Los Angeles times; they're a changin'

I take no pride in the following statement: the past several months of my life have zipped past me in a psychotic frenzy. Months, days and single moments blend together to create a foggy, but now distant memory of my first full summer in Los Angeles. Concert tickets, expense reports and air mileage alone would indicate a very fun-filled season, but I can’t seem to come to terms with how quickly the time is passing. And really, with the loss of a once iron-fisted control over my days, which has seemed to slip into a new season…

… In one week, I’ll start the ominous countdown of the six months leading up to my 30^th birthday. This idea feel very dreadful - imagining all the things I thought I’d be, do, or see before parting ways with my beloved 20’s. I mean, we all have our list of milestones that we’d planned by 30. And perhaps mine had always been slightly less cliché, though if we’re honest, certainly marriage, an explosive career and a beautiful home with hardwood floors and tasteful décor found their way to the list. But more, 30 always felt like the age when all the juvenile uncertainty or insanity would have flushed its way through your system. By 30, you’d be clear on your life aspirations and purpose. You’d maybe have a dog, an MBA, a garden, a new fancy car and a solid hold on your retirement. You’d be an adult, officially; and it wouldn’t be scary.

Yeah... well. Fast forward to today. Granted, my life projections have changed since I was a wee young Arkansas girl. But it’s safe to say a large majority of these things will not shake out as planned by 30.

If I could just manage to slow down time…

 

A shocking chakra that was never found

There’s something about being very ill – the kind of illness that knocks you flat on your face, where you find yourself deep in the thick of it, just lying and moaning loudly and pathetically – that, upon finally seeing the light of day, provides a new-found and authentic appreciation of the little things. Having just come off of an illness like this myself (something known as the cruise ship virus), I found the luxuries of standing, eating and thinking to be silly indulgences. Which, as it turned out, were a real challenge to actually do, given the wasted state of my tiny body. So, when my neighbor suggested an easy yoga class Sunday morning, it really seemed like the perfect way to get back in the game.

That was the thought, at least. 

My skepticism was triggered at the second mention to our ‘third eye’ in the first five minutes of class. But this is good for your body and mind… keep going and try and stay open. We were told to set intentions at the onset of the class, and being an individual who is quick to judge and disregard, I set an intention for openness. Which, ideally, would carry through to other areas of my life.

We transitioned into another stretch, and the chanting began. I stiffed up. I’ll just breathe through this one. I don’t have to chant if I don’t want to. I’m not going to be this woman’s African puppet. Breathe. In. Out. In Out. No! You’re closing your mind. Damn it. I have to chant. Fine. 

“Fawwwwwwm. Oww Ummmm. Fa Oww Umm. FA. Oww Um.” I snuck one eye open, and stole a glance across the room, which was lined with mirrors. I wasn't wearing my glasses, but in a fuzzy kind of way, everything appeared to be in order. Everybody – including my equally skeptical roommate - was chanting. The teacher’s chants slowly became aggressive, and despite all the openness I tried to cram into my open heart, I began to become frightened. Eyes closed. I’ll just breathe again. My arms were positioned straight over my head, and they were losing blood flow quickly. They were still frail from my bout of cruel illness this week. I let them collapse to my sides, balancing them on my knees as I feigned the meditation pose we've all seen in Buddha dolls. Breathe in. Out. In. Ouuuuut.

Innnnn. Ouuuuut – past the visualizing of "the light in our souls creating a ring of fire, there to shine on everybody we encounter." Innnnn and Ouuuuut -  through the meditation on our backs which called for some kind of breath similar to snoring. In. Out. Into a self-slapping exercise meant to relieve anger that nests in the nooks and crannies of our bodies. We were instructed to visualize the anger, and release it from our bodies by slapping it out. Seriously. I started to picture the yoga teacher. She’s probably a nice enough person, but at the moment, she was the only source of anger I could envision. My legs felt too frail to be taking this kind of abuse. But I kept on. The crisp smacking noise echoed from wall to wall. I slapped my head. I slapped my butt. And I started having some fun. Finally.

The charade wrapped up with another breathing exercise, this one done by sticking your tongue out and taking sudden gasps in, then exhaling - tongue still out – through your nose.  We repeated this breath for two to three minutes until I decided I had reached my openness threshold. I closed my mouth and resumed my normal breathing, pleased to no longer be forced to pant like a dog while choking on my own spit. My mouth thanked me. My soul thanked me. My pride, and inner sense of pretentiousness thanked me.

Which led me to the little luxuries I found myself appreciating. Certainly, I learned to re-appreciate a few basic functions this week. But in that moment, the only glowing and firey emotion I found in my chakra, was a fresh gratitude for my own style of breathing.  

A Colorado Brown (Er Black) Bear Sighting

I managed to stay awake nearly the entire car ride late Wednesday evening. It was well after midnight, but both Imraan and I were wired, upholding conversation, and song/whistle duos. We started up the winding pass leading into Winter Park, where even the dimmest lights in the distance vanished, and my eyes slowly drooped closed. And it was a peaceful quiet. Far away from deadlines and to-do lists.

“BEAR!!!!” Imraan shouted, hitting the brakes as our rental slid on the loose gravel - my heart sky-rocketing into consciousness. I strained to focus on the blur in front of our car.

“Bear. Bear. Bear! Bear!! That is a BEAR, baby! Look. Look. Look!!” Imraan shone our headlights on the large black blur. Within seconds, his shrieks were understood.

Hovering in front of our car was the world’s most glorious and petrifying animal I’d ever laid eyes on. It only took me a few seconds to grasp the situation until I launched into survival mode. “Imraan, he is going to shake our car! He’s going to flip us upside down! He will bash in the windows! His fists are as big as my head! He does not like the way we’re looking at him! He is much, much bigger than us. Can you hear me? Imraan, can you please put it in reverse? No, no, no… stop moving forward… REVERSE! He does not like the way we’re near him! He’s hungry! He’s been hibernating all… winter…long. Look at his mouth. His head. His backside. Move back, Imraan!!” 

The bear took a long, slow look at us from over his right shoulder, then used his massive bear limbs to leap over the fence away from us and settle in… adjacent to the dimly lit walkway to our condo. The reality of the situation was now fully settling into my frantic brain. Not only did we just see the world’s largest bear and escape death in our rental car, but now… now we were going to have to get out of our car, and somehow make it past the mammoth guarding the walkway to our door. I had a 50 lb. rolly American Tourister suitcase. And at this point, we couldn’t see the bastard. How is it that we couldn’t see that 1,000 lb. bear? Because, I told Imraan, he was creeping in a low place under the stairs, awaiting his midnight snack - two skinny kids from LA.

Over the next hour, Imraan and I had a serious talk about the value of life. From my standpoint, I hadn’t yet turned 29, I was just getting to a happy place in LA, I had a delivery of organic blood oranges coming, and I really, really wanted to ski that weekend. I still had a lingering desire to run a marathon. I was just figuring out who I wanted to be in this crazy world. I realized that I hadn’t told my family everything I wanted. My roommate was still in Spain. Who would walk the dog? My mind was racing more than I’d ever experienced. Which is a lot to say for someone like me.

We applied logic to the situation. I estimated our percent of death - should we exit the vehicle - at 15 percent, and strongly recommended we wait the bear out and sleep inside the rental. You could tell Imraan was hesitating to convince me otherwise, as he cautiously looped around in circles, honking the horn and shining the headlights across the walkway where we’d last seen the bear. He talked me out of taking my suitcase inside. He said I could live without my face wash and favorite pair of flannel pjs. He convinced me that the bear was gone. I argued back, offering compelling logic why he was still waiting by our door. I convinced myself we were now at a 25 percent risk of death. But somehow, some way, I gave in and let go...

The snow crunched under our shoes, as we moved toward the light of the complex. My body was stiffening the closer we got to the light, and although we talked about a strategy of being as loud as possible, I felt myself silencing my breath and movements. My boots made contact with the walkway. All I could feel was Imraan’s hand pulling me. I must have blacked out or fainted while standing, because the next thing I remember was pounding up the stairs and arriving at our condo door. Imraan struggled to insert the key card into the door. Red light. Swipe again. Red light. Swipe slowly. Red light. It wasn’t working!! I heard rustling in the darkness. Shit. Death. We started pounding on the door. Nothing. POUNDING. His parents were inside sleeping, and our only hope at this point was them.

We must have pounded for a minute. That minute was the longest, and most vulnerable I’ve ever been. And I felt a feeling of terror, having been confronted with actual death, that by the time the door was opened, I was overwhelmed with the joy of being alive.

Over the course of the weekend, we never did see that bear again, but not surprisingly, the conversation seemed to unfailingly make its way back to him.

At least… I got my blood oranges. And, I made it to 29.



    

My Baby Phase

Babies babies babies. The idea of, and actual presence of, babies has penetrated my curious mind these past few days. And it’s brought with it some interesting questions about how we’re all brought into this world, why we do the things we do, and what makes us who we are.

Deep stuff inspired by a creature who finds perfect entertainment in repeatedly pushing the TV button on… and off. On. Off. On. Off. And on.

The interest began this past weekend. I hosted a girlfriend and her fourteen-month old son here in Los Angeles. It’d been since he was about six-months old that I had seen him. I didn’t know what to expect, and in hindsight, I did a pretty poor job preparing for their visit. Future note to self: don’t set up the baby bed on a separate floor than the mother. Also, don’t leave the dog bowl out. The baby will try, and successfully manage to consume it.

Pretty sure it was harmless.

As it turned out, he was one of the most mature babies I’d ever spent time with. He felt secure and calm in his existence, infrequently putting his needs before that of anyone else’s, which I’ve found untrue of most all babies. In fact, I think most all babies are born highly selfish, making certain their needs are attended to first, with little empathy for others around. #It’sTrueDontHate

He couldn’t really talk yet, but he stumbled circles across my living room babbling with animated expressions and gestures, almost like he was practicing for a speech. When he smiled, he squinted his eyes as tight as he could and tensed up his entire body with joy. It was as if he couldn’t even handle the level of happiness he was taking in. Everything in his demeanor led me to believe he would grow up to be a laid back, empathetic and cheerful individual.

Which seems to be in direct contrast with my second emotional baby encounter. It took place as I was combing through my email this afternoon and came across a podcast suggestion from a friend (This American Life – #IHeartIraGlass). It was on babies, of course, and what it is about them that makes them do bad things, disobey, and otherwise break the rules. One particular segment interviewed a psychologist on the good, and bad, in babies. He made a comment that expanded on my belief that babies are born as versions of sociopaths. He believed that humans are at their most violent right at around age two. Now, the potential to inflict actual harm is obviously limited. But, their also limited ability to rationalize others’ needs and understand real consequences… causes what is a sort of sociopathic baby state.  Of course, not all babies are this way, which is evidenced above. But, this did ring a little too close to home.     

Yes. I was a sociopath baby. I recall finding great joy out of the creation of confusion, chaos and disarray. There was a period of time where I’d actually sabotage the family Christmas photo, and just before the flash – I’d jam my tongue out as far as it would possible reach, ruining the year’s picture. By the time the photos were developed, it was always too late. And it always felt thrilling.

I’d find other ways to shake up the Southern snow globe. I got dirty after church, I actually ate dirt (often), broke things I knew were of value to my siblings (Ken Griffey Jr baseball cards, when needed), all for the love of the game. It was a great reward demanding full attention, and despite the best efforts of my parents to show me positive rewards could also merit the same response  – I would not relent.

Has the sociopath really rubbed entirely off? If I'm honest, it takes an extreme amount of effort.

A Curiousity in Ordinary Folk

I’ve been reading a lot more than I’ve been writing. Most recently, a compilation of short stories by Jon Ronson has completely blown my overly inquisitive mind to smithereens. Each chapter explores ordinary and often freakish subcultures found just below the surface of our everyday society. Exactly the type of book that was written for people exactly like me.

The most recent chapter places the author in North Pole a small town in Alaska with a population of around 1,500 residents. It’s Christmas year-round in North Pole, sporting twinkling holiday decorations, carolers and the official Santa Claus House all...year...long.

The weirdest and most intriguing thing about this city, to me, wasn’t actually the idea of a collection of individuals living and breathing the Christmas story year-round (which is, honestly, terrifying), but rather the fact that most letters addressed to “Santa, North Pole” (or any variation similar to it) physically ends up in this community. Every year, thousands of these arrive, and are sorted and answered by school children, and other spirited community members. They live the Christmas spirit every day, yet accept its façade when they themselves answer letters to children all over the world.

So the idea of Santa, and the entire Christmas racket was on my mind as I ran errands Saturday. I slowed for the red light, allowing the pedestrians to cross. A man that resembled Santa crossed – that is, without my glasses, he really could have been any bearded white man, but still. He slouched and carried a grocery bag to his side which appeared to hold a bottle of liquor. He also carried an air of deep sadness, or maybe it was exhaustion. I wondered if he was any different than the Santa in North Pole and if the alternative was any less depressing.  

The image of that California Santa stayed with me the rest of the weekend. In fact, it took me back to many pedestrian sightings that have stuck in my active mind… the lady in red, people sprinting for the bus (almost always loaded down with grocery bags), and another recent sighting here in LA. I wonder what the right formula is for a pedestrian to capture my curiosity... and make a real imprint in my memory for days and months later. 

Perhaps something worth getting to the bottom of....