All in a day

Yesterday I met a man named Dallas, drank a bad Margarita with salt, and watched a little boy skipping through a field of fireflies.

Reflection

Today when Annie and I walked from 42nd Street to 86th along the river path at sunset, it was like magic. Silent and cool, a breeze blew the flowers and willow trees against the backdrop of sunlit water. My daughter was radiant and the love we share, the connectedness we feel cannot be described. Together we laid our eyes on the face of a sweet puppy, a regal dog, a family of geese and a stunning black couple. Our mutual affection traveled through our holding hands-my daughter, an unusual and magnificent creature, an exotic bird who was born to fly, and me, her mama-the lucky one given the chance to love a girl as rare as she.

As I know who Annie is and what she is worth, I know who I am and what I am worth. As I know I will only ever want her to accept the love of a man whose heart is open, a man who is deserving of her, worthy of her, and who sees her as the gift she is, I know I will only accept the same for me. A man with an open heart and a playful mind-and who sees me as clearly as I see myself at sunset-being reflected back through the eyes of my child.

Confession #456,998

London has been great, even the weather has been beautiful. But what I really feel is that Saturday can't come soon enough.

Thought in real time

Whereas I once found great satisfaction in blogging publicly, lately I find that blogging more privately, and with anonymity, is quieting somehow, and comforting in a whole different sort of way.

Confession #24,612

I almost never ask my teenage daughter to go to the store for me because I'm afraid that as a result, something terrible will happen to her.

Appreciation

The only times I think of an ex"boyfriend" of mine, are when I'm suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of how beautiful life has been since I left, which for the record has been 1 year, seven months and 12 days.

Real woman

A real woman has curves, but she can also be as thin as a rail. What makes a woman real is that she has a mind and a voice, and a loving and breakable heart.

A real woman is powerful and vulnerable-as gentle as a lamb and as strong as a lion. She’s imperfect and flawed and has dry skin on her elbows.

A real woman can make you laugh and make you feel loved, and sometimes she turns to ice, talks back, and even gets mean.

A real woman is both confident and afraid. Afraid of being ignored or consumed, or worse, replaced-so she guards her heart while longing to set it free.

It’s not curves, or long hair, or tanned skin, or straight teeth that makes a woman a real woman. What makes a real woman a real woman… is that she’s a real woman.

Having it all

I love a gray day, a wet ground, my kid and my coffee. I love my window, my work, and making plans to travel far.

From this day forward

Nothing that doesn't fit, match, make sense or feel good.

Evolving 301

I have this morning and the cherry blossom trees-
The steady wind,
My coffee,
A view of the street.
I have my work, my hands, my legs and my pride-
And a vision of life without sacrifice.
Moving closer to reality,
I move closer to the dream.

Moment in real time

Working from home today, taking a break to spoon feed my little girl Earl Grey tea with milk and honey.

I've been cured

I recently became hooked on Season One of Downton Abbey, and couldn't get enough. That is until tonight, after episode 5 of 7, when I realized I was just watching General Hospital in disguise.

Evolving 301

It began when I quit a bad man, then a year later a bad job, and now, in more than a symbolic gesture, my account on facebook. I'm no longer looking out, I'm looking in, because I'm ready. Ready for deeper work, deeper connections and deeper love. I'm ready for a life of even greater substance.

I deleted my facebook account

And it feels like I just walked out of an overcrowded prison. After years of noise, all I can hear are the sounds of my own footsteps.

Freedom.

Thought in real time

There's something about the hint of, and the onset of spring that has always made me sad. Unlike the melancholy of autumn, it's as if it would be better to be indoors than out in the sun, alone if not in love, at least for now until the change of season wears down a bit like something too new.

Thought in real time

I just want to be treated to something, taken somewhere. It's not about money, it's about value.

Had to

Quote

"Men learn to love the person they're attracted to and women become more and more attracted to the person they love."

Sex, Lies, and Videotape

Unsolicited advice from me

Unless you want to start all over again, don't get lost in thoughts about a man when you're sewing patches onto your daughter's jeans.

Gratitude

How fortunate I am to have people in my life who, when I reach out... are there.

New Year's Resoultion

Freedom.

It's all I really want.

Thought in real time

An evolved man knows and honors the power of his true masculine essence, therefore he has no need or desire to objectify, demean or degrade women. An evolved woman knows and honors the power of her true feminine radiance, therefore she has no need or desire to use her body as a weapon or a tool, or turn herself into an object for a man to use for his superficial pleasure and then discard.

Sitting at the sidebar

Comes to the Light (Everything)

The way things aren't

A friend's facebook post said, "The calm before the storm," but at first glance I thought it said, "The clam before the storm."

One day

But it starts with this.

Evolving 101

Originally posted March, 2010

Not long ago, I was with a man who called me a Goddess. He told me there was no one more beautiful, more wonderful, more lovely than I. We were like drug addicts together, and our drug of choice was romance.

Carl Jung said that romantic love was designed, among other things, to draw us together for the purpose of procreating, and every few years top news periodicals recycle this headline: Understanding The Science of Love. Although I'm convinced chemistry plays a big part in the pairing of people, I've always rejected the notion that science is the puppeteer, hiding backstage and pulling the strings, that surely matters of the heart are more mysterious than that.

The declarations offered by the man who thought me a Goddess felt like needles in my veins, and they fueled my seemingly insatiable desire to be adored. Every stroke, compliment and whisper in my ear made up for my father's absence, the vacant look in an old lover's eyes, and the string of disappointments I'd suffered since the search for my Knight-In-Shining-Armor first began. I thought the gestures of my beloved were meaningful, but at best they were his feelings in the moment; if they had been meaningful, we could have built a life on words alone.

I know a man who calls Hollywood romance movies "Love Killers," and though it may sound extreme, I think he's right. Every story is an adaptation and a reincarnation of Cinderella, and they add more and more fuel to the romantic fire that burns in most western women. But it's not a real fire, it's more like one of those petroleum-based logs you buy at the grocery store. You don't have to chop a tree or carry the wood. You don't have to cover it in crumpled paper to help it ignite. There is no work to be done, no mess to clean, just poof, like magic, the flames burn eternal.

I've always been a fan of the poet, Pablo Neruda, and anyone who knows me would understand why:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me all day.
I hunt for the liquid measures of your steps.

I know what it feels like to crave someone, but whereas I once considered these sentiments the essence of passion; raw, untamed and unbridled, I now see them as limited versions of love.

I understand the intense feelings that would make me (or Neruda) go "... hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma...," but what I'd rather have is a man who considers my daughter, drinks wine with me while I cook stew, and stands beside me at a funeral. I no longer need him to see my hands as "... the color of a savage harvest...," I just want him to see me as a lover and a friend.

There will always be women younger than me, prettier than me, and smarter than me, but there will never be another me, so why would I want to be something less than me? Why would I want to be a goddess, or a girl in a dream, or a song, or a sonnet? I am already, as we all are, so much more than that.

I used to want a man to knock me off my feet, but now I want a man who inspires me to stand. I used to want a man who would take my breath away, but now I want a man who allows me to breathe. I used to want a man I couldn't live without, but now I want a man... I can live with.

Tree house #1

In South Africa. For real.

The art of lovemaking

Tend to the neck.

Two sides of me

I am a sparrow... and I am a hawk.

Thought in real time

You can take her to dinner, hold her hand, tell her you love her and sleep in her bed. You can give her presents, but if you're not present to her, she'll never be happy... and she'll never be yours.

Spirit

This is the first time in years I can feel the holidays; the truth of the season, my truth of the season; the gratitude and honor I now give to it all, and the quite way I've just begun to celebrate my life.

Thought in real time

I would rather the right man do the wrong thing, than the wrong man do the right thing.

The sun came out today

In the city... and in me.

lmfao

Good morning

It's time to wake up. :-)

Evolving 301

The bad news is, my father was unavailable when I was a child. The good news is, that was the worst thing that happened to me. The bad news is, I was an extremely sensitive little girl. The good news is, my sensitivity is also one of my gifts. The bad news is, I have spent a lifetime choosing the wrong men, perhaps in an attempt to mend what was broken with my father, and the good news is, I finally see it. The bad news is, I give myself away repeatedly, and recreate and relive feelings of abandonment. The good news is... I do believe I'm done with that.

Fly away, love

Recently, I watched thousands of Starlings fly in formation over the city of Rome. At one point they made a perfect heart shape... but the moment was just too fleeting to hold.

In my dreams

Last night I dreamed I traveled to a foreign country and as I was leaving, I remembered that I had a ton of gifts to pack. So many in fact, there was no way I could fit them all in my bags or carry them in my arms. So I spread them all across the floor, stood back and said, "I'm going to have to figure out how to do the impossible."

Uno, due, tre

Returned from Italy Tuesday, woke up Wednesday, got a coffee at Starbucks. Took a sip, threw it out, went to the store and bought a Bialetti coffee maker, a pound of espresso, and a new cup for the occasion. I brewed a pot, steamed the milk, and now do believe I have found the missing link to my happiness.

Let go, let gelato

I didn't go inside the Vatican, but I went inside a nearby gelateria and I swear I found God.

Love actually

The truth is, I'm really not that hard to please. What's hard is finding a man who knows how to please me.

Fast train to Firenze

I'm not sure how long it used to take to be carried on horseback from Rome to Florence, or the time it took travelers on the first train. I know that even now, by rail it can be a 3-hour trip, but I'm on the fast track and will be there in just over one.

This theme of running, this theme of time-does it keep getting put before me, or am I looking for it? Am I brave like my mama says, strong like the man who loves me says? Or am I just bailing out when it gets to be too much, and avoiding the mess by changing the view? I know that the point of power is in the present, and that peace can be found in every step, but I can't seem to stop this urge to bust things apart, even when I'm trying to put them together.

I was on the phone with my mother the other day and she asked, “How is your trip?” I laughed and replied, “Well, I brought me with me.”

“And did you think you wouldn't?” she asked. And my answer was true.

“I guess I always think I won't.” I said. “I guess I always hope that when I go away, I will leave me behind.”

I'm not looking for happiness anymore because I have it. I'm not looking for a man anymore because I finally understand how limited they are, as I am limited. I'm not looking for success because I already gave birth to a magical child, and I'm not looking for love because it's already everywhere.

I'm not sure how many more steps I'll take before I reach my final “stazzione,” but while I'm on my way I want to keep boarding trains that go fast to places that are new. And I'm gonna try not to mind that when in Italy, unless I can say something correctly I would prefer not to speak at all, and that when I'm here, like when I'm home, I can cry for obvious reasons as well as reasons that can't be explained.

I just wish I could have more time to breath, more time at peace, more time to sleep and dream of owls, and more time to travel at different speeds. I just wish that when I went away, I could go away, so that when I took me with me... I could take me with me.

Osservazioni di Roma

There appears to be a lot less sex used in advertising here.

It seems that the men are less vulgar when looking at women on the streets than they are back home. It seems they are far more interested in what's behind a woman's eyes than in the shape of her behind.

The city, the country itself, is so ridiculously beautiful. I mean, it's not like you have to search for beauty here; it's everywhere. So if beauty is everywhere, maybe to the people of Italy, beauty is just a given. Maybe that's why it doesn't have to be manufactured, falsified, cheapened and worshiped.

Just a thought.

Osservazioni di Roma

It seems that a certain kind of woman in Rome in her 60's has a particular look. Died blonde hair, brown coat, brown slacks, brown knit hat and flat shoes; always carrying a heavy bag, cigarette in hand.

In Spain, people thought I was German, in Argentina, they thought I was Italian, and in Italy, they assume I'm English.

After walking to the Coliseum, I couldn't get in because there was a woman threatening to throw herself off. For one hour I sat and watched as they talked her down, and then I went inside.

In America, taking coffee seems like taking drugs. In Spain and Argentina, taking coffee seems like taking a break, and in Italy, taking coffee seems like taking preventive medicine.

I don't make eye-contact with the men here because at the moment, I am closed in that way. It's okay though-there are so many other things to keep my eyes on.

220 miles an hour to Rome

Two hundred and twenty miles an hour on my way to Rome, I am leaving all of them behind me. The ones that said things, did things, told lies and partial truths. Those that were unable, unwilling, but all willing... to take with them a piece of me.

Traveling far from home, I travel far from home. I stand outside the gates of my house and I see inside. Behind the doors, behind the curtains, under the beds and beneath the floors, I can see what's been hidden, and the things I only thought I'd thrown away.

Two hundred and twenty miles an hour on my way to Rome. I look to my left and see another life, and I remember the first time I ever stepped on foreign ground-how magical it all felt, and how long ago it all was. It was as if I had no idea there was a place on the other side of the world. I couldn't stop smiling then, just to hear the unfamiliar sound of a police siren, or see a traffic sign in a language I could not read.

I look to my left, out onto the Italian countryside, and feel the absence of that magic. And I miss it. I am at ease, at peace and in turmoil at the same time; a state of being that until now has seemed to define most of my life. Grateful for the solitude, sorrow for what is gone, pleased with the woman I've become, yet wishing I were were something else, something better, something more. Longing to feel what I felt in Madrid all those years ago; and always hoping to stumble upon the kind of love I once knew over the course of days almost three years ago.

Traveling far I travel far, and traveling fast I travel fast. All at once I want to leave it behind; my country, my city, my memories; and every undeserving man I gave my gifts to. All at once I want to leave behind me, and take hold of my own hand, and ride this train to Rome at 220 miles an hour until I arrive. I want to close the lids on my green eyes that a lover once kissed, and feel the instant warmth that is a constant because of my child. Then when it all slows down, I want to step off this train and into Rome-into the history and the beauty and the gifts of it all, and into the history and the beauty and the gifts of me.

Osservazioni di Milano

When someone back home refers to me as "Señora" it makes me feel old, but when someone here refers to me as "Signora," it makes me feel beautiful.

In flight tonight

I have blogged from New York, L.A., Buenos Aires and Barcelona-and if I decide to blog this coming week... it will be from Milan.

A slice of self

Tonight I walked quietly with two people from work, in what felt like solidarity and solitude. I could hear the clicking of my boots and feel the city through the sleeve of my coat. I saw a slice of moon and said out loud that it was a pretty one. A pretty moon, as if each night there is a different moon; not the same moon with different parts visible.

I remember a time when I felt born again, not in a God-like way, but in a life-like way. In a way that made walking down the street, drinking hot coffee, and listening to John Coltrane feel new. I remember when I wrote on this blog every little thing I thought, and every little thing I felt, because it was the only way to make a record of it; the only way to have a witness to what was taking place inside and around me.

I felt like a teenager again then, even though I was already grown, married, a mother, and divorced. Everything was loud and fast and unstoppable; passionate, confusing and awake. And I wrote on this blog every day, about the way things are and the way things aren't, and it served as proof that it all happened... just the way it all happened.

I know the slice of moon I saw tonight is the same full moon I've seen before, and I know that the whole self I see tonight is the same slice of self that I once was. And it seems to me that I'm just like the moon; sometimes whole, sometimes parts, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden; but always the same self, and always moving in solidarity and in solitude.

Trick or tweet

Me: "What does it mean when someone puts the # sign in front of a phrase?"

Annie: "Oh, that's a Twitter thing, you don't have to know about that."

Me: "Right, because I don't Twit."

Annie: "It's Tweet, Mom... you don't Tweet."

Me: "Right."

For this beautiful Saturday morning

Merde Pigeon

Annie: "Ew! A pigeon just crapped on the air conditioner!"

Me: "So let's just pretend we live in Paris."

Annie: "Why would we pretend we live in Paris?"

Me: "I don't know, imagining it just makes the pigeon crapping on the air conditioner feel less disgusting somehow."