Prime directive

Lately, my new Netflix indulgence is Star Trek: Next Generation, the best of them, in my opinion. A few episodes mention the “Prime Directive,” which prohibits Starfleet personnel from interfering with the internal development of alien civilizations. Whether they’re travelling through time, or protecting a planet or civilization from utter destruction, this is the go-to rule they must obey at all times.

I feel like the last few years, I’ve been violating my own personal Prime Directive, in a way. I’ve been interfering with my own development. True, moving to Sydney, then back to San Francisco after leaving, and now to Seattle, one could argue I’m only distracting myself from real development. Anything I need to deal with will follow me wherever I go. I never thought of it as running away, but I certainly wasn’t staying put and choosing “through” as the way to get past whatever was in front of me.

Yes, perhaps I’ve not taken the straightest, most efficient path. It’s a bit more of a curly doodle than a straight line… but it’s my path, and the roads were not always paved. I’ve done some hard miles, but I’d like to think I still learned things, even if I was perhaps traveling sideways instead of forward.

Thanks to the ever-present constant in physics of time, technically, I can say I was moving forward, in that time moved on, with or without me.

Another pearl of wisdom I picked up from a recent episode of Star Trek came in the second season, once Whoopi Goldberg joined the cast as the Guinan, the intergalactic bartender. I want that job. But I digress…

Wesley Crusher, the child prodigy of the Enterprise, fell in love with a young woman, and seeks advice from Guinan. She told him, “Every time you feel love, it’ll feel different.”

Those words hit hard. Damn, she’s good. It’s true! The things I love about one person are unique to them. Even if someone else had those same qualities, they probably wouldn’t have the exact combination of attributes that I love in someone else. Each person I encounter brings out something different in me. What resonates in me with each person is its own song. I connect with certain people over some things, but not others. Every love is unique.

When it comes to love, I wish I could say I abided by my own Prime Directive even more. Just once, I’d like to not in get in my own way, sabotaging myself from the outset by overthinking it, fantasizing, imagining, expecting, worrying, doubting, wanting it too much, forcing it, rather than letting it grow organically and naturally evolve.

The Prime Directive intrigues me, because in theory, it’s a great idea. But it’s also wholly subjective. What one interprets as a natural course of actions may indeed be interfering, when viewed from another perspective.

Take the Efficient Markets Hypothesis, for example, which states it is impossible to “beat the market” because stock market efficiency causes existing share prices to always incorporate and reflect all relevant information. There is no arbitrage because all information gaps which can lead to arbitrage simply don’t exist under this assumption. We all know the market is not perfect, nor does everyone have all information at any given time. So the Efficient Markets Hypothesis sounds wonderful in a vacuum, but it’s just not how it is.

That’s how I think about the Prime Directive. It’s almost a paradox, because all the interference by a member of Starfleet could be said to stop development, but that interference with every being one encounters IS development. We learn from every encounter. How can we interact without developing somehow? Every love feels different and is different, and has an impact, even if immeasurable.

In the end, I have to be the person I was meant to be. San Francisco, Sydney, Seattle… they are all places that have contributed, or will, to the me that I am. If living in those cities was wrong, I don’t wanna be right. Working at the company I have for the last 11+ years was not interfering with my development, despite moments of feeling distinctly that, but it was necessary for me, in order to be the person I am today.

Time to leave the capsule, if you dare

It’s not just because today, the world is mourning the loss of David Bowie that, “the stars look very different today,” like the lyrics in one of his great works, Space Oddity.

Today is the third most surreal day in a row I’ve had. I am writing to officially share that I have been offered a job in Seattle. It would be a step up from where I currently am, so it’s a challenge and also a good fit. I haven’t accepted the offer yet, but that is merely a formality. I will be accepting it.

The details are inconsequential. But front of mind right now very much is all things transition. I’ll be leaving my little apartment I’ve been renting in San Francisco, with my 10 month old kitten, Cheddar. I have less than a month to sort out movers, give notice on my apartment, find a new place in Seattle, and then begin work. Making it ever more complicated is that I will be looking to purchase my home in Seattle, since the market is much more comfortable for what I can afford than San Francisco.

I’ve run through the gamut of emotions since the offer was received Saturday afternoon. I’d had brunch with a friend in town for the weekend, consisting of bottomless mimosas, so that of course led to incessant tears the moment the email came through with the offer. After I could breathe and see and stand again, it was shock that took over. Then it was RELIEF. Then happiness, tinged with sadness at seeing a definite end in sight of my time in San Francisco. There was hope.

There was also apprehension and dread. I knew that come Monday, I’d have to make a lot of uncomfortable phone calls to let my current employer and my many bosses there for my different client commitments know what was happening. It doesn’t help that it’s my busy season, and people leaving now can very easily burn bridges if the transition is not handled appropriately. I wanted to minimize the bridge burning, if I could, just to maintain professionalism. While my inner punk rock teenager is walking around sticking out her tongue and flipping everyone off with an endless stream of cuss words coming out her mouth, I’m more than just that person. I genuinely feel bad for teams I’m leaving at the most inopportune of times. I have been wanting to be in a position to give notice for many years, and I have finally found a path that is right for me, to take going forward. This has been a long time coming and I ask only for your continued friendship and support.

However, I don’t feel bad for me. I’m really looking forward to a new start in a new city, making new friends, learning new things, picking up new skills, and making new discoveries.

How I feel can best be described by the words of Zach Braff’s character in the final episode of the long-running show, Scrubs: “Even though it felt warm and safe, I knew it had to end. It’s never good to live in the past too long, and the future wasn’t so scary anymore. It could be whatever I wanted it to be.”

I’m comforted by thoughts like, “What you do next doesn’t have to be the rest of your life.” But maybe I’ll want to. I don’t know yet. But it’s the next step. And it’s a good one. “It’s my turn, finally.” I have nothing but gratitude for the last 11.5 years of my career with my firm, and nothing but respect for my colleagues, past and present. I’m overflowing with appreciation, recognition, and acknowledgement.

I’ve been on a journey to find myself and what I need, what I define as success, and what would make me happy. Here is a diagram that fully depicts how I’d been feeling, except it wasn’t just couples on that step. Everyone else seemed to be up there too, looking down on me from Know-it-all-ville.

But I’m having a bit of a Dorothy Gale complex from the Wizard of Oz. Maybe the right words were there all along. Maybe it was in me all along. Friends. Family. Love. Support. Camaraderie. Patience. Respect. Journey. Learn. Faith. Trust. Reward.

I was waiting for the day that I could truly identify with this, and I think that day is today:

Obstacles as real life

I’ve just spent the last 3 days in Atlanta for a conference. I initially signed up before Cheddar came into my life, and I was hesitant to go on my first trip, leaving him home without me for 4 days. My best friend did me a solid and looked in on him while I was gone, played with him, and spoiled him in my absence.

That freed me up to open myself to the experience of a work conference. In my state of mind of late, this could have been hit or miss. Many of my colleagues would be there too. I was apprehensive, because I’m not one to drink the work koolaid. In fact, I’m struggling to keep a positive outlook when it comes to work. Everyone goes through it, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

I departed San Francisco airport Tuesday, allowing myself a full day of travel ahead of the Wednesday start of the conference. I’d hoped to arrive at a decent hour Tuesday, maybe hit the gym, order room service, take a bath, and have a good night’s sleep before the full-on agenda kicked in.

That was not to be. Unfortunately, the flight to Atlanta Tuesday ended up being a total clusterfuck. Thanks, United. I had a connection in Houston, which should have been no problem. Bad idea, as it turns out. I have 14 emails notifying me of the various delays we experienced, as well as 10 text messages. Clearly, consistency of communications is not United’s forte.

“You see, what had happened was…” (one of my favorite phrases, by the by) we were notified the original aircraft was unflyable due to maintenance that couldn’t be fixed in the short amount of time we had until take-off. A new aircraft had to be located in a nearby hangar, and transported to a gate nearby for us to board instead. That accounted for about 4 of the delay notifications, each approximately 15-30 minutes in length. Dangle that carrot, United. By some miracle, a new aircraft was located within an hour, so our flight was not cancelled. We boarded the plane, and got onto the runway, and I was so ready to make up for lost time.

Then, news from the cockpit: this aircraft had a maintenance deadline by midnight, and there was no crew on the ground in Atlanta to perform it, so that meant the maintenance had to be performed before we could depart. We left our place in line for take-off, and headed back to the gate. Defeat. More delay notifications.

Back at the gate, we remained on the plane while the maintenance was performed, and we finally received the announcement that we were ready to hit the runway. Joy. However, one small hitch. A tow truck had to pull us out of the gate, to be able to get to the runway. That tow truck had broken down, in the path of our plane. So a tow truck had to be called to tow the original tow truck out of our way. More delay notifications.

I should have arrived in Atlanta around 8:30pm. I checked into the hotel at 1:30am. Add to the mix that I was sicker than I’d been in over a year. My eyes wouldn’t stop watering, I was sneezy and leaking through my nose. By the time we finally got into the air, my ears had popped and plugged so many times I do believe I was underwater, while I was in fact in the air. Painful and uncomfortable do not even begin to describe the entire experience.

The conference itself saturated my mind with great ideas and food for thought which would help me on my client work in the upcoming busy season. If one has no choice but to go forth into the fray, it’s best to bring a gun to a gunfight, rather than a knife.

I was pleasantly surprised. I’m no joiner. I don’t get asked to present anymore at these events, since I’ve come back from Australia. While having the opportunity to travel abroad enriched me personally, the US doesn’t seem to appreciate my unique experience, and I slipped down the ladder a few rungs. Fine by me, I didn’t want to have responsibility anyway.

I enjoyed myself with coworkers, and had a good time. I caught up with an old friend the first night of the conference at a local gay bar and an old reliable Mexican food joint, on what little sleep I had. The second night, we had a huge offsite event – a block party closed off to the general public across a row of 4 restaurants: American, Italian, BBQ, and German food. The bar in each restaurant was open with no money exchanged by attendees, and no one was counting. The buffets were out with insane amounts of food which could probably feed one of the “Stan” countries for a week (Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, etc.)

I write this on the plane headed back to San Francisco, after one of the funnest afternoons I’ve had in a while. Many coworkers from the San Francisco office are on the same flight as me. There is a sense of connection. The plane is not full of strangers, but of colleagues. We’re friendly and tipsy thanks to the airport bar next to our gate which we took over in advance of boarding, and it’s had an amazing impact on the remaining passengers. There is no ill will, crankiness, or general rudeness. There is safety. There is friendship. It’s actually kinda fun. This has never happened to me before. I’ve maybe known one or two people on previous flights before – but never nearly half the plane. These flight attendants won’t know what hit ’em.

However, my heart weighs heavy, as the news breaking in Paris was blowing up my phone via CNN alerts as we boarded. My safety, my comfort, comes at a huge cost for those on the other side of the world, going through a horrible tragedy I cannot even fathom.

I had the opportunity to visit Paris for the first time 6 months ago. It came as a surprise, how much I enjoyed myself and liked it there. I had fully anticipated to like Rome, Italy, infinitely more. That was not to be. I stayed at an Airbnb in Republiqué, and visited the statue at Republiqué where the Charlie Hebdo vigil was held.

Tonight’s events hit me hard, despite my jovial surroundings, and bring a low hanging despondent fog across what was the most cheerful workday I’ve had in a long time. Tomorrow morning, families will receive the worst of news. Some will wake up in hospitals, forever changed, only to learn of the horrific occurrences of November 13, 2015. Some won’t wake up at all.

All I can express is gratitude for what I have and have not, that my loved ones are safe, and a yearning to express concern for those affected in the Paris attacks. I had a most inconvenient trip out here. But I’m ok.

I hope you and yours, dear reader, were not affected, and that you take those small moments of joy that surprise you in a good way, and cherish them.

All too often in life, we think we just need to get through this or that, and then we’ll be free to enjoy life. Obstacle after obstacle presents itself, and we distance ourselves from the end goal of happiness, thinking if we can just overcome that obstacle, we can then enjoy life. But life is funny that way – it IS the obstacles. It is the work conference. It’s the delayed flight. It’s missing your newly adopted kitten, wondering if he misses you at home, if he thinks of you, even if it’s only in relation to your ability to open that bag of treats.

Take life for what it is, obstacles and all, because you never know when it won’t be yours to live anymore. Peace to all on this day of mourning for what happened Paris, and how some people still engage in attacks like these. It is the city of love, and love will prevail. That is the only way to truly conquer hate. Love.

Thestrals

In two previous blog posts, I’ve mentioned the film Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (The art of getting by and One sigma).

There is a particular quote from that film that, unfortunately, has made its way back across my path again tonight, and I’m not pleased to see it so soon. “We seem to have reached the age where life stops giving us things and starts taking them away.”

Tonight, I tried my best but managed to awkwardly comfort an old friend who had been on the phone with his father in South Africa, while he remained helpless in New York City. His father did not make it past that telephone call. Life has taken away again. No matter how prepared one might be for that call, one is never prepared for Life After It Happens.

Tonight, I was Luna Lovegood soothing Harry Potter upon seeing, for the very first time with disbelief in his eyes, the thestral he never knew was there. I tried my best to not say the wrong thing to my friend as he, too, was introduced to the thestral he didn’t know was there. Thestrals are fictional winged horses with skeletal bodies, with faces like reptiles, and are a bad omen according to the Ministry of Magic. These beasts were used mainly to pull the carriages that take experienced Hogwarts students from the train stop at Hogsmeade to the Hogwarts grounds/castle. More importantly, thestrals can only be seen by people who’ve witnessed death at least once. Harry had never seen them before that moment until he did, due to one thing or another upon arriving to Hogwarts.

I don’t want to be the one who sees the thestrals, too. Ignorance can be bliss. I’ve had the grave task of welcoming a friend to this horrible club no one tells you about when you hit your 30’s. True, people lose parents at all ages, but it begins happening with much more frequency in this stage of our lives, but with no less impact. I’m not the only one of my friends who has lost a parent in the last 3 years. I know friends who lost both parents before that, too. It’s not a competition. The hurt is massive. The emptiness, confronting. I don’t take comfort that my friends have lost parents, too. But it helps to know that others sort of know, in their own way, what it feels like. It’s not wished on anyone. But it’s somehow comforting when someone else has been through it, too.

Don’t panic. I see them, too. They won’t hurt you. It’s a little frightening, now that we know they exist. Yeah, this means we’ve seen some shit.

To my friend and newest member, may your heart ride with winged horses, above the deep, low valleys of sadness that exist between you now, and you years from now, when it hurts a little less. I love you.

Memories of dad

My dad passed away on June 13, 2013. It’s been 2 years, 3 months, and 6 days. Time has proven an ally in reducing the pain, but there is still a dad-sized hole in my life nothing fills. And dad was a wide, short man. It’s not a small hole.

I went home when he passed, and while I was there, my mother gave me some of his old shirts that I still have with me today. They hang in my closet, amongst my clothes, but they don’t get worn often, if at all. They’re not on display. They still smell like his closet. They’re just there.

Last night, I wore an old flannel of his to a professional mixer. It was big on me, but comfortable. It would suffice as a “Friday shirt” in a swanky environment. I swear, when I put it on, any social anxiety and awkwardness disappeared. I started conversations and navigated LGBT professionals who got too drunk too fast with ease. I made people laugh. I laughed, too – despite the inner turmoil I’ve been struggling through on a daily basis, especially of late.

I have a memory of him, in that particular flannel, one year when we went to chop down a Christmas tree. We drove along in his truck in silence, listening to a Pink Floyd cassette tape, watching the scenery go by.

I’ve missed him lately. In Sydney, I used to go up on our roof deck, play a Pink Floyd album on my iPhone, and have some champagne or a glass of red. There were 4 chairs in our outdoor furniture set, so I could easily imagine him with me on any one of those chairs. We’d listen to Pink Floyd together and enjoy the silence and the view.

My version of that back in my tiny apartment with no roof access in San Francisco is putting documentaries on Netflix, ones he’d like, being the big National Geographic and public television buff he was. America’s Secrets, Wildest Africa, Antarctica, whatever is available. There’s room on my couch next to me. So when I miss him, he comes here to visit.

I don’t have much to say, I guess it’s just the presence he had in my life. I always knew he was there. He never elbowed for room in my life. He was content to be in the shadows, much like the wind beneath my wings.

He and my mom would have celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary tomorrow, September 20. They married in upstate New York in 1975, and I came along almost 6 years later.

It’s something you don’t notice til it’s gone – the invisible love and trust your parents have in you (or in the case of my mother, the much too visible love evidenced by shrines to you all over her home.) When one of those foundational legs is kicked out from underneath you, when there is no more wind beneath your wings, your flight is cancelled. You cannot stand for long on one leg. You try to fill the parent-sized hole in your life, but nothing fits.

If you’re lucky, you have a new family of your own. The pain subsides, knowing you’ve carried on the family name or bloodline with a new generation of which your parent would have been proud.

I am not lucky enough to have that. That hole can make you feel so empty that sometimes you think nothing can ever fill you up again.

No one loves you like your parents. And no one ever will.

Recovery

Tomorrow, it will be a month since I left Iceland, and I’m still not recovered. I don’t know if I ever will be. How does one recover from love? How does one go back to the invisible chains of a daily routine and real-life job, when all one wants to do is wander free with an infinite supply of money?

After Iceland, perhaps all my senses were heightened. Everything I felt in my heart while there and even after, was felt 4 times more, perhaps. Rough estimate.

I felt alive. I did things that made me feel alive there. While I would have preferred to include a certain someone I love dearly as more than a friend on that trip, it was not to be. But having her there would have made it literally perfect. A place I love with a person I love.

At the beginning of my trip, I wrote a post about grieving lost love, and now I find myself in the same spiral. Grief doesn’t just magically end or go away with time. While time helps, it’s always there. Same love I mourned then, different love I mourn now… what’s the difference, anyway? What do you do when you found your love, but they were not meant for you? In a lasting, real way? A person, a place… How do you move on and assimilate whatever love and learning you can carry with you into your daily life that is meant for you?

The lyrics of a particular Eminem song float through my mind, as they often do, when I’m feeling a bit off. It would be perfect if this song was on his Recovery album, but alas, it’s from his Relapse album.

“Lately I’ve been hard to reach, I’ve been too long on my own
Everybody has a private world where they can be alone
Are you calling me? Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me, like I’m reaching out for you?

I’m just so fuckin’ depressed, I just can’t seem to get out this slump
If I could just get over this hump
But I need something to pull me out this dump,
I took my bruises, took my lumps
Fell down and I got right back up
But I need that spark to get psyched back up
In order for me to pick the mic back up
I don’t know how or why or when I ended up in this position I’m in
I’m starting to feel distant again
So I decided just to pick this pen
Up and try to make an attempt to vent
But I just can’t admit
Or come to grips with the fact that I may be done with rap
I need a new outlet”

I feel like I need to come to grips with a few things of late, including lost love of a person and a place, but also, like Eminem, that very thing that got him where he is today. Eminem made a name for himself in rap. He earned his fame and began a solid career in rap. Where is he now? He’s working on this and that, but he’s not quite in the limelight as he was during the peak of his career.

I, too, have been contemplating the next chapter of my life. After my sabbatical across Europe, I began looking into next steps for me, and possibly moving on from a company I’ve been working with for the last 11+ years. I know what you’re thinking about 11+ years doing anything – because I’m thinking it too:

Making a new career move has been a long time coming. There was a time when I was passionate about achievement at work, getting promotions and raises, developing staff who worked for me, and getting involved in meaningful projects in diversity and inclusion with my company. That passion has dwindled to the blue shadow of a flame in the work arena.

With depression, a common symptom is loss of interest and pleasure in things that used to be enjoyable, once upon a time. One can withdraw from family and friends, and stop doing those things that used to bring happiness. I’ve lost any interest or pleasure in work, and do not attempt to form the meaningful connections that used to lead to friendships with co-workers outside of work.

On the down low, I’m putting some wheels in motion for more compensation, for ownership in an employer, more benefits, less responsibility, and hopefully, more passion. Trying to sell myself in job interviews has been interesting; I will say that. When asked what experience I have, especially from my 3 years living and working in Australia, I usually jump to this default answer:

Then when they ask me what I’m looking for, this is always a great one. After all, honesty is the best policy:

Finally, when they asked me this golden interview question, I had my answer already prepped:

But I digress. 

I would like to quote a recent documentary on the Alaskan wilderness, when I think of the battlefield that is love and recovery, “It’s easy to die up here. Everything else is work.”

So to answer my own question, how does one move on from lost love (and Iceland)? It’s a process of recovery, that’s for sure.

One does the best she can. She looks at aspects of her life she has the power to change, and works to make those better.

She puts one foot in front of the other, and takes steps every day. Even if they’re baby steps, she takes them.

She humbles and embarrasses herself every day, and shows those very feelings she wants to keep hidden most. She both laughs at and kicks herself daily.

She tries not to fade like a flower, and tries to find one little thing every day that makes her happy, however fleeting it may be.

She reaches out to old friends who won’t judge but will support and love her as they always have, just the way she is.

She remembers often and hard, and tries not to lose the joy in the moments with that person or in that place that made her feel most like herself.

She tries to find new happiness, and make new memories, even though it’ll never be the same.

She lets the open wound of her heart heal, and grows strong where the scarred tissue is ugliest. She has patience and doesn’t rush into putting that heart on the chopping block again. She even possibly accepts that some love wasn’t meant for her in this lifetime. Perhaps she has other lessons to learn and shouldn’t be so focused on just that one. She faces the world with gratitude, accepts the lessons meant for her, and accepts those not meant for her as well.

She just keeps going. She gets her ass to the gym, even if it seems futile and hopeless. She finds whatever spark she can to pick the mic back up and not lose touch with reality and herself. When she finds herself alone, lost at sea like Pi, she faces the tigers that come for her at night. She finds a way to survive, and still find beauty in the world.

There is so much, after all, beauty, that is. I echo the thoughts of the deceased Lester Burnham in American Beauty:

“I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me… but it’s hard to stay mad, when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst… And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life… You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure. But don’t worry… you will someday.”

Grief

I read somewhere recently that grief is the price one pays for love.

In a college Dying, Death and the Afterlife course, we read C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed, and this quote stuck out when I think of my experiences thus far with grief:

“For in grief nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it? How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss till this moment’? The same leg is cut off time after time.”

It’s true, I wake up every day having to relive the grief I’ve lived. Re-feel the loss of my father, re-feel the rejection of love I try to give. I’ve known my share of grief, though it is a recent pain I’m still learning to navigate with any kind of grace. This love shit should come with training wheels, a helmet, and heart pads for when someone takes it out and throws it on the floor, and stomps on it.

I experienced my first bout of grief in high school, when my lab partner Scott was killed in a car accident just before his 16th birthday. He was a guy that guys wanted to be like, and that girls swooned over. He just copied my papers in chemistry, since I had taken the advanced placement exam, and he was doing his best to learn and get by. I didn’t have a crush on him or anything, but it was a person within my closed circle of friends and he was the first to meet this fate that all of us one day will.

The most substantial grief I’ve met has been through the death of my father. A friend of mine recently (as in within the last two days) lost her mother to cancer, after a quick yet futile attempt at chemotherapy. When it hits stage 4, and it’s aggressively spreading, there’s unfortunately not much to be done.

The loss of my father occurred around the same time I went through two other substantial encounters with grief – going through a break up with a girlfriend I was still in love with, and a career grief that has since been mitigated. I was passed over for promotion despite being, in my opinion, demonstrating skills at that level for some time.

I am currently suffering another grief, one I have not mentioned to many. It weighs on me and I feel I can’t keep it in any longer. Writing helps you work through feelings and thoughts and for too long, this grief has been the elephant in the room.

Like an idiot, I fell in love in the past year. I do not know when it struck me, only that it remains despite my brain trying to tell my heart to get over it, repeatedly. It is an unrequited love. I offered more than friendship – the very best of my being, of what I have to offer, of doing anything just to make her smile.

This is the second time now when I’ve been in love, and been hurt for it. Both times, they told me in not so uncertain terms that the spark wasn’t there. I never thought of my love as having sparks. I know it comes heavy, like an 18-wheeler truck, and barrels through everything.

Grieving is said to happen in stages, including anger, depression, bargaining, and others. I find often I go to the bargaining stage and get stuck in it. I overanalyze what I could have done differently and if that would have changed the outcome. I would give anything to have it back. I get depressed at the futility of it all – how we only have so much time on this earth, and how the odds are against us from the start. But for my heart, that will make the win that much sweeter – when we are the underdogs and the odds are never in our favor, that’s when a true love will squash anything and everything.

I think of my most recent love often, and wonder if she’s happy. I wish above all that I could be part of what makes her happy. However, that is not to be.

It is this grief I need to come to terms with, and sooner rather than later would be most desirable. Part of my trip will be coming to terms with the second major love of my life and losing it. Some people say it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. I disagree. Both scenarios suck.

It’s better to have love, and have both participants understand what it is to them. Love is a tricky thing and can take many shapes and forms.

I took a sabbatical from work to contemplate many things, including what I’m meant to be doing with my life, what I should do, and how I want the narrative of my life to change. I write the book. If I truly write the book, I would have a love that actually loved me back. Who didn’t expect love to be something that it isn’t.

I haven’t had the best examples of love in my parents. They’re good people, with their own individual flaws, and they made the best of things. I wonder if it was truly love they shared, though.

I haven’t had many people love me either, not in the romantic sense of the word, anyway. It makes one wonder if they are lovable, when all they encounter is rejection. I like to think I’m a good package. Still, I have some flaws, but in the end, I’m a good person, and deserving of love.

I know there is nothing I can do to get anyone to fall in love with me, or make people love me. Sometimes I wish I could. I’ve spent so much of my life unfulfilled, because no one has loved me, and may never will, as much as my parents loved me.

That brings both mommy and daddy issues into the arena. I see how my dad loved. Well, sort of. OK, not really. He was a gruff man, but he provided, he did things around the house my mother could not, and I see he showed what love he was capable of in certain ways. My mother was the over-doting, extra-protective parent who really thought I could do no wrong, and who still has ridiculous shrines to her only daughter all around her house in the form of framed pictures of me, old dolls that look like me, and a gusto with which she worries about me. Now, those symptoms are not wholly consistent with how my love has debuted itself, but the way the person is reacting to my love is like how I react to my mother’s love. Thanks, but no thanks.

I find I see attributes of my mother’s love in the most recent unrequited love and the role I’m playing. Not that I have shrines, but with my love, despite seeing person’s flaws, I look past them and still would do anything for her. They’re not flaws to me. They’re part of what make her beautiful and unique. To my detriment, perhaps. That’s scary, because the last thing I want to be is like my mother (in that regard.) I know how I saw her love, and how I treated her. It’s no wonder I’m unhappy. I’ve had horrible role models in love, and I’m doing my best to overcome that.

I’d like to think when I’m working on the next chapters of my life, that I could maybe find a love that loved me back. That’s pretty important to me.

However, I also have to come to terms with an idea that perhaps my destiny is to be single, and I should stop trying altogether. I want to give up, because I’m sick of being disappointed. Maybe I’m just not meant to have that in this lifetime. Maybe this is the kick in the pants I needed to realize that I should stop wasting my time with such frivolous things as the affections of another. For someone who has so much love to give, this is an incredibly bitter pill to swallow.

So on this trip this summer, I shall be coming to terms with grief as the price for the immense amount of love in all it’s shades of red and blue and explosions of purple that I have. Love is a horrible thing, I don’t recommend it. On the other side of that coin, love is a wonderful thing, and I can’t wait to be in it with someone that actually is in it with me.

Happiness of pursuit, not the pursuit of happiness

So I did it backwards again. I watched Hector and the Search For Happiness before reading the book on which it was based. If you haven’t seen my post, That time I did it backwards, I also saw the movie Maze Runner before I read the Maze Runner trilogy of books. I have to say, this Hector movie was so good, it made me want to read the book. Perhaps I should view movies before reading books more often.

I promptly added the paperback version of Hector and the Search for Happiness to my amazon wishlist after watching the movie. I found his observations on happiness to be quite provocative, humorous, and poignantly true. I’m sharing them here because they bear repeating. I’ll of course add my commentary where appropriate and inappropriate.

Observations on Hector’s search for happiness with my own commentary:

1. Making comparisons can spoil your happiness.

So true. I try not to compare myself to others as a general rule. However, when you compare what you have to what others have, there can be a feeling of inequality. Like track runners who line up for the shotgun, if just one of them gets the advantage of a head start, or if they’re stronger than you, or African (sorry but it’s true – African runners are amazing). I’ve learned in my life not to look behind me, or even next to me as I’m running the race. The second I pause to look, is when someone I didn’t see out of the corner of my eye overtakes me and wins. So just focus ahead, eyes on the prize and keep going forward. Just do you. If you’re doing it right, you’re doing what is right only for you. There is no too fast, too slow, only the pace that works for you. The only comparison that should be made is not “that person has more than me” but “does that person have enough?”

2. A lot of people think happiness means being richer, or more important.

They’re simply wrong. Having money or status does not equal happiness. Simple as that.

3. Many people only see happiness in their future.

Happiness should be right here, right now. The future is not guaranteed, and there is no point waiting for what may never come. So try to find and make happiness right here and now.

4. Happiness could be the freedom to love more than one woman at the same time.

Hector ends up scratching this one. Grass is always greener, but to me, I’d want my partner to be the greenest grass, at least, that’s what I’m holding out for. If your partner isn’t the greenest grass to you, then perhaps you need an arrangement where you do have the flexibility to be polyamorous. For me, it’s hard enough loving one person the way they want and need, nay, deserve, to be loved. Hell, I can barely take care of myself.

5. Sometimes, happiness is not knowing the whole story.

It’s true – ignorance is bliss. Or so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know – I didn’t really ask.

6. Avoiding unhappiness is not the road to happiness.

Not being unhappy is not the same as being happy. Don’t get confused by the double negatives; just because you can’t complain, doesn’t mean you are happy. The absence of unhappiness does not an aurora borealis of your brain make.

7. Does this person bring you predominantly: a) up or b) down?

If the person brings you down, their negative energy is a drain on your life. You should be around people who bring you up. Now, as a person diagnosed with depression, this can be hard one. I do feel bad sometimes because I won’t always lift someone else up. Sometimes I need the lifting up. I have to concentrate on holding myself up, and motivating myself a lot. More than most people need to. That doesn’t mean that I always need to be a downer or drag others down. Overall, there will be times when I will have pulled myself up by my own bootstraps, and my energy can radiate. I can still bring other people up, even if I am sometimes down. Loving someone with depression can still raise you up. That person may need a little extra TLC, but supposedly, loving someone with depression is just like loving anybody else. We all have special needs when it comes to love – some need to be held close, some need to be left to their own devices. But happiness does exist in relationships between people where one or both of them have depression. Long story short, continue surrounding yourself with the people who lift you up, and minimize the time you spend with people who bring you down.

8. Happiness is answering your calling.

I’ve mulled over this one a lot in my blog posts. I’ve debated my life’s purpose, the passion that lies just around the riverbend, and others. For me, I wish I could hear what that calling is saying. I struggle with this one a lot, because I’m not sure what I’m being called to do. I have a knack for math/science/accounting, but accounting cannot be my calling because it doesn’t make me happy. I’ve been doing it for nigh on 11 years now, and this chosen career profession has proven not to be a contributor to my happiness; it’s a detractor. So it’s not my calling, then.

9. Happiness is being loved for who you are.

I couldn’t agree with this more. So much of dating is lying, and so many people spend a lot of time trying to be someone they are not so someone else will fall in love with them. Remove the marketing and dating and lying, and just be yourself. Happiness is being loved not only for who you are, but also who you are not. You shouldn’t have to change for anybody – only for yourself, and only if you want to. Let ‘em hit you with their best shot – you can only react the best way you know how. Like this dog.

10. Sweet Potato Stew!

You had to be there for the story, I guess. So no comment. Although my version would probably have a lovely cheese pizza, just for me.

11. Fear is an impediment to happiness.

No shit, Sherlock. If I’m terrified I may not live, or if I fear losing the person I love, then yeah, I can’t have room for happiness because fear has taken up all the space for that.

12. Happiness is feeling completely alive.

I couldn’t agree with this more. When I hiked a mountain on the island of Delos in Greece, to get to the Temple of Zeus, and just paused to take in the view, I not only felt alive, but I felt happy. Here’s a photo of that moment that I will carry with me the rest of my life.

13. Happiness is knowing how to celebrate.

Indeed. In college, I used to go out and party every night. It only got old after a while, because some nights you partied even when there was nothing to celebrate. Those nights were not fun, and didn’t have that vibe. When I look at the happiest moments of my life, one of them was my college graduation. I knew how to celebrate – people I loved surrounded me – college roommates and friends, my significant other at the time, my parents, my aunt, my professors, my friend’s families. There was weed, booze, ecstasy, and fun. Holy hell that was the happiest day of my life up until that point.

14. Listening is loving.

Sometimes, people just need to be listened to, to be heard. In the film, this lesson came about when Hector helps a patient on board a flight experiencing major pain in her head due to high altitude and the pressure on her brain from removal of a tumor only a few months before the flight. Hector merely listens to her story, and while I he cannot heal her, he can listen and make her more comfortable. He can be a companion, and just be there for her, when she needs him. We all just want to feel heard. That is one of the easiest ways you can show love, is just listening. Sometimes just that can make everything better.

15. Nostalgia is not what it used to be.

Word.

* * * * * *

More important than what we are searching for, is what we’re avoiding. I may be on my own quest for happiness, and very soon I will be cutting the ropes that have held me back from that search. I will look in other countries, faraway lands. I will see people, and things, I have never seen before. I will be exposing myself to cultures and ways of thinking and perspectives different from my own.

I’d like to think I’m not avoiding anything. That I’m opening myself to everything and anything. However, that is not true. I’ll be avoiding looking for the answer at home. That wonderful Wizard of Oz tale had it right – Dorothy goes looking for what she wants, and instead finds everything she needs, at home. There’s no place like home. I’ll be avoiding accepting that just being here, just being now, is enough. I’m travelling; I’m collecting experiences. I’m not living my life and wanting what I’ve got here. I’m abandoning what I have here – a career I’ve built for 11 years, a community in San Francisco, and now Sydney, who loved me and supported me. I’m striking out on a journey to find something… though I don’t know what. I do not know where I will end up, what I will learn, but it will be that which I cannot find here in San Francisco.

Not to spoil the film I viewed and the book I did not read, but *spoiler alert* in the end Hector finds the happiness he craved all along in the woman he left behind, in what he had that he didn’t know he had. His happiness was there all along. But he had to go on this journey to find it. To want what he got.

I think we all do. Sometimes I go the long way, the hard way, just to learn what others learned in a much simpler, direct way. I could learn from the experiences of others. But I need to learn for myself, sometimes in the hardest of ways. But that is how I learn.

I touched on how I learn in this post. It’s funny, how all these thoughts floating around in my head, that end up in what I think are random blog posts, end up coming together in themes. Not funny haha, but funny whoa.

And now, for posterity, I loved this lecture in this movie from a college professor writing a book about happiness.

Lecture on Happiness

“And researchers just love to tell us, that money doesn’t buy happiness. I know what you’re thinking, how much do researchers make?
Everything in this world is going up. And happiness is going down, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How many of us, I wonder, can recall that childhood moment when we experienced happiness as a state of being.
That single moment of untarnished joy. That moment when everything in our world, inside and out was alright. Everything was alright.
And now we’ve become a colony of adults and everything is all wrong. All the time! It’s as if we were on a quest to get it back.
And yet the more we focus on our own personal happiness, the more it eludes us.
In fact, it’s only when we are otherwise engaged, you know, focused, absorbed, inspired, communicating, discovering, learning, dancing, for heaven’s sake that we experience happiness as a by product, a side effect.
Oh no. We should concern ourselves not so much with the pursuit of happiness, but with the happiness of pursuit.”

Being my own valentine

On this day in 2014, I was with some great mates in Australia, in the Hunter Valley (Australia’s version of Napa Valley – wine country), for a Dolly Parton concert. We stayed at a cheap motel, and drank whatever we could find, which was a lot. I was still a bit of a mess, but stabilizing on my antidepressants. I was growing out my hair, and it was at the beginning of what would be 2 years of that awkward-in-between hairdo. I had lost a lot of weight, and finally felt comfortable not only wearing shorts and a tank top, but also posing for a picture in them. Here I was, breaking in my first set of gumboots:

It was a hot and muggy day, with intermittent rain, which made for muddy grounds. A shuttle had couriered us over from our motel to the vineyard venue for the concert. We schlepped for what seemed an eternity to find a great spot. A good friend at the time had been engaging in a heavy flirtationship that for lack of a better description, proceeded to go tits-up over the course of that weekend (and not in the good way that lesbians can go tits-up). I remember lying in the next bed over from my friend, as she sobbed, feeling her anguish with every heavy breath. She really liked this woman. Hearts are awful things, aren’t they? They love who they love, regardless of whether that person is good for you or not. They know no boundaries, no right and no wrong. There is only now and only that person.

Fast forward a year later, and I’m on another continent, no plans for any concerts tonight. No plans of any kind tonight, in fact. I bought myself some flowers, my favorite (well, one of many): orange roses and baby’s breath. The bouquets were so full, I had to split them across two vases. Nostalgic point: the way Australians say “vase” vs. the way Americans say “vase”. I do miss Oz every now and again. Sigh.

For me, Valentine’s Day is overrated. I’ve had girlfriends over the holiday, and I’ve been single. Unlike one of my recommended readings for those overseeing their personal finances, “I’ve Been Rich. I’ve Been Poor. Rich Is Better,” celebrating this wretched holiday either way still sucks. I’m one of those people where if I love someone, I will show them every single day, and I do not need a holiday to force commercialism upon me to do so. I am a hopeless romantic. I don’t need any more encouragement, ok?

This year, this is any other Saturday. I will go to the gym; it’s extended cardio day. Now I know what you’re thinking:

I might do a bit of work, since it is my busy season and it would help to be ahead of the tsunami of tasks I expect Monday. I see no need to take myself out to dinner, to belly-up to a bar to drink pretend-sorrows away. I’m not sad to be celebrating alone this year, if you could call it actively “celebrating.” I do acknowledge a hole inside my heart where I’ve given away some pieces and where some pieces of someone special’s might inhabit. However, right now, the timing is just not right. I’ll never get the pieces back I’ve given away, and not many have given me pieces of their hearts. Patience, young grasshopper.

In any case, being a Bohemian at heart, I cannot let a holiday supposed to encourage love go without acknowledgement. << Insert sing-along to Moulin Rouge’s “Elephant Medley” and the charming naïveté of Ewan MacGregor’s character, exclaiming all you need is love. This will be the year I finally get to Paris, and to the Moulin Rouge perhaps, so I can belt this out to an unsuspecting and probably annoyed crowd.

So find some way to feel the love, share the love, give love, and accept love today. Marinate in it like a pig in mud, like chicken in BBQ sauce. Go and get you some.

Disney princesses and yearbooks

Last night, a friend of mine kind of sort of invited herself and her guest (who were already on their 47th drink each) to my apartment for “just one glass of champagne, I promise.” The guest was a stranger, whom she initially said was a gay man, but then turned out to be a very straight musician, who met me for the first time ever, and asked me what he framed as a very simple question. Now I normally do not let strangers into my home as a habit. In fact, most of my friends haven’t even been here. But I set aside my temporary anger at the intrusion and welcomed some company, accepting that I could not change that she and her friend were coming over.

We three were sharing a bottle of champagne in merry measure, and keeping the mood light. To lighten up a somewhat deep and potentially sour-turning comment made by my very intoxicated friend, I brought up Disney movies and how they fuel the unrealistic expectations women have about love from an early age. He had postulated, as any straight man completely baffled by the opposite sex would, that the key to figuring out any woman is to ascertain which Disney princess she is. Then, you know how to be her prince. My first response: Utter and complete garbage. But then I started thinking about it and letting his words sink in.

If I identified with any princess, it would be Belle, from Beauty and the Beast, because she’s not really a princess at all. She reads books. She doesn’t waste her time with frivolous things, she’s kind to animals, and she loves her dad. She’s not interested in persistent advances from Gaston, and she looks for beauty within. Ultimately, she ends up with a ginger (of sorts, depending on the version of the story you accept.)

So along his lines of thinking, if I identify with Belle, my “prince” would have to be extremely hairy, hated by my entire village, hold me hostage against my will, and expect me to fall in love with him because of a rose. I’m not allowed in certain parts of the house, and I’m forced to socialize with candlesticks, clocks and teacups. But something I can’t control in him will change when he finally feels emasculated enough to release me, and I come back to him because I’m a glutton for unnecessary roughness??? I then proceed to live – you guessed it – happily ever after. Riiiiiiiiiight. On second thought, still utter and complete garbage.

I could poke oh-so-many holes in that, I don’t even know where to begin. First off, I don’t want a prince. I’d definitely have a princess. Maybe my dream girl would be Ariel, or Cinderella, Mulan, but no one can presume to know me based on a Disney genotype. There probably isn’t even a phenotype when it comes to what I’m looking for in a potential partner. Insert sassy black woman shaking her finger yelling, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!”

My dream girl:

My friend fancied herself after Ariel, the little mermaid. Why, I do not know, because the conversation bent on a sharp tangent to personalities of Disney princesses with new age attitudes. For example, my friend would be Ariel, but with a potty-mouthed tell-it-like-it-is “Fuck It” psyche. If you’ve ever seen the United States of Tara and know about her multiple personalities, this one would be most similar to a combination of Gimme and Buck. The gentleman also claimed my friend contained a Martha Stewart personality as well, much like the Alice character in United States of Tara.

The conversation then meandered (or stumbled drunkenly, whatever you prefer) to the topic of multiple personalities. I shared that I would guess I’ve about 12 different personalities in my head at any given time, much like that movie, Heart and Souls, with Robert Downey Jr. My favorite of all those personalities I house is a red headed freckled kid named Rudy with Down syndrome and a love of accounting. I do indeed have a sassy black woman, not just a coincidence for the source of my earlier you-don’t-know-me response. I also have a well-styled, well-groomed gay man asking me, “What-what-what are you doing?” and reminding me to be fierce, and to put down that hors d’oeuvre.

It was not until my guests were leaving that the gentleman made known his seemingly innocent yet loaded question of me. This left me the remainder of my waking minutes that evening to simmer. He “hypothetically” asked what the fact that my high school yearbooks are doing displayed on my shelf says about me as a person. He had some nerve.

What does having my middle school and high school yearbooks on one of the few shelves I have in my main room say about me? Well, the story of the books even being back in my apartment comes from finally getting them from a friend who was holding them for me in Napa for the last year I was in Australia. I got 60% of my books back (remaining 40% still to come) and I put them on shelves so they wouldn’t be stacked on the floor. The yearbooks are with some photo albums, and some old college textbooks of the business/finance/accounting variety. He said one could infer I’m proud of scholarly feats. I hear proud and I think of arrogance or the kind to the extent of being one of the seven deadly sins. I think broadly, one could correctly infer I love books. I have memories. I worked in a scrapbook store in high school so I knew how to put photos in a photo album for future enjoyment.

To be honest, I’d tried to forget middle and high school. I didn’t really bloom until college and after, in San Francisco. I’m blooming again in my 30’s. So that they are here and in the main living room instead of out of plain sight has solely to do with I can’t afford rent for a place much bigger than the one I’m in now, a whopping 419 square feet. If I had my way, I’d have a library and a garden, and these would not be on display at all. Then all books, including those yearbooks would be in the library where I could enjoy them, reading in a comfortable chair or a window seat in a quiet study.

My apartment is small, and whilst I have a sizable closet, it’s quite full already. Only so much can be hidden away or out on display here. I also haven’t opened those yearbooks in years. One could also infer the way they’re stacked horizontally, they’re not meant to be removed for viewing purposes. They’re simply being stored.

So my multi-leveled response to him would be not to over-think it. I’m too transient at the moment and not a person too set in my ways to make an educated conclusion about yearbooks being amongst those on my shelves. While it may say something about me, it is not me.

Beyond that, any real woman can’t be compared to a Disney princess. Not all girls are princesses. Some are scientists, mathematicians, pilots, judges, litigators, artists, authors, poets, athletes, and the list goes on. A real woman doesn’t need a prince, or a princess, to make her life complete.

So there.

Also, no post involving Disney princesses is complete without this:
https://screen.yahoo.com/disney-housewives-000000627.html?format=embed