Brooklyn to Venice

Not quite two and a half years ago, I wrote the first post of this blog – Goodbye (For Now) –  my ode to New York City and, more specifically, Brooklyn.  It was a powerful essay for me to write, as I have never felt more connected to something as I did (and still do) to Brooklyn – the place, the people that fill it up and make it what it is, the experiences I had there.  While the words flowed out easily, my heart burst as I realized how much of me was cultivated in my 17 years of living in New York City.

Naively, I had some unconscious impression that that me that had been cultivated would transplant and just be the same person, albeit here in Los Angeles.  That my evolution was complete, the cultivating final. I would be me and just move myself out to Los Angeles and give it three years and see if I wanted to stay.  Even though I had just wrote, arguably eloquently, about the process of making New York City my home, I took for granted that I would go through the same process here in Los Angeles. Not just took it for granted — simply ignored it. But ignoring life’s processes doesn’t stop anyone from going through them.

And apparently the Universe knew I really needed to learn a lesson.  Many now know the story I couldn’t share at the time, but simultaneous with the literal move to Los Angeles my marriage that should have ended five years before the move finally crumbled.  “Simultaneous” isn’t just a figure of speech or effective use of hyperbole – it is the only accurate way to describe the timing.  I arrived in Los Angeles knowing I was effectively single (which carried with it a sense of relief, but acknowledgement I was in unknown territory), with three young kids, having to be a big person with a graceful heart, not having more than one true friend here, and accessible in the city, having to show up at work every day and put my best foot forward to colleagues who were getting to know me, and be a good parent to my children.  Every day.  I was both the same girl that NYC had cultivated and someone totally different. Maybe, more accurately, the same girl but I was being tested in a way I never had been before.  The same girl but one that needed reminding that I was still evolving, still cultivating, still a work in progress.

In addition to doing the right thing, and doing what had to be done every day, I also needed more than that to immerse myself into LA.  I had a policy against saying no to any invite.  Only say yes.  If someone told me about a place I should see, I made it a point to see it — not on the long term bucket list, but immediately. I visited ice creams shops and concert halls from Pasadena to Redondo Beach, from Palm Springs to Laguna Hills, from Venice to North Hollywood, from Inglewood to Calabasas.  I ran hundreds of miles, I rode my bike for thousands, I swam.  My life was social both when the kids were with me and when they weren’t.  For not knowing many people here, my social life was more full than it had ever been.

But it felt lonely.  Lonely.  Lonely.  I didn’t feel rooted, I didn’t feel connected.  And that felt all the more highlighted, as I knew what it was like, in Brooklyn, to not feel lonely.  This place just didn’t feel like home.  The loneliness and lack of connection had nothing to do with the quality of my day to day life or happiness — here in LA, being out of an unhappy and unfulfilling marriage, I was happier. More content. More peaceful.  But happiness, relief and content doesn’t necessarily bring connection and a sense of rootedness, to people and the place you are.  And even though I had just wrote about how I had developed that connection in NYC during each step I took in NYC for 17 years, I didn’t really know how to do it here.   Nevertheless, I just kept doing the only thing I know how to do – move forward, do what I have to do, fake it, say yes, keep going.  Don’t stop.  And that is what I have done, with a more heightened awareness of making sure those steps are authentic than I did 25 years ago as I walked the streets of NYC on a $3/day food budget.

So I kept running through Echo Park on lunch time runs.  I kept swimming at Miguel Contreras High school other lunches.  I played hookie from work to go to Dodger opening day.  I went to Clippers game and cheered for the Clippers unless the Thunder were there.  I ate at Two Boots Pizza in Downtown LA and talked about my first trip to the Two Boots in the West Village.  I saw concerts at Hollywood Bowl and the Wiltern. I took my kids to Floyd’s to get their haircut and look at inappropriate rock star photos on the walls while waiting.  I spent days at school festivals, at the beach, at the zoo.  I sat in meetings at work and learned to speak languages of business I never had spoken before.  I went on dates – many, many good ones, a few horrible ones, and a few very special spectacular ones.  I opened myself up.  I gracefully found the words when someone’s interest in me was not reciprocated. I let my heart be broke, not so much by a person but by disappointed hope.  I watched the sunset from my bedroom window over the hills of the Palisades and Malibu.  I watched sunsets from the bleachers and track at Culver City High School football field – my favorite place to the see the pink and purple of dusk in Southern California.  I ate at 20 different food booths in Grand Central Market.  I celebrated my last day of working DTLA, officially, with champagne, oysters and Eggslut at Grand Central Market with my best friend.  I hiked Los Liones, over and over.  I hiked in Malibu, I hiked in Santa Monica.  I climbed Baldwin Hills Overlook on bike and on foot, again and again.  I crashed my bike on a bike path and rode in an ambulance crying with a fractured elbow but fortunately an intact brain and neck.  I spent a night at Marina Del Rey ER and Children’s Hospital ER making friends with everyone possible to speed along the process of Sasha getting her arm casted after falling off the bunk bed.  I’ve tried unsuccessfully, three times, to move from my apartment to a house. I negotiated the end of my marriage at outdoor tables at Starbucks.  I’ve become addicted to juice from Whole Foods, and massages from Marina Massage.  I discovered gel manicures.  I slept on a friend’s sofa after a car crash when my house wasn’t peaceful enough for recovery.  I’ve become a regular at Hip Hop Fit in Culver City.  I’ve had drinks with new friends, heard their stories, shared laughs. I’ve been the oldest in a  group and the youngest.  I’ve hid in my car so no one would see me cry.  I’ve cried in front of everyone.  I’ve sabotaged nights out with friends with very bad (but fun) decisions.  I’ve watched my daughters perform their Broadway theatre musical in front of an audience without one tear — in fact, with them stealing the microphone from their friends.  I’ve held butterflies who landed on my fingertips.  I’ve watched more kids perform more rock songs in more historic venues than I ever imagined I would.  I’ve taken my kids to my friend’s new house for New Year’s Eve and they stayed up until 1:30am, Kai reading from his new joke book to a captivated audience.  I’ve gone to high school football games, college soccer games, and playoff hockey games. I’ve gone to sleep at 8:45pm and I’ve gone to sleep at 4:45am.  I’ve held Deucey while he was put to sleep, peacefully, with only my heart in pain.  I’ve said no every one of the 2,000,000 times my children have asked for a new dog, cat, or baby brother/sister.  I’ve listened to Justin Timberlake sing about writing another song 100 times on my vinyl record player, making my imagine who would ask me for a second chance and write me another song.  I’ve drank cheap bottled sangria and expensive, 90 point wine — in my living room, at parks, at dinner with friends.  I’ve listened to the Love Jones soundtrack while eating at the exclusive Trois Mec.  I’ve already had some day dreams about working for the Los Angeles Rams once they are here. I’ve had brunch and lunch and dinner and breakfast and coffee and quick hellos with friends — good friends, close friends, true friends.  I’ve traveled to New York City to rejuvenate my soul and energize my footsteps, and I’ve put my key through my door on my return and seen, each time I come through, the sign that reminds me that what I love most about my home is who I share it with.

The other day, I was doing repeat runs up Baldwin Hills Overlook in Culver City.  I was 3/4 of the way up the hill, on my way down the hill, and noticed that I could see the LMU at Loyola Marymount to the southwest; the Sony Rainbow right in front of me; the buildings in Century City, among which I discovered Jamestown Revival during a beautiful outdoor concert; the Hollywood sign to the north east; Staples Center and Downtown Los Angeles.  These spots, all of which have had moments of my life lived the past 2 1/2 years, barely looked spread apart. I could imagine taking a subway from LMU to DTLA that took no longer than a ride from Brooklyn Museum to Rockefeller Center, if LA only had the infrastructure.  I saw all these moments accessible to me – not that far away from me, not that far away from the me that LA is cultivating.  The sun was shining, people were going up and down, working their legs, laughing and talking. I thought of the food I would have when my work out was done; the drinks and dinner I would have with friends later that night; whether I could bring my kids to play on the hill if I came to workout with them in tow the following weekend.  I saw the marine layer breaking to the west. I felt myself smile.  I realized that Los Angeles did not not feel like home.

So, I’ve been trying to write an essay about a dance class I take.  It’s taken about 15 versions so far, none capturing what I want to capture.  I’m so far from what I originally wanted to capture and can’t figure out where I’m going with it.  To the extent I’m a writer, this disconnect has led to writer’s block.  In an effort to clean the slate and refresh my inspiration, I’ve kept going to dance class! Tonight, I also started flipping through some of the notes and thoughts I write most days. Many of these notes are the start of essays I eventually try to write, some are left to saturate alone on scratch paper, and some of which brew in my heart for a while and, though not forgotten, get buried underneath other thoughts.  I flipped through the pages and saw periodic poems, a string of haikus (my attention span has been shorter this year than usual!), and some highlighted sentences that stood out on some page, trying to remind myself that they could be kernels for some bigger something some day!  I pulled together some lines I liked, some of the haikus, some thoughts.  Trying to keep them as close to how I wrote them originally, I reordered them and re-paced them.  And though not a story of my dance class, I found a little tiny love story in there…..fiction based on non-sequential reality….

MATH EQUATIONS: A Patchwork Story

If I could explain
chemistry, connection, I’d
write simple stories

My dad once told me,
“He’ll tell you your eyes are pretty” –
He knew I knew you

Some other life lived
well, fully, the sun had set –
but we meet again

My body, curves, lines,
Slopes and paths, inviting views –
explore with no map

If math equations
are your music, your heart’s song,
then write them for me

The story unfolds
with twist, turns, unexpected —
but, still … that first gaze …

Legs curve, strong and firm,
step, climb, bend, push, hold, wrap, pulse –
they curve, all around (around him)

The most painful part
of him and i, no longer –
next date, no flutters

It is chilly here,
He gazes at me, eyes warm.
I search for you, long(ing) yearn(ing), hot

Momma is each song
about love, love, girls and boys
because hearts just know?

A gift so perfect,
hidden in my hiding spot,
what I couldn’t give

Small grains of sand
in time –  our story, or … small
grains of another.

The therapist gave us paper and asked us to draw a picture of how we felt. My first thought, how do you draw a picture of a feeling? My second thought, this is ridiculous. My third thought, I’m a horrible artist, I can’t draw. My fourth thought, I’m going to do what she’s asking me to do; I’m paying $150 for this hour with her. Cross legged on an oversized pillow, I sat next to my then husband of eleven years, him on his own pillow, our backs against a raised built-in day bed, the therapist on her own pillow in front of us with her back against a mirrored wall, my image there to look at me whenever I wanted to glance at it. I took some crayons and started drawing. I got lost in the drawing for a minute, for two, for three, for five. I drew without thinking.

“Nikki, can you explain what you drew. What it means.” “Well, I can explain what I drew, but I’m not sure I can really say what it means.” “Well, just start there then.” So I started.

“It’s a picture of a flower on the ground and the sun in the sky, but the flower has a very skinny stem and not enough roots. The roots it has are strong, but there aren’t enough of them. There are all these things resting on the petals of the flower, and it is pushing them down rather than letting them flourish and shine. The petals can’t see the sun even though they reach for them, there is too much on the petals and not enough …substance?… at the stem.” I keep talking, explaining little details. There are three leaves on the stem, but they look more like petals.

“That’s interesting. It seems like you might know better what this means now that you explained what it is.” It was bait, the right amount, thrown at me at just the right moment.

“Things that are supposed to be meaningful to me feel superficial. There is all this superficial … stuff? superficial something? … for the world to see and look at, and people think it’s meaningful because it looks good. But it’s not. It’s not down where it is supposed to be, at the stem, I guess the stem is my heart, where I need support and something more. It’s so superficial and fake and I can’t carry it all, I don’t want to. I don’t want a fake façade, I want the real thing. I can’t get to the sun. Everything feels reversed from what it should feel like. I mean it sounds cliché, but my stem feels alone. It’s strong but it is being asked to do something I didn’t sign up for, to fake it. I don’t even know what all of that stuff on the petals is, maybe just what some of it is, but it all feels superficial, and it’s making me feel not myself. Like I can’t be me, let alone grow.” There. I said what I could, there was nothing more in me. It was all out. Partly eloquent, partly non-sense. Partly literal, partly symbolic. I threw it all out there and some of it was sticking. I looked at the girl in the mirror in front of me, and she sat crossed legged with her hoodie zipped up, biting her lower lip in stoicism and a stare that looked like a better poker face than she ever had before. Was that me? I recognized the hoodie, the crossed legs. It must be me. The therapist sat there in silence, letting my own words sink into the air, into me, into the room, into the pillows. She let the silence be. My then husband sat there, but I don’t remember what his reflection looked like. I remember him being next to me, I felt his presence, but I didn’t see him. I saw me. I just saw me. I heard the silence of the therapist and I saw my poker face in the mirror, and my bitten lip and eyes that were trying to endure whatever was coming my way and whatever was coming out of me, and my crossed legs and my hands holding the paper with the drawing and letting it almost rest in front of me, but not quite. My shoulders strong and back straight, the pose for confidence I had perfected since I was 14. I didn’t see anything else. My eyes were green and I was surprised there were not tears.

The few seconds that passed in silence were eternal; the thoughts that ran through my mind infinite. Eternity and infinity compressed into what was likely twenty seconds, maybe thirty at most. The symbols were a little muddled, the analogies a little confused, but the drawing clarified my feeling of being Alone. Maybe safe, a flower protected from the rain and wind as much as the sun because of all these Things weighing down my petals, but Safe and Alone and somehow Burdened because I was carrying everything and nothing. Those things that might have looked pretty but lacked substance and meaning were heavy, very heavy. Had they been more dense, more dense to sink down past the petals into my stem, at least next to my stem, they wouldn’t have felt like a burden. But they weren’t dense and they weren’t sinking down and they were staying up where they didn’t belong, not really doing me any good. I didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want to be blunt or honest, but Those Things included my Relationship. My Marriage. Those Things included the same dense void that I felt between me and the man sitting next to me. I was by myself — physically, spiritually, emotionally — down in my core.

I looked at the girl in the mirror and the man sitting next to her. I saw him sitting there, looking at the picture he drew. Was he thinking of my words or what he would say about his picture? I didn’t know. I can’t remember what his picture was, but it wasn’t a picture like mine and he wasn’t looking at me. There were no invisible wires of connection, I couldn’t feel them, they didn’t exist. I tried to take whatever was in my heart, floating around and then unnamed, and place it onto him. I tried to push whatever it was in there out to fill that heavy void between us. Maybe it was anger and red would fill the air. Maybe it was unclaimed, unappreciated love, and a deep purple would speckle the air particles. Maybe it was loneliness and ice blue would splatter between us. Maybe it was an ugly resentment and deep black would spot the carpet in between our two pillows. But nothing would come out. It built up in my heart and it wouldn’t come out at all, let alone project toward him. Whatever was building inside of me wasn’t meant to be what would connect us. Not any longer, maybe not ever. Our slow and long and painful demise was what brought me to this room, but this moment was not about him.

I looked back at myself. I looked at the woman, the girl, the woman in front of me, and I knew she could Blame. She could have blamed him, faking it for so long and keeping up some sort of appearance but never being There, with Her. One foot out the door, always, for longer than she could remember. Even then, she didn’t know everything but knew enough that some would say blaming him justified. I looked at her, her hoodie mostly zipped up, and knew she could blame his father, for not giving him a role model on how to be Present. I looked at her and thought that she could blame her father, the man he was before he stopped drinking, when she was so little and had to harden her vulnerable heart as she lay in bed waiting for the garage door to open for his car at night and for her to know he was safe. I looked at her and thought she could blame her mother, who taught by example how to endure by being tough and having resolve but not how to open up. I looked at her and thought she could blame her family, for too few I Love Yous. For too much silence when she was seeking noise. I looked at her and thought she could blame the boys that looked at her when she was 12 only because she looked 16, and taught her that keeping distance was Safe. I looked at her and thought she could blame her Best Friend, the guy who everyone thought she would marry, but the one who taught her that the way to stay close was to not quite acknowledge that they wanted to be closer. I looked at her and thought she could blame her sister, who taught her how to stay right in the Safe Middle by showing her what the extremes looked liked. There was so much blame that could be placed, and I looked at her and saw that she didn’t have it in her to place any Blame. She had too much in her to place Blame.

The Blame felt as superficial as that relationship sitting on the top of the flower. If I was drawing blame into my drawing, it would go on the petals, too, it might even make the stem weaker, skinnier, less substantive, too solitaire. The blame would be more weight, more shade, more distance. It felt too easy and too heavy, all at once, to blame these people, all of whom I loved, most of them still loved, people for whom I felt abundantly grateful, who were the part of my Roots that were not me. My legs were still crossed and my hands now in the pockets of my hoodie and the hair on the left side of my head pushed behind my ear. Blaming them was too myopic and Not Real. The room still saturated with silence, I looked at the therapist, breathing deeply. I could see the words and thoughts flying around the room, losing speed, slowly settling into some peace she was allowing me to recognize. These thoughts, epiphanies, were floating off her shoulders, bouncing around for someone else to claim.

I looked back at myself. I thought of an essay I wrote at the end of my junior year of college, on an airplane flying home to my parents for the summer. I had this big content heart when I started writing, taking off from BWI Airport, and had started crying somewhere along the way. It was a beautiful essay, one of my favorites, still today, though never shared with anyone (yet). The words capturing tanned legs and green eyes and depth and love and courage and sun freckles and laughter and gracious tears, putting words to the feelings in my heart before I wrapped them up and handed them out, out to many but to one boy in particular, one boy I loved in the most open way I knew how to then, when I was 21 and maybe knew how to do it better than when I was 30, 35, 37, who wanted me to be more courageous than he could be, and I was happy to find the courage in me. I thought of what I wanted in my life when I wrote that essay, what I had the highest hopes was just within my reach — connection, depth, openness, honesty, vulnerability. I wanted to lay my heart bare and know that it would still beat, that it would beat stronger for being Known. I wanted to have people in my life – someone – who knew the rhythm of my laugh and the backbeat of my smile and could score a movie to it. I wanted to find someone worthy, if I hadn’t yet, and Invite Him In. Invite Them In. Invite them to know me deeply; to know the thoughts that made my eyes more or less green on any given day. To have Him Know that he was Safe with Me, Safe with Me Knowing Him, Better for it, in fact. Have people – friends, family, boyfriends, neighbors, children – in my life Know this, with Me. Have Me Know this. I wanted to wrap up my Worthiness and Belong.

I kept looking at myself in the mirror, at my eyes but understanding my practiced posture remained composed. I noticed that the therapist hadn’t moved and my then husband’s legs were outstretched, his head looking at the ceiling. It was peripheral vision. This wasn’t about anyone but Me. I could blame Him, his parents, his family, my parents, my family, random cameo players in my life, all my life. I could blame, place blame, hide behind blame. And if I did, I would find myself in another therapist’s room, at some other time, trying to identify why I was drawing pictures of flowers that had weak stems. The blame would enable People to offer me something superficial, and it would enable Me to Accept it. The Blame would keep me Safe — I knew I wouldn’t break, I would endure, I would survive. But I wouldn’t thrive and I wouldn’t have that Beautiful Knowing that I captured in an essay on a plane in 1995. I wouldn’t capture all the Beauty I could, all the Beauty I wanted to. I would feel disconnected from all the things I have always Wanted and that I was always Worth, because ultimately – ultimately – the responsibility to invite this Beauty in was Mine. If I wanted connection; if I wanted a chance to fill the voids, jump into the voids and color them with all sorts of emotions, have those colors decorate a splattered, beautiful, path woven with stories and complexity and simplicity between me and someone else, have that path be one that I could viscerally feel as I sat next to someone; if I wanted depth — Blame would not get me there. This was on me. It was me. The answer was Me. The only part of this equation that mattered was Me. Those twenty, maybe thirty, seconds filled with train-of-thought words and impactful silence and the image of my eyes and legs and warm hoodie surrounding my heart, now as permanent as any memory could be. Those seconds condensed into a visual to remind Me that though I will never know the impact someone will have to my Stem, nothing can be worse than the impact of not extending the Invitation.

A romanticized, fictionalized true story.

December

It was December. I forgot. I started the day upset and discontent. I had forgotten what that felt like, so long had passed since this specific strain of upset had surfaced. Had it ever? There are so many different strains. It was December and I got ready for my bike ride. I had forgotten that it could get so chilly in the morning and couldn’t find the sleeves to keep my arms warm. I’d go without them. I’d be fine, most likely. I always am. Would I be cold on the downhills? I was sure the ride would work out the upset – work it out in my mind, workout until it was out of my mind. Things end in a variety of ways, I had forgotten. I was familiar with only one ending, but there could be – would be – many. Each one would require moving forward, gracefully. Even so, I didn’t expect this end, this way, at this time. I did not expect me having to end the story. I hadn’t expected this story that got me so upset. It was December and it started off chilly, but got warm during the ride. I was riding downhill, going over 30 mph, and I was cold. I had forgotten that I rode down this hill before, my brakes on the entire time. Was that six months ago? I forgot. I was so much more fearless this time, more confident. Fearless or confident? They are different, slightly. I could not put into words the specific composition of this particular upset. I had forgotten that some storylines were possible, weren’t just clichés, weren’t just urban legends, weren’t just someone else’s experience. I had forgotten that sometimes, some endings would still require me to be better, be strong, have resolve. I was riding downhill and trying to figure out how to get over this upset, this upset that took me by surprise because it came too quickly, prematurely, and I knew the best thing would be to accept the invite, to have the drink, to have a new conversation. It was December and I knew that I was good at conversation; that, I hadn’t forgotten. I said yes, let’s meet up tonight. Still, my heart was filled with weight, heavy down in my chest, a sponge soaked with water it hadn’t meant to be immersed in. My limbs felt tired and lethargic, my soul uninspired, even as I was working things out on my bike. My heart held certain this feeling wouldn’t go away, ever, despite that my mind more rational. It was December and my heart had forgotten. Forty miles later, my legs felt strong and accomplished but my heart still weak and tentative. I got ready, and put on my favorite jeans and a steel blue shirt. I had forgotten that the blue of the shirt made my eyes look more green – the green hue lacking in the shirt bringing out the green in my eyes. I put heels on, and I forgot to consider whether he was taller than me. I forgot whether I was even supposed to consider that, if I ever had before when I was getting ready? I was going through the motions, much like on my bike ride, but without a trusted leader. Going through the motions was better, though, than not going through them, better than being sitting alone with my upset that I could not work out. This I did not forget. It was December and it was better to go through the motions than to try to wrap my mind a story I didn’t expect, an ending I didn’t want, hindsight that was doing me no good. I parked the car and looked at my green eyes and light hair and put on one coat of lip gloss, like I always do, before getting out of the car. I walked to the bar and realized I forgot my lip gloss in the car. My lip gloss, the most important thing in my purse, the thing I reach for frequently. I forgot it. Should I go back? I don’t like being late, I didn’t go back. It was December and I was just doing this to move forward, to get sidetracked. I looked at the door to go in, and decided I would wait outside a few minutes rather than meet him inside. It was December and I had forgotten that the afternoon warmth had started to turn back to a chill. I was early. I turned around, away from the door, and he walked around the corner, early too. I saw him, and I had forgotten how easy it is, sometimes, to recognize someone you’ve never met. I saw him, and we both smiled. I saw him, and I forgot that I was just going through the motions. I forgot what led me to that moment, this date, this evening. All of it ran downstream, quickly, and I didn’t reach out for any of it. I had forgotten that I knew not to reach back, to only reach forward. It was December and I said hello. I said hi. He gave me a hug, as if we were more than just two people that looked familiar to each other. I forgot that we weren’t. His eyes were lighter than mine, not green, not blue, not brown. Just light, so light. His smile broad. I forgot I hadn’t been smiling all day. I forgot there was a moment in time that I was not smiling. I forgot that this was not the very beginning of my day’s story. The very beginning of the story of my week, my month, my autumn. Was there a story that led me here? I forgot it, if there was. It had all evaporated. We talked small talk at first, then medium talk, then deep talk. I did not feel nerves, did not feel flutters, but felt comfortable. I forgot that we had never talked before. I forgot that deep talk usually took a while to get to, for me, at least. We floated between easy and deep, light and serious, my story and his story. I forgot there was ever a conversation not this pleasant, this easy. I forgot that I ever thought about anything but this moment. It was December. It was a first date on which I didn’t want to go, for which I didn’t want to be available. But I was available, and I did go. And I forgot. I remembered that first dates can be tricky, can be hard, can be tedious. But I had forgotten that not all were, and this one wasn’t. Three hours flew by and he walked me to my car, where my lip gloss lay. I had forgotten I didn’t have it with me. He gave me a hug goodnight, and I forgot it wasn’t the first time we hugged. I forgot that we had hugged hello, too. I climbed in the car and waved goodbye. In being so easy and comfortable it was spectacular, and I forgot there was this strain of spectacular. I had forgotten that not just upset comes in different strains. My phone buzzed with a text message and before I pulled off to drive home I looked at the message. “You didn’t seem yourself on our ride this morning. You okay?” “Yes, I’m good.” “What was wrong?” “I was upset.” “Over what?” “I forgot. I totally forgot. I just had a great first date.” “I’ve heard you say that before. But I like each time you say it.” It was December and I forgot. I forgot and that helped me remember: the motions are never just motions; I don’t need my lip gloss; my eyes are green and I know how to say hello, start a conversation; smiles can be familiar even if you’ve never met; any strain of upset is not strong enough to last forever, not strong enough to survive the motions I go through as I just go forward; I am the one constant equation in these great first dates; spectacular comes in many strains too; sometimes comfortable is spectacular and sometimes, just moving forward is spectacular. There’ll always be someone new, a new story. There’ll always be some end to some story that precedes the new little story coming my way. The latter part of that sentence the critical part, the one I might have forgotten. I woke up so upset. It was December and, by the end of the day, I forgot.

February

It was February. I knew. There was snow on the ground and I wore my boots. I stepped over the snow, waved goodbye and smiled, and I knew. I climbed the steps, one at a time, slower than normal, letting this last moment drag out as long as the seconds would let it. Step one; I knew that a minute cannot last more than sixty seconds. Step two; I knew I couldn’t turn one moment into two, two into three. Step three, I knew that I would always have these moments, but I would not have more. Step four, I knew my heart would ache, ache because it was full. There was snow on the ground and it was melting, but, still, I had to step over it to get to the sidewalk. It wouldn’t melt for quite some time, there was too much snow. It was still winter, still cold. The apartment would be warm when I walked inside, and the stain from the snow on my boots would quickly look like a layer of dust. The snow was bright and beautiful, sharply contrasted against the crisp sky. One of the sharp contrasts that made the city inviting. The snow would melt, this I knew. I knew, as I climbed the stairs – step five, step six – these moments were finite and I was near the end. I would take my boots off, and put my running shoes on, and I wouldn’t need my boots later that day. By the time I reached the top of the staircase, by the time I opened the door, my heart ached. It ached like it had on previous visits, last Spring, last Summer, but it ached differently, too. It ached with gratefulness. It ached because I knew a chapter was about to close, was closing, was closed. I was where I needed to go, he helped me get there. He dropped me off and I was so grateful for him getting me there, for it being him, specifically him, for setting the standard high. He helped me step through snow this morning, rain before. Summer heat and thirst, even. He had helped me step through phases, unknowingly, without asking for anything in return. He spoke to me. He let me share bits and pieces of myself, at my pace. He let me be clumsy, he let me be brave, he let me be strong, he let me be forward, he let me be fun, he let me be thoughtful. He made me realize that I let myself be these things. There was snow on the ground. I had said goodbye before, when there was misty rain, when there was sunshine, when it was chilly. But I knew this goodbye, with snow on the ground, was different. The snow was more dense than the rain, more resilient than the rays of the sun, more impactful than a chill. The snow is not as vulnerable to a quick change of weather. Its mark will last longer. There would be a stain of snow on my boots – a layer of dust that the sun or the rain never left. A layer that can be seen – visceral, visible, a reminder of where they (I) had walked, where they (I) had been. I hadn’t allowed this layer before. I hadn’t wanted layered, I wanted simple, but now the snow was on the ground and I was happy to see the layer of dust on my boots. Step seven, step eight. I was grateful to have been reminded of layers. Layers of experience, layers of conversation, layers of intimacy. The layers were nice. They were inviting, warm. They were cozy. And still, also, sexy and fun. None of the layers diminished the others, as I had feared. I wasn’t diminished, I wasn’t weighed down. I was myself; if anything, was lighter. It was February and I knew that these moments were meant to make me comfortable for what lay ahead of me, but not for him. It was February and I wasn’t meant to walk in the snow for long, not for longer than this weekend, for now. It didn’t mean less, it didn’t mean more. He dropped me off and my heart was full and I had not realized that my heart was as in this as it was. I knew that I failed, luckily, at keeping my heart contained. I knew some failures were good. I walked up the stairs and with each step I knew that I had been walking for some time – up stairs, forward miles, over hills. In April, when I said goodbye and went outside I had the wrong shoes on, and I had told him the next day my toes had frostbite. I had been unprepared for the spring to be cold. In summer, things were light, brief, fleeting. It’s not hard to get summer right. Now, it was February, and my boots had a light layer of dust from the snow and it was a layer for which I had prepared, but did not expect. My heart ached but not with sadness, not quite longing, but close. He had been my usher, holding my arm as I was walked forward. I now knew things I had not known I didn’t know. How lucky I was to have these moments, to have gotten where I needed to be, to have grown comfortable with layers, these layers. My heart ached under the weight of the snow on my boots and the gratefulness in my heart. My heart ached knowing that I was ready for layers on my feet, around my heart, in my life. I wanted layers that collapsed all together. My heart ached as I wanted to say thank you for more than just dinner and breakfast and conversation and a kiss and the ride through the snow with him singing with the radio, but I did not quite have the right words for all of that. I only had simple words, a simple hug, a simple wave. And my mind wrapped itself around the complexity of what I was thankful for, what I longed for, as I climbed the steps, as I took my boots off. I would not have gotten here without him, not specifically to this point, at this time. I opened the door. I was grateful. It was February and I knew.

May

It was May. I cried. It was sunny. I had a Hawaiian breakfast with eggs and spam and a mimosa, and my heart was beating so fast, so strong, so beautifully. It was May and the sun was shining and there were kind eyes in front of me. It was May and there was a contagious smile in front of me, pulling my lips up, up, up. It was sunny and there was intelligence matching mine, there was thoughtfulness complementing mine, there was adventure and spirit in front of me. I had expected nothing but all that he offered up to me matched with something inside of me. It was May and the minutes were passing too quickly and I wanted to stop time and capture the butterflies. I wanted to capture the butterflies, the ones in my stomach, flying to my heart. Flying, flying, flying. I had no net, and I couldn’t tell if the butterflies were flying or I was falling. Either way, I had no net. The food was good, but I didn’t want to eat. My appetite was only for his words, our banter, our chemistry, the pieces of him he was offering me, the way he was looking at me. A specific gaze that soaked me in, made him pause, as if he needed a minute to etch into his mind the words that just floated out of me, words he hadn’t expected to resonate. It was May and I left breakfast to see a pavilion filled with monarch butterflies and kids’ laughter and bright eyes and wonder and awe. And what was around me was almost as beautiful as what was inside of me – my butterflies, my laughter, my brightness, my wonder and my awe. It was May and I wasn’t sure if he would show up but he did, I wasn’t sure I wanted to show up, but I did, and the wonder and the butterflies and the sun surrounded my heart from the very first second we were in the others’ presence. The sun so strong, his eyes so open, the reciprocity so evident. It was May and I heard music. From the stage, in the car, from him – I heard music. It was May and I cried, out of the blue, later in the day. I had sat across from someone who was familiar, who spoke to the best parts of me, who unintentionally dusted off my highest hopes, who gave me butterflies and then I sat out in the sun and heard kids making music and saw butterflies in the pavilion and caterpillars crawling safely, knowing they would transform when it was time, and I heard children’s laughter and awe and I felt warmth and awe and anticipation. It was May and in the afternoon I read kind words and generous compliments and the sun was bright. It was May and it was a Saturday and there weren’t enough hours, minutes, seconds in the day before it would end and Sunday would come, but Sunday couldn’t come fast enough. I would only see him again if the days passed but I didn’t want this day to end. It was a Saturday and I hadn’t seen monarch butterflies in the sun on a Saturday in so long. Had I ever? Not on a Saturday, not in May, not when my heart was open, I had not. Something inside of me was basking in warmth even when I was out of the sun, after the restaurant’s brunch hours had closed and the school gates were closed and the butterfly pavilion pieced apart. My heart was still pieced together, unveiled and open. It was May, a Saturday in May, and I cried. I felt butterflies land on my fingertips and my daughters had laughed out loud with pure delight. I held the steering wheel of my car, ready to turn right, and the radio was on and I could hear the music but not the song. I was in the car and it was like thousands of moments before it and unlike any of them. It was May and right at that moment, turning right, I cried, but I didn’t know why exactly. It hit me so hard. I had no net. I had thrown it away. It was May and I knew that something had changed. Something was there in front of me that wasn’t there before breakfast. I cried. I cried because there were butterflies, and I knew that I either had to walk away or one day let them fly away because I had no net. I knew that I was scared and this was going to hurt, either this Saturday or another Saturday, in another month, on a day the sun wasn’t shining. I knew there were strains of upset and strains of spectacular coming my way and none of them known to me yet, all of them new. I knew that I had to scaffold my heart right away or let its beautiful façade face the elements in front of me, and both options made me lose my breath. I lost my breath. The wonder, the awe, the sun, the flutters weren’t in my control. I knew I wasn’t in control and I knew the tenuous nature of all these things. I had no net! All this felt either wonderful or like panic. It felt like both. And panic isn’t sustainable but like is, love is, and how long does it take to tell the two apart? How long? What were the chances that I could sustain this and he could sustain this and we both could sustain the fear to find out it was worth it. I cried because I wanted the wonder to stay, stay, stay. I wanted the wonder to grow, I wanted layers of songs, and talking, and weekend trips to Santa Barbara and bigger trips around the world, and visits to zoos and shared drinks and talking about movies and books and cities and writing and our hearts and my kids. I wanted to know him; I wanted to be known by him. I cried because I knew there was no turning back, and it would hurt now or hurt later but it would hurt no matter, somehow. I cried because that breakfast on that sunny day in May when the minutes passed too quickly and the person across from me reflected the best parts of me and reciprocated my smile, the breakfast from which I had to leave to go see my son on stage make music and dance and sing and see butterflies cultivated by the careful hands of five year old girls with the brightest eyes, that breakfast after which I couldn’t hear specific songs anymore, just the music, that breakfast scared me. I had thought it would just be a Saturday in front of me. I hadn’t expected him. When I woke up, I thought I knew how the day would end. I thought I knew how the week would end. I thought I knew what May looked like and what my summer would be and I thought I knew my heart. And suddenly I didn’t. It was May and I cried because it was as beautiful as it was scary, exhilarating as it was frightening, wonderful as it was overwhelming. The tears just came, I didn’t expect them. Suddenly, at breakfast, there was a person I knew that I wanted to know, that I wanted to be known by. This was a new strain of spectacular, this water rolling down my cheeks a new type of tear, rolling quietly, but powerfully. It was May, and I had breakfast with him. It was May and I cried.

September

It is September. I smile. I opened the door the and there was slanted wood ceilings, a cement floor, windows over an oversize bathtub, a giant bed with pure white linens. How could I not smile? There was a graffiti exhibit in a space that used to be an orphanage, then an immigration center, then a museum; an exhibit celebrating young and hidden artists leaving their mark, making their mark, creating an art. I took pictures and I cannot tell, from the picture alone, which are from the exhibit and which ones are from the streets I walked, exploring, and which are from the streets where I once lived. I smile. There are people on sidewalks, relaxing with a drink, chattering with the people around them, facing out, watching the world, taking their time, walking a mild pace. It is September and I smile. I smile and talk and laugh and think. I navigated through tree lined cobblestone streets on canals and I found the photography exhibit I wanted to see. I smile. The exhibit was next to a food festival and a drink festival and art galleries and green grass and a soft rolling spring and live music and it housed previously unseen photographs, but gave me insight to forty more locations throughout the city with more unseen photographs, waiting to be found, waiting to be seen. First, I soak in this scene and get lost in the chatter, in the buzz, in the food, in the drink, in the perfect dusk sky. I love dusk, being outside at dusk, feeling the sun settle, feeling the imprint it makes on the day. I travel to many of the other locations, the next day. It is September and I smile. I’m a little lost, a lot lost, but maybe because I smile, people ask me for directions. Seventeen groups ask me for directions over two days. I laugh a few times, because I am lost and looping in circles but I not-so-secretly love to be lost. That is how I find. I can’t give anyone directions. I find some of the previously unseen photographs, a collection of photographs of kids playing in Cuba. Baseball, football, boxing, dance, games unknown. (Pure, curious, affectionate, love, unbridled, enthusiastic.) A collection of a couple at different phases of life, their relationship – some pictures capturing beauty (quiet, overt), some pain (subtle, behind their eyes, in hidden moments), some vulnerability. (I know vulnerability. I know laying bare your heart. I know how close the ties between helpless and vulnerable. I know waiting for a call that might never come.) A collection of cross cultural friendships captured in snapshots. (Vibrance, connection, broadening, widening, a net.) None of these photos were ever really unseen. Since the instant the photos were photos, they had been seen by someone, what they are capturing known by many more. It is September and I smile. I pass a wedding on the corner of a park, the guests throwing flower petals, the park itself housing a festival of flowers. My feet ache a little but I love the ache. The parks are beautifully green and simple and lush and inviting, the zoo is elegant, the cobblestone uneven, the water not clear but calm, the buildings are charming, the sky goes from blue to gray to blue to gray to clouds. Yesterday, I stop back in my room and take five minutes to get ready for dinner. The room made me smile. I shared dinner and conversation and my smile with a local chef. So different than me, but so curious about my story. I have no reason not to share it, I share it all and the words tumble out and in the tumbling some chapters lose power, some gain power, some take on new forms. His questions make me think of things differently; he answers my questions. We eat mediocre food and it makes me smile as he critiques with enthusiasm and kindness how it could be better; cooking is his craft, he can’t help himself. I don’t cook, but I can taste the difference in the food we are eating and the food he describes. I’ve been recently on dates that I liked the event itself, but wished the person was a different one. I don’t wish him to be anyone but who he is. We walk the sidewalks on the streets less traveled by anyone but those that live on them and it is these streets in any city that I most love visiting. The ones worn by local footsteps, local stories, local life. It is September and I smile. The day and night and day are filled with photographs and exhibits and parks and street art and street life and homemade sushi late at night and stars peeking through the window over a bathtub and runners crossing over a finish line in the middle of a historic center square and a celebration of the city I am from and the city I am in meeting through the hands of people creating an art form and a soccer tournament and an orphanage and a royal zoo that felt royal only in pieces. And finally my feet are tired and I drop my bag in the room (a room with a view and a swing) and I go downstairs, maybe to write, maybe to drink, maybe to read. The dining room and library lounge are cleared out and the young gentleman I know to be the nocturnal concierge has extended his shift, going from a team of two to just a team of him. I sit, it’s quiet. It could be lonely if I felt lonely or alone, but I don’t. The concierge comes over and asks a couple questions, strikes up a conversation, to pass his time. We talk about my excursions, what I came across purposefully, what I came across when I was lost. His curiosity snowballs as we talk.

“I say this with inflection.” I come to realize he means affection. “Most people who have rooms on the sixth floor, you are different from them.”

“How so?”

“I do not know how to say in English properly. You are dichotomous.” He means exactly that. “You are on the sixth floor, but you came with a backpack and take the tram and walk everywhere and you stayed out longer in the city than any guest but still only take five minutes before you are back out to dinner last night. Always hello and goodbyes and salutations but never questions or needs. No help with your luggage. In fact without luggage. Still, you do more on your weekend here than I even know to be occurring. I speak generally, but usually the five star guests ask for more and do little less. I call for cabs for them to the airport.”

“I think that is all good, although I likely could ask for more directions, I did get lost a few times.” I am not sure if he understands the purpose of my humor. I have been trying not to use humor to dismiss compliments. But, momentarily, I forgot. I wanted to say that I am five star quality without five star maintenance, but the thought got stuck in my head and I couldn’t word it properly.

“You remind me of a man that stayed here last year. He was the same way.”

“I need to meet him.”

“You have no good travel partner?” I do have a few, but I know, by his raised eyebrow and slightly more tentative tone, what he is really asking.

“Apparently, not yet. Not now anyway. They are hard to find.”

“For your good style, yes. Who can keep pace?”

“The man that stayed here last year. I’ll hold out until I cross paths with him. I won’t ask you to look up his details.” He smiles, acts as if he is going to the computer to breach at least one privacy law. He plays along as I tease myself. The story of me meeting this man and having a happily-for-as-long-as-it’s-happy story whirls through the screen of my imagination in the 12 seconds that follow.

“Did you plan all the details and do all you set out to like this weekend?”

“More. My plans kept changing. I planned only that I would stay here, and not much more. I came across more than I thought I would. I like to wing it anyway, really. But, anyway, it worked out perfectly.” I smile. I knew the depths of truth to this rambling statement. For a moment, I am suspended between thinking of the months before this trip and just this trip itself. I am suspended between my current content and regenerating old emotion. I am suspended between peace and happiness, longing and disappointment, satisfaction and pain, courage and vulnerability, adventure and routine, confusion and knowledge, tears and a smile. I am suspended between things working out perfectly and not working at all. I am suspended between closed chapters and what’s to come. I am suspended. My feet are floating off the ground above all this mess of emotion that I had not even given thought to as I walked on the cobblestone streets and ate sushi and looked at still frames of emotion. I put one foot down, then the other, grounding my emotion in the very present moment, nowhere else. “I love your city.”

“But you stopped just short of my neighborhood. You did not explore it all.” His turn to tease me taken. We talk about his neighborhood, further west from the park where the photography exhibit lost its unseen status. In that moment, I’m regretful I missed the colorful streets he describes, blue and teal and red and orange doors alternating down the alleys, littered only with cafes and shops. The sidewalks sound as if they captured good stories. I’ll have to come back.

“I am not joking when I say your neighborhood is first on my list for the next trip. I’ll call for help coordinating a cab straight from the airport.” I smile. He laughs. “Or actually, I think I can just take the 10 to the very end of the line and then walk a bit, right?”

“You did learn quite a bit when you got lost yesterday.” He smiles. I laugh.

“It’s the best way to learn.”

“It is.”

“Okay, goodnight. I need to go enjoy that sixth floor room.” The room with the swing, with the stars and moon shining through the window over the bathtub, with the wood beamed ceiling. It is September and I smile.

My son is precocious. He is a wise soul. He is mature. And he is very, very emotional. Since the moment he could proactively engage with the world, he interacted in a way that made people make note of these qualities. He has always been at ease talking to adults, and he has a knack for piecing together emotional pieces of puzzles that seem to stump the best of us adults. So I should have guessed that my early conversations with him on sex would be a bit more complex – less about the bird and the bees and more about this thing called honey.

I’d been debating with myself whether I had to explain the physical act of making babies – as my kids have shown some curiosity about how the egg in the momma’s tummy becomes a baby, but stopped short of asking the question. My strategy is to be honest and keep it simple, so I was reminding myself to just do the same as I explained the physical act of baby making. My hesitation was that they would look at their body parts differently once they learned, as something more than just a penis and just a vagina. I was sad there would be a loss of innocence somehow with this information. But these are my own projections, I reminded myself, not their issues, not their thoughts. To them they would just be body parts that had one more useful function, that’s it. So I wrapped my mind around this little, simple conversation of baby making. And I waited for the question to be posed. And waited. And waited (with relief!). And waited some more and I was 100% prepared for any question that came my way about this physical act. Finally, Kai kicked the conversation off and hijacked it into a totally different direction. Please note the quotes in the below conversation are about as accurate as my shabby memory ever gets these days — this conversation stayed with me! However, I am changing the names of some informants.

“Mommy, you lied to me about 50 Shades of Grey.”

“What Kai? How did I lie?”

“You told me the movie was about two people that like each other a lot. And it is not.”

“Well, buddy, it is about two people that like each other a lot. Why do you think it is not?”

“My friends say it is about two people that have a lot of s-e-x.”

“Well, buddy, why are you spelling out that word?”

“Because it is a bad word.”

“Well it is not a bad word. You can say sex. Do you know what sex is? What it means?”

“I know it is how you make babies. But, I’m, like, confused about why they say it is a bad word and whether there are songs about sex.”
WHAT?? He could have said he knows it is how you make babies but HOW exactly does that happen. Isn’t that what the question was supposed to be? But no. He said HIS confusion is about why some people say it is a bad word and whether songs are written about sex. What the hell? I am not prepared for these questions. Keep it honest, keep it simple.

“Well buddy, it is not a bad word. But sometimes kids want to talk about sex before they understand it and talk about it at inappropriate times. Or maybe some adults just don’t want kids to talk about something that is more adult to talk about, so they mean it is off-limits. Not that it is bad, exactly.” Wait, wasn’t my goal to be simple? What did I just say? “And as for songs, well, yes, there are lots of songs about it but we don’t really listen to them.” Nevermind that we listen to them all the time. Have you listened to any Bruno Mars song? The kids sang Jason Darulo’s Talk Dirty to Me for a few weeks much to the dismay of me and their dad. And my god, even Megan Trainor, sweet little Megan Trainor, makes suggestions about oral sex in the very song that five kids danced to at their talent show! I just lied.

“Do you have to understand sex because you do it with someone that you love?” WHAT? Yes, this was his question.

“Why do you ask that question?” Stall tactic to figure out how to answer. Because yes, sometimes it is with someone you love. Sometimes it is not. If he or his sisters ever have sex with someone that they don’t love, will they remember what I said when they were 6 and 7 and feel guilty? I don’t want them to feel guilty over that. Do I even have to worry about his sisters since only Kai is in the car with me? Yes, because they will ask the same questions, or he will share with them one day, and if I ever change my answer they will all three call me out on it. Kai will remind everyone what I said when he was 7, and we were driving home from dance class in my Prius and I had a blue work dress on and he had his Thunder basketball jersey on and he asked me specifically whether we have to understand sex because we do it with someone we love.

“Well, you said that 50 Shades of Grey is about two people that like each other a lot. Like a lot a lot. So, like, I think if you like each other a lot a lot you must love each other and then maybe that is why the two people in the movie also have a lot of sex, like my friends said.”

“Hhmm. That is really good reasoning skills you are using and you are thinking so wisely.” I’m still figuring out my answer.

“So am I right?”

“Yes, buddy. You have to understand sex because people feel a lot of different emotions with it. Like love, and even like, and some feelings that are like having a crush. It makes you feel different things for the other person and for yourself, so you really have to understand it.” I am either the most brilliant parent or a total failure. “You have to understand sex and you have to understand how you feel about the other person and how they feel about you, buddy. Does that make sense?”

“Um, like, yeah. It does. Is it kind of like kissing?” FINALLY. A question that gets back to the simple things.

“Yes, it is sort of like kissing, but with your whole bodies.” That, I am sure, is a genius answer.

“Oh. Hhmm. But I mean, is it like kissing where you have to understand how you feel about the person you are kissing. Like if I wanted to kiss my girlfriend, I have to understand if I like her or love her or am just crushing on her.” F*&%. What happened to the simple questions about how are babies made? How does my penis play a part in sex? And, “just crushing on her”? Where did that phrase come from? Isn’t he just a baby? That sounds like a teenager. What is happening to this conversation and my baby who is suddenly 17 years old.

“Yes, buddy, it is like that. And you want her to understand how you feel about her. So if you are too embarrassed to say that you like her, or to talk to her about how you feel, then you probably aren’t ready to kiss her.” Can we keep this just about kissing? That is pretty hard itself. Do adults even understand what I am saying, what the rules of kissing are? Are there rules and do I even know them? Do I even feel comfortable talking about how I feel with the person I want to kiss at any given time? This is impossible. He is going to need therapy. He is going to get teased. Or, he is going to be amazing.

“How old were you when you had sex the first time?” WHAT?????? Where did this come from? Can I plead the 5th? Do I have to answer this question. What if I don’t answer it? What is worse? Can I lie? Do I need to lie?

“I was 19.” Only a lie by one week. But 19 sounds better than 18 when you are answering this question to your 7 year old. And I will not add any additional commentary that confuses it further. I won’t say that if I had the chance to do it over, I would choose to do it younger, with someone who cared about me more. That the circumstance might matter more than the age, at least as long as he is like 25 when the right circumstance arises. I won’t say that.

“When you were 19 did you have sex with Daddy?” How do I end this without making him feel bad about his questions?

“No, buddy. I didn’t know Daddy then.”

“Oh.”

“Are you hungry?” Fair question, right? He had a full day of school, then dance, and piano, and we are headed home and we should talk about dinner.

“A little bit. Um, did you and Daddy just have sex twice?” To get pregnant once with Kai, once with the girls. Did he really say “just twice” or did he say “twice”. Can I lie?

“Well, buddy, we had sex much more than twice.” WHY DID I JUST SAY “MUCH.” WHY?? I was just thinking we were together for so long. For 16 years! That is a long time. I didn’t mean to say much. Will he notice that? Will he focus in on this word. Will it lead to more questions. I touch at my Karma necklace and make a wish for some kind of good karma.

“Why do people have sex more than to make babies? Because it feels good?”

“Yes…..But you have to understand it and how you feel, and how the other person feels, to make it feel good.” Partial truth? Total truth? Truth depending on perspective? Confusing? Clear? If my goal was simple and honest, I think I am failing. But I am trying.

“So like, if I don’t understand it when I’m like 13, then I’ll just wait like 10 years before I do anything and then maybe when I am 23 I’ll understand it.”

“Buddy, I think that would be good. That would be a wise choice. You probably won’t understand things when you are 13. You can figure out a lot in 10 years, and good to always be thoughtful like you are being.”

“Mommy, when you do sex with someone, can you still like other people? Or can you only like that one person?” I HAVE TO RAISE THE WHITE FLAG.

“That’s a really good question, Kai.” We are listening to 102.7 and a Taylor Swift song comes on, and I know he isn’t a fan. “I’m gonna change the station to 97.1 or do you want Pandora?”

“Is it complicated?”

“Yes, buddy, it kind of is.” It really is. Even when it seems simple, it is complicated. Is there some kernel of wisdom I can give you that applies in all situations, all circumstances? Can I unlock some code that will make things always simple and clear for you? Can I find a way to explain all the emotions as simply as I could explain the physical act, if I needed to? Can I even explain the physical act simply? Can I give you a roadmap that helps you avoid guilt and take the scenic road as you figure this out in life? Be adventurous and brave and forgiving and good hearted. Not just in respect to sex but with respect to everything. I know I cannot, but I want to. How can I make you aware and thoughtful, but not self conscious? Am I answering these questions the right way, to convey that it is complicated and simple all together, all at once, all beautifully so? How can I explain that if you are thoughtful and understanding, it can be simple and that can be fun. But sometimes the beauty is in the complicated and you should open yourself up to that? Can I plant the right seeds in your mind, but keep you from thinking of this all for years. Many years. Many, many, many years. Can you just really love me for now? Can you just tell me every night that you Love Me To The Exponent of Infinity, without really understanding what an exponent is but just knowing that you want to say LOVE as strong as you can and you want me to say it back. Can we just hang here, in 2015, for a while longer? Forever? Can I keep you 7 years old, and your sisters 6 year old, for now?

“But sex isn’t a bad word, then? It’s just complicated?”

“Sweetie, it isn’t a bad word. Not at all. And if you have questions about it, you can ask me. Or you can ask Daddy. You can always ask questions.”

“Is the F word a bad word?” This is a simple question, right? And just coincidence that is the word that he chose to ask about right at this second, right? RIGHT? He has no clue the connection. Jesus.

“It is also a word that you don’t need to use and can sound mean a lot of times.”

“Is the sh word a bad word?”

“It is a word you don’t need to use and it can sound mean.” Whew. He is just going through his lists of bad words. Thank the universe. I keep touching my karma necklace.

“But, buddy, you don’t use these words and with all this stuff, we can talk about it if you have questions, but you don’t have to worry too much about it right now. You really don’t have to worry about it all for a long while.”

“Because I am like, only 7, right? And, yeah, I don’t really say bad words. And I just like [a whole list of girls…..] but I don’t even want to kiss them. I am just crushing on them. And I am too embarrassed to even tell them that I like them. Except I will write them notes, I am okay with that. I can tell them I like them in a note. So like, I’ll just practice my dance for the recital. I wish Gil was here to help me. And I sort of want to play basketball at Standford or at UCLA. After we win Super Bowl on Sunday. And I play at the Wiltern for Rockstar. I hope I can make it after Super Bowl. I hope we win. Gemma is going to like watching Rigby play football. She likes him but they never talk. What are my sisters going to do while I play basketball? Do you think Sasha will play basketball? She likes to shoot hoops with Daddy when he helps her. I think she will play. Hey, remember when you taught me about the 1-3-5 and 2-4-6 holes in football? Coach Shawn said you were right. Can I show you my new route? You are a good receiver, but you sometimes don’t run fast enough for my eye. Can you please wear your running shoes next time we practice and TRY to run fast. And I need new basketball shoes before basketball starts. I have to play on the big court. Who do you think my coach will be? I hope I’m never late to practice. I’m like you, Mommy, I don’t like being late. I think my coaches like me because we are never late. I think I can be a great defender again this year and maybe score even more points. Hey, can we listen to One Direction on Pandora? Hey, did you know I am at reading level S at school?” And so it ends, and there is my 7 year old back, at least for now….

She cries. Tears stream down her face. Tears that have threatened throughout the movie, but haven’t surfaced. Let’s not start overly dramatic — she cries easily. Let’s recall, she shed a tear in The Replacements, her favorite movie but not one that causes many tears for many people! Somehow, this time, watching Blackfish, alone in her quiet home, she fought them back, until this very last scene. So many things disturbed her and unsettled her soul. That all of these incidents of whales being frustrated and paniced and sad were on video, but so little attention paid to any of them. So many stories buried. So many lies told, without a significant amount of public curiosity, with too much willingness to simply accept statements by “experts” as truths. The tears almost came during the segments showing the momma whales wailing in pain when they were separated from their children. She could feel that in her gut, her worst nightmare, and it reminded her of when Deucey whimpered for Butter after he died. It was surprising, really, that they didn’t come then, the tears that usually flow so easily. She was touched, awed, pulled in. But there was some deeper story there, in the midst of Blackfish, waiting for her. She couldn’t place her finger, her heart, her mind on it just yet. But she couldn’t pull away from it either.

Then there was this last scene. The whales — outside of captivity, in the open water, swimming in their natural habitat, with their pack, unrestrained. Fins up, strong and fast. There was no frustration, no confusion, no manipulated motivation. Surprisingly, there was nothing unpredictable. Just these beautiful whales, strong and sleek and fast and graceful. Moving like they were meant to, loosely together, freely. With full permission because no permission was necessary. And it was then that the tears came, lasting long beyond the credits as she watched every last credit roll. That vision plunged far deeper than the eyes needed to view it, far down into her heart, where she sat with it. It wasn’t just about the whales, although she thought it was in those moments.

She watched these whales swim, and she felt the peace of following a tide that speaks to you, a tide that pulls your heart the direction it wants to go anyway. The pure pleasure of following a current that you trust, even if you don’t know the final destination (maybe particularly so when you don’t know that destination). She thinks of her sister being the triage nurse at urgent care when she thought she had blood clots in her leg. She thinks of her mom at the finish line of the NYC Marathon, a silver foil wrapped around her, smiling from the miles and pride. She sees her dad crying at her high school graduation as he hugged her. She thinks of her son on stage dancing as Michael Jackson or playing his guitar. She thinks of walking through cities she doesn’t know, letting the sidewalks tell their stories. She thinks of her daughter naming the butterfly that lands on her finger after it has emerged from its chrysalis. She is so grateful she’s followed her current – is still following that current. The current has led her through occasional storms, but some of those storms have not been without their fun.

She watched these whales swim, and sees the joy in the journey. It is not just about a safe place to rest at the end of each day. It is not just about food and shelter and survival. Or, more accurately, maybe survival of our souls is more than just about the food and shelter that are bodies need. It’s enjoying the mileage each day. Seeing new places, carving new paths, finding beauty in known paths. Discovering what you are capable of. Swimming strong, with proud fins held straight up as you go into unknown horizons. A strength that you forget you have, might never know you have, if you stay in safe waters.

She watched these whales swim, and she could feel the heartbreak of a man who felt captive to a role he thought he needed to play. A role that was never him. A role that made him forget who he was. A role that felt disconnected from who he was, even if it was who he wanted to be. She’s seen this man so many times, in so many different people, so many different times in her life. When she was six years old, fourteen years old, nineteen years old, forty years old. She has seen it. She’s known men who needed to stand by her side to be their true self, and she’s known men who needed to walk away from her to be theirs. Her heart only broke when she saw the emptiness in their eyes – it broke for them, not for her. It broke when she looked into each of their eyes and couldn’t see the person she cared for. Each time, she wanted that person to have himself back. She wishes each one could swim freely with his pack, swim freely as himself. She wants for each one the peace that comes with the freedom of being yourself.

She watched these whales swim, and she felt the torment of someone asking you to be someone you are not, asking you to tell a story that is not yours. Asking you to confirm a truth you know is a lie. She is so grateful this struggle is not hers. She is so grateful that she never told a story not her own, even if hers was hard to tell. Out of all the emotions that make her cry, the feeling of gratefulness brings the most tears, the biggest knots in her throat.

She watched these whales swim, and she knows the comfort of being with your pack. Of knowing your pack. Of riding their wake, letting them ride yours. How much love and pride she has for her pack, big and small. Blood and chosen.

She watched these whales swim, and she sees kindness. It’s always there, buried under frustration and anger and resentment. It gets chipped away and bruised and deflated, but it’s there. She sees enormously huge, powerful animals that have no thoughts of pulling men under water, pulling off arms, or wailing in the far corners of their safe prison. Without captivity, without containment, without manipulation, there is a peace emanating from every flexed muscle, a peace that can be described as gentleness. Strong and gentle, strong and kind, strong and peaceful – they are not mutually exclusive, in fact most beautiful when combined. Her soul thinks of two pound little babies who didn’t need one drop of oxygen to survive. Thinks of 120-pound Akita mixes that would gently paw a kitten to play. Thinks of waves strong enough to take you under, but only push you to shore. Thinks of muscles than can lift hundreds of pounds but are used only to squeeze tight enough for a warm hug. Thinks of heartbreak that is big enough to harden a pulse with anger, but instead merely opens the very heart it broke to love. To love more. To love better, to love strongly. This is the kind of beauty she loves, the kind worth the search.

She watched these whales swim, and she sees 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015…She sees time flow by in the wake of the water. Passing so quickly. She sees herself, kindness deep in her heart, resisting a captivity she felt encroaching. Being true to herself, to her story, to her heart, even when a different response from her is wanted. Wishing she could give others permission to step outside of their captivity – realizing she can’t, realizing that for man, unlike these whales, the most important permissions come from ourselves, not others. She sees storms and sunshine, she sees herself marching forward enjoying the beauty of the rain with skin tanned by the sun. She sees a woman with pride and resolve and contentment. She sees three little being following behind her, learning from her example as much as her words, ensuring her example and words are consistent. She finds kindness when the reigns are tightest, kindness is her trick to loosen those reigns, her trick when she needs to escape a suffocating harness. She sees a journey she enjoys and a story that she won’t let anyone else edit. She sees clear and open water ahead. She smiles, with tears flowing down, knowing how to swim and remembering how much she likes to, how fast she can go, how much fun it can be, all the places it can take you.

But in those moments, as the credits rolled for Blackfish, she cries simply. She cries simply as her heart breaks for the whales held captive and she cries simply as her heart bursts with warmth for the ones in open waters.

Race day was March 28th, but this story begins a few weeks early.

5 Weeks Pre Race Day: I CRASH! It’s supposed to rain, but it’s So Cal, so it doesn’t. I debate with Brian, my friend and training partner (such inadequate words for him, but what’s adequate?, I don’t know), whether we should meet for a ride. We should. I get out a little earlier than him so do a few extra miles into Culver City, and head back west to meet him. The guy on the beach cruiser in front of me is going slow, but decides to veer far left (because of dogs? I’m not sure in the moment) right when I am passing him to the far left. I have no where to go. Still clipped in, no time to even slow down, I tumble to my left and land hard on my left side then back. My head hits HARD and I instantly have a headache. I am blurry and crying and unaware of what else hurts besides my head.

5 Weeks Pre Race Day (Ten minutes later): I am loaded into the ambulance with a neck brace. I feel incredibly foolish with a neck brace, and even more foolish crying. Brian arrives and gets our bikes in the ambulance and holds my hand and I keep crying. I tell the medic that my head is a 10 on a pain scale of 1 to 10, but maybe so is my elbow. Brian tells me this won’t get me out of the triathlon, and I tell him that he should know me better. My first thought was that I still needed to do the triathlon.

5 Weeks Pre Race Day (Thirty minutes later): I try to move my arm, I can’t. I try again, the pain is off the charts. My head is about to explode and my arm is immobile. We spend the next 4 hours in the ER in our spandex, and the doctor and nurse don’t notice the cut on my elbow until 2 minutes before releasing me. It wasn’t the most thorough exam ever, to say the least. And I think my neck might be in worse shape for having the neck brace on for 3+ hours.

4 Weeks + 6 Days Pre Race Day: Visit Orthopedic doctor, more xrays, confirms that I have two fractures in my left elbow and a pinched nerve in my neck. Lots of bruising on my lower back. The Xray technician tells me I smell better than anyone he has ever Xrayed. “Vanilla lotion”. He says I must be known for it, he will never forget it. It almost is inappropriate, except that I hear this from many people. I’ve worn this lotion for 20+ years and likely will never stop because these compliments feel nice, even when a bit awkward. I ask the orthopedic doctor “Do you think I can do the triahtlon in 5 weeks?” “If you do everything I say, but you certainly can’t train between now and then.” So I had thought last year I should taper earlier anyway.

4 Weeks + 4 Days Pre Race Race Day: My elbow is bigger than my knee, my forearm is bigger than my calves. And I don’t have small calves!! See the image below, my elbow was in there somewhere….BUT, I see the orthopedic doctor again, and he tells me that I’m already healing like a 19-year old. “NIKKI, YOU HAVE THE BODY OF A 19-YEAR OLD AND ARE HEALING VERY QUICKLY.” This is a direct quote I will use for a very. long. time.

The Next 4 Weeks: I am religious about physical therapy. I do the exercises at home. I do heat, stem, ice, repeat, over and over. I try to straighten my arm. I hold apples with my chin to get my neck strong. I rest my elbow on a rice bag every where I go. I feel overwhelmed being late to work every day (later than usual), fitting it all in. But somehow I do. When people say to me “I don’t know how you do it all?” I often wonder “Do I have a choice of not doing it all?” That’s never a choice. This is different, to be honest. I could have bailed on physical therapy. I could have sat out the race. I am not winning any awards by doing it, I am not earning any money. But there’s something more important to me that I get out of it. Maybe I’ll uncover what that is exactly while I sort through my race day thoughts. Not a small part of it is that I have always known how tough I am, and this injury, while painful, barely seemed enough to stop me.

My Taper: Between February 22 and March 28th, I do physical therapy that looks equivalent to me flexing my neck muscles, straightening my left arm, and trying to hold a 200 page book with my left side. I go on a run 3 weeks post accident and my sit bones and back hurt so much I am pretty sure that I broke them all but no one diagnosed it. (The second and third and fourth run felt exponentially better….apparently, my back wasn’t broken, I just had to work out some kinks). I swim 3 times — one 1200 yards (800 of it kicking), one 1600 (800 of it kicking), and one 1800 yard swim. All easy. I go on one 30 mile bike ride to be sure I can take it. I think I can, but very few others believe this to be true. Meanwhile, Kai goes on a rampage taking photos of me while I am stretching. They are leg and tummy shots. He gets impatient with me taking time to stretch and do the PT I can and fit in the small runs, and releases his frustration by deciding to be a photojournalist. Unbeknownst to me he texts some of the photos to my friends and uploads one on my Instagram page. I almost delete it, but then see my BFF Agatha say the photo is hot! And I do a double take, and think, it’s not bad! Why delete? It’s been no fun being injured and not being able to work my body like I like to, so if I get a good picture out of it, so be it.

Race Day -1: I check into the house we rented. So beautiful! Right on the beach. Charming, spacious. You can watch the waves crash from every spot in the house. A far upgrade compared to the Holiday Inn last year. Brian makes dinner. He thinks this is so simple, to me it feels like luxury.

Race Day – 5:30 am: Brian and I ride the 4 miles to the start of the race. So to be clear, we log 4 miles in the dark on the bike before the race even begins.

Race Day 6:30am: I set up my transition and think that I certainly have the hang of transitions down by now.

7:15am: I am in the corral with the other women in my age group. I see a face that is vaguely familiar, and realize it is a girl (woman) I swam with in high school. We talk. I feel a bit like I am still 16 years old, but wiser and likely slower in the water.

7:17am: The elite men are out of the water and run by us. Wow. They have great bodies. They have really good bodies! I am pretty sure this thought stays in my head for the next 13 minutes or so. If you saw their bodies up close, you would see there is no shame in this.

7:30am: In the water up to my knees, waiting to be let out to the start line 50 yards into the water. Seals come and play in front in front of us – 4 or 5 of them. I’m in awe of them. I know some people would be scared to swim with them, but I am amazed that I get to enter their world even if just for a bit.

7:33am: I START! The official race has begun. I hope that my elbow and neck survive it. I say one quick wish to the universe….to my Grandpa Ray….to Lauren…to the god of good karma. To whoever is listening.

Swim (Mile 1): I actually feel great! I feel on my game. The other women go out fast, but by 1/4 mile in, I am passing them one by one. I see the girl I used to swim with in high school and we swim together for a bit, then I pull ahead. I feel stronger as I go along. I feel like the best memories of my best swimming self. Maybe there is something to be said for tapering? My elbow feels fine….I don’t even feel it….okay, I feel it a little at about 3/4 mile. A little more each stroke after that. Okay, to be honest, it hurts, but I still feel fast. I’m 3rd woman out of the water and in a see of men as I run to my bike! My friends are there cheering me on, I’m so grateful for them! I’m smiling!

Transition 1: I’m only woman in the transition area of my age group. All other bikes still racked. I can’t get my wetsuit off because I suddenly have no power left in my left arm. It hurts to pull. It’s a bit hard to pull a wetsuit off just with one arm….and shoot, my tri shorts are coming off with it. Damn it. This isn’t very graceful. As I try to squirm out, the girl I went to high school with comes (the bike right next to mine!) and she is off and biking in like 1 minute. I am still getting my shoes on! So my transitions aren’t going to be stellar today. FINALLY, about 6 minutes later (this is pathetic) I have my helmet on and I run to the exit with my bike. I make a pit stop at the port-a-potty — what is one more minute going to hurt? And thank god I do, I realize my helmet is on BACKWARDS. (Remember when I did a triathlon with extra pants on without realizing it? This is worse, but at least I realize the mistake). And CRAP — my Stinger nutritiion falls out of my back pocket into the port-a-potty. THIS IS THE WORST TRANSITION EVER. I smile, because what else can I do? I almost cry thinking I have no nutrition now for 56 miles but then realize that I had some nutrition packs in my bike as well, so keep the smile.

Bike Mile 1-10: I’m happy to be on the bike. But it’s cold and windy. I feel more wet than last year … there was no cloud covering, no head wind last year. But I trust it will warm up in no time. My legs feel strong, I remind myself to relax my neck. Don’t think about my elbow. I know the course this year, so am not worried about hills or what is to come. But shoot, this means I’m already bored. I need to get out of my mind. People feel more spread out already, I’m not really riding with anyone. So I need to just think of something …. work? No. Work is crazy chaotic. Very good, but stressful, and I need to stay relaxed. The kids?….They are with my mom, having fun. I love them. That doesn’t get me too far. I spend the first 10 miles trying to think of what I can think of to get me out of my mind.

Bike Mile 11-20: It’s still cold, still windy. Why do the flats feel so hard? Oh yeah, because the headwind. Why does my neck hurt? Oh yeah, because I have a pinched nerve. Why does my elbow hurt?? STOP. Don’t think of these things. Just ride and get lost in other thoughts. I think of some of the songs I have on constant rotation right now. Chris Brown – New Flame. Man, I love that song. Dierks Bentley — Say You Do. Man, I love that song. How can I love both these songs?? I’m not sure many people singing Chris Brown can also sing to Dierks. But I love the lyrics of both. I love a love song. I love love. These songs start me thinking about all my dates since last year’s Half Ironman — there have been lots! Mostly good, some very good, some better than others. I think of some of the good ones and smile. The bar was set high by a special few I care about and I am grateful for them. I think of the worst one and laugh out loud (story for another time!). I start taking an inventory of mileage…and I realize that last year, Brian passed me about Mile 20 of the bike. I realize I’m at Mile 20, and there’s no sign of Brian. Maybe I’m doing decent. I’ll pretend. There is something to be said for a balanced approach to training, and I think I found it.

Bike Mile 21-30: My elbow hurts. My neck hurts. The wind is cold and I am cold. My thighs feel tight. I try to loosen them up, warm them up a little. I try to get lost in my thoughts again. I’m passing a few guys, they are all really heavy. Really big. It can’t be easy to do this with all that extra weight. Some women pass me. How do they go so fast? I need a bike coach. I had one date planned with one cyclist this year – and it’s the only first date I cancelled. We were going to ride together then get breakfast, and I realized when he was planning the start time of the ride to coincide exactly with the sun rise (because he doesn’t like to ride in the dark, but doesn’t like to ride with the crowds) that it wasn’t a match. This isn’t a surprise considering what I said (wrote) about the men we met after riding the Century Ride in Solvang. I’ve learned a lot and had a lot of fun dating, including that life can be adventurous and unpredictable. But I can say for certain that while I might need a cycling coach, I will never date a cyclist. Never say never unless it’s a certainty. My elbow hurts.

Bike Mile 30-40: The hills begin! I am starting up the first hill. How did I climb a hill after bonking at Mile 70 of the Century Ride? This sucks. My legs hurt. But wait, I’m good at hills. I go slow and steady and I get up them and feel great along the way. I need to remember this. A couple guys pass me, but not many. Wait, Brian just passed me! We say hi, it makes me happy. I keep my feet light, like he reminds me to on other rides. I go a lot faster down the hills than I did last year. This isn’t because I’m brave, it is because I want to get off this bike! But I am a little brave, and much more comfortable on the bike. I drop down into my aero-bars more often to relieve some pressure from my neck. I’m trying to coach myself out of this, but I’m hurting. But I focus on the fact that I am a wholly different cyclist than I was a year ago, even injured.

Bike Mile 41-50: I remember the youTube video that Brian sent to me this week, that his wife had sent to him. About listening to yourself. About coaching yourself with positive thoughts, telling yourself you can do this. I start self coaching. I think I literally say out loud: You are tough. You are a fighter. You have survived harder things. I say all these things. I tell myself I will feel better with each mile. Each time I want to say WTF ….. why is this taking so long?…I try to reframe. I say something positive. So it’s cold, I’ve been colder. So my neck hurts, it’s a small part of my body. So my elbow aches, the hard part is over. But damn it, this wind won’t stop and I should be enjoying the flat part now but it doesn’t feel flat.

Bike Mile 51-56: I just want to get off the bike. There is no other thought. Get me off this bike!

Transition 2: I AM SO HAPPY TO BE OFF THE BIKE! Much smoother transition, and I smile seeing the Red Bull I took as a joke this morning. I’m actually happy for it. This would have been my fastest transition ever had I not paused to drink the entire can of Red Bull. I’m 1000% positive I’ll be happy I took the extra two minutes for that. It’s not like I’m winning any prize money! I have the visor that Brian’s wife lent me instead of my sunglasses and this is so much more comfortable. I’m happy. I notice that I smell a little like vanilla, too. This is miraculous! I think of my friend Casey, from college, who had dinner with us after the NYC Triathlon last summer, and how he would joke that I always smell good. I miss Casey.

Run Mile 1: I AM SO HAPPY TO BE OFF THE BIKE! I see Tim, who did it last year but sat out this year for no valid reason other than he is wise! It’s more fun to cheer! I tell him my neck hurts. My elbow really hurts. But I say it with a smile so I don’t think he really heard me. Or believed me. I don’t think Tim ever believes me.

Run Mile 2: I feel great! My legs feel loose already. I’m keeping my pace slow and steady, as I started way too fast last year and I want to descend the miles.

Run Mile 3: I FEEL GREAT! it’s easy. I love the visor. There is ice at the aid stations. There is so much more music than last year. So many more people. This is incredible!

Run Mile 4: I see Tara (Brian’s wife). She runs with me for a bit. I’m smiling and happy and grateful for her. She says I look strong. I tell her I know I can negative split this run. We run by the house we are all staying at. My friends are handing out ice and playing music and having too much fun. My cousin is with them — all having a blast. They are so lucky I am insane enough to want to do this race again and that I’m a good planner….we found a great house!

Run Mile 5: I pass them again running back north, and Tim pours a huge bucket of ice water on me. My shoes are soaking, but I’m happy. It is hot and the ice felt great. I’m 1000% sure I am going to negative split this. I am euphoric.

Run Mile 6: I hear the song Turn Down for What? and smile. Sasha loves this song. She dances so spastic when she hears it, I can’t help but smile thinking of it. I’m running wtih a crew of people — maybe 7 or 8 of us — all of us smiling and staying steady. I couldn’t be happier.

Run Mile 7: The hills don’t seem nearly as bad as last year! I was in great shape last year, but tapering thanks to the injury is paying off. I love this!

Run Mile 8: Hhhhmmm….. it’s getting hot. My legs are feeling tired. I kind of want to walk. Don’t walk! Am I still happy? I am not sure….

Run Mile 9: My legs are shuffling a little. I am slowing down. But there’s good energy, good music, and I will get through this. I am still 80% sure I can descend this. I compare myself to how I felt last year — 1000 times better. I compare life to how it was last year — 1000 times better. My training this year involved way more socializing, many more dates, a few (few*) less rides and runs. More adventure and more peace. A lot of pride….man, I handled this past year, this past two years, pretty damn well. I certainly can handle 4 more miles of a run. And it’s mostly flat! I’ve trained on Los Liones hill all year…this will feel like nothing. Nothing compared to a straight 5 mile uphill. I get my second wind.

Run Mile 10: Second wind doesn’t last long. I want to stop. I am about to run by our house again, and I see a fire truck outside of it. Is that for me? It must be. Wait, it’s not. They don’t even know I’ve lost my second wind already. Did one of my friends fall? Is my cousin okay? What is going on? They are all gathered around a woman laying on the ground next to the fire truck. It’s not me, but I have to remind myself of this!

Run Mile 11: One of the guys I’ve been running wtih since Mile 4 tells me I’m keeping a good pace. I smile and say thanks, he’s helping too. It’s a nice little exchange, and I pretend I don’t want to stop. At Mile 11.5 I run by our house again. The fire truck is still there, but my friends see me coming this time. (The woman who needs help is being helped by the firemen). Tim asks me what I want — water? a coke? my walkman? A shot of whiskey? I say I want to walk. I WANT TO WALK. (I also sort of do want a little shot of whiskey, but can’t even let that become a real thought.) Kate starts to run with me. We run about 20 yards and I say let’s walk. We walk. I say I’ll start walking when I get to the next house, then I say, well, actually, the next one. The next tree. the next aide station. I walk a good 1/2 mile. I’m grateful that Kate thinks it is impressive that I am walking. Part of life is just having friends that are impressed with you even when you aren’t impressive.

Run Mile 12: Well, I am 90% sure I won’t negative split it, but I start running again. My feet and legs don’t feel horrible, but my neck sure does.

Run Mile 13: I keep running. Last year at this point I had no thought, I was blank. This year, I am very aware of 1) being happy, 2) being proud, 3) my neck hurting, 4) I can’t wait to have a cider, 5) i can’t wait for the massage table!, 6) i’m pretty sure I’m sunburned, 7) I am pretty sure I am going to this again in 2016.

Run Mile 13.1: I pass a woman on the way to the finish line. I smile for the camera. I am about 10 minutes slower than last year, but considering the injury and headwinds, I’ll take it. Brian’s wife is there to cheer me on and snap a photo. I find Brian right away. He’s smiling, which makes me smile.

Race + 20 minutes: I am at the massage table, and my neck feels like new. This masseuse has magic hands. Can I stay here forever? It lasts a solid 25 minutes — not bad for a free, post-race massage. But Brian’s lasts 10 minutes longer. I’m insanely jealous. I’ve never been more jealous of anything. Ever.

Race + 40 minutes: We wait 30 minutes to take shuttle back to start to get our bikes. The shuttle drops us off a solid 3/4 mile from the start line! We should have just walked.

Race + 60 minutes: Brian and I bike home the 4 miles back to the rental house. That makes a solid 79 miles + for the day! And we are smiling. Our friends are there. My cousin is there. More friends come over. Friends from work, friends from high school, friends from swimming. We drink. Brian and I here how our house was the fan favorite along the race course, giving people anything they wanted. One racer even made a pit stop and took a shower in the house during the run! The cider tastes good, the laughter feels contagious. I still have sweat and salt on me but I somehow feel fresh and clean. Friendship and love and fun can do that. The ocean sounds relaxing and inviting. I’ve written about missing Brooklyn, about trying to find roots here. In this moment, these hours, that follow the race, I don’t miss anything. I feel rooted down with people I love and respect and have fun with. I feel myself. I’m happy.

Race + 4 hours: We go to Bagby Beer! Jeff Bagby, a friend from high school, sees me and gives me a hug and lifts me a solid 4 feet off the ground. I feel light as a feather and recall the same hugs being given by the same guy when we were 16. That’s 25 years ago….really? I don’t feel 25 years older. His brewery is awesome! I see some guys I went to high school with, I introduce them to my friends from life now. My smile extends from ear to ear. These are all good people around me, around each other. I feel tough as nails and kind and gentle all at once. This blog doesn’t do it justice, but these races are about lots more than just the swim-bike-run. And that feels good, even with a hurt neck and elbow.

Mommy you don’t love me.
I love you Gemma.
It’s not fair that you love Kai & Sasha.
I love you Gemma.
I don’t think you love me, Momma.
Gemma, I love you. Why do you think
I don’t?
[My heart breaks.]
Momma, you yell at me.
Sweet thing, I love you even when I yell.
[Do not yell, ever.]
Momma, you get mad at me.
Sweet thing, I get upset sometimes but
I love you.
[When I’m mad, hug her. Hug her.]
Momma, I like it when you play
chase with me.
Gemma, I love playing with you
[Play with her every day.]
Momma, Sasha makes you smile.
So do you, Sweet Gemma.
[Smile. Smile. Smile at Gemma.]
Momma, Kai is as fast as you
when he runs.
Well he is very fast. But I love each
of you whether you run or not, fast or not.
Momma, you are not like me. I am
not like you, not at all.
Sweet Gemma, when I was 5 years
old I would cry if I couldn’t wear the
skirt I wanted. Just like you.
I wanted attention but got upset if I got it.
Just like you.
I liked some time alone with my imagination.
Just like you.
I was stronger and braver than I knew.
Just like you.
I remembered every detail and second.
Just like you.
I thought everyone loved my sister, but not me.
Just like you.
I love you because you’re Gemma.
I’ve loved you since the very second I knew you.
I love you even more because I know you.
[Let me show you, Gemma, how much
I love you, every day.]