Inner voice
I’m being vigorously tested. Relentlessly pursued.
I’m passing the test. Staying my course.
It feels right.
Whew.
Sky blue
This morning I wrote my morning pages while sitting on a bench at the waterfront a block from my home. The sky was almost completely covered in clouds. Near the southern tip of Manhattan the clouds were white. Over the Empire State Building they were light gray. But in between the sky was so dark that when they reflected off the Hudson River it looked like a big black hole.
Only a small patch of turquoise blue was visible in the whole scene. It made me think of the book I’m reading — A Return To Love by Marianne Williamson. There’s a part where she talks about the sky and clouds:
A spiritual teacher from India once pointed out that there is no such thing as a gray sky. The sky is always blue. Sometimes, however, gray clouds come and cover the blue sky. We then think the sky is gray. It is the same with our minds. We’re always perfect. We can’t not be. Our fearful patterns, our dysfunctional habits, take hold within our minds and cover our perfection. Temporarily. That is all … There has never been a storm that hasn’t passed. Gray clouds never last forever. The blue sky does.
Sweet perspective.
Carpe diem
Tonight I had one of those insights that I could choose to chide myself about or I could just turn into action. I’m going with the latter approach.
I got so steamed about something earlier that had little to do with anything but my own lack of planning and discipline lately. My avoidance, my detachment, my fear.
Enough! Seize the damn day already. It’s not up to outside forces to set my agenda. It’s up to me.
Make the shift. It’ll feel sooooooo good.
Adult day
A full day in the city! A dear friend decides it’s time for an “adult” day (read: a little break from her four very active sons) and I get to be an active participant.
First a good brunch, complete with scrumptious bellini. Then shopping at Century 21, where she makes out like a bandit. We got a kick out of some of the couture along the way. Then a walk to SoHo and a stroll through all the street vendors. Then a snack and cocktail. We tried a drink called a Lemon Tart; the rim was dipped in sugar. Lemonade with a kick — so good. A little more shopping.
A full day of friendship — from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. Never a dull moment.
Good company
Just came from seeing a band in Central Park and then having dinner with friends. It was rather impromptu. Two women who were in my life coaching training class over three years ago came from their homes in Brewster, N.Y., and Hartford, Conn. to see the band. They brought another friend.
What a lively scene it was. The proverbial melting pot that is New York dancing and singing in the park. The band — Tortured Soul — has a sort of cult following. They’re very good. The bass player is my friend’s son; she has much reason to be proud.
Dinner afterwards was lively and funny. I bonded with these women almost immediately after meeting them and we have done a good job of staying in touch. It’s special, really. One of those winning combos life hands you.
I love that.
Scarf ethics
Oprah can’t get into Hermes. They wouldn’t buzz her in. What’s the world coming to?
I’ve been known to boycott brands for less of an offense. My conscience says stay away. But oh how I wish I hadn’t just perused the website two weeks ago. It’s a great site. You can click on a scarf and enlarge it to see the pattern up close. Each one is a work of art.
I own one Hermes scarf. I bought it about 12 years ago in San Diego. I was a sports writer at the time, so I told the saleswoman I wore a lot of jeans, boots and blazers, sort of sporty chic. She pulled out the absolute perfect scarf all done in rich blues, blacks and browns. There’s an Indian and a horse. It’s gorgeous. I feel like a million bucks every time I wear it.
What a dilemma.
Lessons in language
After spending some time last weekend with my niece (almost 2) and nephew (3), it occurs to me that learning a language at their respective ages and at my very adult age has a lot of parallels.
We’ve watched these children store words and then delight in the sounds when they come bursting forth from their mouths. My nephew read the word “Tarrytown” off a white board when my mother wrote it and I almost fell off my chair. Clearly, he’s past the storing stage and now feels bold in his delivery. My niece appears to be taking the words in, readying herself to use them at the opportune time.
I’m somewhere in between. Not with English, of course, but with French. I work for a real estate company partially based in France. The president is French. Many of the agents are either French or speak French. I am almost constantly surrounded by people speaking French. In my nearly two months there, I have gone from a paralyzing fear of speaking the language to actually trying some on for size. I ask more questions about expressions and uses. I pick up more of what people around me are saying. And I’m certainly storing some for future use.
It’s kind of a fun adventure. At any age.
Fellow writer
Reading Anne Lamott inspires my writer and delights my reader. I have a copy of her collection of essays, Plan B, Further Thoughts On Faith that I have been savoring.
Today on the PATH train, I read an essay titled, “Untitled.” What a fine piece of writing. There is a richness to her writing, a beautiful flow. She writes, “I have an organic life, finally, not necessarily the one people imagined for me, or tried to get me to have. I have the life I longed for. I have become the woman I hardly dared imagine I could be.”
That in an essay about being in her 50s. So wise, scathingly honest, sweet.
I love good writers.
On fear and feathers
A feather blew into my path yesterday. I picked it up. As I’ve written several times before, I always see that as a sign that the Universe is saying, “Write, Nancy, write.”
Today, another feather. As I was marveling at its meaning, at how persistent the Universe can be, I found yet another. Write, Nancy, write.
Yes, I’m writing a book. But my writing schedule has become erratic since taking a part-time job. I like the financial freedom and the structure it provides in my life. I’m working on maximizing my non-work time. And then comes the repeated message — Write, Nancy, write.
So I see the feathers and keep walking to the PATH station. A large cricket hops by my feet and it causes me to start. I have a critter issue, after all. But it makes me think about my fears and how irrational they are. Hmmmmm.
Once on the train, I pull out the copy of Ladies Home Journal I bought this morning because it had Madonna on the cover. Bam. More inspiration. What a wonderful Q&A.
I have always liked Madonna. She expresses on big topics like religion and sexuality. No holds barred. No worries about what people will think. I need to do that better. It’s honest. It’s interesting. It’s real. It’s art.
Madonna talks about her spiritual quest and how her husband was also on one when she met him: “He was approaching it from an intellectual point of view, and I was approaching it from an intuitive and emotional point of view, which is the essential difference between men and women anyway.”
I am so aligned with that. And with this: “No one is encouraged to have a spiritual life — if you want to have a spiritual life now, you’re considered a geek or a weirdo, or you’re a religious zealot or a nut.”
She also admits to sometimes “showing off” in her career, but talks about how her goal was ultimately to help people with this persistent message: “If you’re really passionate about something, no matter where you are, no matter who you are, no matter what you’ve done or where you’ve come from, just go for it.”
To augment the reading experience, there are fabulous, full-page photos of her in her majestic home. In two of them, much to my squeamish surprise, she is with a mouse. In one, it is on her shoulder. In the other, she’s face-to-face with it. Gross. And yet not. There she is. No fear.
Write, Nancy, write.
Soured
This morning I rode the PATH train into the city with glee. A specimen of a man stood across the aisle from where I sat. He stood despite the fact that there were plenty of seats.
His back was to me, which was just fine because what a view it was. He had broad shoulders. Nice legs. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a crisp white polo shirt. White sneakers. I studied every sinew, every move he made for the 10-minute ride.
When we pulled into the World Trade Center station, he dropped a crumbled paper towel on the floor of the train. He tried to be slick about it. The train was spotless otherwise.
Damn.
