Beyond the darkness

I don’t know when I stopped being mindful. There must have been a moment; a pause, a subtle shift. I have lost sight of my gratitude, and I wonder whether choosing, as I did, not to get the word tattooed on the inside of my wrist two summers ago was a mistake; a letting go of that which should never be let go of. Maybe the visual reminder is the thing that would have held me to it.

The last year has been difficult. Not every day, not every moment, but challenging in a way I never could have predicted. I don’t think I can sustain this level of outrage and anger, or this burning desire to be the change. I am almost entirely an armchair activist, my forays out into the political arena few and far between. And yet I’ve joined political groups, attended meetings, walked petitions, campaigned, donated, written letters, texted and called. I’ve worked hard to understand the issues and to find my voice, to know where I stand, where I want to stand. And through it all, over the course of this last year, I have watched the unthinkable unfold.

Today a friend dropped by with a thoughtful gift. Her kindness reminded me that there is great meaning in small gestures. It’s an easy thing to forget, how a random act of kindness can change things. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore. So much has been lost, so many touchstones that once felt like they were mine to keep.

I don’t know where the coming year will lead us. I feel the weight of lost hope; I hear it in the voices of my resister sisters. We are exhausted, worn down; unsure how — or even if — we can keep moving forward. I am ready now to go home, to put it all aside and find myself again.

Beyond the darkness, there is light. I know that to be true. And I know I will eventually make my way back there, but for now, for this moment, I will simply close my eyes and remember to breath.

Thank you for reading, for offering kind words, for standing by my virtual side. I hope this finds you in the warmth of the light, and feeling, perhaps, a little more hopeful than I am on this winter’s eve. Merry Christmas, my friends.



A one woman riot

Today I am thinking of family and friends, golden light on orange leaves, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, and the warmth of the home I love. But I am also thinking of what has been lost.

In the last year, I have lost my ability to pretend it doesn’t matter, to somehow be okay with those who want to whitewash who we are and fall in line behind vindictive and discriminatory agendas. There is a difference between having a different point of view, and having an immoral point of view. It’s absolutely okay to want smaller government, tax reform, better and more affordable healthcare, stronger immigration policies, and countless other conservative ideals. But it’s not okay to want those things at the expense of our neighbors, or the less fortunate among us.

It’s not okay to condone — either through silence or deflection — men who prey on children, or treat women as their possessions. It’s not okay to think “terrorist” or “criminal” when a person of color crosses your path. And it’s not okay to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to the lies and hypocrisy of those in power. This is not about belonging to a political party. It’s about belonging to humanity. If we are to be citizens of the world, we cannot simply fall in step. It is our responsibility to question, to probe, to strive for greater understanding. To demand better of ourselves.

I have lost more than my innocence in the last year. I have lost friends, too. It’s not been an easy thing to come to terms with. I still mourn the relationships that have been unable to survive the trying times in which we live. But if I’ve learned anything about myself in the last 365+ days, I’ve learned that I cannot be silent. I will use my voice to honor my truth. I will not be quiet. And neither should you.

Against this backdrop of what has been lost, I clearly see what has been gained. I have so much to be thankful for; so many blessings. I am grateful for those who stand with me, who seek and follow their own truth. To my mom for always giving me a safe place to land, my husband for his unconditional love, my son for his impeccable moral compass. To my resister sisters (you know who you are) and the countless new friends and brave acquaintances who are working tirelessly to change our world at the grassroots level, to all the strong and capable candidates in our community who ran for office (or are tossing their hat into the ring), you have my undying gratitude.

There is so much good in our world. So much love, so much hope. I believe we are better for the hardships we face. This last year has made us stronger. We can never go back to our complacent past. And for that, above all else, I am grateful.

Today, I will give thanks for this fragile democracy, this fragile peace, this incredibly complex and beautiful world we live in. I will mourn what is lost, but I will turn my face toward the light.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Love is a long road

I imagine he’ll look back and say, “The night before my 16th birthday, Tom Petty died. My dad played some of his records and my mom danced all around the living room.”

He may also look back and say, “Two nights before my 16th birthday, 59 people were killed and 500 were wounded in a mass shooting on the Las Vegas strip. They were at a concert listening to music when they died.”

I remember my 16th birthday. My mother gave me a piece of her jewelry that I still wear today, a necklace shaped like a heart. My favorite song was Only the Good Die Young. When my son was born, I started writing letters to him, letters that I thought — in my new mother naiveté — I would gift to him on his 16th birthday. But I’m not ready yet. And neither is he.

As I danced last night, jumped and twirled and let the music wash away my sadness, he rose from the couch and stood close, smiling, laughing, “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t fall.” And I reached for him, as I’ve done so many times since he learned to walk, only it was me who needed steadying. The room was filled with warmth and music, and the curtains were drawn against the dark night. Tom Petty was the soundtrack we needed to hear. I thought about how far we’ve come, how far we still have to go, and I hugged my just-about-16-year-old son for as long as he would let me.

And that is how I will remember that brief moment when 15 faded into 16. I’m choosing to let the rest fall away, and to cherish this boy, this man, this interesting, fun, fascinating, sweet, and empathetic young person. Love is a long road, and I am so blessed and honored to be his mom.

The summer of…

If you are friends with me on FB, or follow me on Instagram, you are probably relieved that my political anxiety has given way to a trip down memory lane. Or maybe you are already weary of the old family photos and memories we’ve dug up from the boxes being dragged in from the garage or pulled out of the upstairs closets.

Let me start by saying every summer is the summer of something. Because that’s just how we roll. Last summer was the summer of the kitchen remodel. We spent endless hours looking at quartz and tile and cabinets. The summer before that was the summer of the coffee table — or maybe it was the lamp — so much of it fades in and out of my memory. But every summer involves a project. Either a home improvement project or a personal project, but a project nonetheless. And because my son is who he is, every summer is also the summer of cars: car shows, car museums, car cruises, tours of private collections, always there are cars. This is, after all, LA and he is, after all, completely obsessed.

So while there have already been a significant number of car events, and a few little things that in years past may have qualified for greater status, I am officially declaring this summer the summer of old family photos. The boxes have been sorted and the photos separated into stacks by decades, old frames have been discarded, blurry scenery shots from family vacations have been tossed, and we are now — finally — left with the task of figuring out a new and improved storage system.

When I think about what we carry, the things that matter and the things that don’t, I am overwhelmed by what all these hundreds of images represent. My mother’s childhood, my childhood, my son’s childhood. It’s all there. In color and in black and white. Some images have faded to a grayish green, others are damaged and torn, but all take a moment — a heartbeat, a pulse — and hold it, frozen in time. I look into my eyes at 18 months or five years old and I search for the memory. Do I really remember that dress or that toy or that house, or does it exist for me only because it’s been captured in a photograph?

A stack of photos is all I have left of people I loved; someday it will be all that’s left of me. There is honor and truth in these images. And they deserve to be thoughtfully preserved. Where we remember a date or an event or a face, it is written on the back. Where there is damage, we do our best to restore, even though that often means creating an entirely new photograph out of the old one. We have spent hours sorting and remembering. I have felt again the love of my grandparents and suffered through my awkward years. I have been reminded that my mother was (and is) unbelievably cool — a composite of Liz Taylor, Marlo Thomas and Donna Reed. My grandmother regal and coiffed, always photographed in a beautiful dress, her jewelry just right, her lipstick perfect.

I have seen again that I come from a long line of strong and capable women. And the world being what it is today, I am grateful to be reminded of that fact. I come from a family of immigrants. Of people who came to this country with nothing and created a legacy of hard work and success. I come from a place where the land rises and falls in mountains and valleys as it rolls out to meet the Pacific, where the light is golden, and the warm winds blow across the desert.

This is the summer I hold my history in my hands. It is the summer of old photos and memories, people and places that have come and gone. It is the summer of all that I know and all that I have loved. Breathtaking. Heartbreaking. And yet forever mine.



The thing they share

For two days I’ve come downstairs to find them glued to the 24 hours of LeMans. Though they vowed to simply watch the first and last hour of the race, there has been quite a bit of intermittent checking in.

The only time the TV is ever tuned to source 1 and regular cable TV is on race days. Formula One, the Indianapolis 500; spring is nothing if not a season of automotive racing. They have this in common: A love of motorsports. Before he was born, his father used to watch alone, or with me half-heartedly showing interest, but now he has a real partner, a true believer in the house.

As a metaphor, there is much to be learned from the international race circuit. There is a camaraderie the drivers share, regardless of their country of origin. In Formula One racing, a tire change takes less than two seconds. Blink and it’s over. At LeMans, it takes closer to 20 seconds. Either way, imagine the teamwork and training it takes to make that happen.

The living room debates — Astin vs. Porsche vs. Honda vs. Ferrari, and so on — have become more studied, more intelligent as the years fly by. If you think for one minute that the father is schooling the son, you would be wrong. It’s the know-it-all young man who absorbs the facts and figures and trivia like a sponge; he is the one who knows strategy and engine speed and how much time a driver has until the next pit stop.

I have come to love these mornings, the sound of racing engines, the commentary, the civilized intensity of global motorsports. But most of all, I love the way it brings them together, father and son. The thing they share. Allegiance to the checkered flag, to each other, to this incredible life they live.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads. May your day be filled with shared moments, checkered flags and the things you love.

This life

Friday we celebrated our anniversary. Twenty-seven years of marriage. I can’t help but think what a long, strange trip this has been. Lately, we’ve both been a little nostalgic about all the traveling we’ve done together, most of it in the first 12 years of our marriage, before we were parents and homeowners.

Though there were plenty of other trips and other places, we spent so much of our time in California. Our lives continue to be drawn west and east; our footprints in the sand from Point Reyes to Montauk. Our hearts split between where we are and where we have been.

We met in LA as I was preparing to move to NY. He was the art director at the NY-based sport magazine where I had just been hired to write about performance fabrics and apparel. Our first assignment together was a surf story in Malibu and he showed up in a black rented turbo T-bird, which I later learned he drove illegally down a dirt fire road off of Mulholland Drive. The road, of course, was narrow and had no turnaround, so he had to back out in that big old boat of a car — about a mile back to the pavement. I would learn that this was pretty much his approach to traveling in general. Asking directions and turning around were not in his DNA. To this day, he swears the map showed a through road.

His passion for cars and culture is still shaping our lives. There have been times when I’ve felt myself lost to the things he loves, and yet, my life is richer too because of those things. He gave me the West Village and Dylan and Patti Smith; I gave him California and all her treasures.

Marriages are complicated and messy and 27 years is a long time. But here we are. Once I tried to catalog every place we had been. But the list was too long. There was a time we lived in the moment, when tossing a bag in the back of the car and seeing where we might end up was just about every weekend we knew.

I have loved our life and sometimes even felt smothered by our life, but through it all there has been us. Together. And I don’t always understand how or why, but somehow it just works. Twenty-seven years is a long time. It’s been something of a magical journey, a little wild, a little free, a little out there at times.

And maybe it’s been a little miraculous too.


Slip sliding away

I feel my zen slipping slowly out of reach. It’s not just one thing, it’s everything these days: the election, the dread of what’s to come regardless of who wins, family things, parenting things. One of my oldest friends (as in longtime, not age) has taken to calling me Debbie Downer on our text messages. I get where he’s coming from. Most of what we frantically type late into the night is about the election, and I really doubt there’s a human being on the planet who feels hopeful about what’s been going on in American politics. I’m not here to write about my views, but for the record: I’m with her. No doubt or question about it. And not because she’s the lesser of two evils, but because she is a superstar in my book.

But again, I didn’t come here to write about or debate politics.

Thursday night my mom fell, hit her head on the tile floor, lost consciousness, broke her shoulder and humorous bone, and fractured her knee. It happened during the wake for my dear friend who passed away on Sunday from ovarian cancer. I’m told there was a great deal of panic, emotions were fraught, everyone was sad and overwhelmed and then the fall, no one could find her pulse. Of course, I was here. Three thousand miles away. And I don’t want to write about that either, about the guilt, the feelings of helplessness, the phone calls and text messages to my sister and brother. It has been years of this through countless family crises. So, no, that’s not what I want to write about.

My mom is a fighter. One of the first things she said when she could was something to the effect of “there goes Christmas.” And, of course, she was thinking about the fact that we had already bought our tickets, that the four of us living here in NY are planning to spend the holidays in LA for the first time since my 15-year-old son was a toddler. Christmas means everything to her. She’s been on cloud nine since we told her we are coming. But again, she’s a fighter. And through the unbearable pain and disappointment and sadness and frustration of the long recovery ahead, she is focused on what she needs to do to move forward.

Sometimes — despite my best efforts — the worry seeps in. It’s not where I want to live, or how I want to live. But when I’m tired and stressed, my thoughts turn to all the what ifs. What if my cancer comes back is the big one, but there are plenty of others. Some are tiny annoying thoughts, others are harder to push aside (like the fact that we recently discovered the bank put a $10,000 lien on our house seven years ago and we have no idea why). I know I’m not special. Life is ridiculously hard and challenging for just about everyone. Yet still, moving far away from this mindset, choosing to live on the bright side, is the healthiest choice I can make.

Yesterday, while we were waiting to hear whether my mom needed surgery to reset her shoulder (she doesn’t, thank god), I was looking up flights and mentally trying to rework my calendar for the next week. For now, a panicked run to the airport is on hold, but not entirely ruled out. Still, my heart hurts with the heaviness of it all.

When I told my brother-in-law what happened, he asked about Christmas. I told him we are still going and he said, “we’ll just have to bring the joy with us.” Smart man.

When I think about walking this other path, finding and focusing on my own definition of inner peace, I think mostly about gratitude. It’s not about eliminating what’s difficult or stressful or frustrating, but accepting that those things exist. The absence of challenges does not lead to peace because we would have no perspective, no context. It’s the acceptance of conflict, the understanding that despite hard times, there is so much to be grateful for — that’s where my zen lives. And while there are times when I feel it slipping away, I know deep in the heart of my soul, that it is never really gone.

This is life’s work. This is what I hold on to. As bad as things get, I still come back to gratitude. And I know that’s not a bad thing, but it’s not an easy thing, either.


The sun came out

Last weekend I helped my brother-in-law sort through his mother’s things. We made piles for donation and much smaller piles of things to keep. In January, she will have been gone a year, and we are heading into our first holiday season without her. All of this makes me very sad.

I found among her things two notes that I had written to her and my father-in-law around the time of my wedding. I was so young, so earnest, so entirely hopeful and committed to making my life here. I knew that marrying her son meant letting go of every other option. I wasn’t just marrying James and marrying into his family, I was marrying New York, and letting go of California — though you never really let go of the place you grow up, at least not all the way.

This afternoon I finally watched the movie Brooklyn. I didn’t know much about it, but I had heard that it was charming and sweet and it was, in fact, all of those things. In the last scene, the main character is telling another young Irish girl what it is like to leave Ireland and move to Brooklyn. She says: “You’ll feel so homesick that you’ll want to die, and there’s nothing you can do about it apart from endure it. But you will, and it won’t kill you. And one day the sun will come out and you might not even note it straight away, it would be that faint. And then you will catch yourself thinking about something or someone who has no connection with the past, someone who’s only yours. And you’ll realize that this is where your life is.”

And I thought, yes. That is exactly as I remember it. James was my certain someone, and this has been where my life is. When I think back over the years, I know we’ve been happy. We’ve weathered a few storms, but the sun has never let us down.

Of course, California still tugs at my heart, and someday — maybe — we’ll move back. But I’ve been feeling nostalgic, too, for that time when New York felt so new and so believable, and I was a young bride welcomed into a warm and loving family.

And home became this thing I never could have dreamed possible.

If you’re lucky now

I hold tight to the summer’s magical moments. Laughing with my mom and my sister on the lawn of the Hotel Del Coronado as we try for a perfect sunset selfie. Sitting under the stars at the Greek Theater with friends at a Ryan Adams concert. Floating in the pool with my son. Driving to Manhattan Beach at dusk with my nephew’s surfboard on the roof of the car, holding our breath for fear it will fly away.

I am a lucky girl, my memories like bright shiny beads in the palm of my hand. I string them together, wear them close to my heart, where they remind me of the things that matter. Family. Friends. Laughter and love. We have just a week left here before we fly home and I want to hold on to these moments, let them carry me through the seasons until summer finds us again.

Tonight I sat with friends and talked about music and politics and family and high school and I thought about how amazing it is that this is my life. I have so much to be grateful for, so much to cherish. I am reminded every day of my limitations, of the things that are hard for me post-surgery, and yet, I am here, in this place that I love, surrounded by people who love me. And there is nothing else that I need.

It’s heartbreaking, in a way. The beauty of it all. To know that a moment in time is so precious, so perfect, that it will never be that again. And yet, just holding it is somehow enough. So much of life is spent chasing things and looking for things and dreaming of things — I want to take a breath, to pause and reach for the magic, to hold tight as the echoes of laughter and shadows of light slip away.

In the end, it’s all we have. But it’s somehow exactly right, isn’t it?

And the lights will draw you in
And the dark will take you down
The night will break your heart
But only if you’re lucky now

~Ryan Adams

Three weeks to go

It’s hard to believe we only have three weeks left here in California. I am a little surprised by how quickly our time is winding down. Our days have been full of seeing and doing, family and friends, and there is nothing I can think of that we haven’t done or still want to do that isn’t already scheduled.

I am already thinking about how much I will miss this in the months to come. How the long, grey winter stretches before us, how another school year — this one sure to be more challenging, more demanding than the last — stands between us and next summer. But I want to push those things aside, embrace today, and forget about tomorrow. I am here now. That’s all that matters.