At lunch last week we were talking about my trip to Italy when a coworker asked me how I budgeted for trips.  I briefly told him about my 50/30/20 plan and that my vacation money comes out of the 30% “wants” category.

“It must be nice,” he responded.  ”Not having a family where you have to pay for life insurance and save for college tuition.  But there is one big thing missing.  You don’t share your life with anyone.”

There was a time when I would have stewed over that comment for days.   There was a time when I would have tried to make him feel better that he couldn’t go on a big trip.  And more recently there was time when I would have felt like I had to defend myself and explain why my choices were just as valid as his.

So what did I do?

I smiled, said nothing and continued eating my lunch.  Because his statement had nothing to do with me.

There are times when being single feels isolating.  Painful.  Lonely.  I get sick of feeling like I’m missing out on something that seems to come so easily to everyone else.  There have been times that I’ve questioned what has been wrong with me … and (a little too quickly) came up with a (little too long) list of things that I immediately started “to fix.”

But there are also times that I am incredibly grateful for being single.  That I can do what I want when I want.  That I don’t have to consult anyone else to make decisions.  That I have the time and space to discover who I am without being influenced by anyone.  That I have a strength and self possession that comes from knowing I can take care of myself through good and bad times.  That I was able to buy a house on my own.  That I was able to fix my own mistakes and right my own wrongs.   That I do not make choices based on a fear of being alone.

My coworker’s comment “it must be nice not having to worry about life insurance and saving for college tuition” just told me that he has expenses that he thinks make a trip like mine out of reach.  ”But you’re missing sharing your life with someone,” tells me that he really loves his family and that he’d miss them if he were single.  He may think these things when he looks at me, but neither of them have anything to do with me or my life.

This realization has been HUGE for me.

The realization that how people perceive me or their opinions, said or unsaid, positive or negative, have no bearing on the choices I make or how I feel.  That there are times of isolation and loneliness in being a couple, just as there is strength and security in having a partner and being able and willing to commit your life to another person.  We are all, regardless of what season we’re in, subject to the myriad of emotions that come with being human.  This can be a painful and incredibly beautiful realization … sometimes both at the exact same time … but the human experience can never be escaped.  Regardless of how hard you try.  And TRUST ME.  I have tried.

But, in the words of Oprah, what I know for sure is that wherever you go, there you are.

I am me both in and out of a couple.

I am me both in Portland and on the road.

I am me both at work and in my creative life.

I am me spending time alone and spending time with friends.

I am me at home tonight and spending time with friends tomorrow night.

I am me at 36 and will be at 86.

For a long time I thought “me” was going to be completely defined when I got THERE.  And I’m not going to lie to you, THERE was a wife, mother, homeowner, daughter, sister, aunt, holiday hostess, thin, happy, gorgeous (and preferably well dressed) person.

I am currently some of those things.  I may eventually be more of those things, all of those things or none of those things.

But I am and will always still be me.  Wherever I am and whatever I’m doing and regardless of what people say or think of me.

I was talking to Shan, the friend I’m going to Italy with last weekend.  We paused for a moment before saying goodbye after a hour of nailing down some details of our trip.  ”God, I love our lives,” she said.

“Me too.”  I smiled.  As surprised as anyone to realize I actually meant it.

Tonight on my way home from work I passed the Cinco de Mayo festival that arrives each year on the waterfront.  It always makes me pause, for it is this time of year that I moved to Portland.

I have been here for seven years.

I don’t remember much about my dreams when I first arrived in town.  I just remember being excited to be in the Northwest again.  I had lived in Seattle a few years prior and I missed the low key nature of this part of the country.  I hadn’t spent much time in Portland before I moved.

The first time I came through the city was on a college road trip.  We made the pilgrimage to Powell’s Books, but instead of going inside I chose to stay out with the cars to keep an eye on our stuff (the tawny Pearl District was anything BUT the tawny Pearl District back then).

I remember the way the cool air felt mid June.  So crisp and clean.  I sat in a stairwell and wrote a poem before the owners of a small restaurant came outside to head home for the evening.  We chatted for a while about the city, their business, college and traveling.

And that’s how I see Portland.  A mix of relaxed kindness and creative inspiration.

And while that sounds lovely.  It can be hard.

Sometimes I think creativity needs difficulty.  It needs to struggle against something.  I remember reading an article about Eddie Vedder disappearing for a few days and living out of his truck in a rough section of Seattle in order to write songs.

I understood that.

If you’re used to using words as a means to express yourself, how do you use them when you’re fully accepted?  When you’re supported?  When things are going well?

It’s not a natural place for me to be.  Present in all of this free space.  With all of this time and the vague beginnings of belief that my writing could be something.  That this time might build on all of the other times I’ve started.  That I’ve learned lessons from prior attempts and I know more now.  That perhaps, just maybe, this space had existed all along and I needed to get to the point where I believed it.

I don’t know how long I’ll be in Portland.

But I will forever remember this city as the place where poems spring forth on random street corners.  Where the sunlight casts dappled shadows on the road to the coast.  Where pink blossoms cover every surface in the spring.  The city where I discovered belief.  Where I found my voice.

Hummingbirds make me think of Gam, my maternal grandmother.  She LOVED hummingbirds.  So much so that when she passed on and we sprinkled her ashes near my uncle’s cabin, a hummingbird flew down from out of nowhere, stopped right in front of my face for a few seconds then flew in front of my sister for a few more seconds before flying away.

My sister and I looked at each other in awe.  We both knew she was with us.

There have been some difficult moments when I’ll look up and see a hummingbird.  They come to me in odd ways–TV commercials, paintings, advertisements, the side of a fast food cup–but they’re always right when I’m struggling with the question of if I’m on the right path or not.  At the precise moment I’m breaking out of what is comfortable and oh so tentatively sticking my toe into new waters.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately wondering if I can make a particular goal happen.  It seems so OUT THERE.  So far removed from my current life.  So BIG and unclear.  So RISKY.  But also exciting and fun.  I worked on it for a bit today and thought for a bit about how my life might look if this goal took shape.  And then I packed up my books and laptop and went for a walk with Fisher.

Last night I looked up and asked for a small sign.  For something to let me know that I was maybe just a twee little bit on the right path.  That I wasn’t crazy to be attempting this.  That I wasn’t wasting my time.  That it was a real pursuit.

As Fisher and I walked through the neighborhood I spotted a couple of hummingbird feeders in peoples yards.  I perked up, wondering if Gam heard my prayer and would maybe send a hummingbird my way for a little clarity.  None were seen though and Fish and I continued on our way, stopping to say hi to other dogs, runners and bikers and watching the crisp white clouds change shape against the backdrop of a blue sky and evergreen trees.  It was a good long walk.  Blood pumping.  Sweaty.  Breathy.  We climbed 35 stairs at the tail end after climbing a good sized hill.

I stopped to grab my mail before going inside and on the top was an envelope.  My face broke into a smile and tears came rushing.

On the side of one of the envelopes was a picture of a beautiful hummingbird.

 

So 10 days ago I stopped drinking coffee.  I haven’t NOT had coffee for 10 days in a row since like … 1991.  This past weekend I decided to limit my sugar.

I have become the most boring person alive.  And it’s all this guy’s fault.

I had gotten into this kind of routine where I was “so tired.”  Sleep wasn’t restful.  I woke up feeling awful.  I could get going with a cup or two of coffee in the morning only to need another one a few hours into my day and yet another in the afternoon to stay awake.

Yet that wasn’t solving the problem.

I never “caught up” on sleep.

I never felt like I wanted to feel … which was rested.  Focused.  Hard at work on tasks that meant something to me.  Work that gave me satisfaction.  Interactions with people that felt significant and real.

When I read Trent’s article about simply addressing the problem instead of substituting something for it, it was like a new pathway formed in my brain.  And now that it’s there, it’s hard not to see simple solutions to make the changes I want to make to go where I need to go.

I have big dreams.  They involve working for myself.  They involve a healthy, loving family.  They involve a lot of travel.  A lot of fun.  Good friends.  And a lot of good work helping my community and the world in which we live.

Having the energy and committing the time to do these things is important to me.  It’s what I want my life to be about.

When I started looking at how I spent my days I realized I wasn’t serving myself in the way I wanted to.  It would be different if the cups of coffee made me feel great and hopeful and encouraged to get down to work.

But they didn’t.

Will I have coffee again?

Yes.

Will I have sugar again?

Yes.

That’s not what this is about.

It’s about recognition and change.

“It’s 7 a.m. but I don’t feel rested.  How did I sleep last night?  Not very well.  How did I sleep the night before last?  Not very well either.  What do I think is going on?  It could be the caffeine in the afternoons.  What if I gave it up and saw how it affected my sleep.  OMG NO WAY IN HELL I COULD NEVER GIVE UP COFFEE!!!!  Why?  Because I like it too much.  Well it wouldn’t have to be forever.  Oh … really?  No, we’ll just take it down a notch and see how it goes.  But I might die.  It will probably be hard for a few days, but let’s see how it goes for a week or so.”

Lather.  Rinse. Repeat.

Now it has been 10 days.  Am I volunteering?  Am I working for myself yet?  Am I traveling?

No.  It has only been 10 days.

But my sleep is better.  I wake up without a headache.  My energy level is getting more and more consistent each day.  This past Sunday was the first weekend day I haven’t napped since … probably 1991 again.

And with each small adjustment, courses shift.  New destinations appear.

And maybe … just maybe … it won’t feel so small and insignificant.  So boring.

Maybe … just maybe … it will start to feel like a life.

I felt a shift today.

• Focusing on the sound of the rain on the roof, Fisher’s breath from her curled up position at the foot of my bed, the snuggly down comforter and being warm on a cold spring morning.  Instead of focusing on the fact I woke up at 7:30, the time I was supposed to be at work.
• That my 100,000 mile car service came in significantly under what I expected to pay.  Instead of focusing that I shelled out $275 on something that wasn’t fun.
• That I found a cool new bar to check out.  Instead of the fact that I was on the MAX almost 2 hours late to work.
• That I got to watch a baby giggle at his mama.  Instead of the fact I sat in traffic and waiting waaaay to long for a take out dinner.

To see those small moments again feels like I’m still in here somehow.

AND the weather forecast is set to be sunny for the entire week next week.  Oh sun … how I have missed you.

 

I dreamed of Paris long before I went there.

Who knew the call would come one cold morning in February, when my friend Jen was on the other end of the phone asking simply “We’re booking tickets to Paris, do you want to go?”

I said yes, without hesitation.  I had been ready for a long time.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.  Trying to figure out my next step.  Waiting for the call.  But I realize one key component has been missing.

I haven’t been dreaming.

For so long I’ve been healing old wounds and making peace with where I currently am that I forgot to think about what I wanted for my future.

The future used to be an escape for me.  It took a lot to get myself rooted back into my life as it was then … as it is now.  I was always convinced that if I walked a certain path that I could get to some place.  THAT place that I worked so hard for.  That if I just kept my blinders on and my focus, that everything else wouldn’t matter.  I’d finally reach peace, happiness and fulfillment.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

Part of blazing your path is always going to have to be the blazing–difficult, intense, exhausting, messy.  Hot.

But now I’ve reached this sort of clearing.  It took some time to realize it.  But here I am nonetheless.  I have been completely uninspired.  Not cooking.  Not writing.  Not hoping, believing or dreaming.  And I realized it was because I haven’t thought about what’s next.

So much time has been spent over the past few years working on what is holding me back.

To have this space.  This freedom.  This realization that nothing is holding me back … except of course ME deciding … is at the same time freeing and paralyzing.

Jen, Phil and Natalie were in town last weekend.  We talked a lot about this trail blazing.  About matching up life and dreams.  About finding purpose and truth.  About a life lived with intention.

And we laughed our asses off.

And also talked Paris.

If you would have told me on March 1st where I’d end up on March 31st, I would have told you that you were high.  But as Dr. Roland Burton on my new addiction Army Wives (shut up, I KNOW) says, “change is often unexpected.”

This month came in waves, heightened only by the fact that it rained 30 out of 31 days.  It was tough not to want to run.  Quit.  Hide.  Turn away from everything.  Pack my bags and plant myself on a beach somewhere.

I spent many summer afternoons swimming at the beaches of San Diego.  Most of the time, the waves were gentle.  I’d spend hours riding on my boogie board or just floating on my back, rising and falling over gentle waves before they’d break onto shore.

But some days were different.

The tide could be strong.  The waves big and unstoppable.  I’d just right myself before another would come crashing, sending me tumbling under the water.

It was scary needing to breathe but being unable.  To finally get to the surface before being tossed violently under again.

Eventually I learned that those scary rough waters were ONLY at the surface.

Instead of fighting an impossible fight, I could dive down deep and get to the ocean floor where the water was always calm and still.  I’d sit there for a moment and watch as the waves roared over head.  Then, when there was a break, I’d come up and catch my breath before diving back down again if need be.  I was never afraid again.

That image brought me so much comfort this month.

It is completely counterintuitive to go under water.  To plunge into darkness when the surface gets rocky.  To hold your breath having faith that you will be able to breathe again.  It goes against every instinct we have to survive.

But if you don’t panic, there is a calm in the darkness and a light that you were never able to see before.

And if you are still.

And you wait.

Eventually the waves will break.

And you will rise once again.

There has been WAY TOO much anxiety and sadness over here at PDP and definitely not enough joie de vivre-ing.  Determined to change that, the past few days have been a step in the right direction.

I bought myself some flowers on my way home Friday evening.

I went to the drive thru coffee shop on Saturday morning so I didn’t even have to get out of my pajamas.  I stayed in them ALL day and went back and forth between reading, watching Gilmore Girls, Sex and the City and NCAA Basketball (go Aztecs!)

This morning I took Fisher for a loooooong walk and watched as the season’s first cherry blossoms tumbled across the street.

Starbucks cake-pops are a new favorite.

I made myself a good dinner for the first time in weeks–rotisserie chicken, smashed sweet potatoes and roasted broccoli–and had it “Bistro Style.”  Bistro Style is what I call it when I eat at the little table in my kitchen by candlelight.  A glass of wine may have been present as well …

AND I bought my first Italian guidebook for my trip in October!!!!!

So all in all, I’d have to way this weekend was bellissima!

Hope yours was too!

So I just came back from a long weekend with my college roommates.

We spent four days running around San Francisco, having an impromptu macaroon smackdown (“mac smack”) and drinking copious amounts of red wine and cocktails.

It was just what the doctor ordered.

I teared up frequently.  On the plane heading out of Portland.  Mid story while sitting on a couch.  In a club when we met up for 10 minutes with a friend I hadn’t seen in years.  On my way back home.

Everyone opened up this weekend.  Struggles.  Triumphs.  Desires.  Recognition.  Fear.

Everyone got a turn.

Everyone got support.

Everyone left feeling heard.

We’ve known each other for almost 18 years.

Our entire adult lives.

We’ve changed so much and yet stayed connected.  It’s a miracle, really.  A miracle that reminded me how flexible something can be when it’s strong and deep.

After taking a personal hit the week before, I desperately needed that strength.

I’m open in a way you can only be when you’ve lost something.  Vulnerable but still open.

There’s room now.

Do you guys like Martha Beck?

I came across this post on her blog while trying to figure out a productive way of using all the hysteria that was happening in my little head last week.  Good thing I’m not a guy because that last sentence would have had a completely different context.

I think I shall name my lizard “Foley” after Chris Farley’s character on Saturday Night Live.  Because when he said “Well La Dee Frickin’ DA” it was the only thing all week that made me laugh out loud.

And just did again.