Reconstructing Stacey

On the road - The July Project #3

9:58 p.m. (a note about the July Project)

Tonight is the first night in almost two weeks I have had a moment to myself. I got home from work and almost danced down the hallway when I realized no one was home. This is because I left home at 2:30 a.m. July 2 to attend High Sierra Music Fest, where I blissed out for 4.5 perfect days of sunshine, trees (and therefore wildfire smoke), live music and friends. I got home last Monday night, showered, went out to dinner for a friend's birthday, went to work the next day and within 15 minutes of getting home from work, my sister and her friend arrived for a 3-day visit. I worked during the day and hung out with them at night; on Friday, we picked up our rental car and drove down the coast to Santa Barbara, then LA, then San Diego, and back to LA. I was picked up in a shuttle at 5 a.m. this morning, landed in SFO around 9:30 a.m. and went to work until 6:30 p.m. (This is also why I haven't written in more than a week.)

So yes, I almost danced down the hallway when I realized no one was home except for my very affectionate kooky cat.

I shouldn't really complain, since the past two weeks have been incredible... it's just that when I don't have any time to myself I get cranky. 

High Sierra Music Fest was heavenly. Truly, the festival is four day of pristine happiness where the only thing you have to concern yourself with is what band you go to next, or what delicious organic vendor you're going to patronize for dinner. I stopped thinking about my future, my writing, my work, my upcoming travels to Ohio and Israel (!!), my endless to-do list, my lack of any romantic prospects. I tuned out all the analytical noise in my brain and instead of dwelling in the mundane bullshit of everyday life, I marinated in music and my own body odor (90-degree heat, camping and one shower doesn't really leave one any other choice, but since I happen to enjoy being dirty, I capitalize on situations in which it is socially acceptable to smell). Anyway, the point is that I was present. I lived in the moment. I danced when the fiddle or guitar or banjo or drums moved me, and I laid down when a ballad reminded me of my fatigue. I didn't even take a single photograph, since lately I feel as though a camera makes me distant from what's in front of me. (My friends took lots of pictures, so the weekend is memorialized.)

Musical highlights included:

• Railroad Earth - Whimsical, danceable and gorgeous bluegrass.

• Rotary Downs - Genre-defying rock band from New Orleans.

• the everybodyfields - Twangy alt.country band with songwriting that's full of sorrow. Female lead singer with a voice like silk.

• Trombone Shorty and Orleans Ave. - Funky blues band fronted by a hip-hop singer who also rocks the trombone and trumpet

• Dusty Rhodes and the River Band - '70s-rock-band-influenced indie band that made me shake my groove thang

• Cornmeal - Let's just say I have never seen a bluegrass band shred like these guys do. Chicago-based über talented group with a standout fiddle player

• Oneside - Four-piece folky band with a banjo instead of a second guitar. 

• Benevento/Russo Duo - Mind-boggling that two guys can make such a loud sound. Experimental jazz meets rock and roll meets indie boogie.

• The Slip - Sort of a jammy indie rock band with an electric glaze. Easy on the eyes.

• Surprise Me Mr. Davis - See above then add a dash of brilliant songwriting and a gooey folky center courtesy of the next Dylan, Mr. Nathan Moore.

• Nathan Moore - A genius who with his acoustic guitar fills the stage with insight and pretty music 

• Carolyn Wonderland - It's like she conjures Janis Joplin from beyond the grave.

• Stephanie Wrembel Group - Awesome Parisian-influenced funky jazz music.

Music feeds my soul in a way that nothing else does. So of course HSMF is my most ideal respite from reality.

So after this fantastic excursion, I took another vacation the following weekend down Hwy 101 and Hwy 1 to Santa Barbara, which is my new favorite place in California (behind most places in the Bay Area, of course). It's stunning. You've got the ocean and the mountains and a warm breeze all in one fun, bougie college town. My sister, her friend A and myself fell in love. We stayed in a hostel just blocks from the beach. It was not in the best condition, but it was a fine place to sleep. We ended up going out for a late dinner after arriving into town and then happened upon retro night at some random bar, so of course we danced for a while. When it got crowded and we grew disturbed by the many scantily clad women doing body shots on the bar, we decided to peace out to another bar, where we continued to dance until we were totally spent. We indulged in almost 6 hours of beach time the following day. I can't recall a time when I felt so at peace and not bored while laying out.

Yesterday (Sunday), we drove to San Diego to see my great Aunt Charlotte, who my sis and I had not seen in five years. She is a delight, especially because she's a lot like my grandmother (her sister) who died slightly more than five years ago. I miss her often. I think R does too. So it was nice to spend the evening in her apartment, help her make dinner and sit around shmoozing about food, politics and a bit of family history. For instance, I finally learned how my grandma learned to sew (she was a MASTER seamstress and would definitely have kicked ass on Project Runway: Bubbe Edition). Turns out she hated school and protested going as a teenager so much that her parents allowed her to "drop out" as long as she learned a trade. They found a talented seamstress who agreed to let my grandmother apprentice, and so she did. And that's how she learned. 

It's been 20 minutes but I'm not totally done with my little freewriting exercise. Therefore I will keep going.

Today I had my first coaching session with the journalist who's teaching my online writing course. It was spectacular and illuminating and went on for more than 45 minutes (I was only technically allotted 30 minutes). I had sent him a draft of a story last week, and we went over it together. He gave me all these helpful pointers and I spent most of the afternoon doing some extra reporting after he pointed out many holes in the piece. It only served to remind me how little guidance I'm receiving at my current job, and how much I crave support. It also made me realize how little time my professors spent talking about the writing process, and how much time they spent on the reporting process. This is unfortunate because the best reporting is dulled by rusty writing. Anyway, I hope that tomorrow I can rewrite the piece and make it feel polished and vivid. 

10:28 p.m.

And I have no idea why the font on this post is all messed up.

The July Project #2

12:26 a.m. (a note about The July Project)

What a long day I've had. This morning I awoke to Renee Montagne informing me that a terrorist had driven a bulldozer into a bus in Jerusalem and killed three innocent civilians. When I checked for more details online, i learned a woman saw the bulldozer approaching her car and threw her baby out the window. She was crushed, but some passer-by caught the child and he survived. Remarkable and devastating.

Later in the day, I came one step closer to officially having plans to go to Israel. Isn't it insane that a country where citizens are not shocked by such violence because it is a part of the tapestry of their lives is also a place where millions of Jews around the world enthusiastically want to travel? I think it is a bit mind-boggling. Regardless, I'm going to Israel in August for a work assignment and am so thrilled about the opportunity, both for the work and the travel. It's certainly one of the biggest perks of writing about the Jewish community.

I spent the evening packing a variety of T-shirts, skirts, dresses and various other acoutrements into a duffel so that when 2 a.m. nears I'm ready to throw my stuff in the car with a bunch of other people and head to Quincy, Calif. for High Sierra Music Fest. Anyone who read my post from last year's festival will remember I described it as the best 4 days of my life, so it follows that I'm über psyched about this year's fest. But at the moment I'm just exhausted. So my enthusiasm is a bit muted. We're leaving in the middle of the night so we can get to the festival first thing in the morning and get a sweet camping spot. There will be 15 of us living it up in tents and at various music stages this weekend.

In the "Creating a Life Worth Living" class I mentioned in my last post, our homework is to do one of two things. A) Journal ideas and/or emotions and B) Take 15 minutes each day to think, breathe and accomplish nothing. That might mean lying down with your eyes closed, listening to music, strumming your guitar (not that I do such a thing) or sitting in a chair and staring out the window. I find it a eautiful coincidence that my independent writing project (inspired by one class) docetails with the homework for this other class I'm taking. So while I'm gone I will freewrite in my journal at least 15 minutes each day. I may or may not type up those entries... I tend to write more personal thoughts in my journal simply because of the completely private nature of the process, and so I'm not sure I'll want to transfer the ink to the Web. We shall see.

My cat is sleeping on the foot of my bed. His front paws are stretched out and his nose is resting between his "arms." He's so big that when he stretches he's more than half the width of my Queen bed. He's always been long. But now he's also fat. The vet told me 2 months ago that I needed to feed him less, but I haven't yet changed the way I feed him, so he continues to eat whenever he pleases and therefore plump up. My goal is to put him on a diet after the chaos of summer fades. He also totally knows I'm going out of town. He's highly attune to luggage (I shit you not the second a suitcase is opened in any room in the house he's jumping inside and wiggling around to find a comfortable space), but I think in addition to his adoration for luggage, he knows it's a sign that people are shifting. I always feel bad when I leave for consecutive days because he sleeps on the pillow above my head, and when I'm gone, he gets no nighttime affection, which I think makes him really sad. Nothing is better for my self-esteem than when I come back after being away for a bit, and he is super snuggly.

OK, I'm exhausted and saying nothing of value. I'm going to take a one-hour power nap before we hit the road.

12:42 (16 minutes of writing)

We are all a work in progress, or more specifically, The July Project # 1

12:02 a.m. (background about The July Project)

Tonight I went to the first class in a 3-part series called "Creating a Life Worth Living." It's taught by a life coach and is sponsored by American Jewish World Service, which mostly helps impoverished and underserved populations in Asia, Latin America and Africa, but also creates programming for young American Jews who want to look at the world through a Jewish and social justice lens. 

So the teacher is a local Jewish woman (for these purposes we'll call her LG) and she is incredible. There are 18 people in the class. Three boys, the rest women. It's so encouraging to be in a room full of people who know their life holds promise, but aren't sure in which direction to turn to seek said promise. It's a reminder that I'm not alone in my quest for ... well, I'm not sure yet. Generally, I applied to take this class (we had to apply!) because I know that what I'm doing is not satisfying me in the ways I want/need, but I'm not sure what kind of changes I need to make in my life to feel wholly satisfied. For instance, do I need a different journalism job, or a different career? Do I need to just make some changes at my current job to improve it? Can I derive fulfillment from nonwork pursuits, and if so, how can I focus myself to really commit to a few of those?

LG posed the following question: How does "pretty good" hold us back from achieving great?

Lots of people spoke up -- fear of failure, fear of success, complacency, comfort, resistance to change, concern that the change won't be any better (or even worse) than the existing situation....

I felt I had already said quite a bit, so I didn't add what came to mind while considering this question, and that is: Inability to let go of your old goals.

I always thought I'd be a famous news reporter. If I don't become that, I'm obviously finally accepting that, but then... what? What do I do? Is it okay that my work no longer fulfills me completely? Is it okay that a job is just a job, as long as I'm finding satisfaction and happiness in other elements of my life, and that my job is not sucking my energy too much? I asked the group that question and LG pointed out that all of the questions we're posing tonight (and in future sessions) can really truly only be answered individually.

One girl said she hopes the class helps her listen to herself. I seconded that. In the hubbub that is daily life, I don't often enough find time or space or energy to ask myself: What do I need? What do I want? And I mean these questions in a small context, not necessarily in a huge, wordly way.

LG also reminded us numerous times that this is not a career seminar, though of course we should feel free to talk about our careers, and direct the focus that way if we so choose. I found it interesting that for many of us, "work" is our default setting. It's endemic to society, really, and a bit surprising in a group of San Franciscans, who have made an art out of chasing work-life harmony. Everyone in this city has something they're passionate about, whether it's art or yoga or volunteering or planting trees or teaching people how to compost. It's inspiring and yet daunting because if you don't have these dual (or tri or quad) identieis, then who are you really? Work defines the minority of people in San Francisco, and yet when asked to first consider how we "create a life worth living" we all think first about work.

One of the participants is a rabbi, so she led us in a short text study of a passage from Genesis. Did you know the very first question in the Torah is: Where are you? God asks Adam this question, and Adam responds by saying he was hiding because he heard God's voice and was afraid. God asks him if he ate from the forbidden tree, and Adam confesses but blames Eve for the indiscretion. Then God asks Eve if this is true, and she blames the Serpent.

What we learned is that this question "Where are you" is perennial. It is a constant presence in our lives, and it is not an accident that it is the first question in the Torah. The rabbi pointed out that neither Adam nor Eve took responsibility for themselves in answering the question, and that in doing so, failed to truly answer God's questions. Therefore, if we don't own our choices and take responsibility for ourselves, we cannot honestly answer "where are you?" It follows then, that if we can't honestly answer the question, we can't figure out where we are or where we need to go to feel happy, whole and fulfilled. (Clearly, the question is not so much one of geography but of headspace.)

In my last two minutes of writing, here's my final thought, and it's this. The rabbi, who said she read these passages a million times, found one new meaning while preparing for the class. She added up the numeric value of "where are you" in Hebrew, which is "ayecka." Turns out it adds up to 36, which is 18 + 18, which means double chai, or double life (for those not in the know, 18 is a highly significant number in Judaism and you should check wikipedia or jewfaq.com for more). Which basically means that the question "where are you" is a living, evolving question (and answer) that should serve as a bridge between all of life's transitions.

12:22 a.m. (yay! 20 minutes of freewriting)

end note: the only things I corrected in this blog post were spelling errors, which will be my practice from now on.

An end to writer’s block?

I know, I know, this blog is evidence of my literary constipation. What can I say? I’ve been busy. Uninspired. Really happy. All of the above.

I’m taking this writing class through the Poynter Institute’s News University, which offers a huge variety of online courses about all things journalism (writing, editing, podcasting, photography, headlines, captions, etc.). My editor agreed to pay the $400 course fee, so I really want to get a lot out of the experience, share it with my colleagues and feel stronger for pumping some journalistic iron.

This afternoon I completed a 5-part exercise that helps us focus our stories. The thinking is that if you can’t succinctly answer — what’s the story really about? Why does it matter? — then you can’t possibly craft a compelling, informative or engaging story, regardless of how interesting or strange the subject matter.
So we had to do these really tough writing exercises today in which we were allotted 20-30 seconds for each of a series of 5 questions. No rewrites or second guessing. Just unrefined thoughts. 

This is really difficult for me because I’m a methodical writer. I write a sentence, then I reread the sentence, then I rewrite the sentence, then I write another one and repeat the process. It can be excruciating when I’m not in the mood to write (but have to since I have no choice in this field of work). But when I am in the mood to write, I love the picking and choosing that accompanies my writing process. I love asking myself: What is the best word? Can I find a better word? Yes! And I love how that tweak can transform a sentence.

In this writing class, however, the teacher wants us to practice freewriting, a process by which we lower our standards and simply write. No spell check. No deleting. No rereading and rewriting. No excuses. Just write, write, write. He told us in a podcast that “reporters are often surprised at their raw eloquence.” The idea is that if you lower your standards (at first) you silence your inner critic, thereby allowing yourself to flourish as a writer.

I’ve decided that, starting July 1, I will blog everyday I have computer access (some upcoming travels will find me totally unplugged) and I will write these entries by freewriting for 20 minutes at a time. I'm even going to time myself. 

I need to do this for a few reasons. One, I have been such a slacker here at Reconstructing Stacey and want to reconnect with my blog’s voice; two, I need extra non-work writing practice to grease the wheels of my new writing bike; and three, it sounds fun. And really hard. Diligence is not my color.

Beginning tomorrow, the words you read here might feel a bit rough around the edges. Please pardon the construction.

So much to say

That was the name of my column in my high school newspaper. Originally, I named it Honey Pot, in reference to my favorite cartoon character, Winnie the Pooh, but after my first column was published someone told me "honey pot" was some obscure sexual reference. I remember being flushed with embarrassment, and my next column ran under the heading "so much to say" after the Dave Matthews Band song.

Therefore, I thought it appropriate to dig up an artifact of my writing for this post, my first in a month, which means it will probably have no beginning, middle or end, that I will simply gaze at my naval a bit and write a bunch of run-on sentences and tip toe through the highs and lows of the past 30 days. There. You might be bored. (You've been warned.)

Despite the fact I haven't written much in my journal or on my blog, this past month has found me often thinking about writing and words, about how they feel on my tongue or fingertips, and how the words other people write feel in my mind. I've read 14 books in the past 4.5 months, and digesting these memoirs and novels has been good for my writing -- at work. My writing mojo has returned. It feels great. Only now I wish that instead of churning out 3-6 stories a week at work, I could slow down and concentrate on just one, or a handful, in an entire month.

What would it be like to not have deadlines every single week? I've started thinking about studying writing. Creative nonfiction, specifically. Even though I tend to read more fiction than non, I have no desire to make up stories. Humans who actually exist are endlessly fascinating and I'd rather chronicle their lives. My formal journalism education placed almost no emphasis on the art of storytelling - and it is an art - and so I find myself frustrated when I can't find the right words or sentence, and I don't have the time to think it over. My j-school experience emphasized reporting, information gathering and sorting, ledes, newsworthiness. I do not recall a professor ever talking about writing as craft. Nor was a creative writing class a requirement for my degree. I think this is a huge blunder by the j-school establishment. What use is a compelling story if you don't have the tools to write it well?

So I'm in the beginning stages of this quest to study writing. The scary part is: what if I get my act together and apply to a bunch of programs and am rejected? Does that mean I'm a shitty writer? Mediocre? Average? I know I can't really entertain these negative thoughts until I TRY, but it's nerve wracking to think about putting your literary self out there. Not to mention the fact that I'm not even sure an MFA in creative nonfiction is the means to my end. Getting a degree in education is still on my brain. The problem is that while I obsess about what to do next (since even though I'm enjoying my job much more, it has not and will not make me the kind of writer and reporter I know I can be) I'm also more content than I've ever been. I love San Francisco. I have amazing friends and am a part of an awesome community. I ride my bike or walk everywhere, I'm an hour away from cherry orchards (I picked 10 pounds yesterday!) and mountains, a 10-minute walk from incredible concert venues ... and when I don't feel like doing anything, I enjoy my bedroom, the sunlight streaming through my windows. All this is to say I'm feeling sort of stuck. I'm happy and content, yet still restless, pulled by magnets in two directions. Why is it so impossible to celebrate today?

For instance, I woke up at 9:30 and made myself coffee and oatmeal. In my head, the Busy Elf was telling me that I should go to the gym, that I should go for a long walk, that I should go read in a coffee shop or that I should get a pedicure. Seize the day! it shouted. Then the Chill Elf bitch-slapped Mr. Busy and said, sternly, "Maybe you should just lay around and read." Which is what I really wanted to do. So for the past few hours I've had to fight the urge to feel guilty for "doing nothing" when the doing nothing is EXACTLY the something I need to rehabilitate my chronically busy self. For the past few hours, I've laid in bed, reading and snuggling with my cat, savoring the silence that is my apartment on this Memorial Day holiday.
I just finished a book that reminds readers to listen to the small, still voice within (among other points). It's called "God in the Wilderness." I had to read it for work so I could write a book review about it. I sort of wish I had never volunteered for this assignment because I hate writing book reviews, but the copy editor who's in charge of reviews is a gem, one of my favorite people in life, so I agreed to help him out. Anyway, the book is quite fascinating. It suggests that Judaism has a framework for getting back to the basics -- nature, rest, meditative thought.

The author writes:
"On the path to peace I need to push a bit less and respect limits a bit more. I need to spend less time climbing the high peaks and more time sitting still and listening. I need to rush less from place to place and go deeper into the place I am. Somewhere there is middle ground, and our task is to find it."


I struggle with balance. Mentally, I'm okay. I don't mind life's hiccups and only occasionally do I feel knocked over when things don't go my way. I'm emotionally even. But logistically, I'm crazy. I have a hard time letting myself slow down. The issue is not that I don't enjoy chilling out, the issue is that I feel guilty when I do, like there are 16 other things I should be doing.

Yesterday, for instance, I left my house at 7:45 a.m., rode my bike 3 miles to meet up with a group of people that would carpool 1 hour to fruit orchards in the East Bay. I spent the whole day outside picking fruit and picnicking, and when I got home at 3:30, I just couldn't sit still. So I got back on my bike and went to a yoga class, which reminded me to breathe, to be present. While sweating in downward dog.
A totally different point: American politics. Last night, my roommates and I watched "Recount" an HBO movie that explores the 2000 presidential election recount in Florida. The writers did a huge amount of research to craft the script, and every character in the film is a real person. It was amazing how much I didn't remember or didn't know, and infuriating that our democracy really failed us. Such corruption in Florida! I hope the nation can bounce back after eight years of unprecedented bad decision-making and leadership.

Happy birthday to me

Check out the fantastic photos from my birthday dinner with the ladies.

The Matrix

It has come to my attention that I've been an unreliable and absent blogger. Not quite sure why, though it's not because I've been scribbling in my journal lately, since I haven't done that either, and usually that's the culprit in my bloggy lapse.

That reminds me -- last week, I read a year's worth of journal entries (circa 2004-05) during a BART trip to and from Berkeley. I woke up last Monday morning having to interview a rich and powerful but very sweet woman in Russian Hill, having forgotten a reporter's notebook at the office the previous Friday. So I grabbed the only lined notebook I could find in my room, which happened to be one of my old journals that has a bunch of blank pages at the end. I used it to take notes. Later, when I traveled to Berkeley to interview someone else for a different story (and with a proper notebook in tow), I used it as some light train reading.

I felt like I was in conversation with a past self.

The sentiment was both delightful and eerie (how young I was!), though mostly I felt indulgent and lucky to have this glimpse of a Stacey who's, well, not quite around anymore. It reminded why it's so important (for me) to chronicle both the mundane and enormous landmarks along life's road. This world's beauty hides in the details. But raindrops evaporate over time.

Tonight I mentioned to a few friends that I'm considering no longer blogging. They thought it was a bad idea. Confirmation that even three people enjoy my blog is the honey to my composition tea. Positive feedback. Ah. It goes down so smooth.

So here are a few random thoughts:

This city is so incredibly small. On Sunday, I took a flying trapeze class with three of my coworkers (photos to come, promise), two of their boyfriends and one of their best friends who happened to be someone with whom I went out on two craigslist dates one year ago. It wasn't awkward in the least, but it was unusual: One of those coincidences where you feel like knocking on Mr. Universe's front door to see if he forgot to deliver the Divine Plan that all the neighbors received last week. We went out twice, and then I never returned his call/email for a third date. A trip to Israel just after those two dates made me sure that I wanted to prioritize dating someone Jewish, which DW was not. (And you know, it's a good thing I made that decision, since I've dated, um, NO ONE more than once -- ok, one guy twice -- since that time ... Though the man drought on my Doplar radar is entirely not the point of this story).

In other small world news, two weeks ago I went to LA, where I met this guy at  Purim party who had lived in Berkeley for 10 years but now lives in LA. I mentioned my writing a story about the mikvah, and he mentioned that his sister lives in Berkeley and would have a lot to say on the topic. He gave me her number. I called said sister. Then, I run into said sister's husband, who I have known for several months, but not his last name, and so didn't make the connection. He was like: You met my brother-in-law in Los Angeles and that's great you're going to interview my wife!

And tonight, on the way home from Casa Dolores, I heard a familiar voice. Was that B from work? I craned my neck, and sure enough, there he was, someone I had never before run into outside of the office, on the bus, talking to a friend. I slipped off the bus with much stealth. Small talk was not on the evening's agenda.

OH, and THEN, last week, I ran into A while walking to a friend's house after a really long day at work (aforementioned post-journal-reading BART ride). This was a particular thrill because for years we longed to be neighbors, and then for the first time since we shared a zip code, we ran into each other on the 16th Street, which is the most neighborly encounter I can think of. I punched him I was so excited.

I share these thoughts because they are evidence, bread crumbs marking the wide path I've made for myself in this city. Proof that I live here, neons signs indicating I am not a visitor. I'm at home. It feels nice.

Listening to: Careless Love by Madeleine Peyroux

Reading: Look At Me by Jennifer Egan