The Calm

Grace.

That’s the best way to describe it.  Grace.  You know those people who carry themselves with an air of peace?  Those people who are kind and gentle and project solace wherever they are?  They are usually very soft spoken.  They are always sensitive…compassionate sensitive, not weenie sensitive…because their sensitivity is anything but weak.  After all, when you can appreciate the plight of others, you have to be strong.  Also, these people are generally of far greater intelligence than most of us ever dreamed for ourselves.   But they are humble.  They don’t advertise their values, because we all can see them.  There are not many people who possess this sort of harmony.  But we have all met at least one of these remarkable creatures, and we always remember them.  They are easily identifiable because they possess what so few of us understand.  They are beacons. 

I don’t have any of that. 

Calm.  Grace.  Peace.  I don’t have any of it.  It sounds delightful, though.  But inside my head, there is always noise.  There is always some sort of dissonance.  There’s always a demon.  Even on my best days, I can’t even find enough calm to sleep through the night; much less find enough poise to muster the appearance of having any of those characteristics.  I guess that all goes without saying.  Look at the title of my blog…I can’t even spell “peace” correctly. 

Maybe that’s the reason that people who do have it are so amazing to me.  It’s like speaking a foreign language.  Some people get it, most do not.  I do not.   But all the same, people who do get it are pretty admirable.  And that’s why they shine. 

The Gift.

So, why today?  Why is today the right time to recognize these gifted souls who hold the clarity and dignity to calm any storm?  Well, it’s because I encountered one today.  And I can’t stop thinking about it.  And it’s the same feeling I have every time I see this man.  I’ve only met him four times, but I always feel like I have known him my entire life.  Even though our conversations never last more than a few minutes, I feel like our dialogue has covered a lifetime of thought. He’s the kind of person who can ask you how you are doing, and even if your world is falling apart, you still say “I doing really well.”  And, even though the words seem foreign when you hear them in your own voice, you actually believe them.  He’s one of those people who you hug, and then hug again.  Then again.   You do it because it’s a shield.  It’s protection.  It’s a safe harbor in life’s tsunami.  It’s a gift. 

But who’s Gift is it? 

Well, it’s a gift to me, because every time I see Gary, I feel everything is right in the universe.  But is it his gift?  I don’t know.  I am reminded from scene in the epic HBO miniseries, Band of Brothers, when Doc Roe tells Renee, the French nurse:  “You are a good nurse.  You have a gift from God.”  She replies:  “No. It’s not a gift.  God would never give such a painful thing.”  Is that what it’s like to be an emotional healer?  Is it a gift or is it penance?  Are these people here to comfort and heal the emotionally damaged, or are the emotionally damaged a means of their own comfort and healing?  It just seems an overwhelming burden for one person to bear.  Perhaps, like everything else in life, it’s a balance.  Perhaps, it’s because every journey is different.  Perhaps, it’s just about finding your inner peas. 

Holly Heights

May 29, 2011

May 29^th.  That was the day I first pulled onto Holly Heights.  I had my girlfriend, Charity, riding shotgun.  She was there for encouragement and to be the voice of reason.  That’s kind of what she does.  Anyway, we must have driven past this street three times before we actually saw it.  Then we probably drove past it another three times before we realized that it was what we were looking for.  Holly Heights is very inconspicuous.  And a little intimidating.  It shouldn’t be.  It’s marked with a street sign, off of a major West Sonoma County thoroughfare.  It’s not particularly hidden, but it’s not overly visible either.  I guess that’s what makes the location as dichotomous as the neighborhood itself. 

Underwhelmed

So, after the sixth approach to Holly Heights, Charity and I finally made the left hand turn onto what can only be accurately described as an alley.  There are no sidewalks.  There are no painted lines.  The ten houses here only line one side of the street.  The opposing side is adorned with eight feet of redwood fencing.  That fence is less to keep the undesirables away from us, but more to shield the residents of the elite Bodega Vista Estates, on the other side of the fence, from the offensive, eye-sore that is Holly Heights. 

As I drove up Holly Heights, my dedicated co-pilot alongside, I told her “Look for the empty one.”  I mean, there are only ten houses.  Who knew we could pass it?  But we passed it.  So we drove to the top of the hill and turned around in the last driveway.  And by driveway, I mean flea market.  I honestly have no idea how this guy has eluded the producers of “Hoarders.”  Before I even took the car out of reverse, I looked at Charity and said “Never mind.  I’ll look somewhere else.”  She didn’t let me give up on it though.  We got out of the car in front of the vacant duplex and peered through the windows and walked around to the back, past a gate that hadn’t had stable a relationship with its hinges in several years. 

Nope.

It’s PERFECT for you!!!

“Actually, it’s not,” I told Charity, not amused.  At all.  Then she looked at me, also unamused, and said “It’s cute.  And it’s safe.”  By which she meant “where the hell else are you going to live?”  Valid point.  So, I called the property manager and set up an appointment for a viewing.  And with Charity’s very poignant tone echoing in my memory, I was reminded that I was out of options.  I filled out the rental application as quick as I could dig a pen out of my purse. 

Three days later, I was signing a lease and scratching out a check for the deposit.  After all, Holly Heights was “perfect” for me. 

That was two years ago, tomorrow. 

Two Years

A lot happens in two years.  Even as we get older and fight change more aggressively, two years is a long time.  And Holly Heights was an adjustment.  For the first couple of months that I lived here, I couldn’t believe that this was my home.  I felt dejected every time I turned up the hill after work.  This wasn’t where I was supposed to be.  I didn’t want to have people over.  Who’d want to come here anyway?  It was a shanty and I was living in a shack.  The first time I had a date after I moved in, this guy walked in the front door and said “I didn’t know there was ghetto in Petaluma.”   The whole situation was a metaphor.  A metaphor for failure.  How did I end up living in a duplex with 600 square feet of living space on a street that wasn’t even maintained by the city?  HOW???  That was two years ago. 

Two Years (Did I say that already?)

As I have said before, I am always amazed at how experience and perspective change us.   So, as I sat reveling in my own demise, something happened.  Something.  Happened.  It was life.  Life was happening.  My child was growing up.  I was finding my own way.  The grass was needing to be cut…every other week.  And as I started participating in life, I also started participating at Holly Heights.  Then, before I even realized what had happened, two years had passed and I found something remarkable.  I found a home. 

People like to talk about home.  It makes us feel nostalgic.  It makes us feel like we have a place in the world.  It gives us purpose.   Home is the foundation.  So, when I found a home on Holly Heights, I had a hard time accepting it.  But I shouldn’t have fought it so hard, because this is the most comfortable home I have ever known.

Home is Where…

You raise your children. Home is where you aren’t embarrassed about having too many cats. Home is where you cut the grass, even if not enough.  Home is where you cook dinner.  Sometimes you boil a pot of water for oatmeal, sometimes you spend days prepping for a holiday meal.  Home is where you give baths and kiss boo-boos.  Home is where you sit on the stoop and engage your neighbors in conversation.  Home is where you lite a fire in the back yard and laugh too loud with your friends.  Home is where you watch the tomatoes grow and pick berries to bake pie with.  Home is where you hold the people love when they are sad.  Home is the yard you sit in and have meaningful conversation with meaningful people.   Home is the music and the wine and the laughter.  Home is always honest.  There’s no pretense at home.  It’s where you walk out the front door to find a naked child in the yard…it may be your child, it may not be.   Home is home.  And you always know when you are there.   Even if you never expected to find it.  Home is where you find your inner peas. 

The Perfect First Date

Dog and Pony Show.

Dating is ridiculous.  It’s such a farce:  Take a shower.  Shave your legs.  Do your hair.  Get dressed.  Put on too much makeup.   Check your cleavage…Sexy or slutty?  Ok.  Sexy.  Unless slutty is better.  Change clothes. Reevaluate cleavage.   Check your hair.  Hate your hair.  Tell yourself that your hair is going to ruin the rest of your life.  After all, everyone knows that hair is what makes or breaks relationships.  It’s just common knowledge, people.  Everyone also knows that we participate in the dog and pony show that is more acceptably referred to as “dating” for one reason:  to find companionship.  Maybe it’ll only be for the night.  Maybe it’ll be for the rest of your life.  But the truth is that we only do it to escape loneliness, even if only for an unspecified amount of time.  And as payment for that escape, we are forced to make a production out of it.  We spend hours trying to cover our physical defects, only to spend several more hours covering our character defects.    

Much Ado about Nothing. 

Nothing.  That’s generally what first dates amount to.  All of the anticipation and preparation and facade, and if you are lucky, you might get a dinner or a beer out of it.  If the planets have aligned, you might even get laid.  But normally, first dates only serve as a reminder that people are bizarre, and pretty scary.  It also reminds us that filling the emptiness with wine is usually better than filling it with marginal company and uncomfortable conversation. 

(Also, wine doesn’t ever judge your hair or jump to unintended conclusions about how much cleavage you show.)

The Perfect First Date.

After all of this talk about how awful dating is, would you believe it if I told you that I once had the perfect first date?  I know there seems to be some disparity here, but it actually happened.  Once. 

It’s been so long now, that I sometimes don’t remember the difference between what was real and what I fabricated to immortalize the memory.  But every time I revisit that warm, mid-September evening in the East Bay, I am overcome with evocative sensation.  It was so very simple, but it was also very intricate.  The stars aligned.  Even if only for one night. 

Fireworks.

There are two things in this world that leave me speechless regardless of how often I encounter them:  1.)  Dolphins.  2.)  Fireworks.  It doesn’t matter how many times I see them, fireworks and dolphins always calm my  crazy.  Always. 

Ok, back to the perfect first date.  I had completed all of the first date protocol.  I showered, shaved, dressed, makeup-ed, haired.  I even hid the crazy.  First date checklist was complete.  Then I got in the car at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon and drove from my home in the North Bay to Oakland.  It’s normally a 50 minute drive.  And by normally, I mean in the middle of the night.  It is never a 50 minute drive, otherwise.  And most certainly, it is NOT a 50 minute drive on a Friday afternoon.  There are bridges and interchanges and traffic and stuff.  It’s a mess.  Everyone knows I do not tolerate stuff very well.  So, as you can imagine, while I sat in all of that stuff for two and a half hours, I got a little anxious.  And by anxious, I mean hysterical.  On my way to a date.  Which made me even more hysterical.  There was no possible way that I could hide all of the crazy.  It only got worse as I pulled into the parking lot at the coliseum.  If it had have been a normal year, it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the A’s were WINNING.  And they were a viable post-season prospect.  WTF was I thinking.  I agreed to drive through Bay Area traffic on a Friday, to see a winning baseball team play with a guy I hadn’t seen in months…Sweet Baby Jesus…I’m hyperventilating just remembering it. Why would I commit to this????

Homerun.

That’s why.  It was a homerun.  I didn’t know it was going to be when I left the house.  I definitely didn’t know it was going to be when I was sitting in 2 hours of Bay Area traffic.  And I absolutely reconsidered the decision as I pulled into the packed Coliseum parking lot.  But the night would be a homerun.  When I met him outside the gate, my worries began to subside.  Then as we walked to our seats on the First Base line, I decided against the xanex.  As  we sipped beer and made snarky comments about the people around us and laughed a little, it all seemed less uncomfortable. 

And then, as if the universe knew that we were finally comfortable, he looked at me at the bottom of the forth and said “Cespedas is gonna hit the fence in left field.”  I giggled and rolled my eyes.  When I finally looked back down at the game, there was a ball bouncing off the left field wall. He called it.  And I was enamored.  And then there were fireworks…the real kind and the metaphoric kind.  It was Friday night at the Coliseum.  There're  always some sort fireworks.   That’s when I knew that night was a homerun. 

2^nd Base.

Even though the night was a homerun, I, personally, only made it to second base.  I was OK with that, though.  Because the game wasn’t over.  We’re still in extra innings.   But that guy taught me about what a first date should be.  He also taught me a lot about being comfortable with only having  one good first date.   Being able to accept that takes a lot of inner peas. 

And, for the record, I did eventually hit a homer off of that guy. 

I Talk to Myself

A lot. 

I realized a while back that I talk to myself.  Not only do I talk to myself, but I talk a lot.  To myself.  A lot.  I talk about problems, solutions, experiences, interactions, relationships.  With myself, no topic is off limits.  But I’m not sure if that’s normal.  I am definitely not sure that its healthy.  I became a little concerned with my own behavior.  After all, only crazy people talk to themselves.  Maybe, if I hadn’t been caught by others while I was engaged in conversation with myself, I wouldn't be so troubled with my actions.  But after other people knew I was doing it, I had to take action.  So, I committed the cardinal sin of health care in the technological age:  I Googled it. 

The Google.

I tell no less than ten people every week: “Do not Google your symptoms.”  Honestly, the using the internet is the quickest way to convince yourself that you are dying.  But you can’t stop people from using technology.  And  people want to think that they are dying.  They don’t necessarily want to be dying, but they want to think they are.  Because if they are dying, then they aren’t crazy.  Interestingly enough, I never have to tell people with mental health disorders not to Google their symptoms.  Those people know better.  They don’t want the Google to remind them that they are crazy. 

OK.  Let’s just play devil’s advocate for a minute:  What if you are on the edge?  What if you only suspect that you are crazy?  You have no actual diagnosis.  It’s probably alright to use the Google then, right?  You know, just to get an idea of what’s going on inside your head? 

That’s how I rationalized it. 

Crazy. 

OMGIMASCHIZOPHRENIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   Or bipolar.  Or have Borderline Personality Disorder.  Even worse, I may be hypnopompic!!!   I don’t know what that is, but I’m pretty sure it’s real bad.  And it will definitely get me committed.  Damnit.  I’m crazy.  Clinically.  That’s the diagnosis.  The Google confirmed it. 

Anxiety Disorder (with…)

Uh oh.  What if the internets were wrong?  What if I don’t have one of those conditions?  What if I’m not crazy…What if I just have an anxiety disorder? 

The most common mental health diagnosis is Anxiety Disorder.  It’s never just anxiety, though.  It’s anxiety disorder WITH depressed mood.  It’s anxiety disorder WITH disturbance of emotions.  It’s anxiety disorder WITH agoraphobia.  Anxiety is never just anxiety.  It always accompanies another, more concerning, disorder.  With all of that said, I don’t want anything to do with anxiety.  If I am going to be crazy, it’s going to be the good kind.  I don’t want there to be any grey area.  I want 27 personalities.  Or maybe chronic doomsday fantasies.  Even better, I want aliens to be sending me telepathic messages through my subconscious.  I will not settle for an anxiety disorder.  That’s a cop out.  Look.  I talk to myself.  This should be studied by Ivy League scholars.  They need to write a study about me.  I’m a phenomenon. 

Sanity. 

Nothing destroys visions of grandeur and infamy like the internet.  In this, the era of communication and connectivity, you learn quickly that nothing is original.  There are no “firsts” anymore.  Everything has already been done.  While I sat giving myself kudos for achieving a new level of crazy, the Google told me this:  “Talking to yourself is a sign of sanity.” 

I can’t have anything. 

Apparently, talking to yourself isn’t just a sign of sanity, it’s also a sign of intelligence, success, and fertility.  I don’t want any of that.  I wanna be bat shit crazy.  I want to be able to tell people that I have a clinical diagnosis that warrants this sort of irrationality.  I want an excuse.  So many other people get to act like jerks because of a medical condition.  I want that!!!  Turns out though, I’m just a jerk.  Actually, I’m a crazy jerk.  With no clinical findings to fall back on. 

LAME. 

Discouraged.

Yes.  I am discouraged because I haven’t been diagnosed with a mental illness. Or rather, I  haven’t been able to diagnose myself with a mental illness.   I’m pretty sure I have a good one though.  And when I get health insurance, I am going to demand a psych referral…But until then, I’ll keep talking to myself.  It’s my inner peas. 

A Good Stick

My, How Things Change.

A good stick is real hard to come by.  Wow.  That sure doesn’t mean the same thing as it did a few years ago.  No.  Scratch that.  It doesn’t even mean the same thing it meant in April.  I am always amazed at how experience and perspective change us.  The things that were once important sometimes give way to the things we never thought would be important.  For example, a good stick.  There was a time in my life that only had one connotation.  And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Then, three weeks ago, “a good stick” took on a whole new meaning.  And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since then…

A Good Stick.

It always confuses people that I wound up working in health care.  There are a lot of reasons.   I have always avoided the doctor.  I don’t particularly care for things I don’t understand (i.e. illness and death).  I have a very low tolerance for bullshit.  But, mostly, because I don’t do needles.  Ever.  EVER.  And blood.  I don’t do that either.  So, maybe medicine isn’t the place for me…Oh, but wait!  I found a job in medical records.  It was unexpected, but it kind of made sense.  I could work autonomously, in an organized fashion, while making visible progress in my work.  YES!!  It was unexpected, but it turned out to be a really good fit.  Until they told me that the job now requires needles.  And Blood. 

I’m out. 

“I’m Not Ready to Go.”

That’s what I told Doc.  “I’m not ready to go.”  And he said, “You may not be ready to go, but you need to be ready for invasive procedures.  It’s going to be part of your job.”  Well…goddamnit…That conversation happened this morning.  This afternoon, as I stood in Urgent Care, wearing a pair of blue non-latex gloves and very flattering protective eye wear, holding a NEEDLE at a 90 degree angle to a human arm, I confirmed my position…I am not ready to go. 

OMG!!!  O.M.G!!!!! OH MY GOD!!! I was not ready to go, but I went.  I stuck a man in the arm.  With a 1 inch, 23 gauge NEEDLE!!!.  And he didn’t die.  He didn’t cry.  He didn’t lose consciousness.  He didn’t EVEN bleed!  What?  (Please let the record indicate that I almost cried.  And I almost lost consciousness.  And. for a brief moment, I thought I might die.)  But we both made it through.  By the grace of God.

Yes.  This Had to Have Been Divine Intervention. 

While I was administering my first injection, Johnny walked in.  I don’t perform well under pressure.  But my pride (and the VERY REAL prospect of losing my job), demanded that I act cool.  So, I finished the injection in textbook form.  Then Johnny said: “Hey.  Wanna draw my blood?”  No.  No!  NO!!  Uh…NOOOOOOO!!!!.  ßThat was my inner monologue.  What I actually said was “Sure.”  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!  But it happened anyway.  Then, I got a good stick.  I drew blood.  I stuck a needle in a human arm and blood came out.  And, again, nobody died.  Nobody needed therapy.  Ok.  I did.  But those other guys didn’t. 

Needles and Blood and Needles????

This is my achievement, right?  You probably think I’m trying to seek validation for overcoming my fears.  And, admittedly, I am kind of a bad ass.  This really isn’t about me, though.  This is about the people who have allowed me the confidence and the perspective to do the impossible.  This is about the doctor who laid down a dismal reality.  This is about the colleague who has spent 5 of the last 20 hours working with me to become competent in this new reality.  It’s about the friend with good veins who didn’t even hesitate to let me make him bleed.  It’s about the COUNTLESS people who walk into my office and say:  “Let’s do this…”  or “Do you have a minute?”  or “Come to the classroom and study with us.” Or “I will do whatever it takes to help you.”  COUNTLESS PEOPLE.  Offering their support, their time, their bodies, and their knowledge.  These are the people who have made this experience not about the needles and the blood, but about love, commitment, dedication and perspective.  Point and case: it wasn’t so very long ago that I wanted a good stick from Johnny.  And today, I got one.  That’s inner peas. 

Simple Creatures

Hi.  My name is Angela.  And I don’t understand men.

For those of you who don’t know about my past relationship history…Ok, sorry…Let me start over…For those of you who have chosen to listen to my past relationship history, here it is.  Again.  When I was 19, I started dating the guy who would become my first boyfriend.  When I was 20, I married that guy.  When I was 31, that guy and I got divorced.  So, for those of you who can complete a simple math equation, you can figure that 1/3 of my life and pretty much my entire adult life, I was engaged in a relationship with the same dude.  Uhhhhh….Well…Guess what happens when you find yourself divorced at 31 after having one solid relationship under your belt.

Uh….(That’s what happens.)

There I was.  With a child.  A job.  A couple of cats.  Living in the country.  And now I was single.  Ok.  Divorced.  I’ve been told it’s not really the same thing.  But it is kind of???  Ok.  Anyway.  There I was.  “Alone.”  I decided to go to the beach.  To go to bars.  To go to the city.  I had friends over for dinner.  I did stuff.  But after being with the same man for 11 years, I had no idea how men worked.  That’s the PERFECT time to start dating.  :-l ß No, it really isn’t.  But I dabbled a little.  And the outcome was always the same:  “Uhhhh????”

Sometimes they moved too fast.  Sometimes I expected too much.  Sometimes I didn’t understand a man’s intentions.  Mostly, I didn’t understand my own intentions.  After all, I h ad been married for my Entire.  Adult.  Life.  What’s the unit of measurement when you only have one experience to measure off of?  What do you do with that? 

Expectations. (That’s what you do with it.)

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  Sorry.  I can’t help but laugh when I think about expectations.  But anyway, as time passed, I started talking to men.  And I expected certain things from them.  For example, I expected them to ask me out.  And they did.  I expected them to understand what I meant.   HAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!  Ok…Sorry.  I still am laughing at expectations.  I realize it was foolish for me to expect men to understand what women mean.  I mean, c’mon.  It’s pretty complicated.  When we say things like “I had a good time”, it actually means “I had a good time.” Or we might say something along of the lines of “I’ll call you tomorrow.”  Believe it or not, that means that we will call you tomorrow.  Or when we say something like “why don’t you come over for dinner?”  We actually mean, “Hey come over for dinner.  Maybe we can have sex and a good meal.  Even dessert?”   IT DOESN’T MEAN I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES, YOU ASS!!!!

So, expectations were real hard for me.  Even though they seemed logical, they never seemed to translate over gender lines.  And I spent a lot of time trying to figure out where the disconnect was.  You know, that empty space between what women say to men and what men hear women say.  I was tortured by it.  How can something this simple be so complicated?  My girlfriends tried to explain it to me.  “Angela,” they said, “it’s too easy.  Men are only interested in the chase.  It’s exciting.  When  you are honest with them…Or nice to them…Or too accepting of them, they lose interest.  You need to play the game.”  Uhhhh…..What?  The?  Fuck?

Simple Creatures.  (This is not a metaphor).

In case you didn’t capture my emotion…WHAT THE FUCK???  I don’t understand games.  So, I told my girlfriends:  “I don’t understand games.  And I’m not going to play them. “  I stood by my position on this for a VERY long time.  Then, by accident, I gave into the game.  And I got a very unexpected response.  And by unexpected response, I mean that I got a response.  From a man.  And I was baffled.  So, I took to the streets in search of the answer.  I asked all of my male gendered friends “What happened?  How is it that after all of these years of being honest about my expectations and acting reasonable, I got nothing?  But as soon as I act like a raging cunt and make myself unavailable, I suddenly am the hottest commodity on the market??”  And the answer I got was simple.  A little surprising.  But very simple.  My friend Pedro shared this insight with me:  “Women need to realize that what happens in a man’s head is nothing even close to resembling what happens in a woman’s head.  When you realize that, your entire gender will be better off.  Men are SIMPLE creatures.  Women are not.”  And all the men in the room, at the same time, nodded their heads in agreement.  Pedro continued:  “When we hear a woman say ‘yeah, call if you want’, we assume that it cool to keep playing Xbox and we’ll call when we actually want  When we hear a woman say ‘I hate you and I will kill your entire family’, we assume you mean business and will ACTUALLY kill our entire family.  We are SIMPLE.”  Huh. 

Huh.

So, now what?  I am not going to change my ways.  I am not going to become hateful and hostile and resentful to get a man.  Because I have enough game playing in my life.  Enough hurdles to jump over.  I have enough bullshit.  If getting a man’s attention only comes at my own anguish, then I’ll be cool with a vibrator and 8 rechargeable batteries.  It’s that simple.  And I don’t think that I should have to be the one to suffer because I am honest about my intentions.  AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE ANYONE’S BABIES!!!!  So how’s that for inner peas? 

Writing

 

Why Write?

I sometimes feel pretentious posting to this blog.  I mean, come on…Do I really think that the ideas and feelings I write about are important enough to share with the ENTRE internet?  Of course, I don’t.  But I do hope that, on some level, the things I write about are relatable to others.  And in all honesty, I write for release.  I write to find peace.  I write to connect with my feelings.  I write to expel the demons.  If we have ever met, and we all have, you know that I am the proverbial “open book.”   That’s the reason I share my written thoughts in such a public forum…because when I can talk through the crazy, and occasionally, when other people understand it, I feel more at ease with my journey. 

Escape (Metaphor…sort of): 

Some people run.  Some people read.  Some people nap.  Some people listen to music.  Some people play music.  Some write.  The point is we all need a release.  We all need a place to go where we can let our minds be free for a little while.  We need a place where the responsibilities of the day can be reduced to insignificance.  Even if only momentarily.  Life is overwhelming.  We have to find an escape.  You may lift weights.  Or cook.  Or cross stitch.  Or light a candle.  I write. 

AAAAGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!  (ßThat’s what it sounds like in my brain.  EVERYDAY.):

I don’t know what the inside of your head sounds like, but mine is always very loud.  Lots of yelling.  Lots of profanity.  Lots of urgency.  All.  The.  Time.  Every waking moment, my conscious is screaming at me to do something.  Get out of bed.  Feed the cats.  Feed the kid.  Answer the phone.  Get to that meeting.  Pay the bills. Get gas. Cut the grass. Don’t forget milk.  FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!!  COOK DINNER!!!!  Every minute of every day, there’s something.  In my head, there is never one second of silence. 

So, it’s interesting that after all of the years of therapy, with countless therapists who told me “Keep a journal.  Write down your thoughts.  That can be your release.”  I finally did.  And it actually works.  Hundreds of hours on a sterile couch and who knows how many thousands of dollars spent listening to “professionals” tell me how to fix my crazy.  It turned out to be the same advice my dad gave me when I was nine years old that saved me.  (Lesson:  Maybe listen to your parents.  They aren’t as dumb as they look.)

The Challenge:

Sometimes I turn on the TV when I don’t want to think about reality.  Sometimes I drive a quarter mile to the coffee shop when I think I don’t have time to walk.  Sometimes I microwave a dinner for Radley when cooking seems like too much work.  This is the thing...sometimes we take advantage of the conveniences in life, simply because they are convenient.  But very seldom do we feel fulfilled by what is convenient.  I never feel smarter after I watch TV.  I never feel more energized after driving to the coffee shop.  I never feel like a better parent when I feed Radley something out of the microwave.  But sometimes, we have to take advantage the simplicity technology has allowed us.  On the other hand, sometimes we need to forget that simplicity, and do something more challenging.  We need to read a book.  Or walk to get coffee.  Or cook a meal from scratch. It seems contradictory, but it’s the challenge that allows for escape.  That’s why we push our bodies, our minds, and our spirits.  Because we can only find a meaningful escape by challenging ourselves to do so…we can only find peace by working for our inner peas. 

 

 

Introspection: Golden Gate

 

Everything Happens for a Reason, Right? 

This afternoon, I sat with my hippie sister…both of us only days away walking away from a lifestyle we have known for most of our adult lives.  Jessica looked at me and said:  “Everything does NOT happen for a reason.  But the people we are usually dictates how we will react to the things that happen to us.”  She spoke those words after she had watched me agonize all day about having to leave this job I love…the part of my life that has been a constant for 15 years.  And as her words rang, back and forth, in my mind, I realized that it isn’t necessarily the job that I am losing.  It’s the people.  People like Jessica.  And people who have given me a purpose for the last decade and a half. 

The Greater Good.

The best part about my job is that I get to meet and love a lot of people.  People with different ideals.  People with different convictions.  People from all different cultures.  But they all have something in common:  They choose to commit themselves to something bigger…to the greater good.  And as I listened to my little sister try to put my mind at ease today, I began to think about what I will miss the most about this job…the people.  Then, later, as I drove home, my mind idled at the memories of a certain group of people.  A group of people who have, every day, reminded me about who I work for.  And for that matter, have reminded me why I go to work every day. 

Golden Gate:

Coast Guard Station Golden Gate is situated in an idyllic location at the foot of the North Tower of the Golden Gate Bridge.  The unit’s location is breathtaking.  It is the best place in the bay to capture views of the San Francisco skyline, the Marin Headlands, and the iconic copper bridge.  Station Golden Gate is perpetually on the list of the Coast Guard’s three busiest units.  I don’t have the exact numbers, but the unit conducts something like 600 search and rescue cases a year, 400 law enforcement boardings, and 200 environmental responses every year.  For a crew of 50, that’s a pretty impressive workload.  Not to mention the jumpers.  More than 250 people leap to a very unromantic death, each year, from the Golden Gate Bridge.  It is the responsibility of Golden Gate’s crew to recover the bodies of those tortured souls. 

These tremendous tasks have made Station Golden Gate the topic of books, television documentaries, and newspaper articles.  It’s kind of hard to imagine that, three years ago, the men and women of Station Golden Gate became my responsibility.  These heroes are mine. 

The Gate and Her People: 

Since I, inadvertently,  took “responsibility” for the Gate, I’ve been deeply moved by the reality and the humanity there.  For example, the Executive Petty Officer who helped us get his crew medically ready for world wide deployment.  The woman who lead where very few had lead before her.  The mouthy kid who burned my ass, but turned out to be one of the most outstanding,  courageous people I have ever met.  The trio who, only three years ago, envisioned a 5 and 12k race, that turned into something much bigger than any of them had expected it could be.  The next Executive Petty Officer, who showed compassion to a mistreated shipmate.  A CO, who always takes my calls, despite the fact he’s running an entire unit.  The guy who walked around with a punctured lung for five months before seeking medical treatment…Same guy was driving boats in heavy surf less than a month after having surgery to repair his lung.  The kids who call on the days they have to run five miles, and plead with me, “Ms. Angela, please tell them I’m too sick to run!!!”  The friend who always listens to my meltdowns before asking me to send down supplies and medicine.  The third Executive Petty Officer, who told me "we are not going to be BFFs."  As it turns out.  We are BFFs.  The young people I have held in my arms, when their sorrow outweighed my own.  The First and Second Class Petty Officers, who lead by example.  And when I say lead by example, I mean that they would get underway with pneumonia before they missed a day of work.  (For the record, that’s a terrible example to set.) The gate and her people have taught me a lot.  And reminded me a lot about what’s important. 

Journey. 

These people are mine.  Nobody can ever take that away.  They are part of the reason that I am heartbroken over having to leave this job.  But they are also the reminder that I had a purpose here.  Even when I get discouraged and question my direction.  I will always have the memory of these people to bring a smile, and maybe some solace, to my heart.  They are part of my journey…They are part of my inner peas. 

 

Send A Little Grace...

When you gonna come for me lord,

when ya gonna come for me?

I've been expecting you forever,

waiting here for you

Will you send a little grace,

its the least that you could do...

-As performed by Antje Duvekot

 

 

Grace:

Last month, when I was melting down in universally epic proportion and proceeded to burn bridges and sever ties and do whatever other cliché describes annihilating relationships, I received this song in my inbox.  From one of those, now, burned bridges.  (Take a listen.  There are very few who won’t relate, somehow…http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EEiwyx84JA) Anywho,  I didn’t understand the pain or the panic or the insatiable desire to destroy meaningful relationships.  My hurt was so intense that the only relief I had was unleashing that hurt onto others…onto those I love most.   I needed a little grace.  A lot of grace, actually.  And when I listened to the lyrics of this song, I began to weep.  Tears of sorrow.  Tears of pain.  Tears of relief.  Because, what I hadn’t realized was that I needed a little emotional reprieve… just a little grace. 

When You Gonna Come for Me? 

People who know me, know that my spirituality is more natural and cosmic than it is divine.  But the scope of one’s spiritual inclination isn’t necessarily the question, nor is it the answer, when you need something to believe in.  The fact is, we all need a little grace sometimes.   And when you reach a point when the physical world no longer provides you with solace, you have to look to someplace less physical, less structured, less understandable.  You have to find your faith. 

My mom always says “replace your fear with faith, Angela.”  Even at 33, I still roll my eyes at her.   IT’S JUST NOT THAT EASY, LADY!!!!!!  But she does have a valid point.  Faith is the antithesis of fear.  Faith is the only thing that gets us through difficult times.  In all honesty, sometimes, faith is the only thing that gets me to work in the morning.  Because we have to believe that we are ambling through life’s labyrinth for some purpose.  (DISCLAIMER:  Please don’t misinterpret my meaning here.  I am not necessarily talking about a purpose that leads us heaven or reincarnation or whatever afterlife you believe in.  I am more talking about our purpose in the physical realm).  We need faith that we are here for a reason. 

Pearls (It’s a Metaphor):

So, what is this “purpose”?  What is our reason for being?  I suppose that we are all left to our own devices to try to figure those answers out for ourselves.  But I keep thinking about a line in this song:  “With all the sand that gets inside this world//We should all be mother fucking pearls.”  And so I wonder if that is our purpose.  Maybe we are here to transform from coarse particles of rock into something smooth and iridescent.  Maybe our purpose is to refine ourselves and our experiences and try to leave this world brighter and more beautiful than we found it.  And maybe our faith is the vehicle we use to make the transformation.  Not just our spirituality.  But our faith.  Our faith in ourselves.  Our faith in each other.  Our faith that we do actually have a purpose.   If you look at a string of pearls, you see that the gems are very seldom perfect.  In despite of that, you can’t help but marvel at the fact those glowing beads grew from a tiny grains of sand. 

Inner Peas:

A few nights ago, I was with a friend when this song played on iTunes.  He asked me what I thought it meant.  And without hesitation, I said “inner peace.”  All the time I had spent analyzing it, analyzing myself...and the answer was there the whole time.  It’s about everything I’ve been trying to seek and explore.  Inner peas. 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear John,

 

Dear John,

John:

So, a few years ago, I met this guy.  His name was John.  When I first met him, he struck me as a giant douche bag.  Always go with your first impression, right?  Well, many notable people in my life have told me “Angela, you are a terrible judge of character.  Never go with your first impression.”  So, I didn’t.  And I fell in love with this guy…John. 

Metaphor (Yes…everything is a metaphor to me.)

So, who is John?  John is the guy who picks up hookers down in the tenderloin.  John is the guy who gets a termination letter from his old lady while he’s deployed.  John isn’t just any Tom, Dick, or Harry.  John is John.  He isn’t just your ordinary Joe.  John is who he is.  Sometimes he’s a victim.  Sometimes he’s a predator.  But John is always different.  He always has a struggle.  He is the metaphor for humanity, particularly for the male gender. 

My John:

Who is MY John, you ask? My John is different.  My John is a solitary creature.  My John only feels accomplishment by committing himself to his profession.  My John doesn’t talk a lot.  He doesn’t let people in.  He doesn’t get attached.  He has lost a lot.  But, my John doesn’t EVER show weakness.  My John is also very humble.  He believes that his purpose is to contribute to the greater good.  He holds others accountable for their actions, because in John’s world, someone could die from ineptitude.   

Dear John, I will Always Love You:

Maybe you are wondering why I would dedicate an entire afternoon to writing about “John.”  I’ve asked myself the same question.  But this is the thing…John isn’t just a metaphor.  John is a constant.  He’s always there.  Even when I ignore him.  He’s there.  Even when he tries to ignore me, he’s there.  And I will always love him.  I will always love his honest, reliable, callous, and sometimes vulnerable nature.  Always. 

The Point:

I always write for a reason.  Usually, I write to understand my feelings or to find closure.   I humor myself with the idea that other people will read what I have to say and relate, on some level.  In all of this time, I have never written about John.  And I have never been able to close the door on him.  I know, now, that I never will.  I will love John forever.  But I don’t have to be in love with John forever.  I can never move forward in any relationship until I accept John for what he meant in my life.  John is John.  No pretense.  No Bullshit.  I don’t ever want him to NOT be a part of my life.  He brings an air of reality and responsibility to every interaction.  He makes my crazy seems subtle. But he's always going to be there.  And I am going to always love him.   So, I needed to address his ever looming presence in my life so that it helps me find my inner peas.