Reconstructing Stacey

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.

Monsoon Friday

San Francisco is currently experiencing hurricane-like winds (60 mph) and sheets of rain. Umbrellas are pointless. These images were taken this morning. One of my New Year's goals is to take more photographs.

Tuesday night's alright

Spending time with a good girlfriend is like putting ice on a sore joint. It relieves the pressure of a long day; it cools the aching of a heavy heart.

I am lucky to have so many beautiful women in my life here. In fact, I think this is in my Top Five Favorite Elements of Life in San Francisco (I'll save the other four for another posting). ANYWAY, this is beside the point. The point is that I love having so many good girlfriends in such close proximity to me. And yet, it's hard to find the time to have the one-on-one encounters I crave, the kind that allows for deep, 3-dimensional conversation.

But somehow, in the swirl of the city, I've made a new girlfriend, and all we do is have one-on-one time. Her name is M. We met in a cooking class this summer, which was purchased for me as a birthday present from my friends. The menu consisted of watermelon-feta salad, garlic sauteed artichokes with fava beans, poached seasoned fish and honey biscuits. Divine. Well, in the midst of the kitchen's steaming and simmering, M and I struck up a conversation. We chatted easily and exchanged business cards, agreeing that meeting for brunch would be a good idea. Nonetheless, I didn't expect any follow-through, since it's become so common at social functions to say you intend to do something but not do it. She sent me an email a few weeks later and we did indeed meet for brunch. I don't even remember where our first date was. All I know is that it didn't take us long to realize we were kindred spirits.

What's great about our friendship is that exists in a perfect bubble. I have never met her boyfriend or friends, and she has never met mine (though I'm sure all these paths will intersect eventually). This is particularly awesome because when we hang out it's totally and completely without clutter. It's just good conversation and good food (brunch is our standard fare, though tonight we mixed it up and met for dinner).

I sort of feel like we have a Hollywood-Sex-and-the-City-grown-up friendship. Like tonight, we met at her fancy gym and went to a yoga class, and after went into the hot tub and sauna, nude like all the other women in the locker room. This is an experience that is rare for me and probably for many other American women. In our culture, nudity is always equated with sexuality, when in many other countries it's considered natural, human. When I was abroad in 2002 and went to the public baths in Budapest, my girlfriends and I wore bathing suits, even though all the Hungarian women were walking around sans suit, saggy boobs and all. I felt like the weird one in my  suit, and yet I couldn't bring myself to take it off. So when M first mentioned the hot tub, I thought, "Shit, I didn't bring a bathing suit." But then I realized everybody was uncovered, and so joining the ranks wasn't weird or embarrassing. It was normal. And it made me realize that even though it's unusual, it can be comforting to be naked with your girlfriends.

After the gym, we ate dinner at this delicious Rome-inspired restaurant and talked about work/career, specifically, how to find inspiration and satisfaction from  these things. We also strategized about how she could cook a Christmas dinner for her boyfriend's family (12 people). I felt very useful, taking notes in my Moleskin, figuring out if it made more sense to cook the vegetable tart or the butternut squash soup first.

I walked home (another favorite element of San Francisco) thinking how lucky I am to open my heart and expand my mind on a random Tuesday night over a dinner of roast chicken and marinated eggplant.

Happy anniversary, San Francisco

Exactly 365 days ago, I woke up for the first time in my new home of San Francisco. This means that today I celebrated my one year anniversary as a resident of what I now believe to be the best city on the planet.

I knew the date was approaching, but didn't fully deconstruct it until I arrived in Golden Gate Park after work and located my friends in a crowd of Jeff Tweedy fans. They greeted me with hugs and smiles and cold white wine. Overall, an excellent way to celebrate a Friday, especially one which marks my one year anniversary. In between songs, I told E how, cheesy as it sounds, I still feel nothing but gratitude about my locale. I remembered that when I made the choice to move here, I felt bold and brave and daring, a Risk Taker. Now I see it wasn't so much courage as common sense. I realized that life was more than work, and as such, I needed to find a way to experience that sea change of thought. I predicted moving to SF would be a start. As I reflect on the past year, I am thankful that I was right. I was so very right.

As Tweedy reached into his vault of songs and played ditties from "Summerteeth" and "Being There" and even "Anodyne," the sun cast a golden glaze over the park and the air was a perfectly cool, crisp fall day. Beautiful birds zoomed over head, dark bullets against the clear blue sky. God's airplanes.

We hung out in a clearing behind the crowd just before leaving the show. I did cartwheels and J did somersaults while A-squared made shadow dancers on the grass. I felt free. Totally unhinged, light as air, free as a bird. May we all bathe in such peace at least once a year.

I'd like to leave you with the text from last year's Oct. 4 blog posting, which I wrote the night before my SF arrival.

"My life is about to profoundly change. It's overwhelming, really. I spent 7 hours in the car today. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that I had the space and time to think about my destination and not just the logistical bullshit involved in getting there. (Moving by yourself is not something I recommend, nor is it something I want to do ever again).

San Francisco will offer me a community I've never had before. A huge, exciting, diverse, cultural city where some of my best friends reside.  It's such a giant idea. I'm going to be like a kid in a candy story for the first few weeks (or months?). I can meet Adam or Erica for coffee, which seems so small, but I haven't gone out for coffee in 16 months because the Tri-Cities doesn't really have a cool coffee shop that facilitates good conversation and steamy windows. I can see independent films in the theater. I can hear authors speak, musicians play every night of the week. I can take dance classes, creative writing classes, knitting classes.

On the morning of my last day of work, I woke up paralyzed with fear. After a good, brief cry, I went to the office and while getting my French vanilla coffee creamer out of the fridge, I suddenly couldn't breathe. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. But it made me realize that even though I'm going to an exciting place, and even though I'm ready for the change, I'm still terrified.

Like I always say, deciding to change is much scarier and harder than change itself. I was scared. But I ended up happy, smoothly sliding into the change, making new friends, keeping the old, creating a community.

Sorry about gushing, again. Perhaps my one year anniversary will also mark the conclusion of fawning over the city in which I live. But no promises.

Listening to:
 
Mr. Jeff Tweedy at bluegrass weekend!!!

It's all about reh-LI-juhn

You know how sometimes you're too busy to eat? You feel starving at first, but then you adjust to the hunger pains and away they go. Temporarily, at least, the hunger is forgotten. Same thing happens when you aren't able to go to the bathroom. You have to pee so so bad, but you're in the park, or you're stuck in traffic, so you hold it, and the sensation goes away.

I've been spiritually holding it for four years.

I had no idea how hungry I was for Judaism until now, today really, when I celebrated Rosh Hashanah for the first time in four years with a real community of thinkers, seekers and friends. Living in small town America, I had no choice but to adapt to feeling like "the other." Sometimes, I'd purposely avoid talking about my Jewishness simply because I didn't feel like having a conversation that marked me as an outsider, as someone different. Of course I was proud to be Jewish. But I also wanted to feel like a part of the larger community, and in general, that community was not Jewish, (nor did they know much about Judaism), so it was sometimes more comfortable to not label myself. And besides, I was a journalist first and foremost. That was my identity. My purpose. My passion.

But for the past year, I've gradually moved beyond that. I'm still a journalist, yes. But living in San Francisco and writing for a Jewish paper has allowed me to explore this huge part of my being that's been dormant for so long.

But I also didn't exactly realize just how much or what I was missing. In said small towns, there was no opportunity for adult Jewish learning or creative Jewish expression. So even though I felt a snag in the fiber of my life, I didn't know how big it was until I let myself reconnect the Jewish threads.

The realization hit me tonight at Ocean Beach. A few friends and I went there for a Tashlich service. The service wasn't so much a service as an exercise. First, we threw chunks of bread into the water, as a symbol of casting away our sins of the past year. Then, with sticks we wrote our mistakes or shortcomings into the sand so we could watch the tide wash them away. And finally, we wrote on paper our hopes for the coming year, put them in a pile and lit them on fire, dispersing the goals/hopes/dreams/visions/aspirations into the air and perhaps propelling them into our future.

About 30 people came. We spread out along the beach to throw the bread (our sins) into the ocean, symbolically casting them aside, freeing us of their weight. As we did so, the seagulls began singing and circling above, swan-diving into the water to eat the scraps. The ocean was iridescent in the sun. And I began to cry. Quiet, soft tears. I was simply overwhelmed by the horizon, the warm, saltwater-scented air and the power of recognizing my shortcomings while simultaneously letting them go. And though I often doubt the existence of an all-knowing-all-present God, in that moment, with the Pacific licking my ankles, I felt God was there, in the water or maybe in the sun or sand or breeze. It sounds bizarre and hard to explain, but it was deeply spiritual and comforting and moving.

 

photo courtesy of oo-di

Earlier in the day, I attended a service/class hybrid at a synagogue. The rabbi explained that crying on Rosh Hashanah is encouraged, a goal even. He said that crying may begin with confusion, but it also brings us clarity and purification, redirecting us, pointing us toward a better path.

Hours after this service, I stood on the beach, feeling the sun and tears on my cheeks. I let myself feel regret/guilt/shame. Then I let the ocean take those from me. The tide receded, rushed back in, receded. And all I felt was gratitude. Because as I celebrate the birthday of the world this Rosh Hashanah, I see that the prayers and rabbis are right. That to be alive is a marvelous, wondrous thing.

How to examine a week in the life

Sept. 1: The stars are a sparkling blanket up above. I breath in and out, in and out, the clean, crisp air reminding me why even one night in the forest is cleansing for the lungs and the mind. It's quiet. In Mendocino National Forest, you can hear a single leaf dance in the breeze or crunch beneath your feet. The solitude is rejuvinating. As wonderful as the city is, leaving it serves as a critical reminder of the big wide world that surrounds our little 7-by-7 urban jungle. And that world is pretty dry this summer. The edges of Lake Pillsbury are evaporated. The water is gone. This is what the West Coast drought looks like. It's eerie to see a huge swath of land that should be invisible under meters of water, to see wooden docks sitting on land instead of floating on water. For some reason, it also smells a bit like an outhouse. We swim in Eel River instead. We sun ourselves by its banks and listen to the current lick the boulders in the middle of the river.

Sept 2: A hike. Sweeping vistas. Driving through wineries in Sonoma County. Taking pictures at Goat Rocks beach. Eating Bodega Bay fish tacos. Traffic over the bridge. Sleep.

Sept. 3: Given that I'm at least 2 issues behind in every magazine I subscribe to, I lay in bed all morning and read Esquire cover to cover. Did you know that NBC's "To Catch a Predator" led a man to commit suicide while the cameras were rolling? Isn't that crazy? It's apparently one of the reasons the  show is no longer on the air. Also, Sean Penn is directing the film version of one of my favorite books, "Into the Wild," and I'm excited to see it. When I'm finished with my coffee/breakfast/magazine in bed, I run through the Panhandle. It's part of my get-back-into-running regime (a low-key approach that involves running 3 miles twice a week for the entire month, to prove to myself I'm capable of sticking to a routine). E and I take ourselves out to lunch at Cafe Flora. We split salads and sip white wine and on our way back home, we get sucked into Books Inc. An hour later, we've each selected two books. Later that night, A, G and C come over and we drink sangria and watch Justin Timberlake bring sexy back, into our family room. Hot.

Sept. 4: Rabbi Katie is so smart that I decided to go to Part 2 of her teshuvah (repentence) workshop just for fun (Part 1 being for work). She's brilliant. She suggests in the workshop that perhaps Rosh Hashanah (representing birth) and Yom Kippur (representing death) is a metaphor for life, and that the "10 days" of atonement in between the holidays symbolize our whole lives. I like this theory. When I leave the workshop, I think it's awesome that 24 hours earlier I was dancing in my family room to Justin's HBO special.

Sept. 5: Boring day at work. After, I get a pedicure. It's indulgent. For 50 minutes, I feel like royalty. My toes are bronze and beautiful. I later go to the JCC and attend an interfaith workshop. My bosses want me to go so I can write a column, presumably, about how young Jews struggle and succeed at making an interfaith relationship work. I quickly realize what I'd rather write about is how the non-Jewish partner feels about dating someone Jewish. That's way more interesting and a side of the coin that never gets any ink. I hope they like the approach. 

Sept. 6: A painfully boring day at work. I think how I'd rather smoke crack or be forced to eat bugs than sit at my desk one minute longer. I am not built to sit at a computer for 40 hours a week. I eat animal crackers even though I'm not hungry, just bored. I wish my bosses valued non-office time more. I need a job or a career that is not so involved with consecutive hours on the computer. I make plans to clean my room after work but instead I watch TV and eat scrambled eggs.

Sept 7: The two most boring days in recent memory are followed up by a day in which I have two assignments. Take a moment to relish this with me. The first is with an incredible professor who's traveled all around the globe, speaks Hebrew and Arabic, started a conflict resolution program for teens and college students, AND puts his feet up on his desk during the interview. I want to go to Morocco and Thailand and South Africa. I'm envious. Then, I go to Millbrae where I interview people at a high school reunion for the International/American School in Manila, the Phillipines. Of the 200 people who came from all over the globe, about 15 are Jewish, so I mostly talk to them. They're thrilled to share their stories and be in the newspaper. They refer to me as "the press." I then have Shabbat dinner with A, E and DW. We talk politics and airplanes and food. It's so much fun. I love challah.

Sept. 8: Today. Today is marvelous. I wake up early and walk to Yoga Tree. It's wonderful except that the heater for the room blows directly into my face and I feel like I'm doing yoga in a vacuum cleaner for the first 30 minutes of class. Then I walk to the neighborhood park, where I get to pick out my very own garden plot! I'm thrilled to be a part of the community garden. I plant native grasses along the hillside with Nora, who directs the garden. It feels awesome to dig and plant in the dirt. I can't wait for next week, when I think I'm going to remove the lavender, mint and amarynth leftover from the plot's previous owner, and instead plant fava beans, broccoli, basil and lettuce. I envision it in bloom. I get on my bike and ride to Golden Gate Park for a free music/peace festival. My friends and I jump up and down, shake our hips. We munch on pretzels and hummus. We people watch. Have I told you lately, San Francisco, that I love you?

Still got time

I think Monday nights are too often used for boring things like laundry or bill-paying. I'm shaking it up. Last Monday I went to stand-up comedy. This Monday I saw a movie. The latter made me think. And cry. And want to give all the music in the world a bear hug.

The film: Once. It's an Irish flick about this depressed, lonely Guy who's stuck in the black hole of longing. He misses his ex-girlfriend. He writes songs about her while watching videos of her on his laptop. At night, he stands on barren street corners in front of shopping malls and sings angry love songs. Then, he meets Girl. And she's sad too, but for different reasons. Music brings them together in an incendiary, ethereal way. The first time they sing/play together in the back of a used musical instrument store was so powerful I couldn't help but cry. During the scene, I felt like I was a fly on the wall, watching two strangers realize their meeting was proof that fate can intervene, flagging you left when you might  otherwise go right.

The movie reinforces the idea that a person’s impact on your life often is not measured by time. That is, sometimes people come into your life for a week, a month, a year, then go. Life happens, not everyone gets to stick around for the duration. But before they disappear, they wiggle their toes into the sands of your soul. Their essense remains. You’re changed because you met this person, and their absence doesn’t and shouldn’t depreciate their value.

I think this is a dangerous and beautiful idea. The former because you certainly don’t want to go through life being totally laissez faire about people, otherwise you’d make no effort and have no deep relationships. But it’s also a sweet thought. If you must let go of someone you once loved, then at least hold onto and embrace what they taught you. Let their impression make you better, instead of mourning their figurative passing.

                                         . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, going in reverse chronological order, I want to briefly share last Monday night’s revelations. So I’m at this comedy club with A (note to E: I’m back to using first initials, what do you think?). We’re chit-chatting with the people sitting near us, about A having to wake up at 4 a.m. and how V creates the questions that tele-pollers ask registered voters. Somehow we get around to the topic of Dream Jobs. It comes around to me. I don’t know what to say. I always thought I'd work at a major metropolitan daily, but now I don’t think I want to, or at least, don’t think my life will turn out that way, and I’m not sure what else I want to do. Then A interjects and makes it all clear.

“Stacey’s pursuing the Dream Life,” he says.

He elaborates. He explains that for a few years I chased the dream job, an aspiration that took me to “such exotic places” like Cedar Falls, Iowa and Kennewick, Wash., but then I decided to take a break from the chasing-career-goals pace to live in a Great American City. The change has allowed me, therefore, to pursue “the Dream Life,” as A so nicely phrased. The Life Pursuit (thanks belle and sebastian) includes such excursions as comedy clubs and national parks and concert venues and meeting friends for Friday lunches downtown. The Dream Life values happiness over success. (Though consider: If you’re happy, aren’t you also successful? Happiness don’t come easy.) It prizes close relationships over bulging clip files. It cannot be explained on a resume.

The Dream Life. A perfect way to describe the fruits that have grown on my San Francisco tree. Oh, and the stand-up comedians were funny, too.

Listening to:

Proud

I took a 3-minute power nap on the train tonight. A transvestite had sat down next to me while I slept. He wore a mini skirt that showed off his super skinny legs. As he ate a chocolate chip cookie, I noticed his huge, French-manicured hands. He then sipped on a small McDonald's soda, his lipstick on the tip of the straw. His hair was an awful shade of auburn. It clashed with his tanning-bed skin. But I had to smile.

This woman/man was probably finishing up a long day partying downtown at Pride 2007. I myself made my way down to the gay pride street fair in the late afternoon. Due to the fact that explaining the festival in words would diminish its craziness, I will simply refer you to my online photo album.

But I will say this. Pride 2007 is San Francisco at its gayest, wildest and nudest. I saw so many boobs and asses today. Especially in "leather alley," a section of the street fair in which I also saw a woman lean over, bare-assed, while a hairy man wearing a leather vest smacked her butt until it turned pink. I am not making this up. Then, I saw a sign that said "SM Demos, $3." Evidently, a raunchier display of someone's sexual fantasy/perversion was inside a gated area. I didn't feel like waiting in line. Plus, the ass-slapping was disturbing enough. I really didn't need to see what was behind Door No. 1.

Afterward, I went for a bike ride through Golden Gate Park. On really sunny days the park smells even more like eucalyptus. I'd venture to say that everyone who didn't go to Pride was outside in the park. I rode by groups of people playing Frisbee, listening to Madonna, roller skating, sunbathing, reading, meditating. And I realized that San Francisco is absolutely the happiest city on earth. No doubt in my mind. Happy-est. People are true to themselves here, encouraged to embrace their quirks, weirdness, individuality. The city feels a little magical on days like today.

Also, may cat is curled up in a ball right now and snoring. I love him.