bad news bears

Word of advice: decide within your family (ahead of time) what constitutes "bad news." My mom called me today while I was working at a friend's house. I answered the second time. It's unusual for her to call during the day since she's a teacher and typically gives me shit for making her look bad when her phone rings in class. I asked if it was lunch time and she sort of mumbled. There was something a bit off in her tone - either she was waiting to tell me something I didn't want to hear or she was having a momentary lapse in sanity and thought I was five years old again. I asked if everything was okay and she said no.

I don't remember if it was her who suggested it or me, but I said I'd call her when I got home; I only had a few things to finish up and didn't live too far. I told myself I was fine. And I was, except for the feelings that rose like smoke signal from my gut. I couldn't help it. I imagined what I was going to do when she told me something had happened to my dad. Who would I call? Where would I go? Would I get on a plane? Could I finish my work? I imagined how hard I would cry and my vision immediately blurred. But wait, they don't even speak, how would she know if something happened to him? The last time he was in the hospital, they called me directly. So was it my brother? He recently dislocated his shoulder, maybe he'd injured himself again. Oh god. I think of all the tough things I can handle in life, something happening to my brother just isn't among them. So my fears got the best of my brain and stopped those synapses in their tracks. Maybe it was my cousin. But why wouldn't she just tell me? I tried to snap out of it. I told myself to enjoy these last few moments of ignorance. The sky was beautiful, the trees were reflecting light off their melting branches. But just as soon as I would take a deep breath, another smoke signal would set off and collect like a fog in my mind. I tried to find a cheery song on the radio. It only made me want to push John Mayer down some stairs.

I started dialing before I even got up my steps, timing it so I had just enough time to open the door and take off my boots before I'd hear the news... It was Leeloo, my cat. I started to laugh and cry at the same time. I couldn't tell if I was actually feeling anything for poor Leeloo because I was so relieved I wouldn't be attending any funerals in the near future. Leeloo has pretty much been my mom's cat for the last seven years, so it's no surprise she'd project great upset at her loss. The darn thing barely said hello to me when I'd visit, yet she slept on my mom's head every night. I'll miss her though, most especially next time I go home to visit and won't see her hopping sideways down the stairs to greet me.

Still, as I mourn the loss of my little friend, and feel for my mom as she adapts to a quieter household, I learned something very valuable today: We are f-ing crazy, and it's always better to know the truth than to entertain our fear-fueled fantasies. To be honest, I remember thinking of it as a small challenge when she said she had bad news. I pretty much always want to know things right away - I want to open presents before Christmas, I want to know what people are saying when they're whispering, I just like to know. So I thought I was doing the responsible thing. And maybe I was. It's just so fascinating how our  fears can so quickly take over when we think something's wrong. How from one moment to the next, the slightest hint of vulnerability can turn the world into a scary place. I don't know, maybe I'm too dramatic, maybe it's an actor thing, or maybe I'm actually really lucky to have had the opportunity to feel those things without them happening in real life. Maybe if we used our minds to build compassion that way, it wouldn't be so scary when it actually happened. Maybe, just maybe, we'd even make better decisions in the present.

I don't know, it's just a thought, but I think I'll go call my dad and my brother now.

(i'm glad) some things never change

I've always loved looking at photos of my friends when they were wee little munchkins. Last year for my birthday, I asked my friends to bring along their favorite kid pictures to my party and it was even more fun than I imagined. My favorite part (besides the typically awesome fashion) is noticing the subtle qualities and attributes that are so uniquely “them;" that even twenty or thirty, or forty, years later, they still curl their lip on one side or squint that one eye, or have that expression as if they're waiting for mom to say it's okay to dig in to dessert. You know, those indescribable nuances that allow you to recognize them in a crowd or at a great distance—the way they walk, the way they slouch, they way they flick their hair (even if they no longer have any). There’s a certain innocence to existence I think we often forget, or mistakenly think we lose. We all start out as these little lumps of flesh and love, and then we grow up, and somehow we believe we’re supposed to know stuff, have stuff, do stuff... But deep down, we’re that same little child who stared in awe out the car window, endlessly fascinated with every movement, every smell, every sound. This, I believe, is our nature—this curiosity and joyfulness. I love that photos from our past can be a reminder of that. I was inspired to write about this because I discovered an amazing photo project by Irina Werning. She's been recreating people’s childhood photos at their current age. This is what she says about it:

"I love old photos. I admit being a nosey photographer. As soon as I step into someone else’s house, I start sniffing for them. Most of us are fascinated by their retro look but to me, it’s imagining how people would feel and look like if they were to reenact them today... A few months ago, I decided to actually do this. So, with my camera, I started inviting people to go back to their future."

Quite literally, she takes my fascination to a whole new level. Check them out, I’m sure you’ll love them. Here are a few of my favorites...

the war of art

Speaking of productivity and tackling those projects that turn from light bulbs to dark clouds over your head over time, I'm reminded of an amazing book I read a couple years ago. In fact, I'm going to take it off my bookshelf and re-read it 'cause it's just that good. A friend recommended it to me and then actually bought it for me when he was visiting NYC. He's a screenwriter and he swears it changed his life. When I lived in LA, I used to have lunch or coffee with him and was always impressed when he said he had to go "work." I was like, what work? To him, this meant spending hours on end in a coffee shop on Beverly and typing away on his laptop. This was, of course, long before he was nominated for several Emmys and a Golden Globe, when he was merely a bit-part actor struggling to get by. It just goes to show how persistence and hard work can go a long way. I'm telling you, this book well help light that fire under your bottom and blow any excuse you come up with to stop out of the water. As if that's not testimony enough, it's divided into short, digestable chapters that are entertaining and highly relatable. Okay, I'm going to stop writing and pick up the book now.

freedom for sale (pt. 1)

As you are likely well aware, I think a lot about a lot of things—mostly benign, inconsequential things, but in the end, don’t all our experiences play an equal part in shaping what we call existence?  I was sucked down the rabbit hole once again on a recent trip to the gym.  I don’t know if they have this at many gyms, but shortly upon entering there is a table with a small basket on it.  If you look inside this basket, you will find a uniform pattern of metal, plastic, leather, and possibly something furry – otherwise known as: a pile of keys.  On a busy day, the pile will overflow onto the table and resemble the entrance of one of the parties, you know, with the keys, and the husbands, and the wives...  Anyway, the first time I saw this, I remember thinking, “Wow, anyone could just take someone’s keys and take off,” to which I was immediately horrified at my own assumptions and projections about people.  I then proceeded to logically evaluate the situation.  If someone is a member of the gym and goes there to work out, it’s highly unlikely they happen to be a car thief planning on pumping some iron before taking off in someone’s Range Rover.  Also, this particular gym is located in a fairly well off suburban area, where I often leave my keys in my car when I run into a store and almost always leave it unlocked.  Then I began to think a bit deeper about what it means to have a key basket based on the very real fact that someone could take someone’s car keys and with a small amount of work, could even have access to their home.  When I think about the generous collection of keys at my gym, I feel excited and hopeful.  For me, it signifies trust.  For some, it may just be convenient.  But even though I used to just carry my keys in my pocket, I now make a point of putting them in the basket* on account of what it represents. *Since the time this was written, I'm sad to report the key basket has been removed. I didn't ask why, but I'm going to make a point of doing so. To be continued...

this blog is a lonely hunter

It's interesting to me how my feelings towards blogging change, transform, evolve and sometimes hide in the attic for extended periods of time. It's not that I don't think about it, I do, but like an owed phone call to a distant relative, the more time that goes by, the harder it gets. The spontaneous spurts of daily inspiration don't seem heavy enough to warrant a comeback, but I rarely sit down to channel the deeper workings of my psyche into something I hope will be interesting and meaningful to others. Rational or not, I realize it's beside the point - the value rests just as much in my experience writing as it does in any feedback I receive, and it's only when I commit myself to the former that I find any satisfaction in the latter. Along  the way, I've learned a lot about the power of the written word, often reaching people in ways I never expected. This definitely inspires me the most, and is perhaps also why I struggle the most. What started as an innocent attempt to feel I had something important to say, has lead to a deeper questioning of what I actually want to say and why; sometimes the answers are easy, sometimes not, but always seem to lead to more questions. Still, underneath the doubts and rationalizations is a genuine desire to connect with the rest of the world, to share the stories I hope are relatable and inspirational, building my own sense of knowledge and wisdom in the process. Often I don't even know the moral of a story until I write it. The action itself helps me tap into something other than myself, finding lessons in even the most seemingly benign occasions. Since nothing is meaningful unto itself, it's our experience, beliefs, filters and values that make it, so I learn a lot in the process. What is meaningful to me and why? Ultimately, these questions are what I hope to inspire in others.

Well it seems I've written a perfectly self-referential post, a regular Cervantes, Charlie Kaufman or, let's face it, Mel Brooks. In any case, I'm happy to be writing again. How is everyone? See any good movies? Read any good books? Have any profound realizations in the bathtub?

scents of wisdom

Today I pulled up beside a rumbling semi-truck, my window barely reaching the height of the tires.  The sound was loud, but I wasn’t bothered by it, I was entranced.  When I was a kid, my dad took us on boat trips.  My mom used to say it was the only place he felt at peace, on the ocean’s vast expanse.  We would travel to little islands, spending the night moored at creaking docks, swimming in lakes, and losing fishing weights off the back of the boat – I always wondered where they ended up, the lost and found at the bottom of the sea.  I would sit in the galley playing solitaire, eating cream cheese on wheat thins, or, like any other solitude seeking teenager, reading Carlos Castaneda in my tiny cave of a bedroom.  Or I would be found sitting cross-legged on the bow, navigating our course with my thoughts.  I don’t know what it was like for my dad, reliving his previous life as a sea captain perhaps, but I know that for me, as we became a speck barely visible from shore, I felt freer than I’d ever felt.  I felt connected to the world and connected to myself.  Nothing was impossible and nothing truly mattered, only the wind luring tears down my cheeks and the sun kissing freckles on my nose.  I could almost smell the salty air as I sat in traffic today, inhaling the intoxicating smell of the diesel engine.  My body began to sigh with a tinge of sadness, but I quickly recovered and embraced the memory, recognizing I can feel this way whenever I want.  I took a deep breath.  The freedom is within in me.  Then the light turned green.

dirty deeds

When I was in 9th grade, we did a science experiment where we took a swab of any area of the school we wanted and grew bacteria cultures. It was an opportunity to let the forensic juices flow and attempt to expose the most unassuming germ factory. We were told not to swab the toilets, an obvious bacteria festival, but my curious mind couldn't help but ponder the ritual of hand-washing, and its effectiveness. The reason being, we typically turn on the tap (with our germ covered mitts), wash our hands, and turn off the tap (with our clean mitts, touching the dirty faucet). Herein lay the inconsistency. However, this was the 90’s, before automatic sensors were the norm. Today, my experiment would be irrelevant. Considering I grew up with manual faucets, toilets with handles, and car jack style paper towel dispensers, I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve adapted to our current bathroom luxuries. More than once, I’ve nearly walked out of a stall, registering the silence, and recognized that the toilet wasn’t flushing on its own. “Have I really become so entitled?” I would ask myself as I flush it with my foot. Have I really come to expect nothing less than subservient machines making my toilet going as easy as a no touch car wash? The truth is, yes. But not because I need it, or even care that much, but because I’m a highly adaptable human being. It never particularly bothered me, having to flush the toilet, turn on the tap, nor pump my own soap. It was a routine I did, if not joyously, at least neutrally; usually preoccupied with other past or future events.

I didn’t think much of the germs despite my ninth grade experiment. I hadn’t known anyone to die after using a public restroom, and was pretty sure the stress of avoiding all possible foreign antibodies would be much more detrimental to my health than a little critter hanging out on my hands for a while. So it’s funny, then, that I feel totally programmed to expect automation. It would seem that it has more to do with convenience with health. I have no idea why it’s become the standard. Did people complain about having to flush their own toilet? Is it better for the plumbing? Surely it doesn’t conserve water usage. Can you say premature flushes? Perhaps the fact that the faucets only work half the time, or only work when you find the sweet spot, often left untapped by exasperated potty goers, is what makes up for all the flushing action. My favorite image is watching someone wave frantically in front of the faucet, only to realize it’s not automatic. That’s classic.

But in all seriousness, I bet some children know nothing else. What will happen to these poor ignorant souls when they travel overseas? They shalt leave toilets unflushed and with hands unwashed. It’s a dirty thought, but a serious one. Well, not that serious. I suppose metaphorically it’s interesting to think about what happens to our brain processing when we stop having to do things for ourselves and rarely have to figure out how things work. For now, it’s bathrooms. Next it will be kitchens, then cars. Soon, we won’t even need to think about how to work our bodies because they’ll run themselves. Have a nice ride!

petty in pink

When I was six years old, my mom signed me up for a ballet class.  I don’t think it was my first foray into ballet.  I think another girl I knew had joined so I decided I wanted to go too.  I remember being filled with trepidation and excitement.  I had donned my pink leotard and placed each bobby pin just so.  I was a very meticulous child.  I learned to dress myself before I could walk and I French braided my own hair in primary school.  I think I learned things quickly so I felt like I could control them; as long as I knew the rules, life was safe and predictable.  Or so I thought.  The first day of dance class brought with it one of life’s hard lessons, one I’ll never forget.  Apparently my attention to detail was nothing more than a misguided attempt at fitting in, so you can imagine my dismay when I showed up to a class full of Chinese girls in blue leotards.  They were tall, lean and graceful; I was short, pink and far too focused on what I looked like to pay any attention to what I was supposed to be doing.  You see, the lesson I learned was not that one must phone ahead to get the dress code (though it might be recommended), it’s that fitting in is an effect of showing up, not the other way around.  Often we’re so scared of not fitting in, that we avoid or even stay away from situations we’d really like to be.  Unfortunately, had I known ahead of time that I was going to be the pink flamingo flailing around in a sea of swans, I probably wouldn’t have shown up at all.  Sometimes it’s better not to do too much research.  You run the risk of scaring yourself out of doing it altogether or building enough intellectual knowledge that you tell yourself you don’t need the actual experience because you already know it.

Despite how traumatized I was showing up to a ballet class in pink, and despite developing an oversensitivity to wearing the right outfit, I’m happy I can look back on those experiences and see how much I’ve grown.  How could I have known better?  How can we ever truly know?  It’s what makes life interesting and exciting; it’s what allows us to see ourselves – who we are and who we are not.  When I was little, I didn’t know I was separate from my pink tutu, that I wasn’t defined by my pink tutu, that it wasn’t my identity.  Now I can see very clearly, it was just a pink tutu, and I feel compassion for those moments of distress.  It’s funny actually, I also remember making paper mache pigs in first grade.  We covered balloons in newspaper and glue, used egg cartons for ears and pipe cleaner for a tail.  I remember taking great pains to evenly paint a thick pink coat, to get the ears perfectly glued, and his eyes looking in the right direction.  At one point during this process, I looked over, probably remembering I hadn’t recently absorbed oxygen, and saw that one of my classmates had painted her pig blue.  BLUE!  I experienced the same shock and horror as I did that first day of ballet, only this day it was projectively through my friend.  Didn’t she know pigs were supposed to be pink?  I hadn’t even considered venturing beyond my experience of what I knew to be true.  I had been afraid of what might happen if I didn’t color inside the lines, it was unknown territory, but after looking at her bright blue creation, I was envious.  I, too, would like to have painted a pig blue.  Probably that particular friend would have shown up to ballet in her underwear and been fine with it, that was just how she was.  Being older now, I have different rules and hopefully have grown out of the most limiting of perceptual boundaries.  But the reality is, I wouldn’t know.  I still color in the lines as I perceive them and anything outside is slightly dim in comparison, yet to be illuminated.  In many ways, that’s how I see the world.  Like a coloring book where I create the lines and I fill in the colors – using as many or as few as I want, as vibrant or as dull.  I can either remain inside, or I can step over the line to see what’s on the other side.  Perhaps in doing so, I will see there is a bigger picture to be filled.

Fly Like An Eagle

Growing up, my mom, my brother and I took many a road trip to visit family in the mystical mountains of British Columbia.  My mom was raised in a tiny, Bavarian-themed ski town about ten or eleven hours east of Vancouver, and it served as our holiday destination during nearly every school break.  It’s where I first learned to snowboard, first learned how to play drinking games at the local pub, and where I watched my cousins be born, become kids, and grow into little adults.  It’s a special place for me, with special people, but just as the destination holds a treasured place in my heart, so does the journey.  I still relish in the memories I created on those drives, stopping at fresh fruit stands, playing word games, trying to memorize the towns along the way, and even sometimes stopping half way to stay in a humid hotel room with a rattling air conditioner.  There was rarely a trip when we didn’t spot a soaring bald eagle overheard, or a regal hawk watching over us.  We saw deer and other wildlife as well, but the birds were especially precious to me. Somewhere in her life, my mom developed a special appreciation and affection for Native American culture; in Canada, the First Nations.  I’m not sure exactly why, perhaps it was the time she spent teaching school children on a Native Reserve, maybe some past life connection, or simply her love of humanity and nature that brought her close to their ancient spiritual beliefs.  Regardless, it was a reverence she instilled in us, and an experience of awe we share.  By the time I was born, my mother’s brother and father had both passed away, my only relationship with them consisting of familiar stories and photographs.  But whenever we saw an eagle soaring proudly over our puttering sedan, my mom would sigh, teary eyed.  She would share her thoughts through an emotional smile, “There’s my dad, looking after us.”  I believed her every time.  To this day, I think of her every time I see an eagle, and I feel safe, connected.  I think of her long lost relatives watching over me, protecting me.  When I was seven, my grandmother passed away.  Since then, every hawk I see evokes the same feeling of interconnectedness.  I don’t know why my mom shared this with us; if she hoped to inspire awe or simply share her own experience.  I don’t even know if it comes from any Native tradition.  But after all these years, it is a gift for which I am eternally grateful.  It’s a reminder that we’re connected to everything, that freedom lives within us, as does the history of every being that came before.  Life is full of these experiences, if we choose to see them.  Sometimes it just helps to have a little reminder.  Thanks mom.

Happiness in the New Year

"Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

On some level, I find New Year's resolutions, and even some celebrations, to be somewhat irrelevant.  I think introspection, reflection and evaluation are practices that ought to be part of daily living.  However, there is symbolic value to starting the year anew, with a renewed vitality and outlook.  The trick is to not give up when you hit bumps in the road.  Don't wait until next year to get back on your workout program, to reconnect with old friends, to eat less, love more, whatever it may be.  I think being realistic is the best thing you can do for yourself when looking to "resolve" old habits that no longer serve you.  I mean, we created them for a reason, as illogical as they may seem.  In keeping with that gesture, my one New Year's resolution is to be kinder - to myself and to others; to allow myself to fail, to make mistakes, to not know the answer, to forget things, to be human, but most importantly, a joyful human.

I don't know what you're looking for in your life, but I hope you find joy and happiness as much in the search as the destination.

Okay that's enough pontificating.  I had an awesome holiday and here are some of the highlights:

• surprising my mom on Christmas eve - she had no idea i was coming home.  in fact, she was probably in the middle of telling the neighbors how "okay" she was with my not coming home for christmas, when i burst in and surprised her.  she could barely speak.  it was awesome.
• going boxing day shopping with my bro and him finding me a super warm winter coat sans duck feathers for half price.  thanks addie!
• hot yoga every day...  beautiful space, inspiring teachers, and challenging classes.  i highly recommend yyoga. namaste.
• having deep, philosophical conversations with my dad and learning more and more how alike we are.
• seeing my old best friend from high school and picking up just where we left off.
• discovering Vancouver's newest raw food cafe and creation factory "Organic Lives." Keep up the awesomeness Preet!
• having a girls night with raw treats and chai, post yoga and infrared sauna.  seriously, my girlfriends are intense and i love them for it.  next year i'm anticipating doing yoga inside the infrared sauna while conference calling new york making business deals and changing the world.

hope you had a wonderful holiday too and c0ntinue to celebrate life in the new year!!!

eating animals

The subject of eating animals has often been a topic of heavy debate in this little mind of mine. Not so much whether to eat them or not – I’ve been a vegetarian since I was twelve – but what it means to treat a living thing as an object or a vehicle for satiation; also, how to be ethical in a system that uses animal products for so many things. I thought it would be pertinent to write about this since I just read an article in the New Yorker about Jonathan Safran Foer’s new book (non-fiction this time) named, aptly, “Eating Animals.” Well, and with it being Thanksgiving and all, I suppose it's somewhat relevant.  I have yet to finish the 352 page foray into the well-traveled world of omnivorous ethical dilemmas, but I already have the sense he takes a slightly different approach than most. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed his previous novels, “Everything is Illuminated” and “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” The latter of which I devoured audiobook-style during my first drive/move to LA from Vancouver; I made it all the way to Sacramento, compelled by the humble and engaging characters, unable to put them to rest. This time, his characters are living, both internally and externally, sharing both insightful investigations and factual fodder. Inspired by the birth of his son, and the desire for a consistent and informed moral foundation, his journey takes him far beyond the reaches of a writer’s study, into factory farms, slaughter houses, and even the sensual smells of his Grandmother’s kitchen. Despite the obvious soapbox trap, his voice remains, like his fiction, compelling, humble, insightful and humorous. Since I was 9 years old, when I realized the stuff inside my McDonald’s hamburger was the same stuff that amounted to my hamster, guinea pig, and rabbit, I felt conflicted about ingesting this mysterious, yet delicious, substance. For a few years, I went back and forth, often swayed by my school's “hamburger day” or an exciting Thanksgiving feast; following the norm was also just easier. Eating the lasagna my friend’s mom made for dinner, shoving the pangs of guilt into the pocket of my Guess jeans, was much easier to swallow than thought of causing trouble with my pickiness. But after a particular, some might say spiritual, experience when I was twelve, I never (knowingly) ate another animal. One misty autumn afternoon I was running along the dyke near my house and stopped at the one farm left in our newly developed neighborhood. By the fence, solemnly, stood a lone cow - not eating, not mooing not even walking, just staring... at me. I stared back, and with the earnestness and intensity only a twelve year old can come by honestly, said simply, “I can’t eat you.” As sentimental as it may seem, my decision grew more from the discomfort with my logical inconsistency than a heartfelt emotional reaction, however that was probably what pushed me over the edge. For as long as I can remember I’ve loved animals, even my stuffed ones were deserving of my affection at one time. Growing up, our house was rarely rendered petless. So I asked myself, how could I love and nurture animals of all shapes and sizes, and yet support their slaughter and consumption for nothing more than human enjoyment. (I say enjoyment because I don’t believe humans need to eat meat to survive, at least not in our technologically advanced society.) I could possibly produce a similarly sized publication as Foer’s if I were to knead out the complexities of my ongoing internal struggle, the issue is far from black or white, but overall I’ve come to terms with the fact that it involves a constant evaluation and re-evaluation of my values. I’ve never been one to preach about my choices and for some reason this particular one is something I've felt solid about ever since I made the decision to stop eating meat, but I do think it’s important for people to at least ask themselves how they feel about it and why. Aside from the effects on the earth and the animals themselves, I think by the worst effect is the destruction of our own humanity that results from objectifying living beings. The disconnect between our actions and our values, when left unexplored, leaves an ever-widening gap in our experience of ourselves.

I encourage you to explore your own feelings on the subject, or even check out Foer’s if it interests you. Here are what some other reviewers and essayists have to say...

‘You Know That Chicken Is Chicken, Right?’ by Michiko Kakutani

'Mau-Mauing the Flesh Eaters' By Jennifer Schuessler