Garden of Eden

I can tell you the exact moment in which I changed from the "me" I was to the "me" I am. It was at the height of my downward spiral.
California meant changing everything about myself, everything I was too afraid to change in Kansas City. California meant shedding suffocating relationships and forgiving myself for being human.California meant accepting that there are some things that can't be changed and many things that can.
Arriving in California is my happiest memory because I was free to be anything my imagination could conjure. I chose from the best lot of options initially. I chose to be the free spirit. I chose to be the leader. I chose to be what I was convinced for years I was incapable of being- self sufficient.
And then I chose to be a drug addict.
And a liar.
And a cheater.
There was a moment when I was sitting on the patio of a local coffee shop and I felt myself completely die inside and I equate it now to the way Adam & Eve must've felt when God banished them from the Garden of Eden. Absolute terrifying uncertainty.
I was strung out and devastated by a series of bad decisions. My relationship with Bri had ended because, like all relationships built upon false pretenses, it was only a matter of time. I was convinced I was in love until I realized I was in fear.
I was in fear of being alone.
I was in fear because despite only carrying 3 suitcases cross-country, Ryan brought with him a lifetime of baggage; both his and mine, and I didn't want anything to do with the past. I was in fear because I wasn't on speaking terms with the love of my life, and the final blow to the relationship had been my heavy-handed judgment on how things between us "ought to be."
I was in fear because it was easy to fake connections and relationships with day to day people when they were within reach, but so far away from everyone I'd ever depended upon, it occurred to me that they didn't really need me and suddenly, I very much needed them.
I was just sitting there on that patio...cross-legged, high as ever, waiting for a beautiful surfer who teased me with the potential of a relationship, made love to my mind, fucked my soul, and acted as if she didn't know me in the morning.
I was sitting there waiting for her to get off work, to confuse my mind even more so with her trecherous self-misunderstandings projected onto me as my own.
I was sitting there when Ryan demanded via text message that I travel to the city and experience San Francisco Pride at its fullest.
But my response was, in summary, that I could not go because I didn't believe in love anymore.
I couldn't celebrate being a twisted bundle of broken promises. There was no pride in the way I'd loved for years. My love had been selfish in every way possible. Relationship after relationship had failed because I had heaped massive expectations upon one lover and then the next- I needed them to fix me. To make me into what they saw when they looked at me. I wanted to believe their words: that I am brave, talented, beautiful, intelligent. I wanted them to make me believe because I didn't have the strength to do it myself.
But just as I was incapable of fixing them, they too were incapable of fixing me.
Sitting there on that patio...the surfer emerged for a momentary break, veins full of heroin, her mind in a constant battle to be sober and gay and happy as she is in her truest form- or to continue lying to everyone, especially herself.
She demanded that I go to Pride with her once her shift ended and I hoped for just a moment that what she really meant to say was "I believe love is possible." But I knew better.
And once I realized I knew better, my soul broke apart as deeply at the first continent-shattering earthquake. 
Who I was until that moment separated from the woman I am right now.
The woman I became in that desolate moment of pitch black emotional despair is a woman who will never again look for definitions outside her own skin. No matter your religion or spiritual beliefs, each of us knows that our species is connected by an unseen energy that radiates the emotions of the beholder.
It's that feeling of uniting after a national tragedy, or in the height of the Star Spangled Banner before a baseball game. It's the panic and anger in a shouting match. It's the way the man at market smiles at you as he hands you an extra bundle of dahlia's for free.
We are united in our unspoken elements and it is that force, and only that force, that defines each of us equally.
So when my soul splintered, it revealed me to a truth I'd been ignorant of prior.
It revealed to me that I am brave and talented, beautiful and intelligent. But more importantly, I am the sole provider of my happiness and to maintain happiness, a person has no choice but to make the hardest choices.

That's when I got sober.

You might be amazed at how painfully difficult it is to say goodbye to the comfort of misery, but I know most of you aren't surprised at all. Misery is masked by its smooth trails and open horizons, but it's a circular path, never leading anywhere.   
I have since chosen to no longer excuse bad behavior, afflicted attitudes and indignation from myself or others. Our very existence's are statistical miracles. Our thriving or drowning- entirely our choice. Our mental, emotional and physical dispositions- solely our responsibilities. And I, as with us all, am entirely responsible for the way I treat others and the way I allow them to treat me.
This has forced me to apologize when I didn't want to, to forgive people I'd begrudged for years, and to end friendships and relationships with individuals who consciously choose toxicity.
That feeling I had of my soul opening up and releasing a new me...that was the metamorphosis of real change. Change brought on by no longer being able to maintain my sub-par status quo. Change brought on by accepting my tremendously powerful unseen energy and the affect it has.
When I radiate sincerity and goodness, my life is filled with such things and when I expel bitter discontentment with the world around me, such is my life.
I am what people see in me- so my main priority is to nurture the good and weed out the slow and silent killers as soon as I spot them.
I am a garden all my own and despite the pain of unavoidable choices and damage reversal, I am flourishing like never before. 
I recognize that happiness is uniquely mailable to the beholder and love is possible when it emanates from the core of your being.
That's why I believe the Garden of Eden will never be found, because it was a representation of unity between the Creating Energy and the Human Species and when Adam and Eve found reasons to be discontent, Eden was dissolved and they were ejected into the disconnected reality of seeking happiness outside one's self.
The only reality is what's within you...the rest of this is an illusion.
So if you're looking for me, I'll be in my garden, writing Frances and learning to play the piano; taking long walks down the pier and sleeping til noon whenever I so choose. I'll be loving as sincerely as ever and guiltless in my own skin. It contains all the happiness I'll ever need and is only willing to be touched by the enriching energies of equally content souls.
Love.
is.
Possible.


 

Under my umbrella

I don't know if it's possible to describe just how lonely I've been these past 7 months. Even typing the words "I've been lonely" pinches me hard enough for guilt to pool at the surface of my pride, but the skin of my armor doesn't burst, the guilt doesn't overflow...it only lingers, coexisting with the tremendous sadness in my heart.
Since November I've been kissed by 4 lovers, buried a friend, moved across the country leaving all sense of comfort and familiarity on the horizon, seen Native American ritual dances, slept in mountains and valleys, in snowstorms and on sand, eaten the most amazing food, gotten fearlessly lost in a city where no one I knew or trusted would be able to rescue me, been adorned with a traditional India bindi and rescued by the cord of Vishnu, listened to a psychic tell me my aura is blotched & known she was right, gotten a little too comfortable with drug abuse, been made a business partner, received my best friend from his own cross-country expedition only to lose him to the canyon created by our own private evolutions, missed my niece's 4th birthday, learned to ride public transit and Northern California waves, (relearn) how to ride a bike, lost 17 lbs, been told I'm the most incredible woman in existence, been told I am the worst human being ever created, performed at poetry slams in front of an audience of genius writers and received raving praise afterwards, changed my cell phone number for the first time in 10 years, completed another college semester and subsequently dropped out and made more money than I ever have in my life. That is the snapshot synopsis.
I've had the most torrential downpour of loss and blessings.
I want to be grateful.
I don't want to focus on the enormity of my sadness when the days are long and rough and all I need in the world is to crawl in bed with Rach and a movie, or sit on the patio and drink whiskey with Johanna. I don't want to think about all the places I've been and all the places I am and all the places I've yet to see. I don't want to think about love's long gone in the Midwest every.single.time I turn on my iPod. I don't want to hold a flannel shirt of my mother's because it's the closest thing I have to hugging her right now. I don't want to think about how much I miss late nights with Sara Steele and early mornings with the brooding artists that fill the Half Price Books employee roster.
I want to be grateful.
So many doubts flooded my ears before I pointed my car West and threw my hands in the air, "Fuck it." I had to go. I had to know if all the roads between what I knew and what I wanted truly existed. They do. Every pothole, every cactus, every Evergreen, every grain of red desert silt that compacts to make each fire mountain exists and they all guided me to the Promise Land with gentle voices and soft caresses. At some point on those lonely highways between home and destiny God whispered to me through the landscape, conveying that no matter the beauty I was leaving behind, there would certainly be more to come.
I want to be grateful because beauty has come in every medium imaginable. I've not once been alone or in any way suffered the way so many suffer every day. I am at my best in every aspect of my life. My worries are inconsequential to the betterment of the world and yet, they are consuming. They are consuming because it is safer to hide underneath an umbrella than drift aimlessly in a hot air balloon. I've been experiencing and resisting my own evolution for months, years even and now, in my acknowledgement of loneliness, the umbrella has blown away and I have no choice but to accept the nudity of being revealed small in an enormous world.
Perhaps it's just one of those nights, one of those weeks, one of those times in life where everything culminates and compacts to build a directional fire mountain and the most I can do is be patient and listen for the whisper of God.

The Greatest Work I've Ever Written

I have had the great fortune of loving and being loved by many tremendous women.

In the entirety of my conscious recollection I’ve sought a romantic, passionate love that burned as thoroughly as my desire to obtain it. To my dismay I learned time and again that love, being loved, and being in love are an elusive trinity in which most often achieved is only two of the three.

As recent as earlier this week I was certain that the love of my life had come and gone. But as it always is with certainty, many facets and layers lie deeper than comprehension, revealing themselves in that distinct instant that resolve is achieved.

I’ve never experienced love without the accompaniment of a commitment to “forever.” I’ve instinctually known and repressed innumerable hesitations (and glaring forewarnings) in the belief that opening myself up to the possibility of possibility equated to loving unconditionally. Where this pursuit has failed is in the reality that no creature or concept exists unconditionally. Every present and future detail hinges on the condition of past circumstances.

Often I’ve encountered the role of probability in love, like a seedling that on one particular day falls to the rainforest floor, nestles in wholesome soil, but fails to bud in the enveloping darkness. But in another equally obscure week, month or year a seedling almost identical in proportion and ambition falls in perfect unison with the collapse of a massive tree. Sunlight suddenly inundates the crevices of a previously insurmountable blackness, nourishing this particular seedling to rise higher and higher toward the life force that sustains its very existence.

The difference between life or death for the seedlings is the same for the life or death of romantic love. What roots and springs in darkness starves rapidly, though try as it might, withering dissipation is inevitable amidst the lack of sustenance. In a bout of unpredictability, as fate so chooses to tumble a monstrous blockade and let light in, an equally deserving particular seedling, a similarly honestly-intentioned love, has a chance to flourish that was previously proven impossible.

Therefore, I’ve concluded that it is not possible to love without condition, without expectation, because every moment prior to the collision and surrender of two compatible energies is conditioning the reactions, rejections, stipulations, tendencies and tolerances of the unique individual and it is not until agitating conflict or synchronized revelation that two souls are capable of deciphering the circumstances of their lovers’ past and compassionately embracing such conditions as the manifestation of their lover in the present. This is compatibility. The unification of two people as they were, transformed into who they are and either optimistically or pessimistically, who they will become.

In October I found myself tangled in loves grip. The failure to be truthfully compatible with anyone for an extended period of time had left me in shambles. My reaction to the suffocating lack of unconditional love was to sprout wings and travel. Through a series of unpredictable interactions I was introduced to the poet, to Brianna, to Bri. While acknowledging the bristling nervous energy that was exchanged between us, I was still in love with one woman and falling in love with another. So I set aside the possibility of possibility and proceeded to participate in my previously initiated emotional demise. I was not ready to shed the familiar disappointment so often encountered in the Midwest and embark on a new adventure. Though knowing I must, I had yet to redefine myself, to know myself in perfect alignment with the Universe as I did in the solitary cross-country drive. Our seedling had fallen but remained indeterminately dormant.

I arrived on California’s doorstep somewhere between molting and being renewed, a process that took weeks more to complete. Finding that I was, for the very first time, entirely alone led to silence, then exploration, and then to an eager young lover intrigued by my withholding. Another first- to be viewed as complex and mysterious. She would often say, “Tell me everything,” but I was uncertain, undefined; free of the slavery that coincides with being known and naked in every way. I was vulnerable to presumptions and misinterpretations within and without my silence.

We were lovers who shared stolen moments between obligations.

We were enemies, suspect of agendas.

We were friends, backtracking the canyons and canopies overlooked in our haste for instant gratification.

We were companions in particularities: .07 black ink pens, highlighting Camus, adoring the rush of substances that removed us from unalterable realities.

My heart fought against her lulling tide and sweeping undertow for months – conflicted by the emotions this stranger evoked with her foreign mannerisms – tender gentleness I’d rarely encountered with lovers twice her age and who, even after thousands of hours of invested effort, still felt like strangers themselves.

She first told me that she loved me after discovering an Einstein book (a post-shift surprise) I’d tucked between the windshield and wiper of her stylishly logical hatchback. Her reaction floored me. It was too soon for my heart, but the intuition that guided me on many an unfamiliar route advised me to be patient with myself. The uncertainty of such uncertainty is the potential that all one should feel never comes, that one has forced the impossible and therefore lied by omission. The elusive trinity glows like the Holy Grail, to love and be in love are concepts divisible by acceptance. I have more than once believed that the woman in my bed, on my arm, occupying my mind, would call me their wife and have the flexibility to achieve “forever” one day at a time. I had already believed that I’d encountered the love of my life.

These ridged restraints left no room for Bri. I was certain that all I’d left to offer her would eventually be unveiled as inadequate. But as it always is with certainty, the compression of resolve grinding against the force of potential erupted to reveal a sunset epiphany that I have had the great fortune of loving and being loved by many tremendous women. I’ve once encountered the love of my life as she pertained, as I pertained, to the understandings of one another and ourselves in the defining moments we shared. Evolution is swift in a famine and I have been starving for reincarnation for years – years that manifested their trials, successes, failures and achievements into the very moment when the compatible energy that shaped Bri’s reactions, rejections, stipulations, tendencies and tolerances collided with my own – and through agitating conflict and synchronized revelation, our compatibility was born.

Last evening, on the bed in which she and I have shaped so many understandings of one another, I found a 1929 Underwood Typewriter that even after I’d sold my television, BluRay player, excess books and glittering reminders of promises not kept, I was unable to afford. It is invaluable if you worship Kerouac and Ginsberg, Anais and (moderately) Hemingway, as I do.  Its steel keys offer up a rhythmic symphony that pre-dates economic ruin, historically devastating mass genocide, the technology on which you’re reading this. It reaches back to a time when there was still something to hope for.

Be it purposeful recognition or accidental indifference, this navy blue marvel is as crisp as the pack of cigarettes in my palm and when I saw it resting there with a note cradled across the type bar that read, “Because I simply love you,” tears came easier than they have in decades. My broken heart was suddenly laced back into a condition of entirety it cannot recall having known since the age of double-knotted tennis shoes and learning to ride a bike. Years of self-inflicted scars faded to expose delicate skin worth treasuring. My mind was flooded with gratitude and appreciation for the probability woven amidst pure chance that resulted in our initial introduction and conditioned our pasts and present with such purposeful coincidences that it impossible to dismiss the obviousness of the miracle of us.

I will never be able to regret, or cease, or dissipate loving or being loved by the many tremendous women whose conditions did not equate to long term compatibility. On the contrary, I am eternally indebted to the perpendicular intersections of magnificent loves and lovers whose labyrinths charted my course to Brianna’s arms, to my head on her chest, feeling the glow of that most sacred trinity within her, within me. I am loved, I love, I am in love with a woman flexible enough to achieve forever one day at a time. She is the cinnamon in my coffee, the ink smudges on my wrist, the answer to every prayer I’ve ever said or will say. She is the passage in the novel that incites reckless dog eared, furiously highlighted gasps of utter disbelief while tugging on the sleeve of your subway companion, clumsily forcing the literature in their hands, begging for them to experience the incredible beauty of the simplest words that, when combined, induce emotions within you that are so profound -- you are absolutely certain that it is in this moment that you have been brought back to the galaxy of the truly alive, reincarnated from the famine, no longer near extinction, now widely proclaimed as the happenstance phenomenon of strictly conditional evolution.  

Be still, my heart...

I am Swiss cheese, Part I

I've found the more positive the blog message, the more people respond. While I think it's a heaping pile of bullshit to only acknowledge a person when they're happy, I'll nonetheless try to even the score by sharing some of the good. It's a difficult thing to write a blog when you are writing a book, writing for yourself, writing letters, penning edits and e-mails day in and day out. To write the truth (here) is nearly impossible. Days go by that are entirely consumed with felonious activities and the tremendous secrets of friends young and old. I can't share their secrets, nor the emotions these secrets contrive, not here. Frances (my alter ego/fictional memoir character) can fictionalize them, SHE can tell you the truth by changing the names, the weather, the date and time, whereby skewing pinpoint accuracy. I write as Frances quite often these days. It's much easier to tell the truth about yourself, to yourself and to your audience when you can displace your own ego and filters and write as if it all weren't happening to you but to some poor sap you encounter on a cross-country bus trip.

Let us begin shall we? I've taken up slam poetry as of last week, performing at night on makeshift stages with second rate microphones. Monologues of truth I dare not tell in the Midwest or in a memoir until long after everyone I love is dead or has forgotten me. Unabashed, I can declare all outrageous truths that belongs to me and the audience, oh the audience, they snap and clap, cheer, praise, shout "AMEN!" "TELL IT!" and "HALLELUJAH!" They nod, smile, grimace- they react to my words as I react to theirs- with intrigue and anticipation. Silence is respected, lyrical genius in celebrated. Last Wednesday I performed for the first time, this is what I read at the Starry Plough in Berkeley:
**The last stanza is directed to a biracial man who read a poem the week prior**
This is what Berkeley was suppose to look like
From Kansas wheat fields where I peered over sunflowers stalks
To see your golden poppy skullcaps
And through her dishwater sunshine streaked hair
To the West
To the Sunshine State
Where I could kiss her with my hands in the
Dishwater or dandelion tea remnants.
The ebony emcee said this stage is our church
And where I come from
The only safe black men were found in church
On Wednesdays and Sundays
Where I knew that no matter how white washed Jesus was
He was never the color of bleach
Like the hair of the woman I was forbade to kiss
Or the vanilla wafers they shoved down our throats
As we rehearsed the Bible verses
Of a mercilessly judgmental God
Who created none of the us the same
Yet all of us equal.

This is what Berkeley was suppose to look like
When God said go forth and prosper
He didn't specify "go forth and fuck"
 What he said
What he meant
Is what Berkeley looks like
This place
Where my fairy fag
Truman Capote genius
Bukowski brilliant best friend
Can shroom his way down a sidewalk
Arm in arm
With his militant muff-diving Harper Lee
And wonder
How does my ass look in these heels?
Rather than the abomination he feels
He felt
When we stayed up all night
And debated in those small town prairie cornstalks
If this is what Berkeley would really look like.

 Last week
He said, I have to wonder
 If half of me
Ever owned half of me?
Well sir, I ask politely
This beaten, abandoned, molested, raped, deserted minority
Wants to say stop focusing on the negativity.
You are the cosmic miracle of both dark and light
Deep and strong,
Wise and lovely
And that
And this
Is what Berkeley was suppose to look like.

My success that night was significant and while words ran short this week, I intend to return to the stage and perform until I transform, and then speak of truths in the present rather than solely in the past. I have found a place that genuinely feels like home. My hair has grown long and fuzzy and natural, the only style I possess is unintentional curls that seem to have sprung up and out and all from nowhere. The last of my makeup crumbs are reserved for special occasions. I've begun quite the sweater collection but otherwise my jeans and shirts and dresses and shoes are secondary, aged to perfection, holey like Swiss cheese.

Excerpt from the silence

I am envious of those healthy girls with their swooping clavicles and tide-smoothed jaw lines. My skin is weathered, pale, pocked and grey from years of substance abuse, from the prison warehouse where, a single book at a time, I attempt to make a dream come true. Only four months, nearly five, and I hate the commitment, the exhaustion, the bartering and bargaining to keep everyone satisfied. I want to tell them I was wrong. That this wasn't what I envisioned at all. There are days when I want to give it up, throw it all away and stay in Berkeley, which contains enough pompous seclusion to ignore the rest of the world. I want to nest in a cozy apartment, paint the walls, hang glass windchimes and quilt. I tell Ryan to keep pushing, keep trying to make time for both art and a paycheck. But the truth is I'd burn down the city and never again rely on my social security number for any guarantee of the freedom to write and read and travel.

The sun is radiant on this makeshift beach, a hollowed out inland, concrete remnant dump on the edges of various yacht clubs. Prepubescent boys struggle to impress their windsurfing instructor who is amplified by a bullhorn from the dock. Children stroll up, over and around these cement-chunk symbols of an industrial revolution, collecting the few rocks that drift into the bay from the beaches (far more magnificent) 60 miles up the coast. It's a free adventure, a chance to darken my women's suffrage, Virginia Woolfe complexion. I am slouching on nature's loveseat, allowing the fog-stenched mud/water to shock my toes with its perpetual frigidness. I've got the time but haven't the money to push father north where I could heave myself into the waves and feel the burn of being neither young or old, but alive.

Children with popsicles dyed brilliant colors, floppy hats, soggy sandals, puppies on strings and me with my full bladder and impatient desire to glow from something other than love or intoxication-- frequently one in the same. Older siblings lead sticky infants over the inconsiderate terrain, guiding with soothing tones of various Asian and Latino dialects. A ponytailed teenager with the stance and confidence of a squall survivor pushes his sailboat down a path through the trees, fishes his synthetic sail up hollow black poles and eases into the Bay as sure as Hemingway himself.

The park surrounding me is littered with perfectly curvacious girls, fertile but not yet women. No exposure to trial and error. Finely groomed preschoolers building symmetrical sandcastles on the safety-rated plastic playground from which the homeless are banned. Long gone are the swing chains that callous young hands, play clothes, thigh scorching metal slides and pebbles that bury themselves in your knees until nighttime scrub down. These children are poised, guided, expected-of, their grass stains replaced by designer labels. I consider lighting a cigarette but am despaired by the absence of a ruthless merry-go-round and travel west to the tourist dock, a watchful eye darting around in search of starfish and tarantulas. I nestle into a parking lot seawall. My only company is a lone stork and a brave kayaker in the distance. Men in basketball shorts and golf visors stroll past with etched walking canes, enjoying, as I, the peace and quiet of an afternoon without e-mail access.

A small black crab is tiptoeing his way across a shoreline rock as not to attract the attention of the looming seagulls. I hate seagulls, with their whorish greediness and insatiable hunger. I wonder just how long it took this crab to reach the warmth of the seawall? The two foot drop back into the choppy bay must seem like miles to a creature of such trivial stature although I am impressed by his ability to withstand the demanding waves and flatten to blend with rocks as predators sail by overhead. In a blink, a single reposition, I look down again and he is gone...my Saturday friend.

I haven't made many friends here yet and I am beginning to acknowledge the negative repercussions of my isolation. I'm going crazy from the inside out, picking fights with my darling lover over subjects so trivial. I am simply lonely. Unvalidated. Disconnected. None of it her fault. Stroller wheels, fishing poles, bad fashion, mundane conversation, handcrafted sun-colored sari's, parents fussing at boys who abandoned their shoes and inhibitions to flip large rocks and marvel at the ocean life burrowed beneath, scooping up their finds in a ball cap, filtering the clouded water from the treasure. I've moved three times now in search of silence and privacy to smoke and write but children venture curiously close and parents follow. There is no escaping mankind, despite how I try. The napping gulls express a similar disdain as me, flustered that their tired wings must drag full bellies to warm surfaces out of reach of unruly hands. Another gaggle of girls with bodies formed overnight bare all but the restricted, annoyed by the rays of sun blurring out their cell phone screens. I'd rather be fat and lonely and hung over than socially blinded from appreciating this view.

Oh my darlin', oh my darlin'

I've been lost, doing things I'll only slightly recreate in my not-so-fictitious fiction novel. My silence isn't purposeful, isn't forced...just, necessary right now.
Until I find the words, the most I can say is Ani's spot on.

Confessions, ramblings and the truth as never before

At times I believed I began this blog as a way to document my life in a medium other than the mad ranting of hand-scribbled journal entries. When I look at it now, as I've looked at it every day for the past month, I feel that part of me needed to validate my experience by writing it down, having it agreed with, admired, envied, acknowledged. Part of me needed to apologize for my needs, a habit I've carried since childhood. I don't know anyone else like me. Even Ryan and I differ when it comes to the fulfillment felt on the open road. He's traveled, taken road trips, but these past 6 months have been his biggest mobile adventures...and I, I've been doing this all of my adult life. When I am uncomfortable or unhappy, I pack up and leave. When I feel claustrophobic or categorized, I run. When I reflect on it in its entirety, the fear of being "normal" has ruined friendships and romantic affairs, leaving a path of burning bridges on my horizon. I take responsibility for the selfishness I've displayed that has hurt people. But equally, I refuse to retain the blame for being who I am. It's this very thought that has meandered back and forth through my mind since my last submission. I am always apologizing for the way I feel, for what I need, and always accusing everyone of not understanding. It's true, they don't understand. But likewise, I will never grasp their definitions of safety and security. The only intersection of these concepts that I can fathom is that in a world that's always changing, people desire guarantees. For as reckless as I can be, have been, I too am sickened by uncertainty, nauseated by moments that test my patience and strength. My knees buckle and my heart palpitates when I feel I'm about to be abandoned and instead of allowing someone to hurt me, I cut them loose first.
I tried to do that to Ryan last night. Nearly two months ago when he called me from Chicago he asked me to be his rock while he regained his footing and worked through redefining all he's ever known about himself. I opened my heart, home and wallet to him without expectation of anything greater than gratitude. These past 6 weeks of living together have been challenging like never before. We are in opposite places than we were in Kansas City. I am thriving, exhilarated, happier than I have ever been, social and enjoying myself. He is home bound, struggling, in despair. I thought offering all of this security would make him happy and healthy again, but it hasn't. It's cushioned the blow of an uncertain world but the moment I feel unappreciated, instead of communicating my boundaries, I lash out and remind him of "all of the things I've done for him." This is my confession as to how ashamed I am at holding that playing card over his head as the only the way to keep him in a place that makes me feel comfortably in control. Ryan is an uncertain person, with no distinct boundaries, no rules, no game plan. Nearly every action is performed on impulse and I am in a place in my life where I seek guarantee like never before. It is from this cocoon of safety and security that I lash out at him, trying to push away his questioning of the world, his randomness, his fears. I want nothing to do with surprise anymore. I want to rest my head on a soft pillow by midnight every night. I want to have a routine, familiar places, comfortable surroundings. I'm not angry anymore. The past no longer exists anywhere but a box in the top of my closet. I moved here because I knew the fearlessness it took to drive across the country would be rewarded with steady ground. I abandoned what I thought I knew about myself and others, and allowed the world to reveal the truth to my previously scaled eyes. I was wrong about so many things as I was wrong last night with Ryan. The people in my life deserve me in my entirety. My friendship is boundless, my heart and capacity is love is endless. But what has changed is that I am not willing to be who I was in Kansas, and I realized that as I was saying hideous insults to Ryan. I felt like he was asking too much, even in the smallest request, because I feel like I've given my fair share to the world and now the rest is mine to retain.
Resolution came 18 hours later, after deep consideration as to what it is that strikes fear into my heart. Some of it was simply situational. Some of it was irrational. But the lesson learned is that I don't have to care to what other people think, but I do have to be compassionate and understanding, so long as the request to do so doesn't break me in two. I don't have to give any more than I'm willing to, but I can give as much as I'm able. It's acceptable to stop trying to save the world before you're making a noose out of the end of your rope. I can't save the world. I can't love someone out of their pain. I can't erase the past or predict the future. I can only know my limits, my boundaries, myself, and respect those in others. I also can't give what I don't have. The action of giving should be selfless, not expectant, much like all facets of love and friendship. I am guilty again of having expectations of myself that extend outward to other people without their knowledge or consent. Ryan didn't ask me to save his life or to bail him out of any situation. He simply asked me to put away art supplies and I threw 6 weeks of tension, stress, disdain and anger in his face. Knowing now that all of these emotions are rooted in the helplessness that is an unavoidable reality of not being God, I want to say I'm sorry, out loud, in person, to everyone I've hurt. I accept my blame and in doing so, I retire expectations of you. But while Ryan and I have discussed and mended the stupidity of the ruthless battle, many of us won't have that conversation. If you're no longer in life in any or all capacities, it's because I don't want you to be. I maintain the right to have my opinions and prejudices, to stop apologizing for the way I feel and who I am. And in order to stop apologizing, I must minimize the world and eliminate those who have hurt me, purposefully or otherwise. I'd rather be alone, but the curious experience is that I am not. Those who truly love me have never walked away, even when the words were like daggers to the eyes and the truth was crippling. Those who really love me have never said anything about me that they wouldn't dare say to my face because when you love and respect another person's humanity, it becomes nearly impossible to show them anything but respect for being the magnificently imperfect, insecure human being that they are.
This next chapter of blogs will address who I have become in the silence. The writer, the photographer, the artist, the (future) bookstore owner still exists, but the woman who accepts disrespect, excuses maliciousness, apologizes for the bad behavior of others no longer exists. The meek, mild, terrified of rejection Jen died a few short weeks into this California relocation. I am no longer willing to participate in the lives of unhappy people. I am stronger, better, and more deserving than that. And so are they, but the only way to achieve such a feat is to acquire for yourself. There are no more excuses. No more lies. No more holding back. There's so much I haven't said for fear of offending, for fear of reaction. Fear. I don't fear anyone or anything anymore. The truth shall set me free because the hate in my heart, fueled by the disregard of the people in my past, is no longer allowed to consume me. There's a reason I walk out the front door to my dreams every morning and you're either a part of it or you're not.
Ryan is a part of it because he is suppose to be. He is my best friend. The only man I've ever loved that wasn't related to me. He is everything I ever wanted to be and everything I'm scared of. Knowing that as I do, I'm capable of accepting my mistakes, apologizing for my actions and in the end, still retaining my best friend. Because when you love someone, you don't walk away. You live, you learn, you apologize, you move forward.
Soon you will hear, unabashedly, about the terrible accident that has left a significant scar on my face, my wanderings and introductions to the city, to new and fascinating people. You'll hear about the woman I met coincidentally in October who may very well be the romantic love I've always been searching for. You're welcome to stay, or delete my blog, my Facebook, my phone number, my existence from your memory. It makes no difference to me any longer other than for me to acknowledge that I am no longer a woman scorned. I am free. More free than I've ever been and it's because I accept my blame, forgive the past, shed the secrets and guilt of all those who came before California and left their luggage on my doorstep. It's taken nearly 4 months...26 years and 4 months to be able to say that I believe everything and everyone happened for a reason, but I'm not willing to hold onto the past any longer.
This is my fresh start and if my happiness offends you, or if you, for even the slightest moment, find yourself confused as to why I'm not in the your life anymore, consider the apology I've never received, the understanding and grace you never extended. It's only acceptable now because I don't want it, I don't need it. It's over, it's done with, and will only be revisited as I shape the novel guaranteed to win a Pulitzer prize.
It may sound pompous to you, but there's nothing I can't accomplish when I try and what I choose to stop trying to do is save people from themselves, which in turn leaves me anxious, degraded, defeated, diminished.
Ryan, I've told you before and I'll tell you again- if you could see yourself as I do, you would be fearless and drunk with ambition. You will conquer the world with your talents, skills, and perspectives. You will find your place in life and love and in the meantime, I'll try to shut my mouth when the only words exiting are petty and self-involved. My humanity will prevent this effort from being perfect, but I know love and the Universe will see us through times much harder than this.
To my past and present friends and family, my lover, my encouraging audience, anyone who thinks of me with sincerity and peace in their heart- thank you. I am humbled by being granted a place in your life.
To everyone else, go fuck yourself.
There's no more room in my life for apologies or explanations. I'm not sorry for being who I am anymore. I am destined for greatness and you're either with me or you're not.

February got away from me

"Welcome to the revolution," he said with his wiry ginger beard twisting like storefront bamboo shoots. The overhead track shuffled from Miley Cyrus to Justin Beiber. I've waited my entire life to hear those words and unfortunately they were delivered to me at the Apple Store as I purchased my iPad.
California, however, is revolutionary in its entirety so there is truly little to complain about.



Since Ryan's arrival, "real life" has set in dramatically. The every day grind of work, the pressure of keeping a start-up business alive, attempting to push it beyond the plateau of survival and into the realm of profit is exhausting. I enrolled in another semester of college solely for the scholarship and loan refunds to cushion the blow of moving across the country, a decision I regret nightly (college, not moving). This semester will be my least successful and also my last. There's nothing left for me to learn at the collegiate level and so, though I've said it before, this will be my last attempt at a B.A. for a while. The business demands and deserves too much of my attention right now to attempt to put my efforts into anything else. Those efforts are showing though. Every day I inch my way closer to owning a bookstore, a place with mahogany shelves, curious minds and giggling children. A place where the best parts of my mother will shine through me.



When Johanna was in town, we discovered St. Francis Beach in Half Moon Bay on a densely foggy afternoon. The drive down the coast was disappointing as the cloud cover prevented viewing anything more than 5 feet away. But I did see the Pacific for the first time and it is glorious.
The following weekend Ryan and I escaped the house and traced the coast North for hours, stopping at half a dozen beaches, taking photographs and videos, marveling at the wonder of it all. We stood on cliffs with drops so sharp I felt fearful when heaving rocks into the great abyss. Our safe haven revealed itself at, as usual, the most perfect time. Somewhere between Miramar and Half Moon Bay State Beach, we dipped down the slippery slopes of tide-carved bluffs and nestled into an enclave of bliss. The rocks were textured like worn sandpaper. The wildly blowing wind rushed past this ancient sanctuary of ours. We cast aside our sweaters, opened a bottle of $5 Merlot, threw clementine peels to the seagulls and marveled at the majesty of the universe.







The moment of complete intoxication hit me so feverishly that I ripped off my clothes and jolted toward the ocean. The fearlessness that seized my heart was the same power that navigated the dangerous curves of the Rio Grande and the bone-chilling juts of the Arizona canyons. For a moment, for an hour, for an entire day, I felt nothing but gratitude and love. California possesses this capability if your heart is willing to embrace it. Somewhere, lost in the sun and the cradle of sea-smoothed rocks, I forgot that I hate my size 12 body as much as I hated it at size 26. I forgot that the damage done to my skin and my stomach will prevent me from proudly wearing a bikini. I forgot that I never felt like the other girls so I mocked them to mask the envy of always wanting to be them. For an entire afternoon I was content in my own skin, perfumed by citrus and salt water, sipping tart crushed grapes with my best friend. I was every thing I ever wanted to be that afternoon. I was free, I was happy, I was loved.



Back on the home front, we decorate with meager possessions of books and writing, as it has always been. Somehow when Ryan appears in my life, I cast aside my stringent regime of cleaning out my car and keeping the house in an orderly fashion. I lose track of time and responsibilities. I give up on the trivial efforts and remember to live. That is one of the enchantments I love about him most, the ability to make me forget that I'm trying to be something specific and instead I just live.

The poet and I continue to see one another regularly. It comes as no surprise to me that I am difficult beyond words, but we are equally matched in complications and her laughter, her Einstein and Frida obsessions, her adoration of pant suits and sudden bouts of withdrawing shyness appeal to me. She is a cavern and I am a spelunker.





Last night we got lost in the city, creating our own memories, our own fairy tale. Everything has happened so quickly that I've begun to believe there's no such thing as a timeline for the heart. People stay in relationships for years without feeling the slightest sense of fulfillment and others know the moment they see one another that life hadn't actually begun until they'd met. She and I fall somewhere in between, where the journey and the common sense intermingle. It is in this place that I am most reassured. Today she will help me chose a bike and we will peruse a local nature trail. My whole life I've hated the outdoors. It's a combination of harassing allergies and boredom, but there's something about California that beckons one to be outside. The hideous cold that has ravaged my body for more than a week is finally dissipating, so I will return to Yoga tomorrow morning and soon, very soon, surf lessons in the Pacific, a juicing diet, the finalization of smoking cessation. Tremendous personal challenges are on the horizon, but I am not afraid. Quite the contrary, I feel more alive than I ever knew possible.

I've been waiting for my mind to catch up to the innumerable significant events that have occurred in the past 2 weeks, but it's gone into hibernation. As a writer, the biggest roadblock my craft faces is that I am inspired at the most inopportune moments. Emotions and diatribes are inspired on subways, in the grocery store, walking down the street, when I'm 3 hours in to a 12 hour work day and I have grown weary of acknowledging my thoughts and so, I don't take notes and my voice is lost. My voice is lost in the chaos of existing day to day. I daydream of Taos and the clarity I felt so high in the mountains, the effortlessness my voice experienced, the vast unexplored region of my thoughts unveiled themselves and for the first time in my life, I felt free. But then friends died, my heart was desecrated by ruthless misunderstanding, other friends (close friends) were met with crisis and I found myself on the phone for hours dissecting and analyzing the meanings of these life-altering events; all my energy expelled in participating in life rather than reserving my energy for writing.
And that brings us to now, this very moment, where I am sitting on the back porch of the house I'm convinced I will buy in the not-so-distant future, debating what it is I want to convey, what emotions I care to capture, and I'm drawing a blank. How do I convey the enormity of change that has taken place since my arrival in California? Just telling you, the blog, you, the blog audience, what's occurred isn't as simple as a timeline. The censorship of privacy is suffocating, as the secrets of my beloveds are necessarily safeguarded lest these relationships face the guillotine should I disrespect those boundaries. How to write about it all and not lose anyone, or my dignity, this is the challenge of my lifetime.



Ryan arrived by train on Wednesday. I sat in the Amtrak outdoor waiting station, blinding tears of anticipation making it impossible to enjoy Bukowski. His train was early, as was I. In the moments before its arrival, I saturated my spirit in the West Coast sun, begging the Bay breeze to cleanse his heart the moment he stepped onto the platform. My best friend, one of the most intricate beings on the face of the Earth rode a train 52 hours, with 3 overflowing suitcases and a broken heart. His silence throughout the trip settled my anxiety, knowing that the experience of seeing the world through observation car window panes must be having an effect on his perspective. Naively convinced (as I was) that California is always warm enough for shorts, it was no sooner that his train had halted than I spotted him with a plastic clothing knapsack slug over his shoulder, garbed in a petticoat, Tom Sawyer cap, cut off denim shorts and a 50 lb suitcase dramatically altering his balance. I walked briskly, nearly running, convinced that if I didn't reach him in time he'd disappear like a mirage. Our smiles stretched so broadly, the muscles in our faces creaked with months of disuse. His suitcase crashed to the ground as we screeched and threw our arms around one another. It was an inevitable reunion and with Vodka on his breath and a slight stammer to his speech, there were no words for acknowledging that we have found a home in one another. The days to follow have blended together, filled with conversations we've been meaning to have since his October departure. Our mothers are equally relieved that we are together, their fears about our distant travels are not silenced by the reassuring courage we feel when on the road. They think only of our aesthetic safety and there's no convincing them that we're safe unless we are together. It's in knowing this that I know how fated our friendship is and how true my love is for him.



We are so many things to one another. He is the person I unveil my most deeply-rooted fears to, the person who criticizes my driving and leaves me voicemails recounting how terrified he is of the dive bombing hornet that's made its way into our apartment. He's the person whom I trust to help smudge my new home, knowing our combined spiritual well being can drive out any negative force, the person who takes my heaping pile of belongings and turns the house into a home; a home I now share with him. He's the person I lay next to in bed and in front of the fireplace and laugh until my bones hurt.
Upon his arrival, I realized that I'd never felt our bond disconnected. He stepped off the train just as I'd always known him, and it felt more like I'd picked him up from work rather than a 4-month excursion to Chicago. Nothing had changed between us, but within us, we are filled with the wonderment of the world experienced in the others absence. For months I begged the Universe to tend to the wound left by his departure. I had felt whole in his presence and then broken and disbursed when he was gone. It was impossible not to be grateful that he'd found love and I'd found ambition, but the homesickness was at its worst when I was still in Kansas and he was braving the Chicago winters.


Wednesday night drinking and gourmet pizza in Berkeley was followed by two days of SF wandering. His overwhelmed silence and then verbal outbursts, falling everywhere on the emotional spectrum, taught me to be silent once again. My voice feels small in the shadow is his heartache. The psychic we visited in Haight asked me about the man I love and suggested that we are fated. His reading suggested that his California experience will not be the last of his travels. This is the sort of love I find myself within often, one that is consistently present within my heart, but not always tangible. The psychic told me that my aura is blotched with distrust and abandonment, entrenched for decades, and that romantic love will be impossible for me until I cleanse my spirit...but this man, she said, this man will always be the one you love without the fear, without the wall. There is nothing he could of ask me that would be too much, and nothing I wouldn't give to ensure his happiness. It is an unusual love, but it is what I trust in most.

The Year of the Dragon

And so as the sun sets on another exhausting week, I throw aside the homework and pick up Bukowski- allowing my mind a chance to thaw for the first time in what seems like an eternity. There is nothing and everything here on this beautiful coast. There's no escaping my mind, but there are thousands of miles worth of distance between myself and the memories. Memories of effort, memories of being misunderstood, memories of feeling as if I am the most problematic friend and lover on the planet, memories of knowing that my very existence made a tremendously positive impact, memories....so many memories.



Ryan leaves Chicago for California tomorrow afternoon. His heart is in shambles and it is once again that we unite on this front. There's nothing like being in love and no comparison to the hole left inside of you once it's discarded, removed, erased, negated. There are cracks in his voice when the moment, the memories, are swallowing him whole. There are gaps of silence in his communication when he is lost in deep recollection. We love and lose the same and find solace in the others adventure. There's no telling if my experience will provide him with the peace he seeks. I don't know that California would have been as peaceful to me 5 years ago, 2 years ago, even 3 months ago, as it is in recent times. There is an incredible comfort in the anonymity of a city this large. No one to recognize your face, no one to tell you they've heard all of your lines before. No one who's seen you naked in any regard. It's just you in your overcoat, pacing the city streets, eyes grazing the shops and potential infatuations, just you and your thoughts and an expression no one can read.



The Poet and I celebrated Chinese New Year in Chinatown last Sunday. Brightly lit lanterns and disarming blasts of firecrackers shattered the slowly drifting sun. She quoted Kundera and told me I was perfect. How little she knows, how hard she tries- masking all the insecurities and the uncertainty, though I see it in her bowing knees, her pocketed hands, her questioning glances. None of us are perfect nor perfect for one another. There is only the moment and then, eventually, only the memories. I am lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and ambition, per usual. I am solidified in regret and hopeless in expectation. Reality has finally approached me and will not leave. There's so few ways to be honest and yet, no way around it. I'm just waiting for someone to see my trap door, my cellar of secrets.



I listen to children screech relentlessly as they run down the cement trail next to my window. Their parents follow slowly, patiently, dying for a single uninterrupted sentence. I wonder what brought them here, what their regrets are- if Ryan and I will become as so many before us have- full of resignation and won over by the security of no longer making an effort. I'm not passing judgment but I can see it in their stance, their glazed over nods, their jogging suit, tennis shoes coordination, the absence of a glow. Is that what happens when you accept that you have no control over your fate? Or is it that he and I belong to a rare group of galactic miracles, burning nearly as bright as the sun and longer than the identified planets? Are we destined to be orbited but never landed upon, deemed hopelessly beautiful but untouchable by observers? Will our love and lovers be as meteors, our loneliness allowing them to gravitate into our atmosphere. From a distance they appeared gentle and we drew them in, but their closeness proved destructive; the mark they've left will resonate for all of time- our surfaces are pocked with the damage of unearned trust. Do we burn too bright, too long, too intensely? Are we the reason our lovers are incinerated before intimacy can be achieved?



I've been alive long enough that my scars have become visible. The damage shows in the lines under my eyes, the squint of my mouth as I lift the familiar wine bottle to my lips, the drag of my walk as I count the cigarette butts in the gutter. This isn't the destiny I had in mind, but heed my warning- never fall in love with a writer. Whether you're the antagonist or the protagonist, we never let you forget our fickle remembrances of the time shared. Everyone becomes a character warped by our indecision, our hope of changing the course of fate through the editing process. In writing we can be the hero, we can save the day, take away the pain. When you're written down, everything can be erased and revisited, time can heal and characters can steer the course of fate with a single line. I don't think anyone ever walked into love thinking "this is going to ruin me," but a writer knows better and perhaps that is my detriment. I want the fairy tale I can't foresee, the great love that hasn't been written. I want life to surprise me rather than cynical arrogance blockading revelation. There have been years without surprises and then a moment filled with thousands of unexpected shimmers.



As much as I try to write about the complexities, there are no words to describe the heaviness that lingers from Kansas City, to Chicago, to San Francisco. We are all in love with the idea of love and we are all tainted by its majesty. The most I can hope for is a Western wind that carries on it serendipitous encounters, midnight inspiration, city light poetry. Actual love can destroy but the intended love of broken-hearted writer can save the world. Wait for it. It's only another moment or two before we supernova.

Welcome Home

The place to see picture shows in Berkeley.

The people in my neighborhood aren't eating chalupa's and cinnamon twists for dinner. They're not rushing through their Statistics and Meteorology homework in time to watch the State of the Union address. They're busy enjoying the walking trails and running lanes as their tiny dogs trot alongside their children on bikes.
Life in California has begun. Work is exceedingly consuming but in a way that let's me know this challenge will lead to the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.



In only 3 short weeks I've learned to drive a forklift and manage my bank account with meticulous attentiveness.



In just three shorts weeks I've met a girl who sends who me poems and looks at me like she wants to save my life. A girl whose heart is tremendous and strong but young, far too young. She still believes that love can save the world. When I look at her I see myself 7 years ago, wishing to be invisible to everyone except a chosen few; wishing to be fulfilled through desire and rescued by the most fleeting emotion in the world. She has no idea how much the world will attempt to smother her sensitivity and my instinct is to protect her ferociously, but I cannot. My heart is so scattered, so preoccupied. Friends still call in crisis in the middle of the night, joyful in mid-afternoon, boasting at dawn. We are learning to live without one another but recognize the enormous gap that exists when you are far away from what makes you feel whole.


Dusk.


I force myself to leave the house on a regular basis. Having sanctioned my impatience to both a budget and a realistic time management schedule, I only see the city on the weekends. The week is for the suburbs, for work and my education, but when the weekend comes I am off to brave the new world before me. There's a $5 cover charge to enter the city of San Francisco. It seems astronomical until you're driving across the Bay Bridge in absolute wonderment of mankind's achievements.



There's a friend in every face, a guide on every corner. It's as if no one is certain how or why they arrived in this Utopia, but they are content in their destiny. I find myself nestling into the idea of being home. This is where I will make my fortune and see myself as I really am. As I was waiting on a crew of friendly gentlemen to finish detailing Sonny, I stared very hard at my reflection in the car wash window pane. Who is this woman? I hardly recognize her. Nearing 30, healthy and happy, in love with the reality of never having to run again.



I gathered with the gay community (and allies) of all ages and creeds at Wild Side West on Sunday. A new friend invited me to the city for the 49ers game. The bar is nestled in the Bernal Heights neighborhood where I hope to one day reside. It feels like the San Francisco in the movies, with it's mountainous hills and multicolored shops. A gaggle of preschool-aged birthday party attendees raced past me on the sidewalk, their heads and hands adorned with orange and green balloon creations. Small businesses of every sort flourish here. Art and books and the soft air of the bay breeze. Perfection.


An accidental find, an obvious message.

In its worst history, the police only stepped into the city's gay bars to bust up the "immoral behavior" occurring inside. These days the neighborhood foot patrol police step in, tip their hats and ask the score of the game. Women in jerseys, women in diamonds, they're all screaming and stomping and cheering and booing at the television as the bar owner, Billie, brings food down to the party from her loft above the bar. Her bar doesn't sell food, but why not feed everyone from her own table? Cakes and wings, burgers and salads- bring your own or let Billie feed you, either way, you're at home here. Michelle (my new friend) kicked open the front door with her right foot and swung into the bar, homemade pizza in hand. Its delicious beer-batter dough and fresh toppings saturated my mouth. The bartenders kept an eye out for an arm in the air requesting another drink. Mardi Gras beads dawning the 49ers logo were passed out to the patrons, free raffles for free drinks- there's a community here like I've never known. On a single wall hangs portraits of Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Gertrude Stein and Virginia Woolf. Unsigned art is displayed from ceiling to floor. Mannequins and shoe collections, totem poles and strands of pearls. This tiny bar retains the tales of so many who've come before me in search of a similar sense of peace. The garden verandas sheltered us from an endless week of rain as the smell of grass wafted across the garden. San Francisco is the place of my dreams. It is my heaven. I am finally home.


Brian Andreas, San Francisco fog... my favorite metaphor thus far.

R.I.P. Regret

When I was a teenager and even before that, I knew I was a born to see the world. Many of you know how humble my upbringing was, how much my parents struggled emotionally and financially to keep themselves and their children clothed, fed, sane. I spent a lot of my life resenting the fact that I more or less raised my younger siblings as my parents worked 50-60-70 hour work weeks. There I was, a child looking after other children. I use to hear my friends and coworkers talk about what they were doing when they were 10, 11, 12 years old- and while I'm sure I had my moments in the sun, what I remember most is the weight of the responsibility of Jeremy and Abby. The moment my mom and dad conceded to let me go, I was out the door. I was 16 and claimed to be unafraid of the world at large.

I knew everything then.

For the next 10 years my actions would be sporadic, driven entirely by restless dissatisfaction. I was petrified of being boring, of settling, of winding up in a life where all I did from dawn until dusk was work without the slightest sign of atonement.

Discontentment with varying situations fueled a large part of this move to California. I would like to say that I accepted things as they are. I wish I could honestly tell you that I closed the Midwest chapter, that I made my peace with everyone and everything – but part of my heart still burns for outcomes that may never manifest. Part of me may always wish to go back in time, to make different choices, to hurt myself and other people less, to have more compassion and less to say. But what never changes is how grateful I am for every.single.experience and every.single.person that entered my life.

My friend Clint died.

Something shifts inside you when you read the obituary of a friend. The gravity of knowing that someone who laughed with you, wrapped their arms around you, slept next to you, said "I love you," is dead- is unlike any other reality. Suddenly all you can remember is the anger you feel at the loss of their life and the overwhelming sense that perhaps everyone you care about should know that you love them as much as you do. That's my reaction anyway. So this is me making sure that, even though I say it frequently, I say it again.

I love you.

If we have been blessed to have crossed paths, there is a reason. From one another we grew, expanded, we evolved into something more complex than our singular originality. If I have known you in any capacity, you have changed my life. If you've known me, I hope that somewhere within our interaction, I left a positive message or at least a humorous one. As I review the last 10 years of my life a tremendously beautiful slideshow of happiness rolls on the reel of my mind. All of the faces of possibility, the faces of my journey, remind me that while initially this new chapter may be intimidating – I love and have been loved, deeply.



I love you Erin. I love for your softness, for your generosity, for seeing me as no one else ever did. You taught me to have hope, to see my potential, to give the world a chance to surprise me. You and I shared nearly 5 years of the an unparalleled adventure. We saw the world, we raised children, we had homes filled with laughter. We had pets and hard times. We had each other.



I love you Rachie, Ryan and Eric. Rachel, for being boundless with your love. Ryan, for beautifying everything you touch. Eric, for seeing beauty in every face, in every place. Whether the 3 of you believe it or not, I will always maintain that you are the most talented, inspiring, genuine, generous people on the face of the earth. It will always be the four of us, the 4 bears against the world and we will always have art to keep us united, no matter our geographical location.



I love you Johanna with your earth-shattering energy, your intense love that commands the attention of the universe. You pieced together my heart and provided me a tailwind when I was broken and directionless. It is because of you that I can't dance without laughing or go to Home Depot and dream of a suburban contentment.



I love you Joy. You brought poetry, passion, watercolors and metallic's to my life. You redefined everything I understood about compassion and communication, because your perspective is like none other. Your capacity to love and accept people as they are is endless and the rarity of that never ceases to amaze me.



I love you Marie. I love you more than I love air or water. More than cigarettes and Diet Coke. You changed everything. You healed broken hearts. You united friendships and love affairs. You brought everyone together in a celebration of life. Because of you, I truly understand unconditional love. Because of you, my father smiles brighter than the sun. Because of you I know that my family is capable of overcoming and accomplishing anything we unite ourselves in. Because of you, I believe in a kind and beautiful Creator. You are the epitome of perfection.



I love you Abby and Andrew. I love the strength and resilience of your dedication to one another. I love your drive to pursue the American dream. I love you little sister for what you have overcome, for your dedication and ambition. You can do anything Daffodil.



I love you Mom. I love you for taking us to the library as children. I love you for tending to gardens with the most gentle touch and observant eye. I love you because you held our family together when we were crumbling. I know you don't know it, but you are the strongest woman in the world.



I love you Dad for teaching me to be proud of working hard. You taught me not to take short-cuts, to never compromise my integrity, to believe that doing the right thing would reap its own reward.

I love you Jeremy for possessing the strength of our father and the gentleness of our mother. I love that you can't hide your sensitivities, your softness. You are the most upstanding man I've ever known. When I look at you I believe that patience and love can save the world because it is through those attributes that you have touched everyone within reach.



I love you Grammy for teaching me to be strong. I love you for your perseverance. Every lesson I've ever taken away from you hasn't been relevant until recently, but now, more than ever I know that a woman can see the world, fight the disadvantages, survive the struggle and find her own piece of happiness. Because of you, I know it's all within.



I love you Beth and your daughter, Sarah. I love you for precision, for your unwillingness to give up in the darkest hour. I love you for sheltering your beautiful children from the storms of reality, but letting them look out the window to know what to expect. I love you for believing in purpose and for fulfilling your dreams from the ground, up.



I love you Sara Steele for being both a mother and a friend to me. I love you for cradling my broken heart when Ryan left to see the world. I love you for believing in happiness, for making cooking an art form, for calling Nick and Ryan "my boys." Thank you for sharing, repairing and preparing my heart for this new chapter.



Lastly, I love you Clint. I loved you for your animated character, for your silliness, for your stories. I loved you for your lack of inhibition. I'm only sorry now that you died without resolve. They tell me that at your funeral innumerable people shared their affectionate memories of you. I would've done the same but would've also said this:

The truth.

Clint died of his own hand. He'd been dying for years. Much like the rest of us he was pacifying loneliness, a broken heart and a lack of direction with any earthly substance to help him forget. I don't blame him, as I hope no one does. Virginia Woolf knew that an innocent had to die in order for the rest of us to appreciate living and that's how I think of Clint now. We forget to live until someone we love dies. We get caught up in our mistakes, we obsess over past, present and future decisions. We numb out when we should be feeling the most. We deny ourselves true happiness because we are afraid of what our desires will reveal. We're afraid of the struggle. We're afraid of failure, of letting go of the comfort of our misery. And then suddenly, it's too late to undo all of the damage done because you're taking your last breath while begging for just one more.

There's no bringing my friend back. There's no changing the paths any one of the people above will take. There's not enough words in existence to covey how much I love each and every one of you. But remind yourselves as I remind myself, the only breath you have is the one you just took. Make it count.

"There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way, no day but today."

I love you.