Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun.  Angelinos do not. At least, not unprotected.

Women carry wide, colorful umbrellas for morning strolls. Hats are designed to shade eyes and necks. Families mark their territories at the beach with tents and tarps and shelters.

Few restaurants offer outdoor seating and those that do fill a dozen indoor seats for every outdoor seat that's claimed--and those mostly by tourists.

Windows are shaded by awnings or bushes and trees. Patios have arbors. Balconies have sun shades.

Minnesotans spend fortunes for a few days of the sunshine Californians hide from all year long.

Abundance is a funny thing.

This Time

The impending visit of a dear friend touched off a frenzy of cleaning and organizing the likes of which hasn't happened since the great pack-a-thons of 2005 and 2011.

When I moved out of the large house where I raised my kids to a smaller house where I thought I'd retire, I purged. And purged. And purged.  I donated to Goodwill and the Salvation Army, recycled, free-cycled, and filled two enormous Dumpsters with the accumulated detritus of 15 years.

When the ordeal was over, I promised myself to be mindful of every purchase; to find new homes for things I didn't need at the time I realized I didn't need them; to make a place for everything and keep it there.

And then, surprise! In January of 2012 I moved to California to a small apartment. Packing for the move, I was reminded again and again of my failure to keep the promises to myself.  So. Much. Stuff.

Sorting through my 2nd bedroom today, every skirt that no longer fits, every orphan sock, every unfiled piece of paper shrieks of yet another failure.

I shove things aside. Pile them out of sight. Focus on my work to the exclusion of my home life, mostly so I don't have to face how empty my home life here really is.

This time. This time I will do better.

If I say it often enough, will it come true?

SUP

Heading off to Marina del Rey at 7:15 am, I wondered what the heck I was doing.  Killing time before class, I wandered around contemplating the water--shiny with oil and murky with its-better-not-to-know what.

A manta ray swam by, and I fought off the impulse to retreat all the way to Brentwood.

Once again, I was not only preparing to do something very close to stupid, I was paying someone for the privilege. Will I ever learn? (Let's face it.  Probably not.)

The eight other people in the class dribbled in by twos and threes.  None of them over 35.  None of them even half a percent over ideal BMI.

I turned 59 in May.  Best not to think about my BMI.

And yet, I scooted down onto my Stand Up Paddleboard, then knelt as requested. When the time came, I clambered to my feet. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But fully upright.

For 90 minutes I paddled, turning when asked, stopping on command, and flexing my knees. I paddled past sea lions and into the wake of biiiiiig boats. I even pin-turned into a slip when we got into a tight jam with a sea lion swimming on one side and a sailboat passing on the other.

The first 70 minutes were pretty good. By the last 20, even my eyeballs were sweating. But I didn't freak and I didn't fall.

Driving home with Paula's top down, I began to feel a tiny bit proud of being out there despite everything that makes it unlikely. I'm fat and I'm old. But I'm still paddling.

Blues

A man nods off on a bench on the Promenade. Hair so dirty its color is undeterminable. Fingers almost black except for the index and middle fingers of his right hand, which are nearly orange with nicotine. Jeans so dirty the grime melts into the warp and woof of the denim.

Yet the man is wearing blue hand-tooled cowboy boots and a baseball cap to match.  Not baby blue. Azure. The color of the sky on a cloudless day with butterflies dancing in a warm breeze and Grandma waiting on the front porch with cherry snow cones. The sky above picnics and kites and dogs catching Frisbees. The sky in a world where no one drugs himself to escape the pain of living.

Just yesterday I stood beneath a tree while thousands of blossoms rained down. Stood like a statue, hearing and seeing and feeling them fall.

It's a long way down when you're blue.

Three Prayer Morning

In the middle of an enormous project at work and cannot figure out how to turn it off.  Three days this week my day started at 3:30 am and ended about midnight. No one expects this of me, but I cannot turn off the drumbeat in my head. Every minute brings me closer to the deadline, and I can't seem to tolerate letting it pass without progress toward the goal.

For 20 minutes right after I woke up, I twisted in the sheets, trying to decide whether go to the store for project supplies or simply work on one of many projects in progress.  I imagined the outcome of each option, thought X would be a better use of time, considered X and decided that Y was surely more pressing. But after more thought, Y was too complex for a Saturday morning after the week I've had.

Finally went with Z:  an hour at the beach.  Clear my head. Search the sand for heart-shaped rocks. Breathe.

Everything is better after 60 minutes on the sand.

This plays out as Anne Lamott's three great prayers.  Help.  I don't know what to do. Thanks. Yes, the beach is a good idea.  Wow.  Immense. Constant. Power.

Who would ever have thought I'd live where an hour at the beach is a standard Saturday morning option?  Let's give THAT another Wow.  And a heart-felt Thanks.

Sunday Evening Sing Alongs

We live so close to one another here in LaLa Land.  My apartment sits at the back of the building; the buildings behind sit 15 feet away. On beautiful days, we open our doors, windows and lives to one another.

This is LA, so it follows that a woman in the next building is an aspiring singer. She practices daily, and friends join her on Sunday evenings. Someone always plays piano, and occasionally someone brings a guitar. Six or eight voices join in. This afternoon someone is whistling. The sound is bright and clear and beautiful in a way so much music is not these days.

This time in LA is filled with strange graces. None of them equal my granddaughter's presence, but they keep me focused on the present, remind me that things don't have to be perfect to be good.

Ohhhh-Uuuuhhh-Ohhhh, she sings. Her voice and the piano and the whistle echo down the stucco canyon, bouncing from balcony to balcony before fading into the bougainvillea.

Changing Shape

Once I was a writer.

Then I was an editor.

Then I became a manager.

The words went silent.

They will come back.  I'm laying traps.  One of my traps is a paper mache tea cup made from the pages of a ruined copy of Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.  BxB was the first book on writing I ever bought, my first taste of Anne Lamott's writing, my first glimpse that I truly could write something other than how-to books.

Over the years I've bought untold copies. I've shared it with friends, assigned direct reports to read it, and replaced my own dog-eared copy several times. One of my many copies got wet and badly warped years ago, but I kept it, just in case my supply ever ran dry. It's the kind of book whose inspiration you need RIGHT NOW when you need it.

Then I came across Ann Wood's amazing paper mache teacup tutorial, and the water-damaged book transformed into art supplies.

Shitty First Drafts.  Short Assignments.  Perfectionism is the voice of oppressor.  

Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. 

...we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here.

Anne's art reshaped in mine.

The words have not gone anywhere. It's me who went walk about, but I'm finding my way home.

More pics as the project progresses.

So Creative

My brother, my sister and I spent much of last Friday taking photographs of Deb's crafts projects for a freelance assignment. For each, we consulted about props and angles and lighting. Jeff handled the camera, I managed bounce cards and lighting, and Deb wrangled props.

At one point, Jeff was prone on the cement pool deck while Deb stood to the side, guiding a prop into place with a long handled pool brush.

In an email afterward, Jeff's wife said that the three of us are "so creative."

She meant it kindly, but I seriously could not count the number of times we've been described with those words, usually in a way that implies some sort of magic.

The truth is, creativity is one part inspiration and nine parts hard work. One part fun and nine parts monotony. The outside world sometimes sees the inspiration and often the end result, but few are present for the tedious hours between.

Debbie created a series of whimsical creatures made from plastic bottles--hand soap and dish soap and orange juice. For each, she conceived an idea, tried and failed, tried again until she succeeded. For each, she painted and putzed, cut and folded, glued and stuck. She burned herself with hot glue, cut herself with x-acto knives, and got paint all over.

The finished projects look both inspired and so simple anyone with a plastic bottle, a pair of scissors and a glue gun could make them. Her creativity is on full display, but few people will recognize the sheer effort required to put it there.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe THAT's the magic.

Here, There and Everywhere

Home.

Back.

Here.

There.

Right now, I'm "home" in Missouri. Tomorrow I will go "back" to California. Walking the streets of my neighborhood next week, I'll be happy to be "there" but at the moment I can hardly stand to leave "here."

I like California, but I love my family. My job is there. They are here.

I am everywhere. And nowhere at all.

I See You

Biking to work is one of the great joys of my days here in LA. When I have time, I linger over coffee at a neighborhood Peets on the way. This morning a little girl and her mother were sitting at the next table, the mother absorbed in her iPhone. The little girl said, "Mommy, look at this," but the mother did not glance up. The child continued to ask her mother to look every three or four seconds, escalating in volume over several minutes. The little girl finally resorted to shrieking, but the mother's eyes and attention remained riveted to the phone.

I fled.

A few more blocks into the ride, I slowed when a parked car seemed poised to pull into traffic. The driver rolled down her window and motioned to me to ride on. "You're all right," she said. "I see you."

The woman's reassurance stayed with me all morning. So did the little girl's shrieks.

Half a Life

The voice has been whispering to me lately. I see something especially lovely, and a description arises unbidden. Joy and sadness narrate their marches through my psyche. As I bike to work, the voice edits passages I have not written.

After a weekend surrounded by creativity at Maker Faire, I read Half a Life by Darin Strauss last night, and here I finally am, on this page, hands on keyboard, not sure where to begin.

Let's start here: if you love memoir, if you love language, if you love the courage required to face deep truth, read Half a Life. Strauss' writing transcends the tragedy of the story, drives it all the way to quiet hope.

I Feel Bad About Nora Ephron

Nora Ephron died today. At least according to the NY Times and many other news agencies. For me, Nora will never die. Her intelligence and her humor and her ability to laugh with and at herself live on in film and in my heart.

Like Nora, I Feel Bad About My Neck. Like Nora, I Remember Nothing. Like Nora, I survived divorce and emerged from the ugliness with renewed hope and stories whose goodness is based on their fundamental awfulness.

Nora's work entertained; her attitude inspired. She rose above. She illustrated living well as the best revenge, especially when you no longer need or want revenge.

As Nora aged, the geese she once loved began to annoy her. She turned her attention to hummingbirds, saying, "I love to watch them because they're so busy getting the most out of life."

Like Nora herself. Reading stories of her life and loves, I think, I'll have what she's having.

Blessings to you, Nora. And to all you love.

Hope Floats

Checked the air in my tires before riding the beach path this morning. A man in a park services truck stopped to tell me the guys in the maintenance shed had air and would help me. I have no trouble using my hand pump with its built-in gauge, but the man was so kind, I felt compelled.

At the shed, another very kind young man checked my tires and asked how far I planned to ride. "Good for you," he said. "Don't give up. Riding your bike is very good exercise. You can do it."

Half a mile down the road, an extremely handsome man about my age pedaled up. "Look at you!" he said. You're going 12-and-a-half miles an hour! Good job!" We chatted for a few minutes before he picked up his pace and pedaled away. "You're doing great," he said. "Don't give up!"

A young woman wearing rollerblades cautiously stepped onto the path. Made-to-order boobs. Fully extended, bleached blonde hair. Eyebrows arched into permanent surprise. Kewpie doll lips shellacked with Kiss Me Kate pink gloss. A bikini top covered with turquoise sequins peeked from beneath a neon-pink t-shirt sliding off her shoulders. The front of her shirt read, "Wild Chick."

Another rollerblader on the Venice boardwalk. Black socks, black shorts, black t-shirt. Black and silver hair past his shoulders, hanging beneath a "cowboy hat" made from Jack Daniels cartons. In one black gloved hand, he held a clear plastic cup aloft like a torch. Pale amber liquid sloshed back and forth but not a drop spilled. "Breakfast! Breakfast!" he yowled.

At the end of the road, a homeless man lounged in the shade of a recycling can. Matted hair of an undetermined color. Plaid shirt and khaki shorts stiff with salt, sweat and sand. Layers of battered silver duct tape held the soles of his black Vans to the uppers. A clear plastic bag filled with hundreds of aluminum cans supported his back and another filled with plastic bottles cushioned his legs. Lips moving in silent rhythm, he traced the lines of a racing form.

Don't give up?

Why You Always Got to Be Running?

Dad's been in the hospital since Sunday. Pneumonia. Good news, though: He's better and ready to go home tomorrow.

After talking to someone who recently read big chunks of this blog, I re-read many, many posts last weekend. So many are about Mom and Dad and the sweetness of their relationship. On Father's Day when I couldn't reach Dad and then found out he was in the ER and then being admitted to the hospital, those posts haunted me.

Talked to Dad today. He's thrilled about the hospital room he's in. It's so comfortable for Mom, he says -- almost like a small apartment. It's not terribly important this time, he thinks, but he's glad to know she'll have these luxuries available when he's hospitalized for the final time.

Walking to my car later, I passed the jewelry store. Tears streaming down my face, I asked those watches, "Why you always got to be running?"

Couldn't hear their answer but felt every tick, right through the plate glass window.

100 Things Before I Go, Redux

Some of you -- the extraordinarily patient among you -- have been reading long enough to remember my Life List. Back then, I had a good handle on the reasons for the list. "...writing them down forms a commitment with your soul to reach further. To live bigger. And smaller. To remember that we all go. To recognize the time is now."

Yet another of the threads I dropped in the long haul to my new job and new life LA. (sigh)

But this summer is about picking up those threads, about beginning again. Today I started a Spark board for my 100 Things, a pictorial journal of the list and my progress.

Building the board, I was forced to recognize that I've missed the boat on some things. For example, Over the Transom Books in Fairhope Alabama, no longer exists. I no longer live close enough to the Katy Trail to ride it easily. On the other hand, now it will be a lot easier to meditate at the Joshua Tree and drive the PCH and visit Yosemite. (Who know CA loomed so large in my dreams?)

Anyway, check out the Spark board if you get a chance. May it renew your commitment to your own dreams.

A Tale of Sunglasses, Foolishness and Self Awareness

Hanging out at Maker Faire in San Mateo this weekend, I pushed my nearly-new Ray Bans to the top of my head as I stepped into the Expo building. I know better.

Actually, I know better than to buy good sunglasses. I'm more of a $13.99-Target-special kind of girl when it comes to things I can misplace or lose or damage. But...I succumbed to peer pressure here in LaLa Land and bought cool shades. We can talk about that later. (sigh)

So, there I was, gold John Lennons on head, when something shiny caught my eye. I looked down to the floor and felt the glasses slide toward the concrete floor and their doom. My stomach fell at approximately the same rate as the glasses. Examining one shattered lens, I had no one to be mad at but myself.

On Monday, I stopped in at Sunglass Hut on the Promenade, hoping they could replace the damaged lens. Lo and behold, they replaced the glasses. Free. Even though I had not purchased the glasses at that particular store. Even though the damage was entirely my fault. Even though they did not carry the same style.

Moral of the story: 1) shop at Sunglass Hut; 2) keep your receipts; 3) if you're going to do something stupid, do it within 90 days of purchase.

What's that? The moral should be "Keep the glasses on your face or in the case," you say. Yes, it should be. But we all know me better than that, don't we?

Not in Kansas (City) Anymore #2

Stories gathered from one morning commute:

A young man in his 20s, steering his beach cruiser with one hand. From the crown of his gray felt fedora to the tips of his brown brogans, he was dressed in clothing twice as old as he. The starched front of his white dress shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of his black Sans-a-belt slacks. He held his left arm held tightly to his back with his fist pressed against two large black buttons sewn onto his pants. At a stoplight, he used both hands to steady the bike but when the light turned green, he ceremoniously reclenched his fist and tucked it back against the buttons. Cirque du Soleil artist? Or wanna be?

A rooster crowing up the sun from the grounds of a $20 million Brentwood mansion. Real-life Beverly Hillbillies?

A ridiculously handsome young male runner holding his arms at shoulder level with his elbows bent up much like the position TSA requires in airport scanners. As he ran, he growled repeatedly, "I'm a criminal. I'm a criminal. I'm a criminal." Actor practicing his lines?

Observations at The Grove

Spent a couple hours at The Grove, one of my favorite people watching spots in LA. Sipping a raspberry lemon drop and watching the crowd, I mentally composed a witty (read: snarky) post about the inverse relationship between height and hairline of an older single man and the age of his date. At some point, the snark became obvious, and I thought, "What would MON do?"

Clearly, my dear Michelle would focus on the positive. So...


Few things are sweeter than adult men or women holding an elderly parent's hand. Treating your elders kindly and with deference says something true and good about your character and about the lessons they taught you.

American Girl Doll parties give little girls reasons to dress and act like ladies.

Something is right with the world when you have to wait in line for 20 minutes to buy a book.

Seeing a movie becomes an event in a theatre with crystal chandeliers and uniformed ushers.

Dancing fountains bring out the little kid in everyone.

Your day brightens when you look for the positive and the happy. (Thanks, Michelle.)

Not in Kansas Anymore #1

The man is tall, dark, and must have been handsome before living on the streets wore away the pretty. His grizzled hair bursts away from his head like springs escaping pressure. The blanket wrapped round his shoulders is so dirty you can't tell what color it is...or was.

Facing a storefront, the man shouts, "Why you gotta do me like that? Didn't I promise I'd always watch out for you? Didn't I? But you...you running. Always running. Why you always gotta be running?"

As I pass the windows, I see through the man's reflection to a display of $5,000 watches. Running.

Photo credit: Chris Willis, Wikimedia

Sur-reality

At this moment, I am 20 yards from the ocean, leaning against a palm tree while I work just a little on this gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

My acute awareness of the beauty around me may be aided by two pomegranate lemonades served oceanside on the wharf in Santa Barbara, but even sans generous splashes of Grey Goose, I know how unlikely all this is.

On Thursday, the CEO greeted me with, "Jerri, how is it that you look younger every time I see you?"

Well-meaning though it was, his comment pointed out that I am a Bubba out of water. The next oldest person in the entire company is 14 years younger than I will be come Tuesday.

And yet, here I am, under this palm tree, beside this ocean. Life's funny that way.