Hell in the Hallways

Bottom of the List

2011-04-05T12:36:00.000-07:00

It’s not a surprise anymore. I know this about myself. I wish it wasn’t true. I wish I were more ‘normal’, more adult, more productive, more….something. Regardless, I fall to the bottom of the list no matter what. The second that there is anything to-do, fun gets blacklisted and any item that is laced with pleasure or self-fulfillment magically gets deleted. I started a new job. And by job, I mean that I have hours I am expected to show up somewhere, tasks to complete, and the dress code doesn’t include pjs. By job I don’t mean actually making money. But still, I like it more than I thought I would.

There’s something satisfying about showing up when I say I will, keeping my word, and applying my perfectionistic dictator as I write the article, re-write the article, re-re-write the article. I get a thrill from the smiles of approval, and I’ve managed to locate a twinkling of inner validation that lifts my chin as I walk to my car knowing I did the best I could, even if I’m going home to write yet another draft. So it’s not the job that’s necessarily making me anxious. I like the job. Rather, it’s the idiotic schedule.
It’s my rigidity and compulsive cleaning and ritualistic manner of life that crams every free minute with panicky dusting and errands and pruning my plants. That’s all fine when my entire day is my own. However, with less time I can’t seem to shake off the useless rituals I created to ensure boredom never appears on my list. I seem to have a phobia of stillness. Ironic since I crave relaxation and the peace of lying on the couch cuddling with my dog, calm with no deadlines hanging over my head. In other words, fantasy land.

Hence the flutter of anxiety is my constant companion, speeding home overflowing with the guilt of a puppy left alone. I review in my head while drumming fingers in traffic: first play and shower with love, walk her, brush her, vacuum, mop, do laundry, don’t forget the run to Smart and Final and also Vons because they have the best 4% cottage cheese, get gas, return library books due by Friday, oh and there are those ace bandages I bought yesterday at rite aide that I need to return – obviously today. We’ll ignore the fact that I’ve already returned two nail polishes two hours after they were purchases to the same rite aide. I’m going to need eggs in two days so I better run in and get them now. Oh shit. It’s already 9 pm. But I still need to shower and walk Gracie two more times and make dinner and cut out the coupons from Sunday’s paper and water my plants and respond to that email and call the unemployment agency and remember to add tasks to my phone to get Gracie’s nails clipped tomorrow…maybe I should wash my sheets so I don’t have to do it tomorrow since its been three days already…and the basil needs to be transplanted NOW and fuck now I’m shaking over the time and how little I’m going to get to sleep before I have to wake up and do it all over again.

This is the way I drop to the bottom of my list. Where is the time for my own writing? Where is the time to breathe?

In case you've run out of reading material...

2011-04-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

For all of my book lovers who are in need of some new reading material, here's a few that I've stumbled across lately that are worth the trip to the library/bookstore/kindle purchase!

FICTION:

The Lovers dictionary-jonathan levethan

Handbook for lightening strike survivors-michele stone

Blue nude- elizabeth rosner

The lovers-vendela vida

The postmistress -sarah blake

Sumertime-JM coetzee

Creation of eve-lynn cullen

The nobodies album-Carolyn Parkhurst

The Forgotten garden

Dear Brain

2011-01-26T11:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Brain,

This is a final notice to cease and desist any and all pointless worry. In concordance with the terms of your lease, you are required to maintain a habitable environment and I regret to inform you that your anxious pondering and obsessive rigidity are a violation of your contract.

I am aware of the Creativity Thief that has been stalking the neighborhood and apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Hopefully following today’s court proceedings, he will no longer be a threat to our residents.

I would like resolving this matter amicably, and would suggest the sage wisdom of a Ms. Ida. “99% of what we worry about never happens.” I realize we have had a turbulent relationship previously, and are optimistic that we can come to a peaceful compromise in the immediate future. Otherwise, you will be receiving an eviction notice within the week.

Please do not hesitate to contact me, say a prayer, or take a pill at any time.

Thank you,

Your Landlord

Understudy Auditions

2011-01-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

This comes from a previous blog post: Casting... written after Mother's Day...

I thought I needed an understudy. I used the term ‘family of choice’ while holding auditions for mothers take 2. I must have been out sick when they taught that nobody is perfect, that sometimes you have to ask for what you need, that mothers are simply you plus twenty years. I missed the gift I was born into through the years that I plucked new mothers to try on for size.

There was Susan, the therapist I saw when I was sixteen, whom I thought hung the moon. She was young and naive enough to try to save her motley crew of patients, despite our insistence to stay sick. She was free to empathize absent the background noise that my mother carried: an illness she couldn’t cure, the pains of watching her daughter suffer, and the sadness buried under piles of unfulfilled dreams. Ignoring therapeutic boundaries, Susan dove in determined to pull me to the surface, dismissing my mom on the shoreline reaching for my hand. At the time, I considered our unprofessional coffee dates and offers to adopt me proof that she really loved me and not just because ‘we pay her to be nice to you, Lauren.’ When mother’s day rolled around, her card was my hook, my plea to care about me most, to rescue me aside from my patient status.

Armed with my own therapy license, savior isn’t the word that comes to mind. She was an inexperienced counselor, armed with good intentions, but leaving wreckage in her wake. She often was an hour or two late for sessions because clients continually were in crisis on her couch, knowing that meltdowns bought additional minutes with our beloved therapist. I rode her horse and played with her puppy, boastful with my other therapy group friends until I heard that Sarah had done the same. Not special enough. Not sick enough obviously. I amped up my efforts with a hollow suicide threat that won me a nighttime home visit and silences that conveyed absolute misery. She was my life raft at 16. The thing I looked forward to all week, the only couch where I could exhale and drop the act of ‘fine and dandy’.

She was definitely creative, confiscating Lucy’s baggy overalls and extra large hoodies serving as emaciation disguise while replacing them with spandex aimed at a body image reality check. She wrote up contracts for our parents to sign, and advocated for our sanity while we set out proving her wrong. Susan became my God, the road map for Woman, and my answer to ‘What do you want to be when you grow up.’ She was smart, funny, confident, and still knew how to play. Yet, she was my therapist, so the fact that I knew this hints at trouble from the get goes. I set her words on repeat as my personal soundtrack, and if Susan was going to jump off the Empire State Building, my question was merely ‘When are we taking the leap?’ Just as she got to play mommy without the mess of being a parent, I cast myself as Favorite Daughter, and through my rose-colored lenses, shaded her with perfection.

It was 9:30 pm by the time I got home from Hebrew High School, 2 weekly hours spent meeting with friends at the campus and then heading over to the Coffee Plantation before the first bell rang. As the 16 year old, who didn’t drink, do drugs, sleep around, or go to parties, I figured I was entitled to ditching as the bare minimum of required rebellion. Wait a second….ok, what the hell happened while I was sipping my coffee?? My room was naked. Over 20 bunches of dried roses were missing and my wall of framed photos gleamed white. I saw orange. Literally. I found a folded loose-leaf sheet of paper on my bed next to a small can of white paint and a watercolor brush.

“Lauren, You may come back to see me when your room is white again. Until then, I suggest you take some time to consider what you are doing to your life. Love, Susan.”

Furious that my parents had okayed this stunt or honored that Susan loved me enough to come over to my house and decorate? I was torn. (Notice that I never was angry with her for defacing my pretty room. Of course not. Parents were definitely to blame.) Everywhere I looked, I saw orange. Orange. The one color I couldn’t stand. Locating her lost painter, Susan had come armed with orange paint, and left truthful messages that I read as insults as they dripped down my walls. “You’re throwing your life away down the toilet” “All you care about is how you look.” “It’s shallow to only care about the number on the scale.” “Looks aren’t everything. You are more than the size of your jeans.” “Having an eating disorder doesn’t make you special.” “Any one can starve. It doesn’t make you unique.” “You are wasting your life.”

I knew she was trying to shake me up, rattle my delusional thinking, and shock me into recovery. She gets points for originality, but the beauty of her creativity was lost on me. All I could see were my fears splashed up for any and all to read. I cringed to think that I was perceived as vain. It wasn’t about food or how I looked, and Susan knew that. But she also knew the world’s perception of eating disorders, and while its not about the food or weight, it’s all about food and weight. Plus, teenagers were the ones that only cared about looks and dieting. I was not going to fall into that category, despite my chronological age. Glancing at the tiny watercolor brush and her note, I realized it would be way too long before I could see her again if I played by her rules. Having mastered the art of lying, I bought a rolling wall brush and caked my room white by the next day, showing up in her office for our scheduled appointment with innocent insistence that the watercolor brush worked amazingly well. Guilt-free, I looked her straight in the eyes and vowed that I didn’t buy a bigger brush. I cared only about seeing her, and making sure that she still loved me. Morals could wait for another day. The trouble with lying is that it masks the primer, and shadows future eyes, with orange paint peeking through the deceitful cracks on my walls decades later.

We said goodbye over coffee before I left for college. I avoided her eyes as I handed her my gift, keeping up appearances of being ‘fine’ while desperately hoping she knew I would drown without her. I had made her a journal hand-filled with quotes, my writings for her, and lyrics I knew she would cherish. I needed her, needed her like oxygen, needed her not to forget me, and not to find a new favorite client to lovingly save. With perfect synchronicity, she handed me her wrapped present; a blank journal with her card tucked inside next to a poem. I drove home blurry with tears, gasping for air, positive I’d miss her forever. Despite my teenage taboo, I managed to conquer dramatic teenage angst just fine. I went to St. Louis and found new oxygen and new adoptive mothers, while still tripping over cracks of orange truths. 1. The Mom role had been cast with the best woman from the start. 2. It was time for me to let go and become my own savior.

Letting Go

Author unknown

To "let go" does not mean to stop caring,

It means I can't do it for someone else.

To "let go" is not to cut myself off,

It’s the realization I can't control another.

To "let go" is not to enable,

But to allow learning from natural consequences.

To "let go" is to admit powerlessness,

Which means the outcome is not in my hands.

To "let go" is not to try to change or blame another,

It’s to make the most of myself.

To "let go" is not to care for,

But to care about.

To "let go" is not to fix,

But to be supportive.

To "let go" is not to judge,

But to allow another to be a human being.

To "let go" is not to be in the middle arranging the outcomes,

But to allow others to affect their own destinies.

To "let go" is not to be protective,

It’s to permit another to face reality.

To "let go" is not to deny,

But to accept.

To "let go" it not to nag, scold or argue,

But instead to search out my own shortcomings, and correct them.

To "let go" is not to adjust everything to my desires

But to take each day as it comes,

And cherish myself in it.

To "let go" is not to criticize and regulate anybody

But to try to become what I dream I can be.

To "let go" is not to regret the past,

But to grow and live for the future.

To "let go" is to fear less,

And love more.

Thou Shalt...pick up dry cleaning

2011-01-14T11:57:00.000-08:00

Just for fun...

for those to-do lists and sticky note reminders that need some added oomph, these post-its can be yours for only $6.99

http://www.neatorama.com/2010/09/04/the-ten-commandments-sticky-notes/

Stale Rules

2011-01-12T11:57:00.000-08:00

As I continue to work on my book, I am expanding, editing, deleting and rewriting some past blogs. This comes from an old post: Rules for Playing but is the new and improved 2.0 version!

Without rules, we are like children without a bedtime, running wild, secretly seeking some structure. Even as damaging as some of my early tractates were, they were still rules, allowing for direction and order. So as I build my own adult life, I look around me and realize that for the first time, there is no one authority figure dictating my choices or outlining their worldview for me to subscribe to.

In the past decade as I’ve moved from state to state and job to job, I sought new teachers wherever I went. Instead of sifting through their lessons and deciding which parts I agree with and which parts I’ll choose to let slip through my fingers, I simply nod and smile, grateful for my new guidebook. It’s much simpler this way. No need to think for myself, no agonizing debates about values and morals, no uncertainty about what to say, what to think, or what to do. The fatal flaw came when I eventually moved: moved on, moved away, moved back and was left floundering, a mess of competing rules from different schools of thought.

As a freshman in St. Louis, I discovered the thrill of breaking old rules, staying up until 3 am on my co-ed dorm floor, running to class in flannel pants, and the entertainment of drawing with sharpies upon the cheeks of passed out floor-mates after beer bong contests. WashU was a wet campus, allowing freshman to drink on university grounds, and so I arrived at the party without having to leave my single room. Some of the rules were familiar: Attend class. Be smart. Get A’s. Find a niche to Shine. The rest of the lingo and culture we learned in College 101: WILD means a day off of class, drinking beginning at 10 am, a day-long college sponsored concert standing for ‘Walk In Lie Down’. ‘The Quad’ is the best place for flag Frisbee. RA’s will join the 2 am floor dance if you invite them. Best friends forgo sleep the night before thanksgiving break and commiserate on the dramas of going home. Sleep is optional at all times. Caffeine is more essential than air.

Banished from my dream college, I trudged to Crystal City, MO for yet another residential program. In a bankrupt lottery winner’s mansion, I became the patient rules were based on. A new center trying to cater to the individual and preach unconditional love despite destructive actions, I gave them a run for their money. The endless diet coke supply became 2 a day. Equal packets were doled out in multiples of 5 rather than the 200 I was using. Molly Mcbutter could only be used as a topping, not a side dish, as was imitation vanilla, cinnamon, and mustard. Walks were now monitored lest purging was the aim. I learned to value movement over words and invest in art scribbles over childhood analysis. I heard the staffing whispers of being stuck, unsure how to cure my tendency to crash every time I stepped out their front doors. Rule #1: there must be a reason for sickness. There must be a missing piece that will explain all. Rule #2: Treatment centers are businesses looking for a profit. Rule #3: Having an anorexic child in a treatment center across the country doesn’t qualify you to open your own program. Rule #4: Actions are trusted more than declarations. Body memories are not to be disputed. Rule #5: Programs can ravage a family and induce rather than cure sickness. Rule #6: Professionals can be horribly wrong. Rule #7: Professionals aren’t always Professional.

In Buffalo Gap, Texas, the standard was confrontation and voicing your anger, one day at a time and tough love. I moved out of the residential center and tacked up pictures in the doublewide trailer nee halfway house, greeting the neighboring buffalo, Bob, for my morning walks. I filled my days with group lessons on identity and anger. I’m Lauren: anorexic, bulimic, obsessive compulsive, sufferer of anxiety and depression, co-dependent, love avoidant, and survivor of emotional abuse. And then braced myself for the inevitable rash of confrontations. Lauren, I feel anger when you purge behind the bushes and I would need or like for you to get with the program or get out. Lauren, I feel anger when you sneak more than 2 Splenda packets at breakfast, and I would need or like for you to get honest. Lauren, I feel anger when you skip your butter at dinner and I would need or like for you to follow the rules. I clenched my jaw with stone cold eyes and vowed no seeable response, acting like I couldn’t care less as my best revenge. Rather than using the peer pressure as a motivator to take steps toward recovery, I garnered my fury as fuel for increased deceptiveness and honed my manipulative talents.

We had a lingo out in middle-of-nowhere Texas, fluent in 12-step clichés and tough love. ‘Trying is lying.” “No is a complete sentence.” “Everything after ‘but’ is bullshit.” For a girl who skittered away from frustration and spent a childhood sweeping up hurt feelings after my brother’s illegal angry displays, I learned to join in the cacophony of confrontations and found a home in our ramshackle trailer house. The rules were clear, laid down by BMW speeding Queen, ex-pill addict, covered with spikes unless you became one of the chosen few, which I did. Straight shooting and crass with manicured toes, Cindy had little patience for clients wasting her time, and led anger groups that ended with foam bats beating pillows and anorexic twigs tapping into years of stifled rage as they wrestled with her, often winning, to ‘get it all out’.

The Written Rules: A meeting a day. Read your big book every day. Pray daily. Eat 3 meals a day, no white flour or sugar. No snacking in between meals. Work the 12-step program. No purging. No binging. No drinking. No drugs. No cutting. No isolating. No gambling. No raging. No sex. No over-exercising. Attend all groups. The Other Rules: The 12-step program is the only way to get better. You must find a higher power if you will recover. We know what’s best for you, so before making any decisions, bring it to group for ‘feedback’. Staying close to the treatment center is the only way you’ll (Lauren and other frequent flyers) ever reach any semblance of recovery. Blunt truth is always the best option. Any action that steps over normal limits gets labeled as addiction, leaving me with no acquaintances that didn’t need some 12-step program. Years later, it sounds cultish and crazy, but this coddle-free corner worked for me at the time. I became one of the inner circle, a yearlong patient twice, both times moving to buffalo gap once I finished or was kicked out of the program.

In psychology graduate school, the outlook was that of dysfunction, healing. We learned how to soothe client’s wounds after making sure that our own scabs had stopped oozing. I found a cohort of wounded healers, classmates drawn to the profession of sickness with sob stories seeping out of their baggage in the hall. Back in Arizona, I learned that family is a unit that stands together and falls together, that love has no limits but can also bring a family to its knees. The guidelines were clear: keep breathing, if not for yourself then for us. Living out of guilt was my default position, and when I tried to quit, the Rule Makers forced my hand.

Shipped off to Malibu, I learned independence, feminism while still performing the people-pleasing dance. There were all of the familiar rules: no cell phones, iPods, and novels not pre-approved. 30-minute meals with Ensure to make up the difference. Exercise must be earned and groups were mandatory. Within these, I managed to carve out space to breathe, encouraged to pen my own rules for life, but after a lifetime of institutions, I simply looked to my adored therapist and adopted hers. I flipped from ‘worst patient ever’ to ‘star patient’ and each identity came with clear-cut mandates. I might have found space to ponder my life view, but I excelled at Hero Client, miracle story complete with vows of a bigger life and bread pudding for dessert. I knew what I believed only by the reflection from others, and culled together opinions on politics, love, career, and life without ever having a unique thought.

In west LA, in my own apartment, there are no rules written on the chalkboard, no mindset that I can put my finger, dictating values and opinions. Being an obsessive order craver, I decide to make my own rules. Some are old, some have been taught, and some are only applicable for today. The beauty of authoring your own constitution is that you get to add amendments at any moment without a majority vote.

For my own rules, see RULES FOR PLAYING but these sum it up pretty nicely!

Nuts

2011-01-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

The assignment was the write about nuts. Finally, a topic I’m fluent in. Until I finish the paragraph…nuts, cashews, almonds, peanuts…

Nuts are my people. They are my roommates in treatment centers and my co-conspirators in psych wards. They are the reality speakers blinded by truth that join me in alternate worlds, none of us knowing how to slip back into the life we abandoned long ago. Nuts are my people; the alternative clique donned in depression, anxiety, ocd, bi-polar disorder, borderline personalities, addicts, and eating disorders. We carry cards of identification marked by psychotropic drugs and bonus points for seasoned veterans who have done stints at multiple sites. There is a hierarchy among the sick with the incurable reigning as Kings and specialness determined by number of diagnosis. I can spot my people in a crowd, set aside by the disease of normalcy and self-sharing that induces listeners to scan for an acceptable escape excuse.

We laugh at the stories of prom and all-nighters, silently adding our own escapades: ‘it was hilarious. When I was 16 and living in a locked psych ward while in an eating disorder program, Sarah and Megan were my best friends. And we would play bunko every afternoon and paired completed crossword puzzles with hidden lunch scraps in the couch cushions.’ Snapshot: summer afternoon in Scottsdale Behavioral Health inpatient unit. Four adolescent anorexics eating lunch outside with our warden/nurse. Sarah, needing to gain weight to earn parole, next to Megan, whose only goal remained disappearing, gulped down her fish entrée while I watered the ficus tree with chocolate ensure. Oh, we had some fun that summer.’

I can do cocktail parties, holding my own in the vortex of weather small talk and extroverted talent. I can mingle while smiling pretty, but I hate it. I hate the awkwardness of moving on to someone new because I simply can’t handle talking about the weather any longer with my current conversationalist, half listening as I scroll thru acceptable excuses to move away, seeing as how ‘I’m bored with you now’ not so much making the list. I hate the inevitable high school flash backs of lingering on the clique’s edge, emphatically not cool enough. Abnormal in a sea of my peers, my ears prick up with the hint of a fellow nut. I catch the stammering explanation of late graduations or the awkward pauses when questions skirt perceived shame. I sidle up; confident I have enough craziness to spread around, relieving the pressure off a more private compatriot.

We’re all around, having swerved off the ‘Good Child’ track, leaving muddy tracks behind our trails of darkness. We’re there in the midst of turmoil sure that a coat of concealer will magically transform despair. It’s the lucky ones that show up after the rain has dried. We come with tales of new lands and fresh eyes, comic adventures and epic bruises. Jealousy still creeps into my purse at these cocktail parties, wishing I had managed to stay on the ‘normal’ track. I long for the Ordinary in these moments, and stuff my wounds in back pockets. But there’s also the air of superiority among my crowd, tilting our chins down at the masses who haven’t been tested yet, haven’t had to sift through the meaning of life and claw their way out of cement holes. We know trouble, and us lucky ones learn to weave crazy as entertainment, using scars as inspiration.

These are my people, my nutty, crazy posse. If you want to chat about the weather or the latest Oscar nominees, I’ll stand there for a minute. Then you’ll see me scanning the room, searching for fellow nuts because as much as I might want to fit into the Normal mold, frankly I’m just bored…

Grown Up...ish

2011-01-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

Teenagers: An 11 year old’s list

1. Bedrooms resembling the aftermath of a tornado

2. Screaming back retorts at sweet well-intentioned mothers

3. Becoming boy-crazy, meaning shallow, stupid and annoying

4. Caked in make-up, transforming adorable little girls into objects of ‘she used to be so little and lovable'

5. Having a phone implanted permanently, in the pre-cell phone era, with topics ranging from boys, make-up, clothing, stupid parents, and boys

6. #1 destination: the Mall

7. Shirking all parental affection, wounding loving mothers and fathers callously

8. Morphing into an angry, prickly, crabby, unlovable almost grown-up necessitating survival from all surrounding loved ones

Death was preferable. I caught the furtive glances at my parents as I celebrated my 13^th birthday, and listened closely to the messages behind the jokes of terrorizing adolescents. Obviously, teenagers were nightmares of worry-causing trouble, high-pitched giggling beneath the eye shadow and shopping passion. Teenage girls were petty and shallow, argumentative and boy-crazy. They hated their mothers and rebelled against their fathers. They slammed doors while getting drunk, shedding sweet lovability in hallways. They were dreaded beings that had to be survived and I wasn’t going to become one. I lurked in corners of adult conversation, jotting down ‘What not to be’, certain that with the right knowledge I could prevent the teenage stench and avoid being the object of parental weary sighs and eye-rolling frustration.

Plus teenagers were just one hop away from becoming a grown up.

A fate marked by mind-numbing routine, 9-5 jaunts serving solely to pay for the car to drive you home, the bed to crash upon, and the coffee to jolt you awake, rinse and repeat. I was missing the appeal. I couldn’t understand how they did it, these commuters hurriedly applying mascara at the red lights, the permanent brow furrows my mom sported while juggling hot dinners, Hebrew school pick ups, spotless floors and volunteering. How did my dad wake to his 6 am buzzer, slip on his white lab coat and not strangle the masses with strep throat, diabetes, high blood pressure or loneliness that he tangoed with in rushed 10 minute consults? Was I the only one seeing the futility in Grown Up land? Was I missing the secret, the hidden purpose making it all worthwhile? I studied my accessible adults: aunts and grandfathers, parents and teachers, sure there must be a redeeming prize hidden within the soft eye wrinkles. Nothing.

So I spent the next 15 years grasping at childhood straws, shrinking ounce by ounce in a thin attempt to maintain my kid status. I was sure I wasn’t missing a thing, living my small life in my imaginative never-never land, definitely not a little girl but not even close to a grown-up. I waited for my instruction manual, searching for Adult 101 in my course listings. As friends got married and settled into independent lives, I watched with wonder, secretly jealous as I scoffed with disapproval over their Grown Up crowns.

What was happening? We were the kids, meant to be packing for summer camp and writing book reports, backseat residents and the receivers of bedtime stories. They were the grown-ups back then, high heeled in responsibility, absolute possessors of universal truths and magic kisses to make it all better. They were adults, strong and confident, wise and fearless. Titles of ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ superseding lingering childhood, they were the final answer, protectors of safety, and owners of life’s guidebook. I watched her put on her make-up, superfluous to the beauty I saw early in the morning, as I tasted a glimpse of this ‘other life’, cast in moonlight skies and whiffs of Escada perfume. They were old, with kids and houses, jobs and responsibilities. They had all of it figured it. They must! I needed to believe that these two tall figures knew exactly what they were doing, that they really could deliver the sun, and that soothing words erasing fears were based in reality and not merely placating an anxious daughter. They were grown-ups; of course they had it all together.

Except as I look at the pictures from her 30^th birthday party, it sinks in. I’m 30. Oh goodness. Panic seeps thru confidence cracks as I ponder the two options:

1. She had no more clues about life and parenting and living in her skin than I do now and was just making it up as she goes along, which induces the crumbling of childhood pedestals and notions of ‘when I grow up’ I’ll somehow be granted the missing key.

2. She was much more grown-up than I and really did have a life plan and know how to stand on her own two feet without peering around corners for approval and help. In that case, I am shockingly delayed. Without the kids, house, or spouse, I have somehow stepped off of the timeline.

‘Grown Up’ has always been inversely defined by my two older cousins. At 10 and 8 years older, whatever birthday they were celebrating immediately became fair game, un-adult, not old. They can’t old. We’re still sitting at the kid’s table. And my parents can’t be old. They’re no different than they were twenty years ago, so as the years pass, I simply slide the ‘old’ marker up a few years, protecting those I love from having to dip a toe into the danger zone. But I look around and I know, secretly seeing it in my little cousin’s eyes. I am one of them, crossed over into the grown up camp. I wish I could tell him the secret: I feel just like you, only with a few more stories to tell. We are adults. We’re all in our twenties, thirties, forties, out living independent-ish lives, getting married, getting divorced, having kids, slipping on our own high heels.

I’ll consider being Grown-Up-ish. I’ll mull over the idea that this fault line following childhood might have been imaginary, and that adulthood just may hold some appealing qualities. I’ll learn that adult doesn’t equal alone, and that interdependence is a perfect compromise between toddler reliance and hermit independence. I’ll ponder freedoms appreciated and discover Grown Ups get to make their own rules, or at least add multiple amendments. I’ll debate the merits of responsibility over the stress of bills, and laugh amidst days spent in pj’s.

I remember my grandmother looking in the mirror as I fastened her necklace, caught off guard as if she couldn’t match her 85-year-old face with the young girl she was somewhere beneath the wrinkles. I’m guessing that’s how it goes. We all skip and stumble, take risks and laugh through the falls. We do the best we can in the absence of instruction manuals, and we try to fill the oversized shoes left behind. We banish monsters from the closet and kiss skinned knees, hoping that they won’t notice our own fears. We are all kids playing as grown-ups, with sweet insecurities poking out as we build our Lego lives and pray that somehow it will end with ‘Happily Ever After’.

I’ll concede to being an almost Grown Up.

Is anyone still out there?

2010-11-15T16:49:00.000-08:00

To all of my family, friends, faithful readers and drop-in visitors:

I am not trapped under something heavy nor rendered mute. I am still well and alive and writing, but simply veered onto a new course. I am now working on a book, which surprisingly is quite a bit harder than sitting down to write blog articles, and therefore haven’t been entertaining/boring/updating you all on this site.

I will continue to post my writing from time to time, for those of you who are interested.

Also, if anyone were eagerly raising their hand as volunteer readers/editors/critics – hopefully of the constructive nature, I would love to send you some pieces for feedback.

Know that I am forever grateful for anyone who read my words and smiled, cried, nodded, scowled, or simply took the time to stop and read. In the vein of trees falling and no one hearing, I am a writer regardless, but all of you made me feel like a Writer. So thank you and stay tuned for future musings.

With love,

lauren

very productive day...

2010-10-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

So I want to write a book. I have written over 120 articles in the past 6 months. I have a life story that more people can’t claim and yet, I have no idea what to write. Somehow I’ve gotten out the habit of writing every morning. How did that happen? There was the trip to Canada in august and then mold fiascos and then apartment hunting and then packing and moving. And now? I’ve been living here over a month, and yet, somehow puttering in the garden and painting furniture and searching thrift stores for the right night table and meandering on craigslist’s free listings and the day has slipped away. What happened? Could this be why I’ve been feeling so crabby, skin is bristling to the world that keeps tossing out barbs? Am I craving writing that I was starting my day with for so many months? Or maybe, am I missing the praise and the feedback and the self-ego boosts about what a great writer I am? It seems like there was a rush of rainbows – articles published, newspaper journalist, websites eager to post my words for payment – first timer’s luck? Random blessings? Too much good news building up a false sense of confidence?

Because now, six months later, I find my words have curled away from inspiration and scatter in gusts of doubt when I run in pursuit. I wonder how much is simply I have let myself get out of the habit of composing, let myself build new routines of inane errands and superfluous tasks that sweep away creativity and suck time thru a meaningless vortex. I know that I am uniquely gifted at wasting time until I’m late, filling spaces with dusting and organizing, pruning and the “home” aisles at tj maxx. I’ve been gardening and going to appointments, painting and reorganizing. There was a visit from my parents and three blind dates. There was the planning of the parental visit, thanksgiving plans, and a looming future without a steady paycheck. There’s always something I can distract myself with.

I would never have said that I procrastinate. Rather, I’m the opposite – give me a task, an assignment, an essay to write, and I feel anxious until I can get it done – hence the depositing the check the moment I receive it, buying the birthday gift when I notice it at the bottom of my list. And yet, my wise friend pointed out – that is exactly procrastination masked as productivity. I can run around all day, home depot, the grocery store, the park, planting, vacuuming, walking the dog, doing laundry...very productive...and not necessary...at least not in the quantity that I do them. This is how I put off crafting an introduction, mulling over plot, and avoiding outlines of chapters. This is how I fritter hours away because there are always library books to return days before they're due, milk to buy without the apples I'll need tomorrow, and towels to launder the moment they soak up a spill. A vision of “Don’ts” in time management and productivity. I don’t want the title of procrastinator. Don’t like it. And yet, I zip it up snugly as my book remains a plan rather than a work in progress.

It’s easy to talk about writing, plan to write, create space to write, graph budgets and brainstorm titles. But still there is the blank page and days have passed.

Write what you know – that’s what all of the authors say. Classes aren’t essential – the best medicine for writing is daily writing and read as much as you can. Ok – so I’ve got the reading under control and the daily writing – I can get back there. So I’m supposed to make a plan – a business venture to propose – does it include classes? Is it arrogant to assume that I don’t need education in writing before trying to draft my story? But more than the plan – because I’m good at plans and numbered outlines and excel spreadsheets...more than the plan is the bigger question: what kind of book to write?

I could write fiction; a thinly veiled memoir with artistic freedom to speak for my loved ones, disclose family trauma without splashing ‘nonfiction’ across the cover. But with fiction, there must be a plot and a climax, a storyline and an ending. And how to begin the story of my family? Is it a generational saga? No – I’m not really a fan of those. So I think I’d want it to be written from the different characters perspectives. Is that overdone? Would I be able to write fiction? I’ve never really tried. And what would be the ending? I have no good ending – but I wouldn’t want a story wrapped up in a bow anyway. And then I feel like I’d need to do some research – reread some of my favorite novels – but then I’ve read that’s a bad idea – don’t over think, don’t look for inspiration in old dog-eared novels because you’ll end up stuck in their genius and unable to write with your own voice. Can I tell I story that others would want to read without the support of true-life accounts?

So I could write nonfiction – which is what I at least know, read more of, and have been doing for the past six months, not to mention fifteen years. But memoirs seem tired – and for sure addiction memoirs are passé –but what is my story without that? More I want to write a compilation of articles, thoughts on life, and various insights like what I’ve blogged on – but what would keep the reader’s attention? There still needs to be a storyline, characters revisited, history explained, albeit slowly, that keeps it from being forever closed after a few chapters. How would my family react? How do I make it unique? Something undone?

I feel like that’s impossible – I want to make it like Sabrina ward Harrison in “spilling open”, like “encyclopedia of an ordinary life”, like ‘plan b: further thoughts on faith’ by Anne lamott, like ‘bird by bird’. What is my angle that’s undone? What makes my story worth reading? What’s the catch? The specialness?

And then I know – I’ve fallen into the old trap, prey to the quicksand of silence until I find my talent, my specialness, the one thing that I am the best at.

There it is – that’s where I start –

“Potential at my heels” – I start writing without a plot fully planned, without an outline, without knowing exactly what the book is about.

Or is that totally wrong?

Why all of a sudden do I feel lost in the pages of vanishing prose, unsteady balancing atop piles of journals, blindly wandering aisles of novels with a pen as my white cane? I don’t know the best way to write a book. So I would turn to more advice – more articles and books on writing, but I promise you, I could spend a year doing that and I’m not sure I’d be anymore clear.

Perhaps if I had a mentor – someone to pile my articles and journals and artwork and musings and say, help! Show me how to string this together. Help me create art from stale tears and thread stories to knit a cloak of prose. Help me figure out how to use all of these writings, what order to put them in, if I need a plot and a neatly outlined direction, or if I just put pen to paper? Help me tease apart my melodies and flesh out the orchestra. Guide me as I lug my words upon my shoulders.

Well, I don’t know if I’ve figured anything out- but at least I wrote. I wrote without a plan, for hours, just a rush of worries laid down and words spilling over the prior days of silence. I just wrote. That’s enough for today.

a very productive day...

8 minutes

2010-10-09T11:55:00.000-07:00

8 minutes. 8 minutes away and it’s been 9 months since I’ve made the trip. It’s not polite to broadcast, rude to rub in the fact that I live a hop and a skip away from the ocean, so I’ll murmur it above the breeze and inhale sandy toes.

I used to walk on the beach every morning, one of the ‘regulars’ collecting sand dollars and able to cite exact timings of low tides. When I lived walking distance away, I couldn’t imagine how anyone California resident would pass up the chance to stroll at the water’s edge. It was easy and familiar, dug into my safety zone with plastic shovels.

But then I moved, moved, and moved again. New routines built small boundaries as I shirked the unfamiliar and strayed from the different. The beach was too far. There’d be nowhere to park. It would be too crowded. I didn’t know how to get there. All fine lies to keep me stuck inland and falsely safe as the balm of crashing waves ebbed from my memory. This is usually how my trail goes: widening before narrowing, trampled with guests and picnic remnants leading to fallen leaves and missing footsteps. But always, slowly, the worn path reappears, opening up with laughter and exploration. New growth rooted in risk.

So it’s been a week of unfurling petals and stretching familiar zones, poking holes in routines and remember the sound of sea gulls. 8 minutes away and I even managed to parallel park for free street parking. It wasn’t far, crowded, or hard to find – merely new. New, looming large if enclosed in the dark, turns out to be exciting, added joy to the salty sunshine as I made sand angels by the shore, welcoming the sandy sprinkles I knew I would find later in my scalp. And just to seal add confirmation to my spontaneity, the moment I sat up, 7 dolphins frolicked by for a free show in playfulness.

It’s not polite to rub it in, and if it helps, traffic coming home added half an hour. Of course I have my sore spots and mud holes, but for today I am where I need to be, 8 minutes from sandy toes and a routine with gaping arches.

For today I’ll whisper out of respect: Waves are my murals and life is good.

For no good reason

2010-10-05T11:52:00.000-07:00

Tucked amidst the ‘wrong side of the bed’ days, gray weeks, and ‘bang your head against the wall’ moments, are those days where minutes flow easily tinged with joy.

It’s one of those days where nothing is particularly good or exciting, no big plans or special celebrations, but simply a morning spent smiling. I wish I could figure out what makes the difference – wish I were in on the secret, could bottle up my contentedness, and reproduce the simple joy when the world is rubbing me raw. But rather than analyze the whys and hows, rather than squander the day making lists of possible factors: good night sleep, entertaining phone chat with new friend, baby tomatoes beginning to grow...and I’m reigning my obsessiveness in....done.... really.

Rather than make lists, I feel like I should do something. Be out; enjoy the happiness, live life to the fullest. And that’s just a recipe for an abrupt end to my peace of mind, because now there’s pressure to have the ‘best day’ or do something great – like New Year’s Eve plans or Valentine’s Day.

And really, there’s nothing pressing to run off to – no crucial errands or important business to take care. It’s not a beach day or warm enough to frolic in the park. But even so, I have to train myself to sit still, not to fill the seconds with cleaning and re-cleaning, organizing, errands, and lists – not to be scared of space stretched ahead, and to recognize that perhaps the sweet balance of the day sneaks in only when I’m still long enough for it to catch me.

So I’m just going to enjoy it, without stress to maximize or pressure to achieve. I’ll write and I’ll work, I’ll putter under fresh mint blooms and curl up with a warm puppy and a book. I’ll go about my normal day. And there’s the beauty – sometimes the best days are just the normal, ho-hum days, the blessings that only occur in the absence of crisis.

Leaving behind the reasons and wishes to capture and save, I wish you all a normal day of smiling over nothing and that sense that it’s “A Good to be Alive” day.

Crashing through polite boundaries

2010-10-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

It is entirely possible that I have become the annoying stranger bulldozing polite social boundaries. Or put another way, I am exuberantly friendly with important gems to share...

Sitting in a waiting room, I catch my seat neighbor pulling out an Anna Quindlen book. Looking down, I bite my tongue until self-control slips under the chair and I lean over to proclaim my love for said author. And before I know it, I’m jotting down other favorite ‘must-reads’ for her and trading thoughts on past loved pages. Ah, my job is done. Reader gold star for Lauren.

Apparently, she missed my inappropriate social behavior, and we continue to chat amidst the much-appreciated ultra air conditioning, covering preciousness of the library, tips on parallel parking, cheaper parking lots, book clubs, and our growing displeasure with doctors who triple book. By the time my name is called, Roz and I are now well acquainted and on our way to best buds.

It’s partly a sickness; this welcoming enthusiasm that nabs innocents and displays ‘potential friend’ signs in neon above random strangers’ heads. I’m sure that the guy buying milk doesn’t always want to strike up a philosophical debate. Or the dog walkers who are just looking for a quick potty trip rather than a budding connection.

However, I would rather live in a world with too many smiles, extra ‘good mornings’ and friendly waves. I would rather hear the tips and recommendations, the secrets of the city, and get the added bonus of a distance shortened; the isolation ebbing back to reveal kind hearts and gentle footsteps. Given the choice, I’d opt for occasional annoyances if it meant more bodies without masks and a corner of the world where I feel at home.

So I pass along the crossroads of the best dog park, and trade gardening tips with my upstairs apartment dweller. I nestle into my community, and collect compassionate hands to hold and faces that mark the familiar. And if the friendliness turns sour and boundaries are crushed, I hope that they will remember my face and choose another seat the next time...

Decorator Extraordinaire

2010-09-27T11:45:00.000-07:00

I stepped back, giving myself a decorating pat on the back as I surveyed my work. Yes, my writing area was off to a good start, a lovely combination of calming lake photos, inspirational quotes, and the tree house painting that I dream of residing in. Perfect.

As I rifled through the un-hung art, planning on adding to my creation, I noticed a slight snag. Within on 6’x6’ wall, I had just placed almost my entire wall decor, leaving at least 9 walls pristinely white. Martha Stewart would not be pleased.

I pondered undoing my hammering and spreading out the beauty, tailoring the decor for an outsider’s eye. How much did I care about Their opinion? Who is the one actually living here, enjoying the view? All of a sudden the placement of my bulletin board was about more than what height to put the nail, and all about owning my own life, believing in myself, and yanking up my confident adult underpants.

It’s a radical move – catering to my own taste – especially because I’m learning on the fly, defining preferences as I go. Its un-trodden snow to opt based on intuition, to follow my own leanings rather than through the filer of others who I assume know better than I. I brush aside the nudge of Nora Ephron in ‘When Harry Met Sally’, “Everybody thinks they have good taste but they can’t all possibly have good taste...” and hope that my art maintains no resemblance to the aforementioned wagon-wheel coffee table. I’m choosing not to care today. It’s my sense of peace that these walls are charged with unearthing, and my personal nook in the world that needs to spur an exhale as I unlock the door.

I leave things where they are, and for now, breathe easy wherever my gaze falls. That shall be the new measure of success. So lets make my walls ooze with balance, reflect motivation, and draw me close with the scent of Home. Let my eyes rest upon tree houses that nudge easy smiles and frames twinkling with memories of laughter and sweetness.

Welcome to adulthood, Lauren, where I get to be queen, master of my domain, and the judge of good taste. I think I could learn to like this...

It would be funnier if...

2010-09-24T11:21:00.000-07:00

JTA: Ahmadinejad tells U.N. - U.S. was behind 9/11 attacks

It would be funnier on the big screen with popcorn and a credit reel. It would be laughable if the genre fell on the fiction shelves. Not so funny at the podium of the U.N. General Assembly.

According to Iranian Present Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, its time to set the record straight, informing us all that the U.S. arranged the 9/11 attacks to “save the Zionist regime”. He then called on the United Nations to establish an “independent fact-finding group” to investigate the attacks. Were I there, I would have followed the footsteps of the U.S. delegation who walked out of his speech, along with all 27 European Union delegations, Canada, New Zealand, Australia and Costa Rica. I’m wondering who was left? Did he finish his ranting to an audience of reporters?

Were I a reporter at the General Assembly, I might have a few questions for Mr. Ahmadinejad.

A) If this is true, wouldn’t it have been wiser for us to stage the mass murders on foreign soil so have our own citizens? Or at least set the attacks at a location that wouldn’t cause so much chaos and disruption...like the middle of nowhere? B) How exactly do the 9/11 attacks relate in any way to Israel and supporting them? I’m not the most politically savvy, but I’m failing to see the connection. C) Is he not aware that there were extensive ‘fact-finding groups’ following 9/11, which led to a war that we are still fighting (we’ll leave the discussion of the accuracy of those groups for another day...) D) Could you comment on the irony of your speech taking place not far from where Islamist terror attacks destroyed the World Trade Center towers 9 years ago?

E) Were you dropped on your head as a small child, or take medication for the voices you must hear in your head??

The outrageousness would make me laugh were he not the president of a state with nuclear powers and sitting too close for comfort to Israel. It would be funnier if this weren’t real life...

I’m not laughing.

Something Furry

2010-09-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

It was the ‘something furry’ that gave me pause; furry not being the usual texture my toes met on the kitchen floor. Stumbling out of bed at 4 am for some milk, I figured the ‘something furry’ warranted lights.

And it was a bat. Dead, I hoped. Half asleep, I simply put a mug over it on the floor with a note: “Bat Inside. Dead.” And promptly went back to bed.

But it you thought we’d just toss it in the trash come sunrise and carry on merrily, you just earned a lecture in bat safety and the Bottner mishagas. No, no. There were rushed trips to the department of health, calls to the department of public safety, and debates over who might need the series of painful rabies shots. Worse was the all-consuming obsession with exactly how said bat ended up on our kitchen floor.

Perhaps I’m not the most cautious. I struggle to remember to buckle my seat belt, never wash my apples, and only started locking my car after my iPod got stolen earlier this year. But I wasn’t concerned so much about the bat. No one was foaming at the mouth, no fang bite marks – we’re fine! Plus, we were out last night, hence opened the front door when we returned – problem solved! Bat came in when we did.

I was voted off the island with these opinions. Seeing as how I’ve learned to pick my battles and my doctor father knew far better about the dangers of rabies than I, I kept my 2 cents to myself and enjoyed the sun by the lake. As the bat was sent to the lab, tested and analyzed, my dad enlisted neighbors to help seal up all potential cracks in the cottage frame with duct tape.

End result: no rabies. No more bats. And I started turning on the lights during my midnight treks for milk, lest the ‘something furry’ be not so dead next time.

The Facebook Memo

2010-09-22T15:02:00.000-07:00

This perhaps is the funniest thing I've read all month...
If Historical Events had Facebook Statuses
http://coolmaterial.com/roundup/if-historical-events-had-facebook-statuses/

I must have missed the memo, lost among the other phases I bypassed, i.e. boy-crazy, love of malls, love of drinking, and fascination with reality TV. I’m sure there was a memo: “Don’t delay! Facebook is only way to survive in the world!”

To be fair, I do have an account, set up years ago by my hipper, cooler sibling. And there are the occasional thrills of reconnecting with friends or seeing new baby photos from a long-distance birth. I do post links to my writing, just in case it slips onto the screen of a new fan.

However, this is where my use abruptly halts. I have no desire to join the bandwagon of daily status updates:

8 am: am walk...yawn...still waking up

8:05: nice poop Gracie. Good Girl!!!

8:30: still grey outside

8:40: vacuuming...

9 am: mail time!

Really? Would anyone’s day be enriched by this extra special glimpse into my life? Or was that just 10 seconds of your life you’ll never get back?

Then there are the late night musings I’ve read, which I have at various moments related to, but now would spur me to enact a “No posting after midnight” statute.

1 am: pondering point of it all...rooftop is looking good

1:05: or just a bottle of tequila.

1:06: hate my life

Thank goodness I’m never reading these in real-time as I’d opt for dialing 911 over the usual comments I normally see:

RS: what’s up?

TZ: sooooo with u!

Moving on, I do have a number of Facebook friends. Some actually people I see in the flesh or at least know the sound of their voice, and the rest are “friends”. Try explaining that: well, mostly they’re my friends from the past but we don’t really ever get together or talk or email...so basically we say hi and then I’m privy to all of their updates, photos, ‘likes’ and links...think voyeuristic without the creepy pedophilic undertones. And you can be ‘de-friended’ on the heels of an argument, flinging you back to the high school pettiness of “we don’t like her today”. Or if you prefer, you can trade a friend in for a virtual hamburger, which is only slightly more insulting.

Which brings me to my personal favorite: the Facebook gift. Over the past months, I have received, plants, bumper stickers, roses, teddy bears, and I believe a pasta dinner – none of which I could smell, cuddle, or taste, begging the question, what the hell is the point? Just for the record, in case you were wondering come birthday/Hanukah/just because I love you, I choose items that don’t rely on an Internet connection.

So all in all, I’m just a Facebook lost cause. I enjoy the ease of keeping in touch and the always-accessible ocean of connections, but the rest of the territory remains unexplored.

Of course this is all ridiculously ironic should you be reading this from my link I posted on Facebook...ah, I get lost in my own hypocrisy!

I ask forgiveness

2010-09-17T12:15:00.000-07:00

I deeply apologize. I could have done better.

For the sharp comments and irritable retorts.

For the cranky mornings and frustrating indecisiveness, I’m sorry.

For the moments of impatience, cutting off without really listening, and assuming without hearing, I could have done better.

For the unanswered emails, forgotten birthday cards, and delayed calls to keep in touch. For the friendships that slipped behind errands and plans unmade due to laziness, I apologize. For the times when you needed an ear, a hug, a hand to hold, and I wasn’t there. For the connections lost without required tending and support asked for that I didn’t hear, I’m sorry.

For the fear, panic, worry and heartache I’ve caused. For the times together marred by my worn-out craziness; for the rigidity I can carry in my wake, I could have done better.

For tossing aside the blessing of life, invincible faith to choose familiar over right, I’m sorry. For the expired rules I blindly follow and the childhood fears I grasp without reason. For the anxiety over the mundane as I miss the sweet blossoms; for the aimless obsessiveness and automatic rituals, I apologize. For the doubts that halt my footsteps and the self-criticisms that mute my voice; for the lip service to ideals and the promises absent of action, I could have done better.

For the wasted minutes of worry and the pits of overwhelm I easily slide down. For taking for granted the blessing of breath, limbs that move, and a beating heart. For misplacing priorities in favor of tired habits and putting off growth for tomorrow, I could have done better.

For all of the ways I may have hurt you, known and those I don’t even realize, I ask for your forgiveness.

For all of the ways I have cut myself off from bliss, abused my blessings, and lost sight of my dreams, I ask for my own forgiveness.

I could have done better.

I hope, plan, and intend to do better in the coming year.

The Case for Fasting

2010-09-16T10:36:00.000-07:00

I used to argue my case for fasting, fervently citing ritual and tractate, claiming spirituality as my motivation rather than an excuse to have a calorie-free day. It wasn’t all a life. I wanted to be a member of my tribe, beat my chest remorsefully along with my community and share the hunger pains of late Yom Kippur afternoon. I believed that fasting could be holy, a setting apart, a focusing on the holy rather than the mundane. But for me, the larger truth was that I wanted an anorexic’s freebie day.

I was 20 the last Yom Kippur I fasted, already a veteran patient at eating disorder treatment centers and hospitals. I was 20 and home from college for the High Holidays, arguing with parents who feared for my life on a daily basis. As I pled my case, they rebutted with worries that fasting would in fact keep me out of the book of life, that not eating was choosing a slow death rather than opting for another year of life. I knew the allowances for the sick, elderly and children, that fasting didn’t apply if health was an issue. My parents were right. If fasting symbolized a sacrifice, a step away from the norm in the direction of holiness, then for me, eating was more meaningful than fasting. But at the age of 20, I was to starved and stubborn to concede their points or admit the reasons behind my staunch desire to fast. I held my self-destructive ground and spent the day light-headed in shul, bowing and remorseful, chanting communal sins while beating my bony chest.

And so, aside from the services, it was no different from any other day.

My light-bulb moment wasn’t at the blast of the shofar or the closing Nehila prayers. It wasn’t the sermon that moved me to tears but rather the break-fast later among family and friend. It had been a bitter day for me, knowing the insane hypocrisy of begging for another year of life while having spent the past 365 days actively tossing aside that very precious gift. I was afraid to pray for healing, too ashamed to make vows of recovery as I stood on too many years of broken promises and identical Yom Kippur reflections. But as I stood from the sidelines and watched my family fill plates with warm kugel, bagels and lox, and all the Jewish comfort foods I loved, a small light flickered within. My personal fast never ended. There was no break-fast celebration for me. There was no end date where my inner calculator shut off and my starving dictator was muted. There was no meal where I freely filled my plate and rejoined the land of the living. I listened to the laughter and praises to the chef as I cried out my first true prayer of the day.

Please Hashem, help me choose life. Guide me toward healing and end this perpetual fast that keeps me far away from you, locked in a tiny life. With gratitude for the million second chances, please grant me this moment, this chance to taste freedom, this opportunity to take a bite of my mother’s kugel as a step toward life.

This year I’ll be at services with my community, making my amends and atoning for my sins. This year I’ll beat my chest and desperately plead for my name to be sealed in the book of life. This year I still need to do better, take bigger bites and farther steps.

This year I’ll find my holiness in a full belly and experience as much spirituality in the sounding of the shofar as in the taste of my lunch.

Balancing in an extroverted world

2010-09-15T10:39:00.000-07:00

There are stories swapped easily and smiles tucked between glances; layers erasing distance and an ease of side by side silence. We are strangers, children of friends, dock neighbors extending our own line of connection. It’s rare to meet a friend where the initial meeting is absent of small talk. I tend to shun cocktail party shallowness and mark escape routes during aimless chatter. I often reach my human interaction limit long before those whose genes I share. And yet, always a good student, I can hold my own, having been well schooled in the art of extroversion from a magnetic father who reigns at the hub of the party.

We operate on different gears, he and I. He happily stacks plans upon activities, is calm with a full table, and has the energy of a five year old. I come via a solo train, introverted by default, preferring groups to dot the day rather than be the norm. Still, I laugh at the jokes and join the debates, surprising myself at times with my enjoyment of the crowd. But after an hour or two, I’m done; finding the extra bodies more draining than energizing, I long to retreat to recharge in the stillness. It’s a balancing game – avoiding the gentle slope into isolation, integrating friendship with mindfulness and connections with calm. It’s a learning process as I examine my comfort zone and learn where I need to step away in favor of shared laughter and fun.

I will never be the party girl with an overflowing date book and more friends that I can count. I can happily spent a Sunday writing, reading, going to the park, calling friends, and never getting out of my pajamas. And yet, I still fight against the extroverted judgments, the labels: not normal, nerd, loser, boring, pathetic. I practice allowing myself to have my own rules for living and standards of joy, struggling against the childish biases that no longer apply.

So when I find a kindred spirit whose smile also turns stale upon the bell of midnight, I link arms with relief that there are others just like me. However, even as I learn who I am and create my own grown up life, I watch my dad in his splendor, a table full of friends, and I take notes. I watch, simply grateful to have been taught the tools of connection by a master. I slip in and out of his overflowing calendar, but am always welcomed with a genuine smile and an outstretched hand as he pulls me by his side. And just as I stretch myself to dance in his world, his shining compliment is when he shrinks to intimacy, carving shared moments of just the two of us sitting on the dock, trading thoughts upon the wind. He glows in a bustle, but gives a gift to my introverted soul, as he makes clear that our family of four is all the party he needs.

I continue to learn. I learn what I need, want, and wish for. I learn how to slip into family without unleashing old shadows but rather filling my shoes with a love that cushions until the next time. I learn how to appreciate the din of the crowd along with the stillness, loud laughter along with deep talks over coffee. I learn when to stretch and when to swing in quiet peace. I learn to appreciate the differences, to cherish family, and to keep close friends who also understand interaction limits and grown up time outs.

And so I made a new friend on the dock this summer, and for a few days, we swapped book lists and laughter, pages of history shared under the sun. Despite the distance between us, I look forward to seeing her next summer, and I remember the ease of her company as a fellow introvert lost in a community of extroverts.

Dirt-filled Bliss

2010-09-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

I never knew that bliss was covered with dirt. In all the corners I’ve searched for balance, in the teachers I’ve sought for peace or the books I’ve read hoping for calmness, I didn’t expect to find it on my patio. And yet, for someone who vacuums obsessively and runs late to do last minute dusting, I’m reveling in a love of soil.

I’ve always wanted a garden with plants to sprinkle with hope and whisper sweet dreams. I’ve always envisioned fresh herbs and green shoots tended by my hand. I linger upon lush yards during my walks with my puppy, drooling over tomato plants and gardenia bushes that seem to never fall out of season. And yet, I haven’t had a backyard, or a patio, or even a ledge to plant my seeds. And I haven’t had the best luck with indoor plants – usually my downfall is overwatering, anxiously peering in soil and determining that more is better until they drown with my protection. I’ve been limiting myself to cacti, which you actually have to have murderous intentions in order to spur their demise.

With all of that, I am a gardener at heart. I just know it. I love the pruning and the mothering. I love the morning checks for new leaves and glimpse of a miracle as seeds sprout into splashes of color. So the clincher on my new apartment was the patio with a small bed of soil and ample ledges for things of green. I wandered up aisles in the nursery, swirling with possibilities and unlimited by any knowledge of practicalities, seasons, or space requirements. Admittedly, I missed a few items: planters, topsoil, and a watering can... But I was too distracted by the basil, cilantro, rosemary, strawberry plant, and various beauties to remember the basics. It didn’t matter. Yesterday I became a gardener as I left my gloves in the kitchen and dug with bare hands to create room for roots, whispering prayers for growth and strength for all of us.

Amidst the din of daily life traffic, for a few moments, I found my balance. Something about new possibilities sprinkled with nurturance and warm breezes allowed me to breathe in the calm and settle into simple contentment. Protective of their fragile roots, I steadied my feet in my own life.

I run on overwhelmed, with a default setting of anxiety. I forget inhale, to prioritize, and to grasp that a to-do item doesn’t demand immediate attention simply by appearing on the list. I wobble with change, and squirm until the last picture is hung on the wall. I struggle to schedule fun before errands and relaxation in the face of emails unanswered. And yet, filthy under a lazy Sunday sky, joy superseded groceries and my head ceased its 90 mph roaming to match my feet in the dirt.

Maybe my plants will shrivel or my green thumb never appears. Maybe. But it won’t change the fact that I am a gardener, permanently imprinted with the sweet glee of my hands in the earth, taking deep breathes and gratefully balanced in my new home.

Exactly what I was looking for

2010-09-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me as the unexpected teacher arrives, when the words swirl into my heart, freshly brewed as exactly the message I need to hear. I’m always surprised when my sour first impression fills with sweetness and I’m reminded again how book covers rarely capture the story’s poetry.

I was rushing, later than I planned, panicking over a missed self-imposed arrival time. I was late for a petty reason I abhor – can’t decide what to wear – and then my inability to walk away from unwashed dishes or the bathroom floor that all of a sudden demanded immediate swiffering. Stupid. And when I’m late, anxiety sets in, even in the absence of consequences; simply the act of rushing becomes my pavlovian panic bell. I’m trying to practice deep breathing as I hike up seven flights of stairs, not knowing that the Rosh Hashanah services I’m searching for are on the second floor. Note: Should really include floor number on direction sign instead of merely “Stairs to services”.

I find a seat, saving one for my even later friend, and close my eyes, trying to find a width for prayer, for calmness to open a connection for spirituality. But after 20 minutes in a sparsely filled women’s section of dry chanting and mumbled Hebrew, I’m inching towards the door. To the background of the shofar, I wondered what I was expecting? I don’t belong to a shul, and no place ever seems to have the right ingredients of passion, holiness, music, meaning, familiarity and community to deliver the warm “Lauren” specialty I crave. No service is going to deliver instant fulfillment, light bulb moments flashing by the second. I keep my tush in my chair and try to locate my own door to spirituality. But then I followed the trail of congregants into an ‘alternative class’ and while fighting the ‘bad Jew’ guilt of opting for lecture over services; I shifted in the hard plastic chairs and found what I was looking for.

With humor and the casual manner of a young Rabbi, this man captured my attention and spoke with an honesty that struck me deep into the place of stirring change and motivating action. He made the day come alive, brought G-d into this Day of Judgment, and handed me old lessons rewrapped to fit the missing pieces in my life today. He spoke of pausing to take stock, and the gift of a Judgment that withholds decrees for another ten days. He made it personal, telling tales of his own neurotic craziness and how he wants turn to G-d before the crisis and not only once disaster has brought him to his knees.

There was more during the hour I listened; more lessons I wish I could have jotted down, knowing that there were too many jewels lacing his words and that they would blend and fade by the time I got home. I forced myself to simply be, to stop taking stock myself, to wait until later to ponder the places in my life that need renovating, the lessons that I still haven’t learned. But the catch phrase that keeping bouncing between my brain, even two days later, is this: Are you willing to be ‘woken up’ no matter what? Even if it means suffering and pain, loss and tears? This was why I came to services that day. This is what I needed to hear – again. This is the lesson that burrows between my routines and widens the doorways of holiness. It’s time to wake up –no matter how many fears and scrapes that journey may hold. With gratitude, I head home, eyes wide open, opting for a contemplative afternoon at the park rather than mindless errands that all can wait. I head home blessed with the next week to sift through my prior days and pull out the weeds by the root. I know that the motivation will dissipate and pearls of wisdom will get lost in the shuffle. I still find myself distracted with moving and organizing just hours later, and remind myself that change still counts even in small increments.

But the teacher arrived, and I was in my seat. In a room full of strangers, I was among community as I found exactly what I was looking for.

Widening reflection

2010-08-30T12:29:00.000-07:00

It’s a time of reflection. A time to run fingertips over frayed edges, smoothing sharp words tied with wounded connections. We poke thru attic boxes of mistakes, dusting off lessons for improvements, yearning to do better, master old mistakes, and avoid familiar stumbling blocks in the year to come.

But reflection isn’t limited to digging up remorse and voicing apologies we hope stand in for healing. It is also a time for celebration, for polishing snippets of kindness and soaking in the rays of displayed compassion. It is a time to hold up our successes and relish in the rainbows cast upon our days. Searching for the risks taken, regardless of outcome, we award minutes of courage, steps taken toward whispered dreams, and catalogue the paths we blazed as we carved out space to be real. It is a time to celebrate events of becoming who we were created to be.

These introspective weeks include listing shared laughter and extended hands, looking back upon sweet smiles, never knowing how far our ripples extend. I reflect on deeper friendships formed and explore crevices of familial love, filling scrapbooks with snapshots of a worthwhile life.

This is a time of looking back, regretting our failures and making amends for spurred tears. But no year is composed solely of “If only I had...” and “I should have...” and “I could have done better”. Yes, we aim higher, brush off our motivation and renew commitments to don our best selves. But we also must celebrate the distances we’ve advanced and applaud our baby steps. Celebrate the volumes of hugs and hopes not abandoned. I must stop being small in my introspection, limited to self-flagellation and guilt. I widen these days before the New Year and remember to rejoice the truth that I, like everyone, add something irreplaceable to the world. So I mourn shortcomings and apologize for my falls, and I remember to be grateful for gifts given and received.

I reflect largely this year, with remorse and joy, using a panoramic lens as I embark on a bigger life.

floor-plans laid upon clouds

2010-08-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

I’m dreaming of granite countertops and stainless steel. Utopias complete with an overstuffed chair in a library room, a wooden ladder sliding across shelves stuffed with leather-bound masterpieces. I wish for new blinds on soundproof windows, breezes cooling off a room without the roar of traffic in the background. I picture small gardens with space for planting, grass for my puppy to play, and a hammock nestled between shady oaks. With my magic wand, I create the swimming pool and patio table, filling padded chairs with friends to share the late summer evenings. I coat my walls with color, vibrant and muted, character in the arches and sweet touches for the drawer knobs. There is a washer and dryer right in my own place, no quarters required, and shower heads that pound the stress away at night. In my dreams.

Let’s be clear. I don’t even need grandeur. I’d be happy with a tiny cottage, one room, kitchen, bathroom, and backyard – if it was a home I could call me own. Or even my own for this one-year lease. Or if I have to compromise, a 1-bedroom apartment will work (obviously, we’ll make the bedroom the library, let’s not give up all our dreams) but something without trash lining the streets, neighbors who stomp up the stairs at 2 am, firehouses next door, and rusted sinks in old buildings.

So I keep looking. After a while, all of the apartments start to look the same. Hardwood floors or carpet, drawers that don’t quite close, fresh paint, and empty closets. There are the pre-requisite screens with holes and showers that dribble, fridges – apparently in LA apartments don’t often come with them!– that I mentally line with Cosco size boxes of baking soda. But this business of moving is hard work. I find it’s really a full time job, making me wonder what people do who actually have a job where there are expected to show up from 9-5? Lucky enough to be able to put some of my writing on hold while still working on others, I have been promoted this week to ‘Apartment Hunter’. I am in training as expert Westside Rental user and have developed a master code system for my notes. It’s like that game: drawing a line from which ammenities match which address. I take a deep breath before I crack open the next possibility, armed with blank paper for coded notes to ponder later: p, pool, L, no grass... at night, I’m lucky when I can crack my own code, struggling the remember why I initially said no to #1475 until I end up revisiting the same rooms to have a fresh comparison.

And I know, there’s not a huge rush, aside from the toxic mold where I currently reside, and that I should keep looking until I find the right one. Ok, but here’s another snag. Often the one I love doesn’t allow dogs or has no grass, so not the right one for Gracie. And I promise I could find the perfect apartment today if I let myself roam the entire store instead of limiting myself to the sale rack. But without a millionaire’s salary, one shouldn’t sign leases for a millionaire’s budget. So it’s back to the mapquesting new locations and looking a bit more. However, at some point in the very, very near future, I’m cutting myself off. The mental health cost of endless searching and watching ones I had almost chosen get rented and searching some more trumps this imaginary perfect apartment. I’ve decided it’s like the unicorn. Maybe it’s out there somewhere with a “Welcome Home Lauren” sign on the mailbox, and I just haven’t looked hard enough. Or maybe I could spend my day’s entire apartment hunting until they all blur into one mess of a hassle, and I end up opting for a lovely cardboard box in the woods. (Still, lined with booked, because a girl needs a library)

For today, I’ll fight the urge to just choose the best of what I’ve seen in order to pack up the game, and I’ll keep looking a bit more.

If I could just get the gardenia bushes and plush carpeting out of my dreams, it would at least allow the reality-based apartments to enter the playing field.

For no good reason

2010-08-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how it started and I don’t know why, but I have a thing for manatees. I simply adore them. And it appears that I’m not the only one. But what is it about these gentle sea cows that make them so lovable? I’ve never seen one in person nor can they cuddle with me at night like my puppy. But somehow I’ve created this persona for them – a kind of snuffleupagus (yes, that’s actually how the Muppet’s name is spelled) meets Andre the Giant, innocently loping through the waves peacefully. Still, there are plenty of endangered species to be passionate about, and I’m sure I could find ones that rank higher on the cuteness scale. Yet, ever since I was in the 4^th grade writing poems about Manatees, I’ve been a fan.

My love of manatees falls into the category of simplicity, adoring them from afar for no good reason, just because I can’t look at a picture without smiling. I find there aren’t many things I support without explanations, justifications, and rationales. Usually, I have proof and evidence, anecdotes and personal experiences. But with the manatees, I merely adore their rounded noses and oversized eyes. I don’t march for their protection or even really know that much about them. They just tickle my fancy, and I’m perfectly happy to leave it at that. We could always use more things that make us smile for no good reason. It keeps my mouth limber and dashes my spirit with whimsy.

So for today, I’m dreaming of swimming with the manatees.