America is a driving nation, and has been since Henry Ford first started rolling cars off his assembly lines. Geographically, this makes sense—we are a large country and, for many, owning a car just makes good sense. But, car ownership means so much more than a convenient way to get from Point A to Point B. It’s a measuring stick, a billboard, a status symbol—you are what you drive—and no more so does this hold true than in Southern California and my adopted city of Malibu.

Because most residences are tucked behind walls, cars are calling cards in this town. A typical line up in the parking lot at the local supermarket will contain a Maserati, a Mazda, a Maybach and a Mini, and each one is designed to tell us something. Want to tell the world that you’re doing something important? Grab the Maserati. Want to convey that money’s no object? Fire up the Maybach. Want to say you’re sporty and cute (preferably in an English accent)? Hop in a Mini. Just there on a lunch break? Yup—the Mazda.

But those are obvious. The subtle messages many people try and get across through their vehicles are anything but subtle. I had someone tell me, in all earnestness, that he no longer places value on material things and, even though he has gobs of money, he drives a Prius with 160,000 miles on it. Am I supposed to leave that conversation with the impression that I have just met an incredibly wealthy guy, who is more than his wealth, as exemplified by his car (and also wants to save the world from atmospheric destruction)? Because that’s what I heard.

Strangely, the lowly Prius, the silent terror of parking lots, is amazingly abundant here. For those who want to go the extra green mile, both in terms of dollars and environment, the Tesla is the ticket. Are there those who genuinely need to save money on gas and who do care about emissions? Absolutely! But I get the feeling that the rest are driving the Prius’s, the Volts, the Teslas and, praise be God, the BMW i8 series, because they feel they should and that it sends just the right message.

I know I’m making some serious generalizations here, but cars are a big deal to Californians. I guess I’m used to the New England utilitarian side of things, where a Subaru is sexy in the snow and an old pick-up truck is the Leatherman of the road. Sure, cars are still status symbols back East, but necessity puts a serious dent in one’s ability to put a showy automotive foot forward—a Lamborghini in a snow bank is not met with the intended awe, but, rather, a dismissive shake of the head.

I learned a valuable lesson years ago, when I owned a horse farm: I used to quickly size up new clients by the cars they arrived in, until I made a colossal mistake. The man who quietly pulled up in his K car, complete with wood paneling, turned out to be one of the more “distinguished” people to grace our parking lot. So, I stopped judging people by the cars they drove (well, mostly).

But here in Southern California, people are begging me to quickly form an opinion based on their wheels. They want, no NEED, for me and everyone else to form an assessment of their characters, their bank accounts, their tastes and their politics based on the hunk of steel they’ve chosen. It’s strange. I am far more impressed by the guy who picks up a piece of trash on the way to his car or the woman who returns the cart for the mom juggling three kids.

Do I like nice cars? Yes, I absolutely do. I appreciate a car that handles like a dream, that’s responsive to the pedals, that warms my hind end on cold days, that loses its top on warm ones. I drive a VW EOS for those reasons. I’m not sure what it says about me, but I’m hoping it’s something like, “There goes a girl who loves adventure.” But, whom am I kidding? Out here, nobody is getting much past the CT plates…and I guess those speak volumes about me.

 

 

 

 

 

Last week in yoga class the instructor introduced this month’s mindfulness theme—she challenged us to greet everything with no opinion whatsoever. She didn’t even get the words out of her mouth before I had an opinion about her challenge not to have one.

Determined, I dismissed my initial opinion that there is NO WAY not to have an opinion, and opened myself up to the potential. She told us to try it out during our practice; to meet each pose with no opinion as to whether we could do it or not, whether it was painful or uncomfortable, and to just relax into it. This sounded like a solid plan and I relished the opportunity to open up my body to new possibilities by smashing the boundaries my opinions put on it.

The first 10 minutes were easy. As I stretched and limbered up, each time I felt a minor objection from a joint or a muscle, I gently reprimanded them for interrupting and moved on. When we moved into more challenging flow exercises, I continued to ignore my weak-minded limbs and gamely sweat it out with the rest of the group, doggedly erasing each thought that popped into my head, like, “My leg is about to fall off,” or “How does that bendy b*%ch in front of me DO that?”

By the end, though, I found myself in a full-on internal debate about whether the idea that it was hotter than balls in the studio was just my opinion or a straight-up fact. The pool of sweat surrounding me suggested fact.

After our savasana (the resting period), the instructor sent us out into the world, reminding us to try and greet everything without opinion; that true freedom can come from this practice. I almost made it to my car in this enlightened space when a Prius narrowly missed hitting me. Smugly, I chose not to have an opinion about this person’s lack of driving skills. On my short drive home I encountered more of these “road hazards” and felt fairly confident about labeling these observations as unmistakable facts rather than opinions.

I spent the rest of the day embroiled in an opinion-versus-fact debate and fell into bed exhausted, my mind still spinning. There were just too many indisputable facts surrounding me and I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to find any peace and freedom in a world that ignores what is so painfully obvious to me.

I’ve realized since, as I’m sure you have by now, that my path to this particular enlightenment is going to be a lot tougher than I had anticipated. Opinions (read, judgments) often take the form of “fact” with me and I’ve got a long and humbling row to hoe to erase this thinking. I have promised myself (and I guess you now) that I can at least try and dial back my snap judgments and my opinions. My opinions, which have become my reality, are not fact, they are perception, and by blowing open some of my deep-seeded perceptions, my reality will broaden, which could be kind of fun. The more I can say, “Huh, Who knew?,” the more I’ll be able to open myself up to that freedom and joy my instructor speaks of, where things aren’t good or bad, they just are. And that’s a fact, Jack.

Entering a new cycle around the sun is a funny thing. There are so many expectations, promises, resolutions, good riddances…and parties. This year, however, the whole thing has taken a rather darker turn, at least in my circles. My social media is full of negativity about 2016, to the point where I believe 2016 will be happier to be rid of us than we are of it.

In the grand scheme of things, 2016 was not a tragic year for most, especially if you look at it through a wide lens. Undoubtedly, for some, it was the worst year ever, yet for others it was a period of great happiness. For everyone, though, it was just another year, chock full of things beyond our control, as well as those rare opportunities to triumph, or to fail miserably. I know that I have several items in both columns—instances where my actions did effect change, and not always for the better. I am not perfect. I have helped people and I have hurt people—and I cannot change that, but I will try and right my wrongs and do more where I am able to help. As for 2017, I am certain that I will continue to fail, and continue to succeed. The tricky part in this balance is avoiding the urge to sit in misery and complain or, conversely, to rest on my laurels.

There is a prayer I use often—The Serenity Prayer. In its shorter version, it reads:

Every time I am faced with a decision, a conflict, an upheaval, an opportunity, I whisper this mantra and try and figure out what, if anything, I can, and should, do. Often, there isn’t much. And I don’t believe inaction is a cop-out—it’s simply reality and the acceptance that I have no more power over other people and circumstances than I do the forward marching of time. When I do act, I try to do so according to my beliefs and then I let go of the results—I have no control over those. I’ve found that railing against an unintended outcome just leaves me uselessly pissed off. But there are those things I can control, where my efforts are far better rewarded. I am better served, and can serve better, when I ask myself, “OK, there’s nothing I can do about that, so what can I do?”

For me, this year has seen an awful lot, both good and bad, much like any other year. What I am certain of is that today I will try and eat something healthy, as well as something unhealthy, do a little exercise, help a friend get out of a slump, pick up a piece of litter and go to the movies. It’s not exactly earth-shattering, revolutionary stuff, but it’s a full day. I’ll likely do much the same thing tomorrow.

Happy New Year!

 

 

 

 

I walked down my street this morning to do a little math to confirm an observation I’ve made about my new neighborhood here in Malibu. Of the 38 houses on my dead-end drive, 31 are tucked behind massive, yet incredibly landscaped, walls and gates. And every one of these quasi fortresses comes equipped with entry codes, security system signs, video cameras and some even feature real, live human guards. My street is just one of many such streets in this upscale beach community.

On the one hand, I understand the need for privacy, especially among the famous. I have witnessed the insidiousness of paparazzi and heard stories about antics that would render the most sane person paranoid.

On the other hand, I have just finished reading a slew of local newspapers to try and familiarize myself with the community and I am amazed at how many of these same celebrities rail against a certain President Elect and his calls for exclusion and walls and policing.

And what of the lesser famous? What need drives them to erect these same barriers? A disproportionate sense of grandeur? Or perhaps they just bought these places from celebrities?

I hail from a very upscale community in Connecticut where the only walls are generally old stone affairs left over from the farming era. There are no codes, no security guards, no tinted windows. Admittedly, we have more land and are able to surround ourselves with trees, but supplanting our cute, white picket fences with actual barriers is not our style, even our celebrities agree.

I don’t really have a point here, I confess. I just find the dichotomy (dare I say double standard?) interesting. Nor do I have an answer—striking a balance between finding fame on the screen, yet avoiding life in a fishbowl, has got to be near impossible. So, a wall might be the only answer. (And please note that I have resisted the urge to turn to trite metaphors about walls, even though I love a good metaphor. You’ve heard them all anyway.)

I guess what I am trying to say is that the whole thing makes me a little sad. I love community. I love people. I should also divulge that I love checking out other peoples’ gardens and houses. For now, my ever-inventive mind simply makes up stories and conjures up images about life behind the walls. And until I am shown otherwise, my neighborhood consists of circus performers, eccentrics who collect garden gnomes, a time traveler from 3172, a mob boss, and an elf who is nurturing dragon eggs until they are ready to be hatched (or maybe he’s just growing weed).

I’ve been told over the years that I could do with a little more vanity, but, for the life of me, I just don’t see the point. I wish I could say that my lack of vanity comes from some deep self-satisfaction with my appearance, some supernatural Devil May Care attitude, but this glaring absence really stems from laziness and disinterest, pure and simple. Life is teeming with things I’d rather do than blowdry my hair, and most of these things simply don’t lend themselves to a pulled-together façade—I don’t ever think twice about shoving a perfectly blown out coif under a bike helmet. The effortless look so many desire requires an enormous amount of effort, and with only so much time and energy in the day,  I just can’t seem to muster the needed devotion or enthusiasm to tend to my physical appearance. And I don’t think devotion is too strong a word—the maintenance required to keep wrinkles at bay, hair straight and blonde, and the face properly accentuated, is mind-boggling. There are actual schedules to keep in these endeavors and I just don’t have any room on my calendar. It’s all I can do to get my oil changed twice a year, never mind covering up my roots every four weeks.

I’ve never given my lack of vanity much thought—until now. Six weeks ago I moved to what is arguably Ground Zero for vanity—the Los Angeles area, more specifically, Malibu—and I find myself trying to figure out how to keep up, even on some minimal level. But it’s impossible. I honestly can’t tell if people are eight or 80 around here. It really is rather impressive; which makes it rather difficult to figure out where to begin.

I’ve learned of dozens of tricks women use to turn back time—from Botox to diamond facials (seriously, actual diamonds), and from $5,000 lotions to wellness shots, every other storefront offers some magical path to Neverland, and they all come with hefty pricetags.

So, I am compromising, figuring I am just too late to the game to really give anti-aging any great effort. I purchased a $40 face cream (which is approximately $34 more than I usually spend) and lots of sunscreen. I even occasionally indulge in a wellness shot or a pedicure. But my patience, interest and wallet preclude much else and I willingly concede defeat in this arena. Aging among the ageless will keep me on my toes and I find myself becoming a little more critical of my appearance. But then I grab my bike or my dogs and head to the beach or the Santa Monica Hills for a romp. The dolphins and squirrels could care less what I look like.

 

 

This past summer I wrote a blog wondering what my next adventure was going to be and it seems I have found it. In mid-September, I hopped in my car with my two dogs and drove across the country to Malibu, California, to try West Coast living for a spell. After six weeks of interminably sunny weather, beaches that go on forever and awfully nice people (more on that in a future blog), I am declaring this adventure a success.

As a crusty New Englander, I was hesitant about living the sunny life. Just think, I’d be missing out on snow, rain, the smell of autumn leaves, cleaning out the gutters, losing power, scraping the windshield…is it any wonder why I wouldn’t be homesick? Instead, I walk on the beach admiring dolphins and sea lions (or, are they admiring me?), I hike in the hills, I camp, I bike and I have even tried surfing. I have also started a job hunt with an eye toward a minor career reinvention.

On the whole, California living is pretty magical. Having spent three months last summer touring around the West in a van, I came to appreciate desert conditions and warm temperatures, but the lack of plumbing and a place to call home did wear thin toward the end. This time, I live in a proper house, instead of a van, and I am developing community ties. I play in the Malibu Softball League, I have made friends, my dogs have made friends, and I am acquiring a decidedly un-New England tan.

I have even found a way to incorporate old adventures into this new one. This past weekend, I rented two vans and went camping with a group of friends at Jalama Beach. It was fun to introduce new people to my old van life. They were amazed when I produced edible quesadillas from the galley in the back of the van and turned the inside of the vehicle into respectable sleeping accommodations. We built fires and made s’mores. And all of it felt so natural and comfortable for me (in fact, while I was there I realized that a year ago to the day, my Whatever Journey van trip was coming to an end in Joshua Tree). Then, after two nights of “roughing it,” we made our way back to Malibu, took showers in our bathrooms and tumbled into our own beds. Really, it was the best of both worlds.

So, perhaps that is what I’m doing here—attaining the best of two worlds. I can’t imagine a winter without snow, but the mountains aren’t far away. So, instead, I imagine heading off to Mammoth for a weekend of riding, followed by a Monday morning walk on the beach with the dogs. As adventures go, this one is not too shabby.

“So, what is going to be your next big adventure?” I get this question a lot and I don’t really have a good answer. On this day, in particular, I’ve given it considerable thought. Exactly one year ago, I hopped a plane to Los Angeles, picked up my camper van and started my Whatever Journey—a three-month trek through the American West. It’s a tough act to follow, adventure-wise. But it seems so remote now. Since I’ve been back, “life,” in all its goriness, has been coming at me pretty hard. I’ve had relationships end, a surgery, and the death of my mother, which was unexpected. I’ve long said that life is all about balance and this past year couldn’t be a clearer example.

As these chapters close I look ahead and try and figure out how all of this will shape what I do going forward. But none of it is making sense at the moment. I feel like I’m in my senior year of college looking out at the world and wondering where I would fit in, what part would I play and, most important, where do I start? (Naturally, I procrastinated by going to Paris and getting my Master’s Degree.)

I believe that a large part of my unease is the loss of important anchor points or mooring lines (in keeping with my nautical metaphors). I am no longer someone’s daughter, no longer someone’s girlfriend, no longer a publisher, which makes me…what?

Then I look back and realize that I am a hell of a lot of things outside of those roles, one of the most important being a passionate and avid adventure-seeker. So, what is my next big adventure? I have no earthly idea. Life is an adventure, whether I’m in the Redwood Forest or my own backyard. Time will tell, but it won’t be dull.

P.S. If anyone has any ideas, I’m all ears.

Today I took a shower standing up—a monumental accomplishment in my new world, and one that elicited high-fives from my physical therapist and doctors. It’s hard to believe that less than a year ago, the very same act would have been met with equal enthusiasm, but for very different reasons, namely that I found running water warm enough to stand under, washing away miles and miles of hard-earned dirt and grime. Thanks to reconstructive surgery on my foot (if you haven’t read my previous posts), I’ve ditched my outdoor enthusiast, no-holds-barred crowd for one that can’t go to the bathroom without bars to hold onto.

Moving around on crutches and being ferried about in a wheelchair have put serious limitations on my world and thrust me unwillingly into a group that favors caution over risk and whose path of least resistance is well worn. Having traveled a fair bit around the world, I’ve long prided myself on being quick on my feet and easily adaptable to foreign situations. Who knew that without those same feet, my “skills” would be seriously tested. For example, getting a glass of water. Seems simple enough, right? Not really. On crutches, the first order of business is getting the glass to the sink. That accomplished, and after filling it up, comes the almost insurmountable task of getting it over to the couch. Through a series of slides down the counter, then two bridge transfers onto a breakfront and then a coffee table, I settle down on the couch, thirst at an all-time high, and down the glass of water, rendering my glass empty again. And let’s talk about using public restrooms, which are minefields for those who can’t easily get around. Negotiating the slippery floor to the toilet, using the toilet and then the final insult of trying to wash your hands is as great a challenge as any I’ve ever faced (note to bathroom designers: placing the soap out of reach of the faucet and the dryers on the opposite wall is downright Machiavellian. And don’t get me started on the paper towel dispenser that requires two hands to pull a piece down!).

In all of this, I’ve encountered hundreds of small kindnesses, mainly from people who have hobbled in my shoes, which have far outweighed the hurdles. The unsolicited offers to help me get the groceries to the car or hold the door open often come with stories about their own experiences with being temporarily laid up. This tribe understands the tiny nuances that can hamper the simplest of tasks, and its members are always at the ready to lend a hand. Just as fellow campers offer up use of their laundry facilities when I pass through, my new tribe also instinctively understands what would truly be helpful, from installing a handheld shower to rigging a bungee cord to my front door so I can pull it closed behind me. This temporary glimpse into a world of mind-boggling frustration has afforded me a new perspective, and one that I will try to carry forward, now that I am able. Honestly, it’s really no big deal to wait a minute more for a bathroom stall to free up rather than using the vacant handicapped one. I now know that those sixty seconds can mean the difference between an easy pee and a wall-gripping, thigh-burning debacle for some.

 

At the suggestion of someone who knows me very well, I got off my couch this afternoon and went into the woods to regain my balance. Balance is something that has quite literally been absent from my life having been a prisoner of crutches for the last two months. To boot (see the picture below to appreciate the pun here), a string of life-changing events over the same period has further knocked me off center and there’s nothing like some couch time to really make the head spin. I, like most humans, tend to overanalyze, overthink, and generally, overdo, just about everything. Left to my own thoughts, I take myself on crazy journeys that have nothing to do with reality, instead of being present in the world as it is. So, off I hobbled to lie beneath a stand of firs to allow my muddled, jumbled thoughts to fall away, and be replaced by a quiet peace and clarity that only nature can deliver.

You see, nature doesn’t think, it just is, and its existence can provide very simple answers to some very complex questions, if you look closely. Take, for example, the stand of firs I was gazing up into—forty feet in the air, the canopy swayed in the wind soaking up the sun. As I contemplated one tree’s journey toward the light I noticed the dead branches lining the trunk at one-foot intervals all the way up. Each of those branches was once at the top, feeding the root system, but gave way each year to the growth of a new branch higher up, thanks to the strength of that very same root system. What a metaphor! While the branches were dead and no longer essential to the tree’s existence, the tree’s solid foundation would not exist had it not been for their contributions. And the boughs I saw today, dancing happily in the breeze at the top, would follow the same path and join their decaying brothers below, their usefulness achieved, as the tree continues its journey upward.

The thought of myself as a tree, constantly strengthening and growing, as trite as it sounds, brings me serenity, balance, acceptance and, perhaps most important, patience. I’ve got a lot of dead branches in my past, and each of them was imperative to my growth, and everything that is happening right now, good and bad, will contribute in invaluable ways down the road. It is this that I need to remember—if I accept everything as a challenge, a lesson, an experience that could strengthen me, rather than tear me down, then new branches will flourish in the bright light of the sun. To think otherwise, to call the journey over, is to wither and die. Nature doesn’t lie.

 

 

A few weeks ago, I was presented with the opportunity to get behind the wheel of a van, with Willy Whatever the Adventure Dog in tow, and drive down to Nashville and back. It goes without saying that I jumped (lunged, really) at the chance, even though I would not be ensconced in anything close to The Shroom, but rather an Enterprise van filled to the roof with heavy equipment and household items. It’s funny to think that less than a year ago, I would have considered this opportunity far more of a burden, and grudgingly ticked off the miles, whining in my six-year-old head, “Are we there, yet?” Now, armed with a new penchant for road travel, especially in loud, hard-to-handle behemoths that get about 10 miles to the gallon and top out at 70, I was eager to roll. As it turned out, I also had a lot to learn along the way.

The first lesson is that road travel with a friend (the right friend) has huge appeal. This is a lesson I learned long ago about travel in general—passing my travel test (which usually involves airplanes and foreign countries) has long been a prerequisite for any long-term relationship, but road travel is a different beast and I was nervous about taking it on with an unknown. After all, I had it down to a science—when to stop, when to eat, when to gas up and, perhaps most important, what I would listen to. So it was with some concern that I set out on this long haul, hoping that my co-pilot would just shut-up and follow my lead. After the first hour, I realized that my concern was short-sighted and completely without merit. The hours flew by as we belted out songs from the 80s and 90s, played the alphabet game, and punched each other silly every time we saw a Prius (there just aren’t that many VW bugs on the road these days). It turned out that I had stumbled upon an ideal road travel companion in a human! (In fact, Willy’s contribution to the trip was a return to vomiting, which was less fun than rediscovering that I still know all the words to a Level 42 song.)

Aside from a new appreciation for travel companions, I also made another great discovery—the world of dog-friendly hotels doesn’t have to be a sketchy affair. Having dodged needles and similar detritus at Motel 6s and Super 8s across the West, I was amazed to find that a relatively decent hotel chain (La Quinta) welcomes both human and canine guests. To think, it was there the whole time.

For my return trip, I found myself flying solo again, in human terms, having left my friend in Nashville. While I drove, I explored why I had been emphasizing the upsides to going it alone, even going so far as to write that I often prefer it. After this most recent road adventure, I have reevaluated my position—solo travel is very good for the head and offers great rewards, but traveling with someone can be good for the soul.