visit every day. During yesterday's visit, we bought a lawnmower and the husband mowed our lawn for the first time! We've spent time planing doors, installing shelves and towel rods, tending to the garden, etc., but the lawnmowing was what made the house really feel like ours.

Moreover, today we had our first dinner guests. I made pork chops with a soy-honey glaze, accompanied by baby carrots sauteed in the same, and mashed golden potatoes with pan-roasted garlic. And a banana-nut concoction for dessert. Simple but satisfying.

Home sweet home.

Lost

I'd applied for a job and had gotten an interview, which happened earlier today. It went fine, I suppose, although I was told not to expect to hear back for a little while. Which was also fine.

What I feel now is not nervousness or anticipation, but aimlessness. My life progresses in fits and starts. Sometimes I feel like I live in a cocoon, and reality touches me only briefly. And each time it does, it hurts. I took a seminar in college - some psychology or communications thing - in which I learned that the twenties are the era in a person's life when his or her identity is being shaped. Thus, it is a turbulent time for most people. I think about this a lot, and about the professor who taught it to me. She had written me a recommendation for my law school applications. I wonder if she anticipated the turbulence that fills my life now.

I am back in my home, surrounded by my things and my documents and my photographs - all the records of my life. Today they look so unfamiliar. Digging through one of the folders in my files, I came across memos I had written, and a piece of a story. And I thought, This isn't bad. In fact, maybe it's even pretty good. But, who am I, writing this? Who was I? Sometimes the writing works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the tormented artist in me escapes to the surface: the fragile, vulnerable, fundamentally weak and fearful person in me of whom I am deeply ashamed. I spend a lot of time and energy keeping her down. I only want to be the calm, rational, strong and aggressive me. I know which me is more valued, at least in worldly terms. But who would I be without the other me? The me that I can't help feeling is the truest me?

Simple

Had lunch with a friend today, someone I haven't seen in awhile. Back when we saw each other all the time, I never thought we were particularly good friends, and we aren't, not in the sense of people who care deeply about each other. But he makes me laugh and we have a lot in common. We joke around, and hanging out with him is never boring. He restores my faith in the belief that men and women can, after all, be friends.

History

Those long days of nothing to do, got in the car and just kept driving not knowing where we were going till we ended up in San Francisco, right at Fisherman’s Wharf. Walking amongst the crowds and crowds, separating us, buffeting us, you reached out to take my hand.

You forgot. We’re not supposed to touch. We’re not supposed to feel too many things we’re not supposed to feel because our roads are going separate ways and I can’t afford to remember guitar strings on cloudy November nights, your face bent over mine. Holding me like you were afraid to hold me I was afraid to let you hold me, knowing that it couldn’t have been any other way.

I think about you a lot, all the time. You cooking in my kitchen at three o’clock in the morning as I slept upstairs; coming in to wake me, you told me I smelled of sleep and babies, but mostly good things.

You on the other end of a phone line as night ebbed on, because we had so much too much to say and so much left unsaid.

You knew me. I trusted you so much with so much almost with all of me, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t, you know you knew I couldn’t. We’re too different, our lives are too different you are going somewhere different from me.

We would have killed each other. Do you really think so? Yes yes I know so please don’t make me go there please don’t touch me no no there are no NO!

Your face over the guitar strings, when you’d look up at me just so and I could feel the world zoom in on us on my heart caving collapsing beating too strong.

Your face over the guitar strings, when your voice would blend somehow with mine and you reached out gently so gently too much too gently to brush the hair back from my face.

I thought you knew. And maybe you did. That there were too many reasons why not and the only reason why was the feeling of your hand over mine as you taught me to strum.

It’s gathering dust, under my bed, the guitar you bought me taught me to play. I don’t write any more don’t write music anymore because there is no one left to see to hear to care to understand.

My best friend, I have to let you go I have to let you go and I can’t can’t can’t can’t.

Do you remember countless hours dragging you around I have to find the perfect dress I’m so fat don’t be stupid you’ve got great legs you’re such an idiot you’re really pretty. Your foot is the same size as my hand my gosh you’ve got small feet let’s go jogging you’re kidding right I don’t jog c’mon! I’m going to get fat if you won’t run with me okay we’re going to run let’s at least run somewhere and get something to eat can I come over I really need to talk please don’t leave me alone I’m so scared let’s study chemistry I think you’re beautiful you’re such a beautiful person and you have a great heart YOUDON’TKNOWME! WE’RE TOO DIFFERENT, WE’RE DIFFERENT PEOPLE, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME, DON’T LEAVE ME I’M SO SCARED I’M SO ALONE, what am I supposed to do without you? Raining, it’s raining the smell of sidewalks after the rain, that’s what I love really I just love the rain and feeling it soft on my face raining in Baltimore you know it is could you stand to be three thousand miles away I can’t believe you flew to New York to see her I can’t believe you’re going out with him YOU’RE SUCH A JERK! You know you love me for it and maybe I do, but NO!

Sushi as in you want me to eat raw fish? It’s good trust me when have I ever lied to you? Not a good question to ask me if you’re trying to get me to do something don’t hit me don’t touch me keep your hands to yourself buddy friendly teasing your face as you drive and the way you palm the wheel do you know how much how very very much I want to say, and how very little it really is that I want to say?

Eulogy

My grandfather's hands were steady enough to pop a cyst on an infant's eyelid with a needle. With those hands, he built a surgical practice from scratch through will power, hard work, and brilliance, the brilliance that let him be first in his class in medical school. He was a kendo master and a clever linguist with a dry wit. He made people laugh, and he made them afraid. He had a deep voice and a fierce temper: his children did not sit down at the table until he had first been seated and served.

His philosophy on children and child-rearing was that children benefited from doing without. Then they could withstand whatever deprivations life threw at them later on. Or, if they were fortunate and life gave instead of withholding, they would appreciate all the more what they were given. As a child, my father rarely had a new pair of shoes. When the old ones wore out, he would patch the soles with whatever he could.

My grandfather's philosophy on grandchildren was similar. For the most part, he took no notice of them. Except for me. One of my earliest memories is of being carried on his shoulder. I would sit perched on one shoulder and he would march around town with my legs dangling on his chest. At home, he would carry me this way over to the big freezer that sat outside. In this freezer he kept Andes mints. To this day, Andes mints are still my favorites. Even after his stroke, when he sometimes didn't remember people's names, he never forgot mine.

The force of his personality was such that other people paled in comparison. He was always the most substantial presence in a room. He made a heavy imprint on people's lives. On his first wife, who died young. On his second wife, my grandmother, who suffered in silence for long years. On his life-long mistress, who bore him ten children. And on his children, whose lives continue to be shaped by his actions.

I loved him, but I didn't know him. The only real memory I have of him involves those chocolates, and the heavy watch he always wore, and the cane he carried until his stroke made him unable to walk. I wish I had known him better. I mourn for the stories I will never hear. I mourn.

The Drill

The most important tool for a new home owner is a power drill. With a full set of drill bits, which can be purchased at Home Depot for about $15.00. We bought the bits after we received the drill for Christmas. As with the grill, it was a gift that I only belatedly came to appreciate, but the drill has already proven its worth. It enabled us to put in shelves, an additional lock on the front door, assemble furniture quickly....

It is, however, important to note a caveat: learn how to use the drill before you actually attempt to put holes in the walls of your new house. It will save you some grief. Tired of waiting for my husband to get home, I decided to use the drill myself to do some minor household project. How hard could it possibly be? Insert bit, press button. Easy-peasy in theory, but in the practice of it, I put some dents in the wood of our front door, scratched up the paint a bit. :( I also broke one of the drill bits (but don't tell my husband).

At least I escaped physically unscathed, which is more than I can say for some of the other projects I've undertaken.

Signs

Yesterday, while standing in the backyard of our new house, we saw a hummingbird alight on a branch of a small tree. It came to rest on the tree, and then sat completely still. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it. The hummingbird stayed for maybe five minutes, and then it flew to a nearby tree, where it started dipping its head down to this tiny, cup-shaped thing. We didn't realize what it was at first. I thought maybe it was some odd sort of flower. And then the tiniest little bird's head popped up! Two little baby hummingbirds, in a hummingbird nest. In our backyard!

Where Are You?

Today I realized that I don't laugh much. I smile a lot, (which has its own problems), but I don't laugh much. I seem to remember that there was a time in my life when I used to laugh a lot, but I can't remember when or why or who it was that used to amuse me so much. I wish I could find them again, though.

A Hardening

I learned that my grandfather had died while standing at a sticky yellow pay phone in Monterosso al Mare, looking out over the Italian Mediterranean. Sunbathers filled the beach, lay out on rocks poking out of the ocean, strolled by with gelato in cups and cones. No one spared me a glance, despite the tears rolling down my face. I was just one more American tourist, and the Europeans looked over and through me by habit. Just one more American tourist in a place only recently popular to Americans.

When his funeral took place, I was in Santorini. It was the end of the season in Greece, and the streets of Oia and Fira were empty. The sun, though, was as strong as ever, and the ocean, the caldera, as beautiful. Between those things, a grief-filled event taking place on the other side of the world had no hold on my imagination. My grandfather's dying, even death itself, seemed impossible.

My favorite uncle was the one who had a kind word for everyone, who thought that his nieces and nephews were the smartest, handsomest people anywhere. The summer that he died was the summer that I got married. That summer, I was working hard to get in shape before the wedding. I swam three or four times a week with my future sister-in-law, an ex-water polo player. One night, I was returning from the pool, and had just pulled my car up into the driveway, when my parents burst through the front door and came running over to me. My mom was in front, and her face was contorted. I didn't have to ask what had happened; as soon as I had opened the car door, she said, "Your uncle is dead. Drowned!" He had drowned in his backyard pool. My parents, worriers by nature, had been waiting for me to get home, their grief compounded by their anxiety for me, this nasty coincidence of our contemporaneous swimming. For years after, when I swam I was afraid, not that I would also drown, but that I would see my uncle somewhere there in the water with me. I could not get near a pool without seeing him floating facedown in it.

When he was buried, I was in Kauai. No one had wanted the wedding to be put off; too many people were coming from too far away. No one had wanted us to miss our honeymoon, either, and so we went, and I cried every night. It's a testament to the island that, despite my grief, I still loved it there. Of all the many places I've been, Kauai is still the most beautiful. And yet, death was believable there.

Why am I sitting here remembering these things? What do I want? I don't know, myself. Sometimes I turn over old hurts like sharp stones, almost savoring the feel of the edge in my hands and the tickle of the blood starting to run. Forgiveness, maybe.

Sticks and Stones and Self-Deceptions

Hyper-sensitive. High-strung. Artistic temperament. Emotional. Thin-skinned. Dreamy. Naive. Overly idealistic. Loner. Misanthropic. Lonely. Temperamental. Crazy. Anxiety-ridden.

Apple Pie

In the '80s, we were an Asian family living in the Midwest. Specifically, in Michigan, in a small town about forty-five minutes from Detroit, during the period when that city was incredulously suffering from international competition in automobile manufacturing. This was not always a good place to be if you're Asian.

Once, my fourth-grade teacher assigned us to write a self-description. She then collected them and read them aloud, asking the class to guess who had written each description. It didn't take them long to link me with mine: I was the only one in the class with black hair. I had also described myself as having a "big nose;" not understanding, at that age, that my nose was not big, only shaped the way Asian noses are shaped, unlike the high-bridged Caucasian noses of my classmates. I think that my teacher, who was black, understood what was going on, saw the buds of racial self-hatred starting to grow: she stopped reading my description at that point, looked right at me, and said, "Your nose is not big." At the time, I didn't know why she said that, but her look, her tone of voice, have stayed with me long after most of my other memories, both good and bad, have faded.

I have one other clear memory from that time period. I was the new kid, again; we had left one small town in Michigan for another small town, a better one, where the kids no longer tormented me at recess. (At my previous school, I had used to feign headaches so that the nurse would send me home, enabling me to escape my tormentors.) During my first gym period at the new school, we were going to play kickball. Captains were chosen. I steeled myself to once again be chosen last. But it was different this time. One of the captains was a boy named Andy, with a buzz cut and wire-rimmed glasses. He said to the boy he had just chosen for his team, "Let's take the new girl. We don't know how she plays yet. Maybe she's really good." It was pragmatic on his part rather than kind, but to me it was as though he had smiled at me in friendship: it was the first time I could remember that someone had given me a chance, instead of pre-judging me based on what I looked like.

Mirror Mirror

From Wikipedia:

General anxiety disorder or generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) is an anxiety disorder that is characterized by excessive and uncontrollable worry about everyday things. The frequency, intensity, and duration of the worry are disproportionate to the actual source of worry, and such worry often interferes with daily functioning.

...

GAD sufferers often worry excessively over things such as their job, their finances, and the health of themselves and their family. However, GAD sufferers can also worry over more minor matters such as deadlines for appointments, keeping the house clean, and whether or not their workspace is properly organized.

Only about 30% of the causes of GAD are inherited, yet certain traits cause people to become more prone to obtaining it. People with general nervousness, depression, inability to tolerate frustration, and feelings of being inhibited are more likely to be shown in GAD patients. People with GAD tend to have more conflicts with others and are very hard on themselves, they also tend to avoid common situations for fear of worry and anxiety...

Sun and Storm

A gloomy day follows a gloriously sunny weekend. After a fantastic weekend, I'm having trouble settling back down into a workday routine.

It's a waiting period, and I'm not good at that. I feel like I am chronically tired, but friends and family accuse me of frenetic energy, constant movement, and maybe that's true. It's easier for me to be in motion, getting stuff done, crossing things off checklists, than for me to sit still and wait. And maybe that's been part of the reason for the last few months: God slowing me down, and teaching me to wait on Him.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Mourning

My paternal grandfather died yesterday. My maternal grandfather died a few months ago, in September, while I was in Italy, hours from any airport. I'm having a hard time processing my emotions. I can see how hard it is for my parents, and so what I'm feeling right now is mostly a vicarious sort of grief. I suppose my own grief will hit later on.

It was very, very hard to be away from home when my maternal grandfather died. But this feels harder, because it brings back memories from six and a half years ago, when my father's older brother died under strange and unresolved circumstances. I don't know that I've ever gotten over that. He was my favorite uncle. I still don't believe that he's gone. Everyone is flying back for the funeral, and I've caught myself a couple of times about to ask whether he was going to come too. It feels like going through his death all over again.

Field of Blue Children

It's the title of a short story by Tennessee Williams.

God has blessed me with a great life: the best husband, the best family, the best friends. Je ne regrette rien...except for the apologies I've failed to make. In many ways, I have not lived the life I should have, and when I think about it, I feel so much shame and regret and sorrow, probably much more, in fact, than the people I hurt. It's harder, I think, to be the person who hurts someone than to be the person who is hurt.

I've been thinking about this a lot since talking to my friend over the weekend. There are so many of these unmade apologies. The boy to whom I wrote a letter explaining why I would never like him. Who, years later, seeing me shivering at a party, gave me his jacket. A really sweet boy who did not deserve the shit I dealt out. The man who, while performing in front of a large crowd, still managed to pick me out, even though I was sitting near the back. Who gave me a stuffed animal I promptly named Roadkill. Whose calls I didn't return and whose emails I ignored. The man who told me he had loved me for a long time, who said he didn't know what he would do without me. To him, I probably owe the biggest apology.

But he's not the one I think of most often, and not the one I'm thinking of now. Right now I'm thinking of the man who I had thought of as a great friend, one of my closest. Who, on Valentine's Day one year, described a situation with a girl he was in love with, and asked what I thought. And I, who was only half listening, did not realize he was talking about us, and blew him off, saying something flippant and harsh. But we stayed friends. The period during which our friendship took place was one of the hardest in my life (for reasons completely unrelated to him). I cried. A lot. He was there to hold me, rub my back, bring me Kleenex, flowers. When we went to the gym, even when he was out of sight he would somehow materialize if some other guy was bugging me. When I was being stalked, he used to sleep on my floor. We spent all of our free time together. His parents loved me. Everyone we knew thought we were a couple. And I still didn't understand. I thought he was one of my best friends.

Then we started fighting all the time. And I still didn't understand. Finally, we stopped being friends. And, when I finally understood, it was too late. I suppose in reality it had been too late from the beginning. There was never any room for him in my life except as a friend. But if I hadn't been so stupid, maybe I could have spared him. And for that, I am still so, so sorry.

Burgers and Bad Memories

Hung out with some friends at Burgermeister, up in the city, last night. The burgers were spectacular, as were the malts. Highly recommend the place. It's been nice to see so many friends lately, too. Sometimes I get so into hermit mode that I forget that I actually like my friends.

It was a good evening, except for a phone call that I'd had earlier, with a different friend. She just happened to mention a name that I haven't heard in years. Hearing it again brought back unpleasant memories.

There are friends I used to have that I have no longer: I've learned, sadly, that boys and girls can never really be friends. It gets too complicated. I think I've been unfair to certain people in the past because I didn't really understand this. And it still hurts to think about. I'd rather not be reminded.

I was in a club with some friends some nights ago. My husband wasn't there (probably working). One of my friends put his hand on my back and kept it there for awhile; it felt like a possessive gesture. Later, he put his arm around me. And without thinking about it, I leaned back into him. It was the awkward culmination to months of awkwardness. I no longer see that friend.

Hello Arnold!

Greetings from the capitol city of the fairest state in the nation, the most beautiful place in the world. Clarification: California is the most beautiful place in the world; Sacramento is not. In fact, much as I hate to say it, Sacramento is...well, not much. The downtown area is itsy-bitsy. I drove and walked around for about an hour yesterday and saw pretty much all there is to see. Many of the buildings are being torn down; a lot of construction is going on. It's clearly a city that intends to go somewhere, but right now, it's nowhere.

My husband had to come here for work, and I tagged along. I've been here before, but didn't remember it, so didn't realize how little there is to do here. I've been spending a lot of time in the hotel room as a result. I don't do well in hotel rooms. I'm a jumpy person, and I hate being interrupted when I'm deep in thought. Hotels are full of interruptions. The room phone rang this morning. I was puzzled as to who could be calling me here; anyone I know would call my cell phone. Turns out it was room service, wanting to know if my breakfast was okay and if they could pick up the tray. Housekeeping keeps knocking, wanting last night to turn down my sheets (why is this necessary?), wanting to clean my room today even though I haven't checked out yet. I hate stuff like this. Maybe this makes me sound like a brat. I suppose I am a brat. In mitigation, though, I offer the fact that unexpected interruptions cause my heart to pound and my pulse to race. I'm the kind of person who needs to have my back to a wall in restaurants. If there's a window or a door, I need to face it. Who knows where I picked up this idiosyncratic trait, but it's there.

I thought having new stimuli would be good for me, in terms of shaking me out of the writer's block and overall slump into which I've entered, but my plan seems to have failed. I sit in my hotel room hunched over my laptop like Barton Fink, and all I do is surf the Internet. I've acquired vast amounts of trivia knowledge, but have done nothing productive. It's hard not to feel pretty down on myself right now.

Fear and Trembling

One of the hardest things for me about surfing is my shark phobia. (As one of my East Coast, non-surfing friends once said, is it really such a good idea to dress up like a seal and paddle out to the sharks?) It's such a strong phobia that I used to sometimes get panic attacks in the water. This was not only embarrassing, it was dangerous. I am normally a fairly strong swimmer, but in the throes of a panic attack, I can barely remember how to paddle. I would thrash my way toward shore, crying and struggling to breathe.

One day while I was surfing, I saw two fins swimming close together. For I don't know how long, I was frozen, watching them. And then they leaped into the air, both of them. Dolphins. Drops of water sprang from their bodies, sparkling.

I thought of that today. I feel like I'm so afraid of so many things. I used to surf even when I was afraid, and surfing is one of the best things I do. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as rewarding. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as harmless as those dolphins I mistook for sharks. Although the cynic in me focuses on the insubstantiality of dreams, I should remember that nightmares are insubstantial, too.

"[F]or he who always hopes for the best becomes old, and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old early, but he who believes preserves an eternal youth." Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling.

Blessed

It was a pretty good weekend. Dinner with friends on Friday and Saturday, Super Bowl parties on Sunday. Surfed too. The waves were not bad, and the weather was beautiful. There's something very calming about being out there, sitting on your board with the sun glinting off the water all around you. Sometimes I just like to be still, even if it means letting waves go by. I don't know about other people, but for me, there's nothing like surfing to keep the rest of my life in perspective.

Solid Ground

Sick with longing for something I can't see, don't know what it is; panting after a chimera whose shape changes constantly. My heart beating so fast, it burns through my chest and my breath catches. I am running out of air, running scared. The object of desire is out there and it waits for me with claws and fangs, it waits for me while I chase after it in a maze of unknowing. In this place I can only be alone and alone is where I do not want to be. I think I want certainty, but do I, when certainty can only mean the end?

Direction

Recently had dinner with a classmate. He was in town and looked us up. Great guy, friendly and smart and humble. All this despite the fact that he is famous. The Wall Street Journal and New York Times routinely call him for quotes. He is known by judges and lawyers and professors the country over. Universities have flocked to offer him professorships.

It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. But being around him does make me wonder, what have I been doing with myself? We were the same year, and he's accomplished so much, while I've accomplished...what?

I envy him, not his success, but his sense of direction. I admire people who are so clear about what they want out of life. Or rather, who are good at prioritizing their desires. I know what I want, but I'm not good about narrowing things down: I want it all. I want to write, and to practice law, and to have a family, and to be a world traveler, and to spend lots of time surfing, and...and...

Mystique

I'm afraid I'm turning into a little suburban housewife. I was very excited when I recently discovered the Greatest Costco Ever. It's located in an industrial area, right off the freeway (i.e., easy access), and, because there are no residences around, there aren't very many people. There is always parking, and the lines are never longer than two or three people deep. The staff is friendly and helpful. I was so excited about this that I became frightened: who gets this excited about a Costco?

Well, me, at this point in my life. I've been in a slump lately. I'm so focused on the house hunt that everything else has taken a back seat, including writing. Or maybe I'm so focused on the house hunt to avoid thinking about the writing? I'm nearly done with a manuscript, and so have started spending more time thinking about agents and publishers, and I have to say, the whole thing turns me off. Putting together a book proposal is like putting together a business plan, and involves figuring out who your market is and the potential size, etc., etc. No wonder we have so many crap books out there: it's what the majority of people want to read, stuff that reads like television and doesn't force you to use your brain at all. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I'm not out to garner readership; I write because I'm trying to create art. The idea of trying to tailor what I write to maximize commercial potential is incredibly painful. I'd rather not write at all.

So - even the house hunt, painful as it can be at times, is less painful than thinking about writing. I feel ridiculous complaining about stress, when, compared to most people, my life is or should be stress-free. But it just seems like so many things are so uncertain for me right now. If I don't/can't write for a living, what am I going to do with myself? Where am I going to be living in the next few months? In general, where is my life going, what am I accomplishing or even trying to accomplish?

I know I'm lucky; I have options. So many people don't. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. I know how fortunate and how blessed I am and have been. God has blessed me beyond anything I have deserved, and I trust in His plan for me. Speak, Lord, for Your servant listens.

Yet Another House Post

These days I have a one-track mind: it's all about the house hunt. I spend my days looking at houses, thinking about houses, and at night, I dream about houses. I'm so obsessed that my obsession has spread to my own family and to my in-laws. We all talk houses day and night. (Well, okay, my siblings are not so interested.) But unless you want to talk about real estate, I got nothing to say.

I'm also turning into a little house whore. Every week I fall in love with a new house. I suppose this is more encouraging than if there were no houses that I liked. A few days ago I said that I was in love with this one house. Well, after visiting it three more times and nearly making an offer, we finally decided that it was too small and would take too much work. And, while some people enjoy the home improvement process, I am the sort of stress case that would hate it.

Today my broker sent me another listing, and I went to go see it with my mom this afternoon while my husband was at work. I LOVED it. My mother loved it. I would love to own it. Here's the catch: it's reachable only by narrow and windy roads. Hard to get to work, and, as my mother pointed out, will be difficult and possibly dangerous when we have children and have to chauffeur them around constantly. Also possibly difficult for people who come to visit us.

Argh. I want this house. If it had been easier to get to, we probably would have made an offer tomorrow. My broker leaves for vacation later this week and comes back in a week and a half. I guess I'll think about it until she gets back. I gotta say, I've fallen hard. But I guess I said that last week too.

Could This Be Love?

I've been sick for the last week or so. Today is the first day I've felt like myself. It's a great feeling. But again, humbling to realize how much of your personality is closely tied to physical elements beyond your control.

At least part of the reason I've been sick is because I've been so stressed out. No matter how much I tell myself to just let God do His thing, I keep wanting to be in control of the situation, and to hurry up the resolutions of all the uncertainties that currently fill my life. For the last few days, I've stayed up at nights thinking about the house hunt. Looking for a house is like being in back junior high: you fall in love over and over again, only to keep getting your heart broken. And then there's the fear. What if something actually does work out? What if, by some miracle, we like a house and it likes us back? Then we're stuck, committed. The big "C" word. I'm a real commitment-phobe. I want a house, I want a house bad, but the COMMITMENT. Shudder.

Yesterday I saw a house with my broker. I didn't love the house, but I loved the neighborhood. One street over from where a friend lives. Beautiful trees, quiet streets. The house itself was okay, although on the small side. But everything else makes up for that. I fear I may have it badly this time. This may be the real thing, not just a crush. I have it so badly that it's time for the house to meet the parents. We're all going to go look at it this weekend. I don't know if I'm hoping for it to go well or not. If my parents don't like it, I'll have escaped making a BIG COMMITMENT. At the same time, though, I may miss out on "the one."

Cooking Woes

Cast iron is widely considered to be the best material for cooking tools, unless you want to spend a fortune on copper. Cast iron conducts heat evenly, and, once it has acquired a patina, is nonstick without the negative aspects of Teflon. I love my cast iron stuff and have had them for years.

Unfortunately, cast iron has its disadvantages. For instance, when you fry rice in a cast iron skillet, the rice picks up the iron and tastes like blood. Some people don't notice the taste, but for some reason I'm very sensitive to it. I just threw out the rice I fried last night because I couldn't take it.

I've been cooking a lot more since I stopped working. I always liked to cook, and particularly liked to bake, but never had much time for it. Now, I've actually got the time to go to the grocery store or the farmers market and buy fresh ingredients, and the time to prepare the ingredients and cook them. This, too, has unfortunate side effects. Both my husband and I have gained some weight over the last few months, despite surfing and tennis and going to the gym four or five times a week. So, for New Years, I've given up cooking again. Well, not cooking, but baking, which was the real culprit.

Miscellaneous Thoughts on a Saturday Night

Skipped out on a friend's birthday party tonight. It's partly that my husband has to work and I didn't want to go alone (the party is at some club/bar in the city), and partly that a million people are going to be there, including some people that I'm not ready to see yet. Not because I don't like them or am mad at them or anything like that, but because they represent a bygone era of my life with which I am not quite yet reconciled. Moreover, I find myself feeling particularly misanthropic lately.

I know I should make more of an effort to be less antisocial, but it's hard when my personality naturally leans that way. It's part of the reason why I feel God wants me to be a writer: I communicate better from a distance.

I'm also at a point in my life where having a million friendly acquaintances is less appealing than having a few very close friends. I think what I'm craving is greater intimacy, not popularity.

That said, I'll probably still call my friend next week to say happy birthday and to get drinks or something like that. After all, one can't be a recluse, either.

Nesting Instincts

The house hunt continues, but proves to be difficult, time-consuming, and, at times, heartbreaking. Housing prices have fallen all over the country, but not so much in the Bay Area, where crazy people continue to bid up prices. The crazy-people factor is compounded by the paucity of available houses. Most of the houses that are on the market now are not ones that we would seriously consider.

Except for one. It was a beautiful house. The master bedroom was enormous, with a huge walk-in closet and another large regular closet. (For a total of TWO closets! Two!) The master bath was similarly large, with a beautiful tub, and was connected to a room that would make a perfect (hypothetical) baby's room. These two bedrooms and the bathroom formed the upstairs. Downstairs were three more bedrooms and two more bathrooms. The bathrooms were well-appointed; I can't stand ugly bathrooms. Oak floors, recessed lighting. The kitchen was the masterpiece: cherry-wood cabinets, granite counters, including a large island, and by itself was about the size of most of the other houses we've seen. To top it all off, it was, unbelievably, within our price range. (A stretch, but still...)

Of course, it sold before we even got close to making an offer. Heartbreaking. I doubt we will see another house like it within our price range. Our price range, which already puts us in the frightening position of mortgaging both of our futures, seems laughably small for the Bay Area, although our broker has been kind enough not to say this explicitly. For a gal with a hankering for a place to call home, it's almost enough to make a person move to Texas.

As Seen on TV

Or rather, on Youtube. I dislocated my shoulder again yesterday, while playing Wii tennis with my brother. The funny thing is, we'd just played a "real" tennis game earlier, and the shoulder was fine for that. Guess the warnings they put on the Wii aren't just silly lawyer-talk.

One Step at a Time

It's a cold, clear night. There are a lot of stars out. It's the kind of night that makes you feel hopeful.

Old Sports Injury

I developed a deep bond with two of the guys I used to work with when, as we were sitting around talking one day, the conversation turned to old sports injuries, sustained in our glory days. (For all three of us, these were, sadly, all the way back in high school.) It's funny but cute how guys love to talk about this. Their faces just lit up as they were describing torn ligaments, broken limbs, etc.

My chief injury in high school was a dislocated shoulder (from playing tennis), and it has proved to be the gift that keeps on giving. Once you dislocate your shoulder, those ligaments (or tendons or whatever they are) never really heal - they're always kind of loose, so that frequent re-dislocation is possible and even likely. It happened again yesterday. I made some weird motion as I was trying to open a door - a weird motion necessitated by the large box of groceries I was trying to balance in my other hand. Fortunately, it popped right back in again.

The last time it popped out and stayed out, I was with my husband. We were just getting out of the car; I was still in the passenger seat, and I reached behind me to grab something from the back seat, forgetting that this sort of motion is verboten for people without proper ligaments.

Shoulder dislocation is very painful. To give you some sense of the pain, I have a friend who has both dislocated her shoulder and given birth, and of the two, she claims that the dislocation hurt more. I fell out of the car in agony. My husband figured out what was wrong pretty quickly, even though I was in too much pain to say anything. "Throw yourself against something!" he yelled. "Like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon! Throw yourself on the ground!"

The ground was my only option as the nearest wall was too far for me to reach in my injured state. I threw myself down on the ground. This did in fact work, and the shoulder popped back into place.

While I was still on the ground, however, two women (maybe early middle-age, dressed in exercise clothes) walked by. It must have looked bad, me on the ground, my husband standing over me, both of us looking rather distraught. They stopped and stooped down to ask me if everything was okay. "She's fine," my husband said. They ignored him completely, and asked me again if everything was okay. "I'm fine," I said. My husband added, "She just dislocated her shoulder." This time the women glared at him, and then asked me if I was sure that I didn't need any help. I assured them again that everything was fine, and they finally walked away.

My poor husband was so traumatized. Now, any time we have even the slightest argument in a public place, he's sure that he's going to be arrested for spouse abuse.

Product Placement

My sister gave me a George Foreman grill for Christmas. I have to say, I wasn't very excited when I opened it. It's not something I would ever have gotten for myself. For some reason, it feels like cheating, using a grill that plugs in to a wall socket. I admit, I'm a Luddite in the kitchen, the kind of obsessive personality that still insists on making every part of a Thanksgiving dinner from scratch. My other kitchen grill is cast iron and fits over two burners, and when you turn it over, the other side can serve as a griddle. It weighs about a million pounds and is a pain to clean. I bought it in a special store in Indiana. All of this made it feel more legit to me than the plug-and-grill.

Well, consider me a convert. I used the grill last night while my sister was visiting and it was AWESOME. I am such a fan now, I want to grill everything. I'm not sure I will ever use my stove again.

Springtime?

It's been seventy degrees here for the last two days, and beautiful and sunny. It feels like summer, or at least spring. At any rate, it doesn't feel like barely the middle of January. Funny how much I talk about the weather - it was a habit I picked up in Chicago, where the weather was everyone's favorite topic (next to baseball). Weather in Chicago is Shakespearean. It can be pretty amazing to witness.

The last time I was in Chicago, several months ago, it was pouring rain, a kind of rain you never see in California, where it looks like Someone up in the sky has just upended many, many buckets of water. It was a bad day. I was there for work, at a time when I was already thinking of leaving my job. I was stressed and tired, and, thanks to the weather, also soaking wet, as wet as if I'd just come out of a shower fully dressed. And it was cold. Because I was there for work, I wasn't bundled up the way I would have been had I been wearing my "civilian" clothes. I was blocks from my hotel, and the rain didn't look like it was going to let up any time soon. In short, I was miserable.

But God reaches out and touches you when you least expect, and sometimes in small ways that mean the world at the time. Some random man started walking toward me, where I was huddled under a small awning. I immediately tensed and put my city face on, willing him to leave me alone. He was carrying the world's biggest umbrella, and he held it out to me as he came up. "Here," he said. "Take it. I have another one in my office, and this is my building."

That umbrella got me back to my hotel. I still have it, in my hall closet. Every time I look at it, I remember all the many, many ways God has looked after me.

Postscript

Saw a friend last night and asked if he had surfed that day, fully expecting him to say no (because the conditions were bad), or that he had gone out but that it had sucked. Instead, he said that he had gone out, and that in Santa Cruz (where he surfs) there had actually been rideable waves. That put me in a mood for the rest of the night.

Boo :(

The surf report today, courtesy of surfpulse:

"It appears conditions are shaping up for yet another day of crummy surf. The good news is, the sun is out, there is no wind to speak of and the temperature is mild this morning. However, the surf is a complete mess, with waves in the 1.5x to 3x overhead range on the outside, slothing around, with no shape or organization to speak of. The inside section is more of the same with head high waves exploding on the the sandbar with no rideable qualities to speak of as well. Overall this morning on a scale of 1 to 10, current conditions get a rating of 0, because it is not rideable out there this morning. That's the report for Saturday morning!"

It's been awhile since there was much surfable. We used to go out even when it was a mess, but after broken boards and injuries sustained, we've sort of gotten lazy about it. It's disappointing though; I was really counting on getting out there today.

California Dreamin'

On a sunny day like today, I can't believe how blessed I am to live here. Even on rainy days, I usually feel pretty blessed. There aren't too many places on this planet that are more beautiful than this, or more filled with things to do. We can surf one day, and the next morning drive to Yosemite to go snowshoeing with friends. But I can't help envying one of our friends (really more my husband's friend), whose life somehow always seems more exciting: moving from one country to another, living in China and eating bugs, jumping out of planes on a regular basis... They spent New Year's in Hong Kong, went on safari in Africa over summer holidays, and those are just the trips I know about. I've been obsessed with buying a house, but today I wondered, What if we didn't? What if we just took the money and ran (traveled the world)?

Best of '06

One more post, just because I have the time today: Here are some visual highlights from my 2006.

"He went out, not knowing whither he went."

Hebrews 11:8. I sat down with My Utmost for His Highest today (I fell a couple of days behind), and read this excerpt from a sermon of Oswald Chamber's. This devotional, and this man, have done a lot to shape how I read the Bible. January 2's excerpt spoke to the way we (general noun) seek to know the next step, the way the path leads, before we walk; how often we ask God what He is going to do, or where He is taking us. But Abraham by faith went out without knowing where He was going or what God was going to do to him once he got there. He went without asking any further questions, based solely on his trust in God's goodness. Oswald Chambers writes that "God does not tell you what He is going to do; He reveals to you Who He is."

And what matters more than Who God is?

I needed this reminder. The last few months - really, the last year - I've been repeatedly asking God where I'm going, where He's taking me, what the next step is. I've been so scared and worried, quitting my job without knowing what's going to happen, with just the belief that He's called me to be here, to be writing. But why is it scary? Why should it be scary that the plan is not in my hands? It should be a relief, for no plan that I could ever come up with could equal His plan, His master plan for me and for the coming of His kingdom. When I think about it this way, I see that I need to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and soon I'll be where He wants me to be. I don't need to know where that is before I get there because I trust Him that it will be a place of blessing far beyond my hopes. "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." Romans 8:28.

Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing

I love this hymn. (See here for a history of the hymn.)

The words to this hymn are a prayer for me; I sing it at home alone in my apartment, and I know God is listening. It expresses how I feel better than I ever could. (And I call myself a writer.) Particularly verses three and four. I'm not going to say anymore because the song says it all.

1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

2. Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I'll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

3. Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.

4. O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

5. O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.

An Army Marches

Someone somewhere nearby is cooking onions and meat. The smell fills my apartment. It's both comforting and humbling to realize that, no matter what you're feeling, no matter what grand or dramatic ideas are going through your head, your body will respond to the smell of food. Even if you're exhausted and depressed and feel like you can't pick yourself up from the little ball on the floor you've curled into, the smell of food will reach through the darkness and find you, causing your stomach to perk up and grumble.

This was to be a very different post. When I signed in, my brain was filled with the image of Munch's Scream, which I take as a visual depiction of an artist's soul. Artists are said to have great souls, grand souls, souls bigger than the rest of us mere mortals. But maybe they're not great or grand, just more twisted. Just screaming and screaming for the rest of us to open our eyes and see what they see, all the darkness and emptiness and pain. It's hard, though, to write about darkness and emptiness and pain with the aroma of grilled onions wafting by.

Happy New Year

Another year another year another year. Things can change so fast. Last year I was still a lawyer, still working crazy hours, wondering where I would be in a year. And here I am. I couldn't have predicted the way this last year has gone, and I can't predict the way the next year will go. Nor do I want to. I want to learn how to enjoy the process. How to slow down and take things one day at a time. How to be okay without a checklist or a plan or a manual. Not to rush the journey, because frankly, that's really all we're ever going to get, is the journey. More importantly, though, God has the plan, and His plan is better than any I could ever come up with. Here's to 2007.

Slogging On

Missed a good surfing day today, which always puts me in a funk. I only have myself to blame, though. I got lazy, and it was just so cold. I'm getting soft; I can't handle the cold anymore. We didn't really heat our apartment at all last year. Now I feel like I have to have the heater running all the time. Plus, our apartment has zero insulation, another feature of this place that we won't be missing when we finally move out of here (hopefully soon).

The last few days of 2006, and here I am whining about the heat (or lack thereof). I can't believe we're most of the way through the first decade of the new millenium. In a few months I'll be twenty-nine; in another year, thirty. It doesn't feel like I've got all that much to show for it yet. Here's to next year.

Thanatos

My own sirens I recognize as such, but that doesn't make them any less attractive. It's not a desire for death, so much as a fascination with it. Maybe it's part of my need to imagine the worst, so that it can't catch me by surprise. I do it, but even I don't believe that it really helps. The worst can always be worse than you imagined it.

James et al.

Today's subject is literary greatness. Why is it so hard to pinpoint what makes a great work such? One of the (many) reasons that Hemingway is great is because he is a master wordsmith: there are no extraneous words. Similarly, Cormac McCarthy and Ray Carver. But on the opposite end of the spectrum, Henry James, another acknowledged Great Writer: by the time you read to the end of a Jamesian sentence, you've (or at least, I've) forgotten what the beginning said.

And what about characters? O'Hara and Fitzgerald, who pin characters down to the last detail. Versus those like Eco, whose work is more symbolic. Yet Great Writers all.

Is there no rule? How can we separate the bad from the good from the great without some sort of guideline? Or am I being too much the lawyer again?

Wanting Things

I used to think that I was not a very materialistic person, but it seems like lately all I can think about is buying things. It feels like every day I add something(s) to the list of things that I want. And it never feels like enough, even when I get them: the list continues to grow. I got the new cellphone, but then I needed a bluetooth headset. I've got fifty purses, but I can't stop thinking about this messenger bag I've had my eye on for months (now on sale, but still unjustifiable given the many, many messenger bags and laptop cases I've got in my closet). I got the turquoise cuff, but now I want pink pearls. And I don't even wear jewelry. What's happening to me? It's like the evil spirits of greed and desire and envy have come to rest in my body and made themselves at home.

Something else is happening. It sounds cliched, but it's true. There's a hole in my spirit that I keep trying to fill with things. The things I want are just building blocks, and I'm using them to try to construct the person I want to be, the life I want to lead. But it doesn't work that way. I'm not going to be a better person with my new Coach purse. I'm not going to be more beloved for owning one more cashmere sweater. I already have so many things, material and intangible, for which to be thankful.

I hate how this season has been coopted by retailers. We worry about buying the right things, trying to fulfill people's material desires, and it's sickening when you compare this preoccupation with the real reason for the season: that Christ's birth was a creation-changing occasion, the arrival of God in the flesh. And He came for one reason: to die on a cross, in order to save us. Christmas is really about Calgary and Easter.

Let me remember this, and be tempted no more.

In the Eye

We, my husband and I, were in a crowded restaurant the other day, sitting at a table in close proximity to a mother and her two children. The two children were sitting opposite their mother. All three of them bore a striking resemblance to each other: frizzy brown hair, round freckled faces, upturned noses, decided lack of cheekbones or distinct bone structure. I bring this up only to give context to the conversation we overheard.

The mother was telling her two children that they had been blessed with an extraordinary physical beauty. The two children's faces as they listened to her were intent, so focused that their eyes bulged slightly and their soft mouths hung open. It could have been comical, but I found myself fervently hoping that they would believe their mother, that they would always believe their mother, no matter who else came along in their lives or what else was ever said to them.

How many of us really believe that we are beautiful, no matter how many times we are told or who tells us? It's always easier to believe the opposite. Back in high school, I had a bad breakup with a boy who is probably now dead (this is a long and unrelated story). I took up with another boy, who I loved (or rather, was slightly obsessed with, which in high school amounts to more or less the same thing). We were good for each other in some ways, and really, really terrible in most others. At some point in our pseudo-but-non-relationship, he told me he thought I was a seven and a half. I felt humiliated. The pain and embarrassment of it was so strong that it still rankles, ten years later, and I have never told anyone else about it.

Even now, I can't help believing it, no matter how many times I hear otherwise - from strangers, acquaintances, friends, family, my husband. I've had men I don't know offer to buy me flowers, stop me on the street to tell me I'm beautiful; once, in LA, someone got down on his knees and started singing. Once, in a restaurant, it was even a woman: she stopped at my table and asked me what it was like to be beautiful. This is weird for me; I look in the mirror and I just don't see it. That seven and a half, it hasn't left me.

Mean

Everyone has a certain image of him/herself. A certain way you want other people to see you. The things we say, the way we act, the clothes we wear - all these things are chosen to make a representation to other people as to who you are.

Why can't I go along with it? Let people pick their own image and pretend to see it too? I take sick pleasure in showing people how they are posing themselves, in twisting their representations to show them that they are not who they want to be. I do this even with people I love. I don't know why I do it; part of me recoils at the thought of hurting my friends, but there is a part of me that presses forward nevertheless. I think I must be a terrible person.

Quiet

Rain bothers me. Particularly rain against tall gray buildings. Out by the ocean, or in a forest, I don't mind it so much. But rainy cities, yes. Rainy suburbs are the worst. All those strip malls, drenched in rain. People going about their mundane business is bad enough on a sunny day. In the rain, it's unbearable. Watching a middle-aged lady in nondescript clothes struggling to get her soggy groceries into her nondescript car - how can anyone not get depressed by this? It's not the woman, or the groceries, or even really the rain. It's the idea that we get up in the morning, go to bed at night, and no matter who we are or how special we find ourselves, what we do in between is really just killing time.

Learning to Play Nice

The wife of a friend constantly talks about "mani-pedis" and trips to the spa. Every little bump in the road of life warrants a trip to the spa. Because she doesn't work, life's bumps usually take the form of cooking for a dinner party, or just feeling blue.

Why does this irritate me so much? Okay, so mani-pedis aren't my thing: I can't get used to having long fingernails (a result of years of piano and sports) and I don't wear strappy little shoes often enough to warrant a pedicure (although I am rather fond of my feet, which just look so quintessentially feet). But why does it annoy me that someone else might take pleasure in these things?

It's not that I envy her lifestyle. Now that I work from home, my schedule is certainly free enough to allow me the occasional trip to the spa (something I would never have had time for in my former incarnation as a corporate lawyer). I no longer make any money, but my husband makes enough for a monthly or bi-monthly mani-pedi.

I think that may be it: maybe it's the picture of a woman going to the spa and getting manicures and pedicures while her husband is off at work, doing far more important things. The picture of a frivolous woman, "kept" in the way a house pet is kept. I fear that woman. I fear that she lives in me, too. Certainly most people might justifiably confuse me with her. I don't have a corporate job or a regular salary anymore. I spend a lot of time shopping (although, to be fair to me, this is because it's nearing Christmas). I am my little family's primary meal-cooker, home-cleaner, and errand girl.

In sum, I guess my friend's wife irritates me because she brings up yet again the question over which I have been obsessing for the last four months: did I do the right thing in quitting my job to pursue what may well prove to be a chimera?

Ice

The water is supposed to be warmer during El Nino years, but I almost froze to death while surfing. As soon as I touched the water, I realized it was colder than normal, but I was there, I'd struggled into my wetsuit and with strapping and unstrapping the board, and damn it, I was going to surf. Fifteen minutes in, my fingers and toes were tingling with pain. Half an hour later, I could no longer feel them, which I had at first thought was a positive development. An hour later, my lips and nailbeds were blue and I thought I should get out. But I hadn't caught anything to speak of, and there were finally waves coming in. Two hours later, still having caught nothing, I could no longer paddle. My arms felt like they were lead, or big blocks of ice. I finally got out. It took me another two hours after that, and a very long shower, to feel like myself again.

Into the Woods

We live close to a park, and every morning, when I open the blinds, I look out onto sunrise over the tops of the trees across the way. It's beautiful, and it makes me happy to be here, even if the apartment has been a disappointment in other respects. In general, I've been feeling much happier lately. Part of it is the excitement of the holidays, and friends and family coming into town. Part of it is...I don't know. Better attitude?

My biggest source of worry these days is my sister. She recently broke up with her boyfriend, and, while everyone who cares about her agrees that this is a good thing, she has been taking it rather hard. I wish there was something I could do. I'm not sure that setting her up with someone new would help that much. And even if it would, I don't know anyone. I used to know a lot of single guys, but in recent years they have all become part of couples. Plus, she's my little sister and I don't want to set her up with just anyone. He has to be perfect, or as close to it as possible.

Worry...it's funny, even though I no longer work for the Man, I feel like I still have just as much worry in my life, although it is a different kind of worry. Things that I didn't have time to worry about before, but now I do. What's that rule, the one that says that things expand to take up as much time or as much room as has been left for them? I guess worry is the same way.

It Shows

December already. A new month, almost a new year. I can't believe how cold it is, but I'm excited for the holidays. Friends coming into town, holiday lights and spirit, and all that. I'm also excited for Mavericks to start breaking, so I can go watch the truly hardcore tangle with the rocks and the sharks. It's never been about the adrenaline for me, but I admire the people who get out there.

I can't believe it's almost 2007. Where did the first decade of the new millenium go? I was listening to the radio this morning, and they were taking calls from parents on the topic of whether they would let their eleven- or twelve-year-olds date. My immediate response was, NO WAY. I can't imagine letting a kid that young date. And then I had a sudden flashback. When I was twelve years old and boys would call me, my parents would freak out. I thought they were so unreasonable. At twelve, having boys call and want to ask you out seemed like the most vital thing in the world. How could my parents deprive me of that? Now, sixteen years later, I'm thinking more like a parent and not like a kid. When did this transition happen? The age, it's starting to show.