Kinda Nervous to Say So

It happened one Sunday, a month or so after our first date. We had fallen asleep and I was the first to wake. I rolled over and he stirred. “Hey, you,” I said in a whispery voice. He smiled and replied, “I love you, too.”

I felt myself gasp.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. OMG, no! He thinks I said “I love you.” Hey you. I love you. Okay, I can see that. Crap! And while I do feel things are moving in that direction, it’s too soon. Plus, I’ve still got all these hang-ups around the L word that I’m trying to shake. My confidence is fast growing, but when it comes to saying it first, I hereby declare NOT IT.

I needed to handle this blunder fast. I couldn’t leave those three words—words my soul had been craving for so long—hanging. I didn’t want to embarrass him, nor did I want to pretend that’s what I had said.

So I smiled and I spoke. “I do love you.” The words came out feeling heavy on my tongue; I hoped all of my hopes that they felt breezy to his ear. “But what I actually said was, ‘hey, you.’”

We laughed, both feeling a little embarrassed and a little relieved. I further lightened the moment with a “Well, then!”

He responded with “I guess it is a little soon for that, right?” Then we swept it aside and carried on with simply being smitten.

That day, I finally learned there doesn’t need to be a dramatic build-up to get to the point where you are comfortable saying “I love you” to one another. In my last long relationship, after a few months in, I said it first. His response (which was not the one that ends with “too”) scared me—and scarred me—from using it ever again. The words he spoke in that moment were indeed heartfelt. But they were also a form of rejection. Rejection that I willfully accepted.

Loving someone, as we all know, is about so much more than saying I love you. And just to be clear, my ex and I showed love to one another in countless ways. But at the end of the day, I’m all about the classic gestures.

Over the years with him, I kept waiting for an apex moment, for an “I love you” to be spoken. That moment never happened—yet there it sat at the forefront of my mind, on the tip of my tongue, and on the surface of my flesh. I waited and waited. Finally, when I could wait no more for our relationship to be what it couldn’t, we broke apart.

That awfully long silence has come to an end. It started in the new year with my resolution to say more yeses in my life. Yes to myself. Yes to letting others in. Yes to possibility—and to potential. Yes to letting go of old haunts. Yes to living an epic life. Yes to being the master of my destiny and the pilot of my soul. Yes to love.

Now, still in the dawn of a new relationship, I express myself and my affections freely—and so does he. It took us a little more time to get there, but now it just feels right. As it should. As it is meant to. As I had forgotten it could be . . .

Soundtrack: “I Think I’m in Love” by Beck

Fast and Forward

With my new boyfriend, the conversation about his past relationships took all of three minutes. Not because he doesn’t have deep experiences and stories and lessons learned; but because he is living in the present moment. No self-help book, green juice, or meditation practice needed. He’s that good. He’s that unencumbered. I’m not.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m not good. We’re just different in the ways we regard our past loves and life experiences—and differences of all sorts can be quite good. They stretch the bounds of our comfort zones. They give depth and vibrancy to our everyday lives.

I mine my past for the lessons so that I can move forward in a totally rockin’ way. But I don’t just stop to smell the roses; I reflect on the sender and the sentiment and the color of the sky and the conversations that followed. I reflect on my feelings—the good, the not-so-good, and the truly mundane. I process it all until there’s a shiny souvenir for me to hold on to for evermore. There’s no knick-knack shelf long enough or sturdy enough to support this collection of mine.

I enjoy sharing my collection (i.e., my life experiences) with others. Hence this blog. Hence all the brunches, glasses of wine, cups of tea, hallway conversations, e-mails, phone calls, text messages and Facebook threads I’ve been party to over the years—especially over these last eight months. To know the path I’ve traveled is to know me. I wouldn’t change this part of me—even if I could. Even if it’s a bit unconventional. Even if it means that I count my exes among my dearest friends. I know that’s a rare thing.

As different as my boyfriend and I may be in the ways we hold onto our pasts, our goals in moving forward and living life are the same:

Make today awesome.

Do good, be kind, and have fun.

Build bridges, foster connections.

Laugh. Love. Be a little (or a whole lot) silly.

So, like today’s kale is destined to become yesterday’s Snackwell cookie, there’s something to be said for living a present-moment life by—simply—being present. No new-age-y stuff needed.

Damn, I love when a seemingly progressive idea, like mindfulness, can be factored down to zero.  Just. Like. That.

Bam. Life. There you go.

Soundtrack: "Fisherman's Blues" by the Waterboys

Daring Greatly

Three weeks out . . . “Nice boots,” my brother commented—eyeing the Fryes I had left by his front door. He, too, had taken to wearing boots—his a bit more cowboy than my preppy riding ones—ever since moving to Georgia. “There are two things you should never skimp on,” he proceeded to tell me: “good shoes and a good mattress. You spend two-thirds of your day in one or the other.”

I nodded in agreement as I processed this nugget of simple wisdom from my younger brother. It was November, his 35^th birthday, and I was down there for a quick visit. For the last 22 days, I had been tirelessly processing all of the radical ways that my life was changing. Changes that were for the best, even if they didn’t feel that way in the moment.

I went down to Georgia partly to get my mind off of all the heaviness, partly because it had been ages since my brother and I had celebrated one another’s birthday in person, and partly because I just wanted to hear my baby niece make her contented sound that was a cross between a whisper and a cheer. All at once, this trip was a feeling of running away and coming home.

I bought a book on the flight down based solely on its title—Daring Greatly—and binged on its contents. Even though, at that time, I was immersed in so much uncertainty, every bit of me—head and heart, body and soul—knew that greatness was just over the horizon. Day by day, I was starting to see that my willingness to be vulnerable, to experience uncertainty, was the key to living an epic life. And from here on out, I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than epic. More than ever, I was looking forward to letting life surprise me with all of its unfolding.

That first glimmer of surprise came while riding in the back seat of my brother’s car on the way to his birthday dinner. He and his wife had just let me know that, in the event anything should ever happen to them, that I would become their children’s legal guardian. It was a somber turn in the conversation. “Of course, of course,” I assured them and then lightened the moment with a familiar self-deprecating jab: “Even though I’ll have no clue what I’m doing.”

They both turned around to face me. I startled. My brother spoke: “You know you would be an amazing parent, so don’t say that.”

His words rendered me speechless. For most of the last 14 years, I had dismissed the idea of ever becoming a parent. Even though I told myself—and everyone else—that I had come to my own “peaceful decision” not to have children, deep down I knew I had let my ex make that decision for me. It was in that moment while riding in the back seat—the way my pulse quickened upon hearing my brother’s words, upon something so unexpected snapping into focus—that I really started daring greatly . . . .

Soundtrack: “Human” by Civil Twilight

Six Months Out

The dogs waited patiently in the way back, tuckered out from a trip to the park, while we sat in the parked car and talked. It was a shared routine that had been absent from our lives for most of the past six months. But last Sunday, as the early evening sun shined a bit longer and the temperature released its chilly grip, lingering just felt right. We had stories, thoughts, and insights to share, so we held this moment for one another—a volley of talking and listening—as the sky changed from blue to grey. And then he said it.

 “I miss this, you know.”

And I nodded in agreement.

This being the camaraderie of and conversation with someone who knows you so incredibly well, who was by your side through two formative decades of your life. Someone with whom you made big life decisions; who had your back through cycles of flourish and struggle; who knows your health, your wealth, your dreams, and your fears. Who laughed with you, cried with you, ate cookies with you . . .

Having a friend to talk to—and who will listen to you—about all the big and little, brilliant and mundane things in your life is a gift. What makes it priceless is its dependability. I don’t take that responsibility lightly—or for granted. I’m still figuring out how to gracefully move forward while carrying with me the healthy and vital pieces of my past. It’s a lot to juggle—and no small feat. But I’m committed to seeing it through. It’s what I do.

The season is changing, both literally and figuratively. Boston’s long winter has finally come to an end. It’s time to shed those protective layers. Like the crocuses and daffodils that are poking their heads up from the earth, I, too, have been in a gestation period.

These last six months have been abundant ones with their life lessons and experiences. I’ve gotten to know myself—and voice my feelings, opinions, hopes, and desires. I’m traveling, striking up conversations, connecting with people, and smiling more. My heart has been reawakened and my spirits are sky high. I see nothing but possibility and potential. I’ve found my way through those dark, challenging times and am better—wiser, stronger, more comfortable in my own skin—than ever before. Simply put: life is good.

As time has passed, I’ve welcomed new people into my heart: a dear friend; a charming boyfriend, too. I’ve strengthened existing friendships and gained a more conscious respect and admiration for all of the people who’ve played a part in my life, including—and especially—my ex.

In the days following our split, a coworker had suggested that I put a six-month reminder on my Outlook calendar. She wanted to be sure I’d remember to pause and reflect on how much has changed—how much I’ve grown and how much I’ve learned—since then. I stumbled across that reminder a couple of weeks ago. In the notes section of that calendar reminder, I wrote:

“Celebrate how far you've come and how exciting these times are that lie ahead. Just love. Just joy. Just truth and trust.”

Indeed, I’ve noticed the incremental changes in my life. But the big, sweeping differences? Quite simply, they astound me. How did I do it? No doubt, with a little help from my friends—and a whole lot of deep-dive introspection, too. A whole, whole lot.

I am excited for the times that lie ahead. I’ve learned to step into uncertainty. I’ve learned to see the silver linings. I’ve learned how liberating it feels to speak—and act—from the heart. And most of all, I’ve learned that there is no finish line. The journey is—and has always been—the destination.

Soundtrack: “Half Acre” by Hem

Next Stop: Maybe

So there’s “yes” and there’s “no”—which are like those slender metal bookends you see on library shelves. Their purpose is to form a boundary. But then there’s everything in between. Nobody goes to the library for the bookends; you go for the books, right? Same thing goes for life. It’s the mysteries and the adventures and the romances and the dramas and the comedies—cookbooks, travel guides, and how-to books, too—that are where the living takes place. The “yeses” and the “nos” in life are the edges we bump up against that nudge us back into the richness and variety and possibility. The good stuff. The “maybes.”

So, perhaps my thoughts from earlier this year on getting to yes need an epilogue.

It’s admirable and awesome and totally warranted to have my sights set on getting to yes. But the only way I’ll fully understand what yes is, is if I’m not afraid to bump up against the “no” boundary every now and again. It’s an invisible, shape-shifting boundary, of course—as is the “yes” boundary. But finding a comfortable boundary to cling to is not my goal in life—like it was my goal at that one swim lesson I went to when I was six. Having a stronghold on safety and security might look like winning from the outside, but that’s not what getting to yes is all about.

Getting to yes is about exploring the stacks. It’s about getting out of my comfort zone. It’s about not judging a book by its cover or jumping to the last page to see if it’s worth my while. Getting to yes is a sometimes murky, sometimes joyous, ongoing process. There is no timetable. No task list. No map. It’s just life—lived one rewarding, one eye-opening experience at a time.

Soundtrack: “Freewill” by Rush

Time to Believe in What You Know

Back in high school, I had exactly one driving lesson with my father. It was a barren, bright morning in the vacant lot of a nearby state park. I learned quickly that I did not have a knack for making that big ol' Buick smoothly stop and go. Apparently, despite there being two pedals on the floor--and us drivers (and wannabe drivers) having two feet--I wasn't allowed to use them at the same time. This was a fact that boggled my 15-and-three-quarters-old brain. Still, I drove around the parking lot that way--left foot stop, right foot go. It an unpleasant experience all around. Jerky and stressful and confusing for us both. Being that my feet were largely hidden in the wheel well, I continued with this approach, even after being told otherwise. Not only did two pedals and two feet seem like it should be a given, the stop-go-stop-go technique felt like the safer option to me.

Eventually, I enrolled in driver's ed and learned the right way to get around. But it took me a while to shed that instinct to tap the brake at the littlest flicker of concern. Now I could retrace the last 30-plus years of my life and probably point out hundreds of instances of me tapping the metaphorical brakes. Or I could just fast-forward to the latest and most relevant one: moving forward in my personal life.

I'm all for minding the signs and paying attention to the signals--literally and metaphorically. But I can feel that old instinct to hover my foot over the brake, to insert little halts when unnecessary, creeping in--just as life starts to get a little more unexpected. A little more interesting. Riding the brake is a fear-based action. Sure, it may seem wise at first, but it's no way to smoothly move forward.

There’s a time and a place for caution and there’s a time and a place for letting go of the restraints. I've decided to let go of the restraints.

In the days following my breakup, I replaced the family photo on my desk at work with this quote:

"Step into uncertainty--today and a little bit every day. That is how an epic life is lived."

At first these words served a bit of a fake-it-'til-you-make-it purpose. But after a few weeks of reading and rereading these words, I believed them. I embodied them. I began to welcome the mystery that lay ahead. And now--that feeling of being smack-dab in the middle of a Choose Your Own Adventure book is the most alive I've felt in a long, long time.

I haven't a clue what next turn of the page has in store for me, but I can tell you it's an exhilarating way to be living my life right now. It reminds me of the long, winding road that led to my old neighborhood back where I lived in those early days of driving. It dipped and curved endlessly and erratically, like the scalloped edges of Valentine made by a child. Once I became comfortable behind the wheel, there was nothing I loved more than touring all of that road's curves, never really knowing what lay around the next bend but trusting myself to handle it all with grace. Without obsessing over the brake.

In a moment today when my head and my heart were having a bit of a private debate over the brake metaphor, I came across this piece on the HBR blog: How to Have a Year That Counts. Its simple, elegant reminders to (1) start with your dreams, (2) walk toward the fire, (3) venture beyond certainty, and (4) let life happen were all the confirmation I needed that yes, it is time to get out of my head and experience life outside of my comfort zone. It's time to take my foot off the brake. That's where my story will start to get interesting . . .

Soundtrack: "Shine" by Alexi Murdoch

Getting to Yes

I came to yoga looking for an easy way out. I was a junior in college and needed a gym credit--and bowling was already full. So, yoga it was for me. Dressed in leggings and the requisite '90s flannel shirt, I made my way to the wrestling room in my campus' athletic center. It was a windowless, padded, smelly cell of a space. I took my seat on the floor and waited to be told what to do so that I could follow the instructions, earn my credit, and get back to my life . . . Funny the way those unexpected little things grab ya. 2014 will mark 20 years that I've been practicing yoga. Aside from writing (and reading, walking, and breathing), I haven't stuck with anything in my life for that long. What started out as a easy way to earn a gym credit has grown to become one of the most important ways--mentally, even more so than physically--that I choose to take care of myself.

The mental benefits took much longer to cultivate. Or maybe they just took longer for me to realize. Whatever the case, their lessons have been both subtle and profound. My yoga practice has taught me:

• To fall gracefully, and to enter into new things with grace, too.
• That perfection is an unattainable moving target I shouldn't be aiming for in the first place.
• That feeling sensation--that experiencing experience--is the real beauty of it all.
• That my body is a living, breathing thing. Embody it! Embrace it. Respect it.
• To feel my heart beat, to quiet my mind with inhales and exhales, and to use these tools to return to my home base.
• To go at my own pace, and not to worry about comparing my trajectory to anyone else's.

I know there are plenty of other ways for people to learn these lessons. But for me, there's just something about using a physical activity in order to tap into something mental. So, *that's* what that whole mind-body thing is all about . . .

For the last four years, I've consciously kicked off my new year with my radiant friend Chanel's soul-stirring class. We flow, we stretch, we restore, and we rock out a little bit to one of her awesome playlists. At the end of it all, we grab a sparkly slip of paper and an envelope. On that paper, we jot down for ourselves just one word that we're going to carry with us into the new year. Last year, I chose "truth,"--a word that has proven itself to be so daunting, so eye-opening, and so (deep exhale) right.

This year, I am going with "yes"--a word that came to me when I spotted a metallic wine-colored tote bag at the Cole Haan outlet last week. I've spent a lifetime already saying "no" to things. Not just "thing" things. To people, to opportunities, to possibilities. To my body, my soul, my heart.

I bought the bag--and a matching cosmetics case. I almost talked myself out of going to the outlets in the first place. Crowds. Sales. Chaos. Stuff. But I said "yes"--and then I said "yes" again. And then, as I drove home, I thought about all of the things I can't wait to say "yes" to in 2014.

And when I feel the "nos" start to creep back in, I've got all those tools listed above that will remind me how to get to "yes." Incidentally, there's a negotiations book called Getting To Yes--and every time I see it on a bookshelf, my brain translates it to "getting toys."

I sort of think saying "yes" is like getting a toy. It's fun. It's new. It brings about a smile, yes?

Soundtrack: "Blackbird" by Paul McCartney

I Climbed a Mountain and Turned Around

A week after A and I called it, I was putting in an offer on a condo. A gorgeous condo with 10-foot ceilings, recessed lights and dimmer switches, and top-down Levolor blinds. Did I mention that it was a two-minute walk to one of my favorite yoga studios, too? Well, it was. Even the wall colors looked like an exact match to the Ben Moore Manhattan tan and sea glass that filled my current home. I told myself--and my realtor--that I was just looking. Researching. And that I wasn't ready to fall in love right away. With a house--or another man. But this place had everything I wanted. (Read: everything I was already used to, everything I associated with comfort.) I tried my best to ignore my inner Veruca Salt, but I was determined to make this place mine. I wanted it now. So, my realtor and I reviewed comps, talked strategy, and I scrambled to get myself pre-approved, even though my down payment was locked up in my current home.

Apparently, 11 other buyers wanted it now, too. And even with my endearing letter, a best-and-final that was well over asking, and a bank that backed me up, I lost out. I was mentally prepared for this outcome--just as I was prepared for that Friday night conversation a couple months back, but the reality stung. Hard. Now what?

It took a little wallowing before I was able to see that, hidden in this heartbreak was an opportunity. A real golden egg. A day or two later, I got a blast e-mail from Dave Romanelli, the yoga + wine and yoga + chocolate teacher from NYC that I once took a workshop with at Exhale a few years back. The guy who inscribed my copy of his book with "Forever Drakkar" and then gave it a spritz. He was holding his annual Yoga for Foodies retreat in Sedona at Mii Amo in December. The retreat that I had read up on every year since and passed over because it was a bit pricey--not to mention far, far away. I signed up that very day.

In the six weeks leading up to my trip, I started to read up on Sedona and chatted with friends who had been there--both to the town, as well as to the all-inclusive destination spa/resort where the retreat was being held. And apparently, I had just booked myself a four-day trip to heaven on earth. A sage-scented, red rock-ensconced heaven where a handsome man would greet me with a necklace made out of ghost beads by a Native American elder, presents would be laid out on my bed every night, and my dessert would await me by the fireplace in my bedroom after I returned from my evening massage. Which I would follow up with a dip in the hot tub under a starry sky, a glass of wine resting on a ledge behind my shoulder. That kind of heaven.

That kind of heaven also included some decadent spa treatments like facials and clay wraps, and some powerful, emotion-releasing ones, too. One of these was a reiki healing attunement. With nothing more than her two warm, healing hands, Dana conducted and released the doubts and worries and uncertainties that had been caught inside me. Since the break-up. Since well before then. Palpitations that knew no better.

Words can't do justice to the experience, but it was a release like I have never felt before. Like a door that had been sealed shut for so, so long was now able to swing wide open. From my heart center to my hip bones, all I felt was space. Lightness. Freedom. Right then and there, in this body of mine that I've been carting around for all these years, I found myself at home.

Soundtrack: "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac

Scars Are Souvenirs

A few years ago, I got a call from A after work as I was driving to yoga. "Hey, I've been in a car accident. Can you come rescue me?" The accident was on the route I was headed, just five minutes ahead. Glass in the road, a police officer, diverted traffic. Nothing horrific--just bad news at a bad intersection. Thankfully, A was fine. It wasn't until we drove over to the tow lot that I got a good look at the car and its gnarled-up front end. With our hands on our hips, we surveyed the scene, replaying the what-ifs. We reminisced about all the good memories with that car. We chuckled at the irony of being hit by a vehicle owned by the tow truck company. Even having seen the wreckage, I was certain that a trip to the body shop would fix things up.

Not so much. The insurance assessor deemed it to be totaled. But what about this and this and this? They're all still good, right? A few days later, with a big check in hand, A was deciding whether to go with the latest model in black or blue. Everybody had already moved on . . .

* * *

A few weeks ago, I got a text from A as I was leaving the office. "When it rains, it pours. Just got into a car accident. Minor, but ugh."

Traffic was crawling, and with all the stop and go, he dinged the back bumper of an SUV. From the outside, it just looked like a scuff, a bump, and a busted-up emblem on his front end. Not such a big deal. The other, bigger car was fine. While the damage behind the scenes on A's car was more serious than visibly apparent, at least this time the car was reparable. But the headache and the expense of this tiny ding seemed to be so much more frustrating to him than the car that was totaled.

* * *

Totaled. Ex. Break-up. Split. There's an abrasive finality to these words that I don't like. When a relationship ends--even amicably as ours did--society resorts to the "game over" lexicon. But what about the relationships that are worth salvaging? We need new words to describe these transitions. Realignment. Adjustment. Tune-up.

Neither one of us is looking for a "good as new" or "better than before" fix as we move ahead separately. To do so would just diminish the journey we've been on--these past 14 years, as well as the journey of the last month and a half. So what if our "boyfriend/girlfriend" emblem has cracked under pressure and fallen to the ground? So what if the cause of incident sounds so trivial? It just is . . . so let it be.

So for now, we're going to just drive around in this mightily imperfect and time-worn exterior with no plans to take ourselves in for repair. No damage here. Only character. Only stories. Only life experience. We may have a lot of miles on us, but we we're still moving forward.

"Scars are souvenirs you never lose . . ."

Soundtrack: "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls

Over the Rainbow

Eating a bowl of soup alone at Panera while texting your ex, it's inevitable that tears will fall. They have to; gravity won't have it any other way. On the one hand, having my head bowed just so means that I don't need to make eye contact with the strangers around me, or they with me. On the other, there I am--again--shedding spontaneous tears. My pockets all contain folded squares of tissues at the ready. The soup was a mushroomy bisque. The text message had to do with logistics for the Frank Turner tickets I bought before we broke up. I knew he'd enjoy the show and I'd enjoy the front-row seats and access to the Foundation Room. Something for everyone. He texted me first, wanting to know if I was going to use them. Legit question--but I thought sticking them all by themselves on the fridge door was the unspoken way of saying, "take them, they're yours. And, by the way, this blows."

These "poor me" moments are frequent--but fleeting. There are "hell yeahs" interspersed in here, too, but they take a little extra encouraging. It's not instinctive--at least not for me--to look toward the bright side. It's a muscle, for sure--and something I've been working on for years. With a little coaxing though, the bright side is brilliant and blazing and vibrantly alive. Like those sunrises and sunsets where the sky looks like it is on fire--there's magic going on all around, if only we can look up to notice.

I was reminded of this today when reading Kris Carr's blog post about manifesting your desires. Getting what you want out of life--and then some--really starts with the power of observation. In that post, she suggests making a list labeled "Noticing"--and jotting down what, through the power of observation, you're calling into your life. Reflecting back on these last six-plus weeks, here is my list:

Noticing:

• An opportunity to find a new soul mate, fall madly in love, and life happily ever after
• An opportunity for more dogs to be rescued from shelters
• An opportunity to expand my circle of friends
• An opportunity to travel
• An opportunity to nurture myself with more rest
• An opportunity to read more and write more
• An opportunity to make my health and wellness a high priority

Like Dorothy Gale in dreamland, she had the power to go back home all along. And even before this break-up, all of these opportunities were in my power to achieve. But sometimes it takes a sudden and jarring journey--complete with legions of friendly and supportive people cheering you on from the sidelines--to learn some important (and perhaps very obvious) facts about yourself.

Soundtrack: "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"--but the version by Ted's band from Scrubs.