I am home

I spent three months last summer living out of a carry-on suitcase and a backpack, spending no more than 10 days at a time in any one place. I’d given up my apartment in Los Angeles, along with most of my belongings, before taking this leave from work. I needed, wanted, feared and craved some time on my own, with everything laid bare—me, myself and I. Less as more; to feel alive.

I expected to feel unsettled throughout this, and I knew that was what I needed. Because in taking everything else away—all the things I had; all the things to do—I needed to find out who I was, and how I felt. I really needed to meet that person and get right with her on the other side. Understand her, challenge her, support her and encourage her to be even more herself.

Halfway through my time, I was on a yoga retreat in Mallorca. It was incredible, yes, and it was also another scene in the theater of life. It topped 100°F most of the trip, and there was no air-conditioning anywhere on the property. One day in particular, I felt like my body and brain were no longer mine and I read that happens to be what happens at 104°F, which it was.

When things get that gnarly, and we were also folding ourselves into shapes we may have never been in before every morning. And as cliché as it is, things started to happen. Tears would spring up in certain poses, and I spent hours lying as close to the floor as possible with my legs up, letting life pass. A willing participant, a passive witness, doing as much as I could and a little more than I wanted, but knew that I needed . I took the group trips out in the afternoon and bathed in the salty Balearic waters that held me up and felt like a hug, and then one day I just needed to hang back, alone.

I went deep in that heat, and the funny thing is, I didn’t even really endeavor to. As with most things we need in life, it just happened. It was just me and my body in that heat, with some other bodies floating and flowing by, in the center of that peaceful island where the insects chirping to a roaring chorus every night, nature’s white noise.

I realized I’ve been looking for Home this whole time in that moment, brought me to it. Without being able to think about, or do much more than be in that immediate moment with myself, everything cleared. I am home. I am my home. I’m in my body; I’m here. Whether I’m together with others or alone, I’m home. I’m sleeping in this bed; next week I’m in a hotel. I don’t know where I’ll live next, and I am living right here, in my body, at home.

I am home.

It’s the next note you play

A friend of mine messaged our group this past week deeply concerned about an oversight that had happened at work, one in which she was closely involved. It was one of those more serious mistakes, one that could affect people personally, one that kept her up that night. Still, to err is human.

What came to mind to share in that moment is something that has given me consolation, as well as empowerment, in times of need. It’s from the late, great and astoundingly creative Miles Davis: "If you hit a wrong note, it's the next note that you play that determines if it's good or bad."

What do we do with what we have, and what’s happened? It’s about what comes next.

Side note: In confirming this quote, I pulled up a page of others of his, and wow, did he have some meaningful things to say, in addition to play, including: “In improvisation, there are no mistakes.”

Life, and all that jazz.

J’ouvre les huîtres / I open the oysters

On my first date with my now-boyfriend, we sat under a bridge somewhere between Zurich city center and the airport, waiting for storm clouds to pass and the music festival to hopefully resume.

I told him that I’d spent time that summer in France and was learning French. I was, in a sort of skipping rocks, cutesy, explorative kind of way. Him being Swiss French, with French as his first language, he was eager to hear me speak. I told him there was one phrase I’d been practicing with friends that really challenged my pronunciation: « J’ouvre les huîtres » which means, “I open the oysters,” or, “I’m opening the oysters.” (I do love oysters, and the “ou” sound in French is notoriously hard for English speakers, as well as the French “r.”)

Him also being Swiss in all the best ways—practical, fair, honest—he wasn’t going to let me get away with a half-hearted or incorrect pronunciation, and we sat there with him very cutely and matter-of-factly repeating it and having me follow.

We kept talking after parting ways that first date, which I think was, for both of us, unexpected and thrilling. (The concert never started back up, but our date lasted for hours of conversation under that bridge.) He’d occasionally pop quiz me vis WhatsApp—“how do you say it?” And I’d send a sheepish audio note back.

We spent this past New Year’s together in Verbier, and his friends purchased oysters for the occasion. I laughed and ran over to him holding one up. « J’ouvre les huîtres!! » We both smiled, and he hugged me, a moment I think that had us both reflecting back on those first, fresh moments together.

I’d had a 70-day Duolingo streak for French going at that point, and I was about to start taking twice-weekly French classes in hopes of one day communicating with his family as naturally as he (polyglot of five languages, sigh) does with mine. (I am appreciative for how much really can be communicated through body language, smiles and gestures!)

Still, I open the oysters; j’ouvre les huîtres, in continuously opening up in the unique, beautiful and vulnerable way that only this loving relationship could invite, in opening to new possibilities in life, and new pearls of wisdom from experiencing life and learning from, and with, someone who I admire and who inspires me every day.

I’m opening the oysters, and, shucks, aren’t I lucky to have this great guy doing it with me.

A veces lo barato es lo caro

Sometimes cheap is expensive

I was going from train to train in Spain, because after two months of flitting about in Europe, I was doing what I could to keep off of flights For both my own well-being, and that of the environment.

Never one to travel without snacks and ample amounts of hydration, I had just stopped at a convenience store and loaded up on goods for the next leg of my trip. Which bag did I want? The attendant asked. I looked at everything I had, and the two options, one, notably flimsy than the other, and both costing money. I probably could use this one. I told her appointing to the sturdier option. She agreed. “A veces lo barato es lo caro,” she said, and smiled.

Sometimes what’s cheap is expensive, and not all costs, or benefits, are monetary.

A veces lo barato es lo caro

Sometimes cheap is expensive

I was going from train to train in Spain, because after two months of flitting about in Europe, I was doing what I could to keep off of flights For both my own well-being, and that of the environment.

Never one to travel without snacks and ample amounts of hydration, I had just stopped at a convenience store and loaded up on goods for the next leg of my trip. Which bag did I want? The attendant asked. I looked at everything I had, and the two options, one, notably flimsy than the other, and both costing money. I probably could use this one. I told her appointing to the sturdier option. She agreed. “A veces lo barato es lo caro,” she said, and smiled.

Sometimes what’s cheap is expensive, and not all costs, or benefits, are monetary.

Respect the siesta

Last summer I stayed at an Airbnb in Madrid, one I chose because the apartment building contained an outdoor pool.

There was a laminated instruction manual on the table that detailed all the must know information, including best practices pool usage. Half the building faced the pool, and, it being summer and there being no air conditioning, windows were often open.

The only bolded line on the sheet, front in Spanish, back in English said: Please respect the siesta. Neighbors nap in the afternoon hours, and it was a must that everyone keep noise to a minimum.

The line made me giggle, and I also loved it. Rest is to be respected, in every way—for both ourselves and others.

Respect the siesta. Take yours! And may the leave space and grant understanding for others to take their naps in life, to tap out for rest, too.

Ikigai: On purpose

Ikigai (生き甲斐, lit. 'a reason for being') is a Japanese concept referring to something that gives a person a sense of purpose, a reason for living. (Wikipedia)

I began watching Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones on Netflix with my parents. The first episode takes place in Okinawa, Japan, and the last—and perhaps most lasting—concept introduced as a way to understand and respect the longevity of residents is that of ikigai.

I think we do this very American thing in the U.S. of overcomplicating this quite a bit. We make it tied to profession; we put it in a box of branding; we think we need to pitch it in an elevator and that it is one big, fixed thing. This is my life. This is my purpose.

But, wait: “More generally (ikigai) may refer to something that brings pleasure or fulfilment.[1]” And purpose can change in every moment. Maybe it’s meant to morph.

I’ve been looking forward to find my “purpose” rather than orienting to the here and now, the life being lived. The sunshine gives me purpose; writing this little thing brings pleasure and relationships give me the most beautiful reasons for living.

Ikigai; life on purpose.

Take patience

My flight before New Year’s was delayed, communication about what was happening was unclear, and I was frustrated. I just wanted to be there.

“Take patience,” my boyfriend said to me. Ever sweet, knowing the exact right thing to say, and also a non-native English speaker. I loved this perfect language mistake, because not only did it make me smile, it made me appreciate patience more.

I love the idea of patience as something I can pick up, choose, put on, swallow like a glass of water.

Here—take patience.