Set Alight

I mean . . . I just . . . My life. This past year. How far I’ve come. How much I’ve grown. How much still lies ahead.

None of this happened overnight—or just in the last 12 months. I’ve been charting my course forward and upward long before then. Before the split. Observing. Experiencing. Feeling. Processing. On the surface, all of that looks passive. But so much has been going on inside. So much. I did my damndest to hide my struggles for far too long. Hiding was the hardest part.

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.”

When I felt like my words were failing me a few years ago, it was this quote that helped turn me around. The songbird necklace that rests on my collarbone reminds me of this every day. My words need not be right—or even in response to anything; but what’s inside is, indeed, worthy of being shared.

This past year has been all about sharing. Twenty-eight heartfelt blog posts. A hundred conversations with dear friends and kind acquaintances. A face no longer hesitant to showing a range of emotion. This lack of resistance in my head and my heart is all the proof I need to realize that I’m doing something right.

“The birds they sang at the break of day Start again I heard them say Don’t dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be . . . There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in ”  —Anthem, Leonard Cohen

I stopped aiming for perfection and started embracing uncertainty after my life cracked open last year. I finally got out of my own way and let in a whoosh of light. Airing out my “broken-ness” was way out of my comfort zone, but I knew, somehow, that this willingness to expose my vulnerability also held the key to my transformation. The opportunity to share my stumbles has made me feel more alive, more connected, more a part of something than ever before.

I’m so grateful for it all.

My life. This past year. I’ve zig-zagged all over the country, explored a new continent, and summited mountains. I learned a little more about heartbreak and a lot more about love. I debunked old beliefs. I found support. I’ve been transfixed by live music. I’ve sailed away on beautiful boats. I twirled around a museum in a floor-length evening gown. I’ve made new friends. I’ve strengthened existing friendships. I painted tulips with a two-year-old and whispered my hopes to a newborn. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve surprised myself. And I’ve only just begun . . .

Soundtrack: “Sea Legs” by the Shins

Patience, She Said

This poem. I came across it two Augusts ago, as summer began to give way to fall, as the clock ticked down the remaining moments of my relationship. Its message has stayed with me ever since: that an active form of patience is the key to achieving something splendid.

Here it is:

watch me open this egg! the first woman said cracking the pearly skin against a cold metal tin
a swift separation a dead yellow gem there, it’s open she said
watch me open this egg! the second woman said placing the orb in the encircling arms of a nest
holding it to her chest for ten thousand breaths patience, she said
and said and said and said
… and the egg opened itself.
                                   --Alexandra Franzen

Stay with me here now, as I transition from eggs to peaches . . .

Only once that I can recall have I eaten an exquisite peach. Only once have I encased a peach in the palm of my hand, bitten down, and met with that perfect not-too-soft/not-too-firm texture and felt that trademark dribble of nectar run down my chin. I was 10, give or take, and swinging on a tire in my grandparents back yard. I remember the umbrella of verdant maple leaves above my head, the sunbeams poking their way through, the way my grandmother passed that peach to me and said, “Here, try this,” as if I was somebody else’s grandchild, a grandchild with a voracious, healthy, and adventurous appetite—none of which I possessed.

Like the chapter books I devoured on those lazy summers, I imbibed every sweet speck of flesh and juice from that warm, succulent peach. No peach since has ever compared. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

And stay with me here, as I draw a comparison between our exes (mine and perhaps yours, too) and peaches . . . and transitioning into friendships.

Even when the timing—according to the calendar or to instinct—seems right, even when the exterior looks to be ideal, what lies beneath the surface will remain a mystery until you take that first bite. Summer stone fruit or sweetheart of the past, there’s just no telling. Not to mention our own influence—what other flavors we’ve recently encountered, what experiences we’ve been through since that last taste of what once pleased us so. There is a whole host of circumstances that need to conspire, to work in unison, for that friendship to take form. For that peach to taste like the perfection you remember it once to be.

And when it fails to live up to expectations, to memory, to desire? Without question, there is a void. A disappointment. But you remain patient. You take yourself out of the equation. You don’t blame your taste buds or last month’s dry spell or the timing of that pluck on the orchard. You simply call up the sweetness in the recess of your mind and trust that, at another time and on another day, you will hold another peach in your palm, feel the flood of anticipation, and take that first bite. But for now, all you can do is carry on and stay open to what other small splendors may await.

Soundtrack: "Here Nor There" by Sarah Jarosz

Lightning Bolt

My old next door neighbor—a handsome man in his early 30s who owned his own business but worked with his hands, who wore those surf shop t-shirts that were ubiquitous in the mid-late 1980s, even though we were on Long Island sound where the surf was anything but gnarly but status was everything—had a streak of white in his dark, wavy hair. Struck by lightning at Fenway Park—at least that’s the story he told us shortly after we all moved in, while flashing a smile that was equally bright. They were newlyweds, he and his wife, living on a cul-de-sac full of four-bedroom colonials filled with kids. The BMW parked in their driveway was a wedding gift from him to her. She drove it into the city five days a week where she’d shop at Filene’s Basement on her lunch break and bring me, the quiet teenage girl next door, items emblazoned with the Esprit logo. Soon enough they had kids—a girl then a boy—and I would be their go-to babysitter whom they’d pay in $20 increments. My parents would shake their heads and almost, but not quite, make me give them change. I swam in their in-ground pool and ate their Celeste frozen pizzas and wore her Guess jeans with the zippered ankles that she passed down to me one night with along with a $20 bill after an evening spent watching the two-hour block of Friday night sitcoms while their little ones slept. He—with the shock of white in his hair, who, as the story goes, had been struck by lightning at Fenway Park—was a doting father and a charming neighbor, a stand-up man in a suburban fairytale who was left by his wife who traded in her city job and lunch break shopping sprees for a gig at the grocery store in the far end of town and a little condo all of her own. She was the first woman I’d ever known to just up and leave her previous existence behind.

On breaks home from college, I’d cruise downtown in my little sports car to go to the grocery store in the far end of town. Sometimes I’d spot her, sometimes not, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts instead of the high heels and shoulder-padded suits of which I was accustomed. From my vantage point as a supporting character in this suburban fairytale, I saw her grand detour as a character defect. I gawked like you gawk at a traffic accident, studying the carnage but unable to identify the root cause. I wanted to know: how did this happen? What if this happened to me? What if it didn’t just “happen;” what if she chose this path with clarity in her heart and soul? The family’s story has stayed with me for decades.

I’ve been studying my life—and the lives of others—for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I study too much and forget that experience is the best teacher. Sometimes I go about my life by portraying a seemingly pedestrian façade, but behind the scenes there are bolts of lightning touching down all around me. I absorb the shock until I am ready to put words to the experience, until the lesson becomes clear.

That’s what I was up to all last week as I read and reread—day after day after day—the first six pages of the book I picked up during a layover at O’Hare. The book, a collection of advice column letters, along with their responses penned by the no-longer-anonymous Cheryl Strayed, opened with this letter: Like an Iron Bell.

After the first reading, I put the book down, partly paralyzed and partly electrified and partially quite certain that I had just stumbled upon the crystal-clear diagnosis for the affliction that I’d wrestled with for the past decade-plus: how to authentically express love that may not be epic and may not be for the ages but that is no less awesome and deserves to be recognized and celebrated.

You simply must read it—whether the words “I love you” are effortless for you to speak or if you, too, have choked them back, waiting for more ideal conditions. I’ll wait. Here’s the link again: Like an Iron Bell.

I want everybody with whom my life orbits to read these words. I want us all to vow that we will never, ever hold back on the true expression of our feelings. That everything that means anything, really, is rooted in love and that—like those Esprit-emblazoned t-shirts my long-ago neighbor bought for me—there are infinite hues from which to choose.

Before I loved my current boyfriend—and before I overcame my fear of speaking these words to the object of my affection—my heart got tangled up with someone else’s. The experience was a little messy and a little unexpected for us both. I wasn’t ready to fall in love—but I did. In a flash of white light, we came together and, by the count of three, we were apart and rattled by it all. And while I don’t have a shock of white in my hair to show for the experience like my former neighbor , it changed me, inside and out.

If I had read Like an Iron Bell a few months ago, I would have had a framework upon which to cast my feelings and provide definition. I would have understood the varied hues of love enough to have ensured my use of those three electromagnetically charged words conveyed the just-right subcontext. But instead, I chickened out and continued to wait for an apex moment. A moment that, in hindsight, came and left much like the wild storm in the sky this morning.

I’ve always been one for using more words than necessary, and yet, in matters of love, I let the flow recede for years and years. No more. I, too, am hitting that iron bell like it’s dinnertime. Life’s too short to hold anything back.

Soundtrack: “Lightning Bolt” by Jake Bugg

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

Smile Like You Mean It

Smiling used to feel like pulling on a pair of jeans fresh out of the wash. It was physical and occasionally uncomfortable. Necessary for assimilation. Prone to fading. If I went about my day without a smile on my face, I felt naked in the eyes of others. So, putting on a smile came to be as much of a normal part of my routine as getting dressed every morning. I look at pictures of me over the years and I can tell when my smile was genuine and when it was not. Lift corners of mouth, expose teeth, turn on the light switch behind my eyes . . . and hold. My conjured smile was easier than reflecting what was percolating in the depths of my mind. My conjured smile was a shield.

Then, one day, things started to change. The process of smiling began to feel natural (and not, in fact, a process at all). The fit was just right, the fabric felt softer than I remembered, and the desire to flaunt it felt genuine. My smile was no longer a dress-up accessory; it was a reflection of my outlook on life. And life was good. Even when it was hard. Even when it was hazy. Even when I had more questions than answers.

I look at current pictures of me and I love what I see. My face is relaxed. My eyes sparkle with sincerity and joy. I look—and I feel—happy, healthy, alive. That feeling swells tenfold when friends and acquaintances tell me how they’ve noticed the shift in me. The ripple effect of an honest-go-goodness smile is profound.

Happiness is an inside job. The company I keep, the hobbies and activities I tend to, the career I pursue—these are all external influences. Lovely ones, mind you—but the smile on my face these days is illuminated by something much deeper. It’s illuminated by the knowledge and understanding that, ultimately, I am the keeper of the flame.

The smile on my face these days is, first and foremost, for me. And because it comes from a place of authenticity, it is effortless to share.

Soundtrack: “Smile Like You Mean It” by the Killers

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

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

Compass

It was August 2006 in the Catskills. One of those picture-perfect summer days saturated in greens and blues, complete with a gentle breeze to rouse the Tibetan bell wind chimes around the property owned by Uma Thurman’s parents. This was my grown-up summer camp. But instead of learning archery or arts and crafts, I was learning about myself. I was there for the second time with a cohort of yoga students and fledgling teachers, gratefully leaving behind the hustle and bustle of our city lives and jobs, worries, stresses, habits, and so forth. We were undoing the knots in our lives so that we could get back in touch with our authentic selves. Lofty goals for a five-day getaway, right?

I had a massage while I was there, which concluded with (I later learned) a little reiki healing attunement. For the last 10 minutes or so of my session, she laid her hands on my heart and together we breathed. Just like that, in and out, she synched her breath to mine. A warm breeze swept through the curtains and across my face while the wind chimes filled the air with their sweet sound. It was peaceful. It was serene. It was comforting. And then she said something that busted that up in an instant.

“You’re too practical. You’re too much of a perfectionist. Let it go. Let it go.”

Whoa.

Yes. Yes I am.

Her words reduced me to tears. That message has stayed with me ever since. The action of conjuring these attributes out of my heart felt profound. Surreal, yet also quite believable. I could tell that something big had begun to shift beneath the surface. But this was just the beginning.

* * *

Fast forward to early December 2013. Boynton Canyon. The red rocks were dusted with snowflakes, a majestic display against the blue, blue sky. I had an appointment for a reiki healing attunement (ah, yes—that again) to kick off my day. Knowing, quite profoundly, how that experience in the Catskills affected me, and knowing that I was shoulders-deep in a transformative phase in my life, I was open and ready to receive.

It wasn’t words this time, but an image, that I found so arrestingly profound. With her hands laid upon my heart and our breathing in sync, I came to see my heart as a mirror. From that bright, shiny space, I was reflecting out all of my needs, wants, hopes, dreams, and desires—and the same things were being reflected back to me from someone. Someone I was looking for; someone who was also looking for me. It was a bright, rapid-fire transference of emotions. It left me speechless and, once again, in tears. It illuminated the crack in my heart and showed me that goodness was making its way in—fast.

* * *

Skip ahead less than a month, to that first Saturday in January. I meet someone with whom I can hardly make eye contact because, when I do, I’m walloped with that same blazing soul-to-soul transference of sharing my heart and understanding another’s all at once. And all I can think is: Double u. Tee. Eff. Am I really ready for this?!?

The answer is no. Not quite yet. And neither is he.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. On one level, I am. I so am. I don’t believe in coincidences or happy accidents. This heart of mine is a finely calibrated compass. Our meeting was meant to be, even if we are not. While the stars may not be aligned in that way, I do believe he came into my life at this time to teach me something. To encourage me to continue down this path of living with an open heart and an open mind. To help me put this stubborn, over-worked head of mine to rest and to give my heart a chance to do the navigating. For once and for all. I'm not racing through the lessons because, deep down, I know there really is no finish line. The journey is the destination.

It’s a tall order and a hard habit to break. But I’m committed to doing the work—logical, thinking brain be dammed.

* * *

That bring us to real time. I came across a woman who is teaching me to incorporate meditation into my daily life, which is helping me relinquish my thinking brain’s need for control, for answers, for certainty. To let my heart be my compass, my guide.

She recorded a meditation for me to work with. One of the images she describes, practically verbatim, is that heart-driven giving and receiving sensation I experienced in Arizona—and then again, face to face, on the 52^nd floor of the Prudential Tower a month later. That was unexpected.

But like I said, my heart believes in destinies, not coincidences.

Soundtrack: “Compass” by Lady Antebellum

Rules of Engagement

For me, for you, and for anybody else who needs a list of reminders to follow—in life, in love, and everything in between . . .

• Our self-worth has nothing to do with how many clicks, likes, comments, or messages we receive.
• We’re all human and we’re all being vulnerable by putting our hearts on the line. Treat everyone with the same kindness and respect as we’d like to receive.
• Don’t fear the long road. Good things come to those who show up and remain true to themselves.
• A new message notification is not puppet string. An immediate response is not a requirement—nor is it a sign of like or dislike.
• The goal is to meet new people and make connections. That is all. Trust that the other stuff will fall into place.
• Life is not lived behind the computer screen. Get out and do things you enjoy—or think you might enjoy. Explore. Try. And then try again.
• Smile. Say hello. Make eye contact.
• Make the first move. Strike up conversations. Take the gamble. The real living happens across the line that bounds our comfort zone.
• It’s not just in the doing—but also in the being—that positive, lasting change takes place.
• There is no timetable or growth chart or other measuring stick needed for us to live happy and fulfilled lives.

Soundtrack: “Don’t Be Shy” by Cat Stevens

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