A Different Space to Grow

Lately, I've been thinking a lot (and obviously not writing a lot).  

I'm at a place in my career and my life where I feel a little lost, 

like I can't quite see the path through the fog.

I know,  I know, it's such a mid-20s "find yourself" cliche.

But I must say, it's a bitch.  

I wish I had been here earlier, younger,

when life's doors were wide open (and seemingly free).

But here I am.  

It's a private, contemplative place to be, which for me,

does not translate easily to this screen and this public place.

And so, as I wrestle with my own self, and try to figure out what I really want from
the next year, 

five years, 25 years, 50 years of my life, 

I'm taking a step back from this blog, creating a different space to grow.

I have so loved writing and posting here, and sharing my life with you, my friends and family.

I'll leave you with a quote that has been inspiring me lately, and I hope it brightens your day, too:

That which you love, you must spend your life doing, 

as passionately and as perfectly as your heart, mind, and instincts allow.

And the sooner you identify that bliss,

which surely resides in the soul of most human beings,

the greater your chance of a truly successful life.

- George Lois (from Damn Good Advice)

In Honor of Spring

Nature

by Raph Waldo Emerson

I.

Winters know

Easily to shed the snow,

And the untaught Spring is wise

In cowslips and anemones.

Nature, hating art and pains,

Baulks and baffles plotting brains;

Casualty and Surprise

Are the apples of her eyes;

But she dearly loves the poor,

And, by marvel of her own,

Strikes the loud pretender down.

For Nature listens in the rose,

And hearkens in the berry's bell,

To help her friends, to plague her foes,

And like wise God she judges well.

Yet doth much her love excel

To the souls that never fell,

To swains that live in happiness,

And do well because they please,

Who walk in ways that are unfamed,

And feats achieve before they're named.

II.

She is gamesome and good,

But of mutable mood,--

No dreary repeater now and again,

She will be all things to all men.

She who is old, but nowise feeble,

Pours her power into the people,

Merry and manifold without bar,

Makes and moulds them what they are,

And what they call their city way

Is not their way, but hers,

And what they say they made to-day,

They learned of the oaks and firs.

She spawneth men as mallows fresh,

Hero and maiden, flesh of her flesh;

She drugs her water and her wheat

With the flavours she finds meet,

And gives them what to drink and eat;

And having thus their bread and growth,

They do her bidding, nothing loath.

What's most theirs is not their own,

But borrowed in atoms from iron and stone,

And in their vaunted works of Art

The master-stroke is still her part.

*     *     *

To me, spring, more than any other season 

is a time to remember the power Mother Nature wields over us.

We are dependent creatures, all of us,

borrowing each day from Her.

It's hard to remember that here,

in the 75-degrees-and-sunny concrete jungle of L.A.

But today, on this first day of spring,
I'm thinking back on our trip to the Arboretum,

marveling at that oasis of beauty amidst the concrete,

and looking forward to all the beautiful sunny days ahead!

Happy Things

I know I have been quiet lately, but that's how life is sometimes, and since this blog is a [really public] extension of my life, it's quiet here sometimes, too. 

To be honest, the last few months I've felt a little lost -- like I've been going through the motions of my daily life without really knowing whether I liked where I was at or where I was headed.  The not-knowingness really caught me off-guard and I needed to take some time to re-evaluate, and to think about what I truly want and how to get there.  It's so easy to follow the path in front of you, and sometimes that's the right path (I'm not announcing any big changes over here!).  But I still think it's good to follow it intentionally -- to realize what your options are (and realistically, what they aren't) before you forge ahead.

There's all this serious "what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-and-who-am-I-anyway?" over-analysis going on in my head.  (So much angst.  Just call me Dawson.)  I have no answers, and frankly, I'm annoying myself and I'M SO OVER IT.

So let's not dwell, friends.  Shall we talk happy things instead?

A list of the things that have been making me happy lately:

Polka dot pants.  And breaking out the bike in February.

Skiing.

And more skiing.

Memories of Vegas.  And TopShop.

Flowers on the dining table to remind me of spring.

The Most Ridiculous Grocery Store Item Ever.  (Thank you, Albertson's, for bringing this matza-themed toilet seat cover into my life.)

Shopping for art to put on the floating shelf I just ordered for over the couch.  I'm digging this pretty little L.A. number by Albie Designs!

This guy.

Hope you have a happy day :)



San Francisco

This year, San Francisco was recognized as both The Best U.S. City to Live In and The Happiest City in America (7th Happiest in the World).

I'm feeling a little homesick for that foggy, hilly, jewel of a place.

Sometimes I wonder if leaving was the right decision,
but if I've learned anything in the last 26 (almost 27!) years,
it's that there are no right decisions;
there are just the decisions you make.

What you do next is the important part.

San Francisco, you will always be my home,
the place my heart is tethered to,
no matter where I am.

And so I will celebrate your successes, too,
even if they are mine in spirit only.

Cheers to San Francisco,
the City by the Bay!

 

Where My Head's At

I've been thinking a lot about what I want this year to look like.  It's a resolution of mine to pay attention this year -- to live deliberately, and to guide my days with purpose instead of letting them slip by.  It's exhausting sometimes, trying to figure it all out, trying to figure myself out.  But I suppose there's nothing worth struggling for more.

And so these early days of 2013 have been full and dense and quiet all at the same time.  That's where I've been.  That's where I'm at.

(Photo edited with the afterglow app - my newest obesssion!)

Jan. 1

Here's to a new day, a new year!

As you know, I live for new beginnings.

I crave the freedom of a clean slate; an open door; an unknown ending.

Jan. 1 is only a day, only the first of a month.  But it can be more than just that.  I see it as a break in the chain binding me to December 31, to the 51 days before that, to the past. 

Jan. 1 stands alone.

And best of all, Jan. 1 brings with it the opportunity to choose what Jan. 2 should look like.  It's a chance to make everything new again.

This life is yours; this day is yours; this year is yours.

Make it your best ever.

P.S. Jan. 1, 2012.



A Different Home for the Holidays

This Thanksgiving was the first holiday I spent away from my family.  I had avoided the "now that we're married..." holiday talk for as long as possible, but this year I had no choice but to succumb to the splitting plan.  

Luckily for us, Christmas isn't really an issue -- my family does a big Christmas Eve feast, and his does the whole Christmas morning thing, so we just fly from SF --> OC early on the 25th.  But Thanksgiving is problematic.  It's only one night, one indivisible meal.  There's no time for a flight, even a short 90-minute one.  And I'm an only child. 

Plus, it goes without saying, my family is THE BEST at Thanksgiving (if I do say so myself).

{the fam, Thanksgiving 2011}

Last year was the first time Brian had Thanksgiving with my family. He gladly ate spanikopita in place of green bean casserole, he didn't complain a bit about missing his family (although I'm sure he did), and was happy to be there with mine.

This year, I owed him the same.  But I worried I wouldn't be able to do it.  I worried that I'd complain, or I'd be grumpy or sad or resent him for making me miss out on one of my favorite family days.  I thought about it, read about it, self-analyzed, tried to prep for an emotional meltdown.

And now I can tell you, the truth is it was totally fine.  Better than fine -- it was really really nice.  When we got in the car headed to Santa Barbara, I was just grateful.  Grateful to have Brian by my side, and grateful that I had a new family who was willing to add me to their table, include me in their traditions, and invite me into their holiday.  I realized that it wasn't about me (surprise!).  It was about them.  It was about making sure they knew that I was happy and thankful to have them in my life, and to have them welcome me into theirs.

And so it was a rite of passage of sorts, and it was important that I was there, for them, for me, for us.  A very happy Thanksgiving!  (A couple pictures here if you want to see.)

P.S.  We also started a little mini-Pearson-fam Thanksgiving tradition, just the two of us -- we ran our first turkey trot!  (I know, I know, everyone's doing it these days -- but it was funnnn I swear.)  It was a 4-miler in Santa Barbara, and we've made a pact to do it again next year in the Bay Area, no excuses!

Words in My Head

{listen}

On Pinning



I caved. 

I finally clicked "accept" on the Pinterest invitation that has been sitting in my inbox for almost a year (which I refused to accept for fear that I would get sucked into the black hole of cool internet things and never resurface).  And I'm hooked.  Duh.  I'm still figuring it out, but here are my thoughts, 1 day in:

1. Words of wisdom used to come from wise people; now they come from pictures of signs on the internet.  I quite like this one (via My Hungry Years).

2.  Every woman on the internet is into hair braids and nail polish.

3.  Apparently, everyone is also planning a wedding.  At least in their heads.  Questionable.

4.  Why do I like pinning pictures of food when there's not even a recipe attached?

5.  Who knew there was such thing as "Pin Etiquette"?  Imagine if "Be Authentic" was part of daily etiquette.

6.  I <3 Bonnie Tsang and Bri Emery.  But we knew that already.


I'll be here if anyone needs me....

Balance...and a side of picnic

Last week, on a week night, Brian and I had a picnic (at this spot).  While it was still light out.  And then I understood why the Europeans (well, at least the French) so fiercely defended the 35-hour work-week.

Balance is something I think about a lot.  It means something different to everyone, I suppose; everyone has their own tipping point.  I'm not sure yet what it means to me.  Right now, all I can say is I try to play as hard as I work, for whatever that's worth.  But sometimes there just isn't the time.  

There isn't the time to be still, think, plan, veg even.  And sometimes all I can think about is the scarcity of it -- of time.  Sometimes I feel like I can actually see the deadlines, the calendar reminders, the blinking emails in my inbox stealing away my moments as a young, healthy twenty-something and I get sweaty and panicky and contemplate imaginary escape plans where Brian and I dramatically throw our Blackberries (well, his iPhone) into the ocean and spend all our money on one-way tickets to Costa Rica, Aruba, or a teeny little town in the Italian countryside, where we'll have all the time in the world to do and see and think and talk...but is that a balanced life?  Without our families, our friends, the normalcy of everyday working-people lives that we're used to?

That's all very scattered, I know.  I still don't know what I'm looking for.  All I can tell you is that the closest I've felt to balance was last week, having a picnic, on a week night, while the sun set over the ocean.  I want more of this.

Thursday Night at Zinque

I had the best conversation I've had in a while last night.  With a French bartender.  He's from St. Tropez, but he lived in London for 17 years before moving here 2 years ago.  He's been married for 18 months to an English woman.  She had a really great PR job in London but then one day, sick of the gray skies, he said "eh, let's move," (as you do when you're a French guy), and now she carves stone in a studio off of Abbot Kinney.

She begged him to move to San Francisco.  They love the Mission.  Love the city.  Love love love would-move-there-but-for-the-weather love.  I said, me too.  Me too.

He told me they don't like LA like they like San Francisco.  That people here are so "superficial" [insert puckered lips and Euro hand gesture indicating fake boobs here].  They don't have kids, and his wife doesn't like how all the women her age strut around in their Lululemon pants with their expensive strollers and their platinum-princess-cut yellow-diamond rings.  He snatched a votive candle off the bar and waved it around between his middle finger and ring finger for effect.  I wanted to high-five him but I'm pretty sure the French don't do that.

He recommends the Salmon and the pate.

We'll be back.

Going Slow

{Monarch Bay, Dana Point, with my AE-1}

Did I tell you that I was generously offered and elected to take almost three months off between the Bar exam and the real world?  That's why things have been slow around here (here on the blog, and here in real life).  I wish I could say that I've been using the time to cook up some plan to eliminate child poverty, or start a business, or write a book.  But unfortunately for me, I am neither a world humanitarian, entrepreneur, nor author.  No, these days have been far less glamorous than that.  These days have been all about the in-betweens.  All those things that you usually try to squeeze in between your coffee and when you have to run out the door to get to work before traffic hits, or between your lunch meeting and your conference call, or between pilates class and dinner.  Those things.  The things that never get done when you only have the in-between time to do them.

It turns out that when the big things that frame your time are missing, the in-betweens become your days.  So I've let those things expand, scheduled them into my days, and checked them off my to-do list as slowly as possible.  Because I can.  I remind myself constantly that there is no reason to hurry.  That the fact that it is 9am and I'm still on the couch, chilling with Regis and Kelly, is not a reason to panic.  There is nothing that I'm supposed to be doing.

Waking up on the morning after the Bar exam was like emerging from a three-day death march* through the tunnels of the sewer system.  Blinding.  Disorienting.  But then glorious.  After a few days struggling with exam-PTSD, I relished in the slowness of this new life.  I patted myself on the back and quickly adopted the morally justified "I've totally earned this life of leisure and luxury" attitude.   I did only what I wanted, when I wanted (well, I held back on that Groupon deal for the 5-night stay in Fiji, but otherwise...).  I perfected l'arte di non fare niente (the art of doing nothing), a skill that my Italian professor considered beyond the comprehension of the average American, and with a name fancy enough to trick my inner dialogue into thinking it's a legitimate hobby.

But this feeling of deserving deserted me after a few weeks, leaving me with no good excuse, and no defense against my nagging self-guilt and rising panic level.  (And yes, I know that the fact that my stress level has an inverse relationship with the length of my to-do list means I am crazy.  But that's a topic for a whole other post...or therapy session.)  So in the last two weeks, I've been trying to come to terms with the daily reality of this slow life where I am mostly on my own.  I've been trying to appreciate the value in its steady simplicity, trying to see it as an opportunity to learn to lead a more purposeful, considered life.

It's completely unnatural for me.  I'm the sort who rushes because contemplation takes too much time, and who does things first and then analyzes whether I should have done them only if they turn out wrong.  I'm the sort who has zero patience for forethought.  I'm the sort who feeds on change.  Clearly, the slow, purposeful, steady life is not my forte.  But I'm working on it.

Currently, my old AE-1 film camera is a big part of this experiment/evolution/self-improvement(?) project.  It's always with me now, and it has forced me to think before I shoot.  In digital, everything is picture-worthy.  (What, exactly, could be unworthy of a picture when the picture is costless?)  I'll snap 200 pictures to get 2 good ones.  I'll snap pictures just to see what they look like on my preview screen.  Because why not?  But with film, you only get 24 snaps in a roll, and there are no re-dos.  Each roll costs money and time (to buy and to develop) and space (in your purse).  And then there's the waiting for it to be developed part (remember what I said about zero patience?).  It's a slow process, but I'm learning to appreciate it in a different way than digital photography.  It's perfect for me right now.  And I'm kind of in love with it.

Today, I'm heading up to the Bay Area yet again (yes, I do still live in L.A....), and I'll be bringing the film along with me.  I hope you, too, get some time this weekend to practice l'art di non fare niente.  See you all Monday!


*I'm not quite sure what a "death march" is per se, but it sounds adequately awful to serve as a comparison to the Bar exam.

Clarity, Where I Least Expected It

On Friday I went into the city.  Into the concrete jungle of LA, the real city.  Three freeways, miles of red taillights, and the shock-to-the-system I so badly needed.

Generally, I avoid driving in LA at all costs.  The stress of getting lost, of being honked at, of constantly feeling like death is the only possible outcome, is just too much for me.  Luckily, Santa Monica is very walkable.  But living in Santa Monica is also a little surreal.  It’s too clean; it’s too cute; it’s too convenient.  It’s a city where roses peek through white picket fences (literally), parking is abundant and free, the pastel-colored beach cruiser is the vehicle of choice, and the sun-drenched beach is a constant silver lining.  It’s Pleasantville.  It’s so easy to get lost in its slow hum, so easy to fall into a life where time is foggy and you can never remember what you meant to do but you can’t imagine what would be so important that you would have to actually drive somewhere, or god-forbid, leave the city limits.  Suddenly it’s August and you can’t remember what happened to July.

During the months leading up to the Bar exam, I rarely left my little Santa Monica bubble because frankly, I didn’t have the time.  In the week after the exam, I let the slow hum of Pleasantville take over.  I needed it.  I needed to live in a foggy, blurry, slow bubble.  But enough is enough, and by Thursday I was itching for some new scenery.  So on Friday, I got in my car and drove for the first time in weeks.  I drove to Silverlake, where my friend Leslie was moving into her new apartment.  I listened to Ryan’s Roses on KIIS and remembered how crude Hollywood can be.  I blasted Katy Perry’s “Alien” three times in the space of 20 minutes and finally reached my saturation limit for mindlessness.  I merged onto three freeway interchanges, narrowly escaping death each time, and felt my blood pressure rising from the stress of the commute.  I whizzed past mirrored skyscrapers and got excited about having a job, a purpose, a place to be.  

In that car, on that drive, I felt something come alive in me again.  I felt my heart beat a little harder, my blood run a little quicker, and my mind think a little sharper.  I felt the rush of people going places, and things getting done.  I felt the spark of the city, and it woke me up.

So I’m awake, I’m alive, and I’m ready.  Anywhere you want to go, I’ll be there.

Come Away With Me

{SFO's not-so-new-anymore terminal}

I want to arrive and not know where I am.  I want to step off a plane and hear gibberish on the overhead announcements.  I want to hail a cab that isn't yellow.  I want to feel the clumsy bulk of a Let's Go book my purse.  I want to make plans, and then get lost and discover something better.  I want to see the days flying past, but know there's no rush.  I want to feel the wind blowing over a different ocean.  I want to fall asleep to an unfamiliar rhythm.  I want to feel foreign.

Foreignness is my comfort zone, as backwards as that sounds, and right now, I want nothing more than to be there and not here.

"I'd Rather Die Than Exercise"

{hello lady bug on my sneaker}

I have a confession to make.  I've been running lately.  It's not anything serious; but it is running.  Please don't de-friend me.

If you don't know me, you might not understand why this is a confession at all.  So let me start by saying that one of my friends (Caroline, of "friendship wreath" fame) recently sent me this WSJ article in which Danielle Steele was interviewed, with the introductory note "Ashley, I think you would approve of Ms. Steele's attitude towards gyms."  The attitude referred to can be summed up by this little quip from Ms. Steele, herself:

"The French don't really exercise and I'm originally French. I used to ride horses and ice skate as a child, but I would rather die than exercise today. I smoke, I drink and while I have a trainer, I avoid her by all means necessary. People in California always want to know about your workout program; I don't really know what to tell them."  (Emphasis added, obvi.)

Turns out, Caroline was right about me, as good friends always are.  And turns out Ms. Steele and I share more than just a common disdain for the American institution of the gym; we were also both ice skaters.  Yes, it's true.  Once upon a time, I was a figure skater (oh, just for 11 or 12 years or so).  During that time, my fellow skaters and I spent about 6 hours per day in some sort of intense fitness training.  Usually around 3 hours of skating practice per day, and then 2-3 hours in either strength training with high school football players (I wish I were kidding), or in a ballet class in which our miniature yet incredibly intimidating teacher would contort our bodies into unthinkable positions usually resulting in one or both feet positioned and pointed somewhere above our heads (and from which I may have developed workout-PTSD).

We also had to run.  A lot.  On treadmills.  Burning throats, heaving ribcages, and the generally degrading awareness of being forced to run in place.  Inside.  On a machine.  But yet, here I am giving running another shot.  I'm still adverse to the gym, mind you, as this running occurs only outside, where there is at least a possibility that I could catch a tan, or a nice view.  But I am running, and I kind of sometimes maybe a little like it.

So to what do I owe this sudden change of heart?  Let's start with the wrong answers.  First: I promise you that I am not running out of some mindless acceptance of the commonly repeated adage that "you should run a marathon once in your life, just to say you did it."  Doesn't anyone know where the name "marathon" came from?  It's not exactly a winning endorsement.  I just will never understand how the marathon has become such an accepted element of popular culture.

Second: I also promise you that I am not chasing a vain and unrealistic dream of attaining the "perfectly toned" body.  No my dears, a toned body has never been, and will never be enough motivation to make me endure the awful reality of running.  But you know what is?  A toned brain.  (Please note that the dorkiness gets worse from this point on.)

Brian (which is only one letter switcheroo from being "brain" -- totally irrelevant) has been reading (listening on tape to) this book called Spark: The Revolutionary New Science of Exercise and the Brain, by John T. Ratey, in which John, or shall I say, Dr. Ratey, rattles on about the non-aesthetic benefits to exercise, and especially cardio.  Seeing as though he is a real life psychiatrist and professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and all, I'm inclined to believe him.  Now, don't quote me on this because it's all coming second-hand from Brian (and don't quote him on it either because that's a lot of pressure), but the book points to all sorts of studies that show that exercise increases neuroplasticity (the quality in brain cells that allows you to LEARN), stimulates your hippocampus (the thing in your brain that allows you to REMEMBER what you learn), and helps you both eliminate the STRESS you are already dealing with (by allowing your body to release the fight-or-flight chemicals that build up) and be able to better cope with future stress (by inducing low levels of stress so that your brain builds up a sort of immunity).  Well now, those words sound a little familiar.  Yes, in fact, learning, remembering, and stress might just be the three keywords to sum up the life of a law school graduate studying for the Bar exam.  So he got me, this Doctor.

How did he know that in my Bar-Brain-induced desperation to memorize endless stacks of flashcards and Roman numeral-ed outlines, I will do almost anything that brings with it a promise of increased brain power?  I don't know how, but he got me, that sneaky Doctor.

So now, I run.  I run because I need to pass the Bar exam, and I need to be a lawyer, and because I'm realizing now more than ever that my currency in life is my brain juice (thank you, Manrepeller, bringing that term into my vocabulary).  Yes, it's quite clear to me that in the marriage of my mind and body, my mind is definitely the bread winner, and for that, if for nothing else, I need it.  And as the days get closer to when I will actually have to put my thinking to the real world test, where all I will have to count on when I'm suddenly accountable for representing other people's interests is my brain juice, I am more and more terrified aware of the importance of the mind-body connection, and more and more willing to do anything, even run, to make that connection stronger.  Except maybe drink those gross green shots of who-knows-what at healthy smoothie places.  So instead, I've been running lately.

A Normal Sunday

{this is pretty}

This marks my first weekend as a graduate, and let me tell you, it is bliss.  Law school may not always seem like a great deal, but graduation?  Graduation is the best deal around.

I mean, all I had to do is hand over the label of "student," complete with debt, eyesight deterioration, and the occasional movie theater discount, and in return, I got (1) sweet presents, (2) the peace of mind of knowing that I'll never have to take a final exam again, (3) a piece of paper that says I'm awesome, (4) some letters to put after my name, and (5) the right to ask people to pay me real money for my time.  Best. Deal. Ever.

Plus, as a little added bonus, graduation also marks my return to the Gregorian calendar!  I will no longer have to rely on class periods, semesters, and holiday breaks to measure my time.  Now I have hours, months, and even seasons!

I almost feel like a normal person.  I even went to brunch today at Tart and had a bloody Mary (review coming soon!).  Today, as in Sunday.  Because I didn't have any reading or outlining or anything to do.  (Can you see me smiling through the screen yet?)  If I were religious, I would praise some version of God right now.  But I'm not, so instead, I will drink my Sunday cocktail and dance ecstatically around my apartment (that one's for you, Lauren!) and be thankful to the universe.

Cheers to Normality!

J. to the D.

I did it!  I am now newly a law school graduate!  A real life J.D., Juris Doctorate, if you will.  (Brian already has title envy.)

I'm happy to report that my nightmare of tripping during the walk and spraining my ankle and/or splitting my chin open (childhood traumatic memories) did not come true.  But I did get a perfectly formed sunburn on the back of my neck.  It looks awesome.

Besides a slightly redder neck, what I will take away from yesterday was how it felt to graduate for the last time (the last time?!!!!).  It was sweaty.  Maybe the sweatiest day of my life.  But there was more than just that.  My professor, David Sklansky, gave a fabulous address, which he claimed no one would remember  (clearly I took this as a personal challenge to my brainpower).  He gave us only one piece of advice: he told us to look around, to take in this feeling of being on the cusp of our graduations and of our careers, and to hold on to that feeling forever.  He told us to store it away and come back to it in the dark times, when we forget why we became lawyers or question every decision we've made.  And for me, besides the sweatiness, the feeling was butterflies.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with that overly adrenalized, kind of nauseated, but can't stop smiling butterfly-y feeling.  My initial reaction, naturally, was to try to fix it - the "maybe if I eat something...?" reaction.  So I ate something.  But the butterflies still flitted about.  And then I realized that I should be grabbing this feeling, squeezing it with everything I've got and committing it to memory, not banishing it!  If you think about it, how many times have you had butterflies?  I can count the number of times on one hand: my first day of college, my first job interview, my first day of work last summer, my wedding day.  And now, law school graduation.  That's quite a list, no?  Maybe my favorite list of memories ever, and the butterflies were with me through all of those milestones.  They are like special occasion butterflies, and from now on, they will be welcomed with open arms and big smiles.

So whenever I think about Professor Sklansky's advice (which I will remember just because he said I wouldn't), I will remember how it felt to have sweaty palms, too much adrenaline pumping in my veins, a queasy feeling in my belly, and cheeks that ache from smiling.  And I will remember not only my law school graduation, but all of those other life moments that were important enough to entice the butterflies.

Cheers to the Class of 2011!

Don't Stop Thinking about Tomorrow

{the GG Bridge from Chrissy Field, pola-rized}

Today is my official for-reals-this-time departure to LA.  As in no more of this what's-my-southwest-rewards-number-and-which-address-should-I-give-them stuff.  As in I will only have one set of keys, one closet, and one bed.  

Kind of weird.  Well, you're probably thinking that sounds pretty normal considering my age no longer ends with a -teen and I'm married -- hardly a rolling stone with no direction home, or (if you would prefer a more contemporary melodramatic song reference) a plastic bag drifting through the wind.  And you have a point.  But you must consider the fact that I'm an Aquarius, the most free-spirited of signs (and who am I to fight the natural tendencies endowed upon me at birth by the moon in it's 11th house?  See.).  So for me, it's weird.

So here I am, packing the car again for the 374 miles south, and the truth is that while it will be nice to actually live with the person I married, and to actually know where my purse/shoes/necklace/passport/[insert any personal belonging here] is for the first time in three years, I'm still a little nervous.  I’ve never been one to dwell on where I’ve been because I’ve always had something dazzling to look forward to (ok, "dazzling" is a relative term here, but you know how easily I am dazzled by the shiny and new).  This time, there’s still the usual giddy anticipation that comes along with any new adventure for me (hi, I started this blog, right?), but there's something more. This time, there’s a sense of loss, a sense of grieving that wraps around my heart, tethers it to the Bay, and pulls at it when I think about leaving.  It's a dull ache that pulses through my veins, a hushed sigh caught in the back of my throat, an unspoken "but" that trails the end of every one of my sentences.

I've been sitting with this silent pulling ache for a while now, at first trying to fix it, and now just trying to understand why it's here with me now, this time.  And I think it’s because I feel invested here.  I feel a sense of ownership over this place more than I ever have before.  This is the place where I was a child, and the place where I dreamed of coming home to.  This is the place where I built a friendship wreath out of a few familiar faces.  This is the place where I turned a relationship into a marriage.  This is the place where I discovered my career.  This is the place where I grew up.

The thing is, ownership is satisfying.  It's comfortable; it's steady; it's easy.  It's tempting.  But I keep reminding myself that challenge is good.  That after all of these "lasts" there will be "firsts," and firsts are better than any that come after.  And that Newness is what keeps me motivated, and what fills the days with memories worth keeping. 

It's hard to see past today, but I know I need to.  So I'm taking a page out of Bill Clinton's book and making "Don't Stop [Thinking about Tomorrow]" the theme song to my life.  With Fleetwood Mac as my soundtrack, I will go, and I will open myself and let this new life shape me and teach me and change me.  And I will overcome this ache.



(But I’ll still miss this place like hell.)

Reflection

{reflection in the Bahamas}

From literal to figurative.  You there yet?  Ok. 

I must admit that I am the worst when it comes to self reflection.  I remember becoming accutely aware of this weakness in high school religion class when we had to meditate at the beginning of each class session (that's a whole other post).  I think my record was like 10 seconds.  Seriously.  Since then, I've tried yoga, of the hot and not-hot varieties, and every time, I've failed to achieve whatever kind of peace of mind or mindfulness or present-ness or whatever you're supposed to feel when you ohm while simultaneously contorting your hips, inverting your head, and pressing your hands into prayer position (behind your back).  Quiet places don't bring me peace or make me want to think about anything other than how repressed I feel without noise.  Even filling out class evaluation forms at the end of the semester kills me.  I'm just too impatient to look back (I'm pretty sure I have undiagnosed ADD or something).

Well, this time, as my greatest almost-but-not-yet-accomplishment to date is staring me in the face, as is a move to LA, I am going to consciously take some time to reflect.  To think about the last three years -- what I want to take with me, and what I would prefer to leave behind (and how to do that).  I want to be able to take a step outside my head and consider the view of my life as it stands right now, and think about how I can make it even better in LA.  I'm really going to try.  I'll let you know how long it lasts.

Breaking Up with Berkeley

Dear Berkeley,

I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but after nearly three years, I think I owe it to you to be honest.  And in all honesty, it's about time I tell you that it's just not working out for me.

Your morning stench, the unsettlingly warm steam that rises from your street grates, the incessant shrieks of your bums calling me a nerd as I walk home from class -- these are all parts of you that have made it increasingly difficult for me to stay.  And there's one other thing.  I don't mean to to be too harsh, but I think it's fair to point out that you demand undeservedly high rent rates, but then are too broke to offer me any decent public services in return.  I mean, you never even bother to take out the trash that overflows from your decrepit frat houses onto your pot-holey streets every morning.  Holding my breath every three steps is only a viable option for so long.  Plus, morning trash fumes are just such a turn-off.

Please don't try to play the "But I'm only a 20 minute BART ride from the city!" card.  Frankly, your BART access does little to make up for your short-comings when the trains stop running before midnight.  And don't even get me started on your bus system.

Sure, we've had times together over the last three years that I will look back on and smile about.  Like the time when Lisa and Shahrzad danced with a strange man who had a toothbrush and toothpaste in his shirt pocket at one of your bars.  Or the time that my friends made me walk down your dirty wet streets in the dark while I clutched my pepper spray only to surprise me with a birthday party.  Or all the time I've spent sprawled on Leslie's carpet, eating her delicious dips.  Or the times I spent drinking wine with Brian on your hillside staircase, the sun setting behind the campanile and the dusk lighting hiding your gritty flaws.  But those memories don't have to do with you.  They have to do with the people who have been part of my life here over the last three years, and those people will be with me always, regardless of whether I stay here with you, or leave.

So what I'm trying to say is: it's not me, it's you.

It's over Berkeley; I'm leaving you for L.A.


Your ex,

Ashley