Saturday, February 13, 2010

to friendship...

I appreciate beautiful things, or rather I appreciate the beauty in so many things. One of those "things" is what I've just been given: vulnerable honesty, the kind where you put yourself out there. I mean really lay it out there and allow whatever happens next to just unfold effortlessly. Beautiful, luscious, extravagant, decadent vulnerability.
I met a man. I saw a man across the room, and I looked at him over and over and over. He talked on his cell and typed on his laptop, and I snuck peeks over at him every chance I got.
I was there for a meeting with a friend to talk blogs, discuss marketing on the Internet, and to catch up on personal news. And behind her was this man I saw for the first time. He was dressed in black, and I couldn't help but notice how polished his shoes were when he walked by.
For two hours we exchanged glances and nothing else.
I was ridiculed when I got home and told my story. I was asked why I didn't get his name or his number, and let him know I was interested. I was labeled a chicken.
Really? I can leave a 32-year relationship and move to the mountains. I can fly small aircraft under the hood (meaning only being able to see the instrument panel) without a problem, and now I'm being called a coward because I didn't get a man's name? Really?
So, now I was on a mission. I was going to get this man's name, and I did, and so did my friend. Actually, she met him first, but the fact remains that I walked right up to him, and introduced myself. We talked for a little bit, long enough for me to want more.
Returning home, I Googled him. I found his website and read every word. I was fascinated with his writing, intrigued by his stories, and smitten with his view of the world. The one thing I didn't discover from what I read was whether or not he was available. And more importantly, if I were to ask, would I get the truth?
He surprised me. No, surprise isn't the right word. The feeling I got from his email that responded to my question of his marital status was one of awe. I read his words, and my heart blossomed open. Oh, and no, he's not available, but the way he wrote it made me so happy he wasn't until I realized what this meant for us. There couldn't be an us. Ah...well...
And then I thought about what it could be like to be his friend, what it would be like to sit across the table from him and sip coffee while we talked, or spinning a few tales while walking in a park, or looking at an art exhibit. Suddenly another world of new possibilities opened up, looking more intriguing than what I could've imagined before.
He could be my friend. How lovely it would be to just share some moments with him, learning more about who he is and how he shows up in the world, knowing full well that's as far as it would go. What a pleasant and welcomed gift. No pretenses, no anything besides lovely warm friendship.
All I know is that since reading his email the sun shines brighter and it's easier to smile. Is that so bad?

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Wake up to the WTF of it all...

Thank you, Jason Mraz, for the title of this blog.

Manhattan's on TV and siren's are sounding outside: "A local authority has initiated a direct community access." This just flashed across the TV screen, and then in a soft female voice, I hear: "This is only a test."

WTF? What's not a test? Isn't just showing up here day after day after a day a test to see how you do in this moment? Isn't everything an opportunity to say fuck it and do it your way as only you can do? Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it...fuck everything. Just show up and be present. Nothing else ever matters.

When my father was dying, I stood by his hospital bed waiting for one word, just one word that let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was loved as wildly and feverishly by him as I loved him. I had waited to hear his car pull up every evening. I couldn't wait to open his door before he could even turn off the ignition. The safest place in the world had always been with my head pressed against his chest and his arms squeezing me close. Years later at the ripe old age of 24, I stood beside his bed, holding his hand waiting to hear any whispers that he might utter. After hours of waiting, I heard his words: "Make sure you get all the belts counted in the bay. Inventory is due before the week's over." His eyes were open, but he looked away from me as if one of his employees was on the other side of the room. Those were the last words I heard him speak.

My father's taught me so much in life, about life, and about what's important in living. As we walked down the aisle together with my soon-to-be husband at the altar, my father told me while smiling to the crowd in the pews that I could just say the word and we'd turn around and leave the church. I plastered a smile on my face and kept walking forward. Four years later he was in that hospital room. He had just turned 58. He worked all day and all night. The word relax was not in his vocabulary. I learned that naps were unheard of, that any moment not working was a wasted moment, and that I needed to justify my reason for being by making money, cleaning, etc. Move, move,, do, do...

I'm now inching towards the age my dad was back in that hospital room, and I'm rearranging how I view what's important to me. The doing isn't as essential as the being. I move when I breathe. I see the grand view instead of the little dramas. I breathe instead of scream. I relax. I take naps. I enjoy my moments instead of constant planning, achieving, and setting and resetting goals. I show up. I just show up and allow the magic to happen.