Don't Backstep

Don't think on the past think on the future.

Don't look behind you look in front of you.

Don't worry about what you don't have be grateful for what you do have.

Know that there is a mystery greater than yourself that will unfold in time.

Keep faith that you are on the right path and that all is coming.

Be aware of what you need and don't settle for less.

The Universe is doing its job and you are listening to its messages.

Post Race Breakdown: Part 2: RACE DAY: The Good, the Bad, the Ugly. And Boy, did it get Ugly.

Flares rattled my body the week before the Tri. I was consumed with worry and stress and a sore throat which made me so tired I could barely imagine covering 32 miles in a few days. But with an emergency acupuncture appointment and the love and energy of my friends and family, I felt better by the big day and was able to get through the flare without destroying my body. I went to the Tri Expo, wide-eyed and horrified and excited the day before and bought more things I didn't realize I needed-- I bought Suit Juice, a compact towel, an emergency tire repair kit that I did not know how to use and I prayed to the Flat-Tire-Gods that I would not get a flat tire, because let's face it, I had no idea what it was I just bought.

Can you see the wide-eyed excitement/panic?

I sat on the living room floor of my apartment, a sea of gear and nutrition and expo pamphlets surrounding me, not knowing what to do first. I decided to start with putting on my temporary number tattoos. I peeled off the number stickers on placed them on my bike, on my helmet, on my bags, I stuffed nutrition and water and gels into the zipper of my backpack, I checked and re-checked my gear, marveled that the big day had finally arrived, took sleep meds to calm my mind and somehow by the grace of the Universe, I managed to get six hours of uninterrupted restorative sleep.

I woke up and took a shower to loosen my morning stiffness, acknowledged that I didn't feel horrible, had two waffles with peanut butter and a banana (surely that is a triathlete's breakfast), took my vitamins and my green powder, and Kajal picked me up at 4am. We loaded up and took off. Timing wise we got to the transition area with about 30 minutes before it closed up. We needed to be out of transition by 5:45am. I set all of my things down, not knowing exactly how to set my gear up, but I did the best I could. I said a little prayer to the Transition Gods, and went on my way. I found Kajal waiting for me on the grass and we made our way to the Chicago Triathlon tent that was just setting up.

All I could think was, THREE HOURS.

I have THREE HOURS before I am set to start.

My Tri Mama, Kajal.

I was plagued by many things the day of the tri, but one of the worst curses was the fact that I was placed in the LAST wave of International triathletes. This meant that, yes, I had to wake up at 3 am, but I would not be competing until 9:20am. Three hours of nerves, three hours of watching other athletes start, three hours of saying goodbye to Kajal and the other CTCers as they made their way to the water,  three hours of the sun getting higher and brighter and peaking in the 90s, three hours of psyching myself out.








I finally started to get my wetsuit on around 9am and I walked purposefully down to the line that was forming for the 46th wave. While in line, I ran into my friend, Keely, whose husband had just finished the Sprint Distance. "How'd it go!!!???" I asked him. "Horrible!" he said. He looked proud he'd finished, but he was glad to be done. The swim had been hard for him. Keely snapped this pic of me as I waited to get in the water. Seeing them gave me a small burst of encouragement and the feeling that I could do this.

I'm about to jump in the lake!

Energy surged through me. I was so ready. I got my cap all set, I got my goggles ready. And I hopped in the water along with 150 or so other women between the ages of 31-34. We had 30 seconds or so to get used to the water, and then the officials shot the starter gun, and we were off!

The beginning was the best.

For that first half mile or so, I had calm strokes, I had even breathing, I was moving well.

And then everything started to unravel.

Unfortunately for me, the next wave after mine was the Relay. Relay teams have three different people to do each part of the tri, and the person who is strongest in a particular event takes that leg. We're talking swimmers who can do the mile in less than 20 minutes. All of a sudden, swimmers started taking over all the space around me. I had carved out a good position, but the fast relay swimmers swam around me, over me, in front of me, to the sides of me. WHERE DID THEY ALL COME FROM????? I thought, my brain not clicking right away that these were the relay swimmers.

My breathing started to become more shallow. The fast breaths dismantled my strokes and my heart started to pound. Instead of every four strokes like I had practiced, I breathed every two. I swallowed water and coughed up Lake Michigan.

And then my goggles fogged up.

But I had bought anti-fog goggles! What was happening!?

I stopped mid-stroke and took off my goggles, hoping I could unfog them. I put them back on and still was having trouble seeing. I didn't understand what was going on, but my heart and breathing were not cooperating with the one end goal of GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS WATER! I started to swim so  far right that I was straying off course towards one of the safety boats.

Well. I guess when you accidentally swim to a safety boat, you might as well use it. 

"Are you okay?" the volunteers asked me.
"Yeah..." I breathed.

This was not how I had envisioned my triumphant swim.

After about a minute of trying to calm down my exploding heart, I attempted freestyle again but it was no use. I resorted to back stroke, and then a minimalist back float, gliding on the water, catching my breath, alternating with a bit of freestyle whenever I felt I could manage. I could barely consider the fact that I was going outrageously slow--all I wanted was to get out of the water. I just wanted to get to that bike. I had not been concerned about the swim before the race at all. I had thought, "Well, yes, it will be slow, but I won't have any problems. Slow and steady."

I did not anticipate the nerves, the relay swimmers, the heart-rate, not being able to see, and back-floating my way to greatness. But this is how it was and all I could do was focus on getting out of the water.

I somehow managed to finish the swim with freestyle and got out of the water, breathing hard as I, at first, tried to run to transition, and then thought, "Hell No," and walked my way to a grassy area to pull off the rest of my wetsuit.

And I still couldn't see. It hit me that it had never been foggy goggles, I had lost my right contact.

Where was it!!!!? Was it in the water? Did it roll in back of my head? I rubbed my eyes, feeling around for a dislodged contact, but couldn't easily find anything without ripping open my pupils, so I figured:

"Well, my contact is either in the back of my eyeball or it's at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Guess I'm doing the rest of the Tri with one eye."

My vision is not horrendous but I do need my contacts in order to function. In an emergency I have used one contact, have even driven on the expressway with one contact (for 20 minutes), but have never engaged in 4 hours of physical activity with one contact.

And so it was.

I took my sweet-ass time in transition. Thirteen minutes to be exact. I ate half a Cliff bar. I dried off. I used the bathroom. I tried to slow down my breathing. And then I got my bike out and headed off onto Lakeshore Drive, doing my best to adjust to my new vision.

One of my biggest fears had been falling off my bike on the way up the ramp to Lakeshore-- that had been the biggest bike concern before the race had actually started (and possibly getting a flat). But now I was dealing with a different reality: my legs were gooey, my heart was still pounding, it was over 90 degrees by the time I had gotten out of the water, I had one contact that was messing up my speed and balance, and instead of the full water bottle I had prepped, I only had half a water bottle for 25 miles (the bottle I had brought had somehow gotten misplaced in Kajal's car that morning and I had been unable to locate another water bottle to set up in my bike).

Thing were not in my favor.

To add insult to injury, being the last wave of the race meant that I was very much racing solo. Not only was I the last wave, I was a SLOW athlete in the last wave with one contact and a wildly palpitating heart. That meant that all the other athletes in my wave had gone ahead of me and I was very much on my own, just hoping I was going the right way. At a certain point a string of athletes emerged from behind me and I felt a little less alone. They were on their second loop of the course and they zoomed by me with ease as I struggled to get to first turn around. By the time I finally did make it to the second loop, I was very much alone. That portion of the race was very surreal to me, as I rode my bike down Lakeshore Drive. Cars in a lane to the right of my zoomed by and I listened to the hum of motors as I focused on the road in front of me. At times I could barely maintain my emotion. Tears poked at my eyes as I realized how tired I was, but they also were tears of great pride and elation...

It occurred to me how very symbolic it was to have the road to myself.

This had always been a race with myself and no one else. There, on Lakeshore Drive, I raced myself. I raced my fear, I raced my doubt, I raced my confidence, I raced sadness, I raced my illness, I raced my heart. I challenged all of these things, and at one point, tears started streaming as I said out loud, "This is for you, Dad." I had just dedicated that moment of the bike ride to my Father. I started to ride for a greater meaning at that point. I started to ride for life. For existence. For the right to endure.

Cars kept driving past me in the lane to my right and I looked over at one of them and cried out "CHEER FOR ME!!!!!" It was a plea, it was a demand, it was a call to action. And the woman in the car looked surprised and a little shocked that this haggard athlete had just requested her support, but from her throat emerged this enthused "Whooooo!!!!!" As silly as it was, that little voice of encouragement helped push me forward, and in the distance I saw another biker who was also going slowly and I rode behind her and then next to her and then I called out in uniting agony, "We're doing it! We can do this!" She nodded at me and groaned her own personal story of pain and I rode in front of her, the one athlete I managed to pass on the course. I was dizzy with exhaustion and soft focus from my blurry eyes.

I started to sing to myself with what little breath I had left. I had 25 miles on this rickety blue bike, Merriweather, (I named my bike Merriweather when I bought her because she was old and curmudgeon-y and needed extra attention like the little Blue Fairy, Merryweather, in Sleeping Beauty) with very little water. I might have been starting to lose my mind a little, yelling at cars and singing and such. Whatever it takes, I thought. Just get through it. I came up to the end of the bike course, my emotion surging as I processed that I had just finished the second portion of the race. I half strolled, half ran back to the transition area, again taking my sweet time. I drank whatever water I had stashed in my gear to try to make up for the very dehydrating bike ride, and I put on the race belt with my number 7046 attached to it, very unsure how my run would go. I would probably be out in the sun for another hour and a half to two hours in what would be the most mentally and physically challenging part of this race for me.

It had always come down to the run. To the knee. To the last ounce of energy I had. Except I had nothing left. There was nothing left. I'm not sure I can properly convey how very little anything I had left in me. I had always been concerned on how a body with Fibromyalgia would respond to all of these events back to back, but now with the sun and the dehydration and the one contact and the bad knee, I had absolutely no energy. But this voice just kept telling me to find it, find something, find anything. And somehow, I found the fumes of determination and I kept going. I persevered. I pushed. I walked the first half mile trying to catch my breath, I stopped at every single water station, drinking as much as I could, dousing myself with water, sticking ice cubes in my hair. The sun was blazing. It was well over 91 degrees with no shade on the course.

And there was barely anybody left. The athletes who had started 3 hours before me, 2 hours before me, 1 hour before me---they had already made their way through this part of the course. The crowd was there for them. There was no one left for me. Every once in awhile in the beginning I would get a little cheer from people telling me to keep going, or a shout out from someone who recognized my Chicago Tri gear, "Chicago Tri Club!" they'd shout. But as I got further in, there was hardly anyone on the course. Even the volunteers were sparse at this point. There were regular joggers on the Lakeshore path at this point amongst the scattered leftover triathletes. I felt so sick I wasn't sure how I could possibly get through 6 miles. I started to run, a pathetic little jog, but I was surprised that the knee was holding up so I kept up with the scuffle. I hobbled up next to another man, one of the only people I'd seen on the run leg of the course, who looked to be struggling as I was. We acknowledged each other and jogged side by side for a minute, "I just want to finish this," he said suddenly. "Me too," I breathed. That's all I ever really wanted.

But fatigue overwhelmed me. I pulled back and stopped. "Come on, keep running," he called to me, half encouraging me,  half giving me a hard time. "I have to walk," I told him, and I watched him jog ahead of me and out of my view. I spent the next mile or two trying my hardest to keep going and I walked so very much of that time. I was again struck by how symbolic this was. It was an odd triathlon of my own, it all came down to mind over matter. Did I want this or did I not?  

...There is no one out there to make you finish this except yourself. There aren't crowds cheering for you. You need to cheer for yourself. You can do this. You will do this. This has always been your race. You've always been racing yourself. You've got this. And there is no way you aren't finishing this. You will crawl over that line if you have to but you will finish this...

I ran for a bit and then passed the Fire Station where the firemen had cracked open their water truck and were spraying all of Lakeshore path with a glorious burst of water to give the triathletes momentary refuge from the heat. I walked into the sweet water, the giving beautiful water, and let it drench me. It helped revive me from the sweltering sun. I looked to the firemen to my right and silently said "Thank you" and looked up to the sky and held my face in the downpour of the graceful water. After a bit, I summoned some strength and started jogging. I jogged for maybe a quarter of a mile, and all of a sudden, from my peripheral view, I saw an athlete hobbling toward me. It looked like she was skipping or limping. I thought for a second it was an athlete with one healthy leg and one metal running leg, teetering as she ran. But no.

It was HILARY!

My roommate, a runner herself, had asked me if she could run me in the last few miles. At first I wasn't sure--I had wanted to do this on my own, but the night before, I had welcomed the idea of Hil runing me in, knowing I would need morale. And I had needed it so badly at that point that I became overwhelmed when I saw her bundling towards me, overjoyed she had found me! I had forgotten that Hilary would be looking for me! My tracking hadn't been working and it had appeared I hadn't finished the bike portion, so she didn't know where I was or if I'd gotten sick, she just stuck by mile 3ish waiting for me, about to turn around and go home when she looked up and saw me. I started crying and we hugged as I told her I was never doing this ever again. She walked with me when I needed to walk, and she ran with me when I decided to run, and sometimes she would run and I would look ahead and tell her to stop it because I just couldn't, please stop running, I have to walk this, there's nothing left. It went like this for almost 3 miles.

I had run for almost 3 miles when I had thought I wouldn't be able to run at all.

And then I saw in the horizon the finish line.

Words can't quite describe the emotion that started to surge through my body as I caught sight of the finish line. I was so close. I had a quarter of a mile left to go and my body seized up with emotion. I had to stop for a moment and walk, and then I started again and tried to run, holding back tears, my body producing great heaves that threatened to turn into sobs of relief and joy. I half started crying, half started running faster, exhausted, overwhelmed-- unbelievable emotion like I'd never felt rippling through me. It was the rawest state of emotion I have ever felt coursing through my veins at an electric rate that both propelled me and left me breathless. It took hold of me and I as I got within 20 feet, a smile spreading across my face, I summoned any possible strength I had left and ran as fast as I could as I heard the announcer call to anyone that was in the immediate area to put their hands together for me.

I raised my arms in the air and held my head up high and smiled this grand smile of triumph as tears streamed down my cheeks... and I crossed that finish line in a strong run, my body immediately erupting in a loud sob. I bent my head to my knees, catching my breath, crying in great heaves, overcome with raw emotion. I have never experienced anything quite like that moment in my entire life.  The moment I completed my first Olympic Triathlon.

This makes it look like I finished in 8 hours. It was really 4:37. I'll take it!

I never stopped. I never let the setbacks take away this dream. I could have stopped before the Tri even started. I could have stopped after the swim. I could have stopped at any point.

But you must never give up. 

You can take a dream that seems impossible and make it your reality.

You can take back your spirit and your health and your life.

 

You must persevere.

You must do all it takes.

But you must never, ever give up. 

Purple Hair and a Tattoo.

Gosh, I want to be more of a bad-ass than I am.


Don't get me wrong, I'm a good deal bad-ass when it comes to motivation and drive and determination and stubbornness and passion and scrappiness.

But I want to be a bigger-bad ass.



I want to have streaks of purple in my wavy hair.

I want to have a tattoo on my ankle.

I want muscular defined arms that people might suppose I use for pushing scoundrels down stairwells when they piss me of.


Because its in there! Beneath this lady-like exterior, there is a bad-ass confined by societal walls.

Well, maybe it's time to be a tattoo-sporting, cray-cray B.

Dangit. Tough girls don't say "cray-cray B."

They say "One crazzzzzzzzzzzy BITCH."

I swear, beneath the pearls and polka dots and the cardigan sets, there is a swearing, foul-mouthed, sexy rule-breaker who wants to sass authority.

"I HATE AUTHORITY," she proclaimed, as set down her quiche.

                       I HATE AUTHORITY.











I mean, I don't want to be grungy.
Or smelly.
Or do drugs.

Or push people down stairwells. (Not really.)

I don't want to be mean.

Cuz I'm not mean-hearted.

But I'd like to be a little bit tougher of a lady.

A bad-ass lady.



With red lips and hot-rollered hair.


And a tattoo.


Maybe just a little one.

The Magic Cafe

What if there existed a cafe that was dusty and antique and Parisian and magical?

It would be an obscure tiny undiscovered cafe-- one with no regulars because it is too hard to find.

People might only stumble upon it once or twice in their lifetimes.



Because it keeps moving.

It is a traveling cafe.

It sets up shop by night or day and is gone the next.

It is a cafe of miraculous design.

And when those who are lucky enough happen to stumble upon the cafe and actually walk through its doors, their lives are never again the same.

Walking through its doors signifies something wondrous is about to occur.

When you sit at one of the enchanted tables, grand ideas suddenly emerge, you are present and enlightened. The answers to your deepest questions are suddenly revealed to you almost as if you always knew what you have just realized.

Your deepest sorrows will miraculously cease to cause you pain. The memories won't disappear, your soul's ability to process sorrow and learn from it only has only been heightened so you are now more equipped to understand how true sorrow can shape your spirit...

Perhaps most magical is the cafe's ability to connect strangers and loved ones. Your soul mate from a different lifetime who you never thought you'd stumble upon is now sitting at the table in front of you and you are mysteriously drawn to this individual in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes lock. Your soul mate walks over to you and draws the chair, sitting down next you. Your life will never be the same.

Your long-lost family member has just walked through the door and ordered an espresso. You have been reunited after years of searching.

Your childhood best friend is sitting across the cafe and after twenty minutes you both see each other and understand you were supposed to meet once more so that you could explore the world together, make up for lost time, have adventures, and swim in oceans in far distant lands.

In fact, this cafe is so breathtaking and life-changing, that it can only exist in one plane, one realm, for one set amount of time.

The cafe knows it must keep moving, must keep changing the lives of all who walk through its doors.

And if you are so lucky to stumble upon this cafe twice in your lifetime, you will only have the faintest feeling that you have been there once before.

 A warmth will fill your entire being with such mystery and happiness, that you will simply feel compelled to stop for a moment, order a cup of coffee, and wait for whatever magic might happen next.

Infected Train

His infection looked quite serious.

He pulled the leg of his jeans up to show the train-car of passengers his wound and begged us all for help. Not in a hysterical way, not in a belligerent way. In a very sad and ashamed kind of way.

And every passenger on that train stared at him. I could even hear a few disgusted gasps as he displayed the infected gash on his calf. I thought, surely, once the passengers saw this, they would act on compassion and help him. But no one moved except me. I immediately reached into my purse as everyone else disconnected and looked at their electronic devices or listened to music from their ipods. Everyone else ignored him.

He had said he was homeless, he had just come from Rush Hospital and was trying to fill a prescription that was $18 dollars and he only had $4, and as he winced in pain, I thought to myself, this man is begging for medical attention. I seriously doubted he would be using any of this money for booze or illegal drugs, I could only hope that he was being honest and as soon as he got this money he would fill the prescription for antibiotics.

He just kept saying he was sorry, he didn't want to bother any of us, he just didn't know what else to do. His eyes looked so full of sorrow and shame. And either he was a wonderful actor or his energy was so sad and desperate that I barely thought twice about helping him.

I looked into my wallet and realized I only had a $10 bill.

He was close to my age and wore a zip up hoodie, his face looked lined with worry and his eyes were small and slightly glassy. He had a non-threatening frame, carried a backpack, and as soon as he'd hobbled onto that train I'd known something was wrong. I'd kept my eyes on him and part of me wondered if this was a man who had perfected his scam or if this was a man who truly needed medical care.

I nodded at him and he came over to me and I handed him the $10 bill.

"I'm so sorry," he said to me. "I'm so sorry, thank you."

I just nodded my head at him with compassion. He sat back down. No one else moved to help him.

"I'll be getting off at the next stop," he announced to the car after several minutes. "If anyone else can help. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be bothering anyone."

But no one else helped him.

He got up and looked at me sadly before he got off the train, "I'm sorry," he told me again. His face and voice sounded pathetic, like he had no idea what else to do anymore, like he was at the end of his rope and hadn't wanted to beg but could come up with no other way.

"It's okay," I told him.

And he got off the train.

I was astonished that no one else had offered to help him. Was I just that much of a gullible sap? Was I just buying into this young man's act? Was he really not suffering and simply fantastic at putting on a show? But the wound. What about that wound? It really did look very bad. He'd said that he didn't have a medical card and the prescription was $18 dollars. But if he didn't have insurance, wouldn't antibiotics be much more expensive than that? Were generics not that expensive even without insurance? My mind swirled around as I wondered if everyone else on that train had chosen not to get involved because they didn't believe him and I was just a sucker, or if no one else had helped because they did not care.

I suppose I won't ever know.

I've lived in Chicago for almost 7 years and I've seen scores of homeless people and beggars and I've ignored most and helped some. But I hadn't recalled a situation like this--and this urge to immediately assist because I felt it was the right thing to do.

I can only hope that the man will find his way, whether he was lying or not.

Because whether it was medically or emotionally or physically or all of the above, this man had been suffering. And at least for me, I find it incredibly difficult to look into the eyes of a soul who is truly suffering, and just turn the other way. 

The Triathlon

Did I mention I am competing in the Chicago Triathlon on August 25th? I am!

Have I ever mentioned I have Fibromyalgia? Chances are many of you would say "Probably not!"

Here's the thing. Fibro is crazy little pain/fatigue disorder with no cure and I've been battling the symptoms for years and years. I just don't talk about it a ton. Why? I don't want to be labeled. I don't want people to think I can't do things just like everyone else.

But it's time to start talking. We need awareness.

And in my most audacious attempts at living well and taking back my heart and soul and physical health, I am racing in the Chicago Tri. The Olympic Distance. Cuz I'm stubborn like that.

I won't really be chatting about the training here, BUT if anyone reads this blog (and seriously if you DO read this blog, leave a comment sometime yo) please know that I have started this other little blog that will chronicle my adventures training for the tri WITH fibro.

http://tri-ingwithfibro.blogspot.com/

Much love,

Katherine

Dateline and Dating

It is Friday night.

And I am watching Dateline.

And I am happy to be watching Dateline about murder mysteries and women snapping and I am laying on the couch marveling how my Friday nights have changed so very much. I have gone from wearing skimpy shirts and looking for a man to having boyfriends and spending my Friday nights with my man to me being tired from the long week and relieved I can sit my ass on the couch, eat some Chinese food, and watch Dateline about a woman "accidentally" killing her man.

I find no shame in putting on a face mask, drinking a glass of wine, and watching the news.

Evenings as a twenty-something are very different from evenings as an early thirty-something.

This month I found out my first boyfriend is engaged. We miraculously still speak and are on good terms. This month my second boyfriend will be getting married to the first woman he started dating after he broke up with me. We, unsurprisingly, do NOT speak and are in no way friends. And this month my third and most recent ex-boyfriend and I have been broken up for 2 and half-ish months. We never said we would try to be friends. We didn't want to make promises we couldn't keep. I'd like to think we could be one day, but I know it's not realistic considering how sad we both were when we decided to part ways. In the most adult breakup of my life, we both knew we weren't right for each other and neither one of us wanted to walk away, but we both knew we should. Or shouldn't we have? Ick.

Those kind of breakups suck by the way.

And so I sit here on the couch on a Friday night because I am tired.

Dating is difficult and I tired of it a decade ago. I'd love to press a little button and just make my way through the sea of men and find a good fit, but I am nutty and most people don't interest me. I'd also like to press a little red button and be ready to date. I've been on a few dates the past month or so, but even the good ones leave you wondering if you're ready. But that being said....there was a good one.

So I guess you won't know if you're ready til you try?

Why I Love Blue Crush

I love the movie Blue Crush.

I do.

I am not afraid to admit it. I love this surf movie, I love Kate Bosworth at 19. I love the stupid romance twist with the football player on vacation (Matthew Davis? Yes!), the soundtrack is awesome.

And I love the cinematography.

It's true.


I want to be a bad-ass surf mama when I watch this movie.

This is my all-time favorite movie to watch when I am feeling under the weather. In fact, I have forced countless friends to experience Blue Crush with me.

I think the obsession first started my senior year of college when Blue Crush was being aired on television every day. I was trying not to study and I plopped down on the couch next to one of my roommates, Vanessa, and we commenced in being sucked in by the all-time greatest time suck ever. That entire week the network kept playing Blue Crush and we kept watching. I think all of my roommates sat down on that couch watching the movie at some point that week.

But I was the one who formed the greatest connection to it.

Yes, as I moved on from VHS to DVD, I bought Blue Crush so I could abuse it on far too many occasions.

This has become my go-to movie of choice when I:
a) am sick with the cold
b) am sick with the flu
c) am tired and don't want to go out
d) am in a good mood and want to stay in
e) am sad and need a pick-me up
f) am kind of under-the-weather, but not quite sick sick yet
g) am wanting to experience the greatness that is Blue Crush with someone so said individual will be able to understand my allegiance to this movie and relate to me on a deeper level.

These people have been best friends, boyfriends, roommates, people that I love and want to know that this movie will lift me up when I am down. Because sometimes you just gotta watch Blue Crush.

And when Anne-Marie catches that final wave, I am not ashamed to admit I get teary-eyed.

She scored the ride! She battled her demons! She represented women at Pipeline! She gets Matthew Davis! She gets sponsored by Billabong! She didn't get smashed by the reef!

 Live your dreams, girl.

You local Hawaiian native, surf-babe struggling superstar.

Somehow, this movie makes me happy.

And there's no shame in that.

Crawl and Totter

Anna has started talking to her Dad every two days. She has made it mandatory.

She just tries to get him on the phone.

Pick up, pick up, she hopes.

His voicemail is full. He doesn't empty his messages.

He does not know how to text.

Forgot how to email. He used to email her about 15 years ago.

The house phone is never charged and even when it is no one can find the receiver.

Most of the time, getting Anna's Dad on the phone means getting a hold of her Mom on her cell phone (which is another challenge) and getting her to hand the phone over to him.

And then they try to talk.

The first few words are painful. Pulling teeth. Anna can't tell if it's harder for her to find things to talk about or harder for him to give her more than one word answers.

She rambles on about her life and tries to get a reaction from him.

His favorite words are "I don't know," and "No."

Sometimes he throws in "I'm fine," or "Oh well."

And Anna wants to cry.

Because she just want to talk to her Dad. Her Dad. Her awesome Dad who used to talk non-stop and sing and laugh and tell stories about life. Her Dad who used to have no problem striking up conversations with strangers, her Dad who loved adventure. Her Dad who was like a little kid.

And now he is more like an old weak man. One who has aged about 25 years overnight. Overnight, meaning the past several years.

She worries his mind is wasting away.
She worries he's fading away.
She worries he'll forget important memories.
She worries she'll forget what his laugh sounds like.
She worries she'll only see him smile on rare occasions.

While Anna is on the phone with her Dad one night, he randomly says, 'You have to crawl before you can walk." The words strike her. "Totter," he corrects himself. "What was that?" she asks. "Did you say something about an otter?"

"Totter. You have to totter before you can walk."

She isn't sure if he is just getting confused or being inventive but for a moment she can hear her old Dad, the Dad of the past. "That's true of most things," she tells him.

Anna considers the demise of so many things in her life right now and it suddenly resonates with her that she can't just pretend she can walk again without tottering around for awhile.

Life is full of quite a lot of tottering and crawling.

"What do you remember about the Boston Tea Party?" she asks her Dad.

"I wasn't there."

"I know you weren't there, what do you remember about it though from reading about it?" she encourages him to start talking. She had realized a week or two ago when she was at her wits end trying to find her father's voice again, that if she asked him open-ended questions he would start talking more. And then she randomly asked him about the Cold War and he started talking more than she had heard him talk in months. It was like his brain lit up and he could remember historical facts and dates and Anna kept asking questions in between her tears just so she could hear his voice.

There he was, there was her Dad. If only for a moment.

He remembers old things, but not a lot of new things. It is scary. His forgetfulness, his change in mood and behavior. The weight he has lost. The joy that seems to have been sapped from his soul.

The doctors are still looking for all the answers.

But Anna and her family are pretty sure they know what is happening.

And it frightens all of them.

And every two days, Anna tries to get her Dad on the phone, even though, recently, he's missed several of their mandatory phone dates.

And she crawls and totters and hopes.

The phone rings.

Pick up, pick up.

GET CRUNCHY

Wah-wah-wah.

How fuckin' moody I've been.

Ethereal lingering prose-y writing and this and that. Sentences that go on forever, odes to adjectives and images. I can barely read my own material without wanting to punch myself in my own sniffling face. God, have I ever written so many back to back pieces in the 2nd person with "you" as my favorite pronoun in the world?

Here's the deal. I'm going through a breakup. An icky, sad, disgusting, smushy breakup. The end of every great love affair is like this. Your body turns itself inside out. You sob in the shower (that's my favorite place to sob! It's like crying in a waterfall! Ask your travel agent for more info!) You get a cold for two weeks. You sleep. And sleep. And then you sleep some more. Heyyyyyyy, STOP IT, 2nd person voice. Let's take this back to 1st person.

I'm so tired of saying 'youyouyouyouyou.'

How about ME ME ME ME ME.

I'm tired of feeling icky and smushy. I hate this version of me! This version of me stinks. This version of me is fricking falling apart, not just over the breakup, but over everything else life has handed me at the same time. The human body can only take it for so long. Someone once told me that the body won't let itself stay raw for very long. Its not its natural state, it doesn't like to feel that way. And for good reason--who wants to walk around feeling like an exposed boo-boo? Not this girl!

Where's that band-aid?!

Agh, but there's the little stinker. [Please note use of 2nd person is coming back to be utilized for general knowledge as in a 'How-To-Guide'] You can't just slap a band-aid on it. (Or a ring for that matter. Zing! Ouch. Jokes. Yes. What?) You have to let your wound heal on its own time. And some wounds take time. And some are deeper than others. And some wounds re-open. Wounds must fester and ooze like the strawberry Gushers of our childhood youth and then sloooooooowwwwwwwwly start to scab over and get crunchy and THEN you must wait for the little bits of scab to fall off on their own. Cuz if you pick at it, ITS OVER! My guarantee: you start picking your scab off too soon, you'd best be starting that whole effing ooze/fester process all over again. (Why did I just say 'effing' when i said 'fuckin'' above? F that shit! Let's swear!)

Well, fuck.

Hmmmm.

So now that I've finally said, "Here boo-boo, face the world WITHOUT a band-aid!" I have to do just that.  Be exposed and start getting crunchy.

And it is a long crunchy road.

Or at least it CAN be, I been there before, Mama!

Didn't want to walk that road, again, but whatccha gonna do.

Hail a cab? Nope. Cabs don't come to this part of town, stranger. (Cue dueling sundown music between two cowboys.)

Find a prince on a horse to ride me back home? (Hmmm, when I word it like that, that doesn't sound half so bad! ...) But, NOOOO. No. BITCH, don't be rebounding on princes. (Or wait, WHY NOT? Then I'd get to drink tea with the Mum and be besties with Kate Middleton...unless the prince on the horse was William and then I'd have be all, OH NO YOU DIDN'T, WILL!)

Right....so, what? Click my heels three times and wish I was back in Kansas? Oh, Dorothy. You simple-minded twit.

WHY DIDN'T WE ALL JUST DO THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE INSTEAD OF SKIPPING ALONG YOUR DUMB GOLDEN HIGHWAY TO A PILE OF MELTED WITCH AND MONKEYS?

Dorothy, you led me to a pile of melted witch and monkey brains.

Ugh.

But it's okay! Just like Dorothy, I've got to travel my own yellow-brick road and grab a motley crew of friends suffering from various emotional and personal issues like fear of confrontation, illiteracy, and the inability to love.....and THEN we'll all be transformed at the end of the journey!

Right?

Right.

Let's add into the mixture of monkey brains and melted witch the fact that I'm also dealing with career stresses, artistic woes, my own health issues, parents' MAJOR health issues (yes that merits all caps), and there are now plenty of outside forces making the breakup boo-boo a little tougher to heal--which deserves credence of its own-- it will never heal properly if I don't acknowledge that it is a legitimate wound of its own. It's just that all of these outside forces COMBINED with this oozey breakup wound are making for one sore body, one with unfortunately LOTS of wounds that all are festering and oozing at the same time. It's like life just handed me an awesome car crash on a plate and said, "Dig in!"

Well, I'm gonna be an awfully crunchy lady for awhile, but hopefully I will reach the end of this road (along with my dumb friends who can't love or fight!) with some thicker skin and a bit more insight as to what exactly is at the end of the path.  I'm not saying I won't trip when I try to do that really cool skipping move like they do in the movie (I never said I was coordinated) and fall on my face and rip the scabs open and have to start all over. But sometimes that happens with scabs and wounds. They re-open and we try to close them again.

Hell, I might look kinda gross for awhile.

But all people in battle do.

Yep, Dorothy was totally a battling warrior.

And I gotta be right now too.

So I'm ready.

Time to GET CRUNCHY.

Empty House Dream

You were in my dream last night.

But you were dead.

...Or maybe we both were?

And I stayed in bed longer than I needed to so I could see your face again, so we could embrace one last time.

I walked through each empty room in a house I did not recognize. It was a new house or an old house--one I was moving into or moving out of. There were no boxes, just blank rooms. And each room was bare and dark. There was a sense of either an end or a beginning but I couldn't tell which one.

*

My family was there too, and as I weaved in and out of each room I could feel their presence, see their faces. Perhaps they were there physically in one room and they just remained on my mind as I journeyed through all of the rooms in the house. All of the rooms were connected to each other by one long hallway and separated only by the doors that connected each room.

And as I found myself in the last room, I realized you were there beside me. You had either been following me or you were in the room by yourself the whole time. And all of a sudden I knew you were not in this world with me any longer. I knelt beside you and we embraced. It seemed you had been wandering. Unable to move forward, you were trapped between life and the after-life, had not walked into the light, had never seen the light to walk into. I did not know what happened to you or why you were no longer alive, and I did not ask. I was only sad. After some time, I said, "We could have made it." You closed your eyes and hung your head and after some time said, "I know." And we both looked at each other in sadness but we both knew we did not exist in the same realm anymore... So we just embraced again.

But now I'm moving through the rooms again even though I want to stay there with you, and there's a feeling of newness or oldness, of death or is it life? is it a beginning or and ending, I can't tell, all of these things seem so close to each other now, so interconnected that one can't quite tell what has just started and what has just finished, a brief understanding that life and death are so thinly connected, so finely interwoven that an ending is a beginning...that a death is a life....that a beginning is also an ending...

The rooms remain dark and I am on my own now and after some time I find someone, I don't know who it is, but this someone let's me know you are no longer in between worlds.

You are no longer stranded.

You have found light and moved into the next world.

And I am at peace for you but ravaged for us and empty and full and each room is still dark and I continue walking, knowing that you are not wandering anymore, knowing I will not see your face in your purgatory any longer. You have found your way out of the empty house and I continue walking through the bare rooms...

*
*

The dream ends, though I want to see you for longer than this short visitation we have strangely been granted, and I wonder now if I am in between realms, as well, searching for the light in the empty house like you were.


*
*

A Note to your Surgeon

Crafty scalpel.

Did you do the job?
No need to pretend, there's no shame.
Seriously.
I'd like your Institution's name.
So I can also do the same.

See, this stitch right here?
That's where my doctor botched the same incision.

but your work looks highly efficient
swift
recovery complete

Did your office not process the surgical evaluation we drafted/the detailed Scottish tremors/ the medical history we were hesitant to fax over/the get-well note rendered/our grievance committee had hoped for/at the very least/notice of receipt/

Skilled Surgeon,
Quite impressive.
you've ripped out
your stitches well.

Defining You: My Former Lover as a Shoe

You once asked me what kind of shoe I thought you were. You had stayed up all night reading every single entry of this blog. You had wanted to know the inner workings of my crazy brain. You had read it all. And you were not afraid of this brain, rather you seemed fascinated by it and you still came back for more. "I kept wondering what kind of shoe I'd be?" you half wondered aloud, half asked me directly.

"I'm still figuring it out," I replied. "But you're not an uncomfortable shoe," I think I had said to you.

...What kind of shoe were you?

Maybe I never knew what kind of shoe you were and that's what always fascinated me about you. Sometimes you were a hiking boot--manly and sturdy and solid and adventurous. Sometimes you were a Birkenstock--earthy and worldly and natural.

Sometimes you were a slipper, warm and comfortable and all encompassing, and in your presence, I was fleecy and surrounded and safe and warm... I loved your slipper moments when your shield was down and you were a boy and a man at the same time. You were a child in your sweetness and a man in the way you took care of me. You were a slipper in the early hours of the morning when you held me close as we awoke, and a slipper late at night when you held me tight as we'd fall asleep. You were a slipper in the way you always found me and took me in your arms again when dozing had separated us.

Sometimes you were a clog. You were a combination of comfort and work. You were still sturdy but you blended both worlds. You were unpretentious. Did not care for fashion in those moments. You wore shirts with holes and pants dotted with glaze and dust. You had zero care for other peoples' opinions of you. You did things your way. And fuck them if they had anything to say about it.

Sometimes you were an incredibly expensive Italian leather shoe. You splurged on the best wine, the best dinner, the best hats, the best beads, the best opera tickets. Because "all the fun is being up close, you can't enjoy it from far away," you had said. You enjoyed music and theatre and opera and fine art and fine foods and antiques that cost more than I have ever managed to save in my bank account. There was this mentality of living in luxury if you were going to splurge at all, mixed with this mentality of living modestly that continued to intrigue me. You had a taste for the fine things, the rich things, but your home was very much unadorned aside from a few pieces of art strewn about, propped against walls. And in this way you weren't an Italian shoe at all, you were a gladiator sandal of the most uncomplicated kind. You lived simply and cleanly. Didn't own a microwave or a TV. Kept meaning to get a table. We ate dinner on your living room floor and ate breakfast while sitting on your kitchen counter. You rarely had food in your refrigerator. Everything was cooked fresh. You would buy what you needed as you needed it. Nothing processed. Nothing artificial. And if it came from a box you would not eat it. Except for granola. You did love granola.

Sometimes you were a sexy shoe. A high-heeled gorgeous dangerous shoe. A shoe that you knew if you put on you would feel dangerous and exciting wearing. You were a motorcycle riding, sky-diving, free-spirited, sculptor man-child with a past that was speckled with trouble and clay and glass and danger and lost love and second chances. I dared to wear this shoe even though I feared it might hurt after awhile.

Sometimes I felt like you were a combination of all these shoes. You were a hiking boot-slipper-clog-Italian loafer-sandal-high heel. And all of these shoes fascinated me. All of these shoes were so different yet made so much sense as we put them on at the same time. And this shoe was funny looking and it fit oddly sometimes, but I still loved discovering the different shoes you could be and how each shoe made sense in our world. I'd never met someone who was as many shoes as you were.

And yes, sometimes when I wore you,  it felt like there were pebbles rocking back and forth across my soles. Sometimes it felt like you forgot someone was wearing you, needing your support. Sometimes it felt like you were only there for the soles when they were inside you and never when you were walking on your own. Your shoes were fine when we were together and imaginary when we were apart. Sometimes I wondered if I even owned a pair of shoes. Did my shoes even exist? Had I only made them up? 

As WE wore this shoe, I think we both slowly realized there was also a piece missing. There was a buckle that had loosened, or patch of fabric or a swatch of leather that had torn away, worn away...and that missing piece had torn away long before I met you. And nothing I could do could bring that piece back. It was a piece you were still searching for when I first tried you on. And we both ignored it for a long time, and even when we both acknowledged there was a piece of your shoe that was gone, we tried to work around the missing buckle....maybe we could create a new buckle?

But you can't slap a new buckle on an old shoe that has walked a billion miles next to someone else who stole the buckle in the first place...A shoe that has walked in darkness for so long and is still looking for a way to walk in the light again. The shoe may have stumbled upon a new pair of feet, the owner of the feet may have dared to try on this strange hybrid shoe, and they danced for a long time together in and out of sunshine...until she realized the shoe was still looking for the piece of itself it had lost along the way. Or maybe he never owned this piece in the first place. Their journey was always a labored one because they had both desperately needed that missing piece to feel whole again. They had tried to pave a new road to walk on together, but until the shoe realized it needed to walk into the light on its own again, it would never feel right walking into the light besides anyone else.

......And most of the time, you were actually no shoe at all, you were just a shoeless creature. You were just a human who preferred to feel the ground with his bare feet than to weigh them down with anything. You were a man who'd move to the top of a mountain in a second if he had the chance, a man who'd build a glass dome at the very highest peak and sleep inside peacefully so he could see the sky and the stars and feel close to the spirits. You were a man who would disappear into the woods whenever he could because the city became too much. You were a man who made his home a jungle and surrounded himself with plants he charmingly named. You were a man who would sail out to the middle of the lake and anchor down and exist on the water for days on his own because he embraced the solitude and the peace the waves would bring. You were a man who clipped fake butterflies into potted plants and placed plastic sharks in the shower. You were a man who biked everywhere, a man who owned THREE bikes and pedaled endlessly. You were a man who'd rather walk around with no clothes than be bound by clothes, a man who would immediately pull off his shirt as soon as he was safe inside his cocoon of a home, a man who preferred silk and linen if he had to wear anything at all. You were a man who adored animals, a man whose closest friend was a stray dog he had rescued. But the truth is, she rescued you too. More than I could. You were a man who very clearly said he identified with the tiger in the zoo. You felt caged by society, by people, you wanted to be in the wild.

Most of all I think of you as this man....this rare and rough around the edges barefooted man who was looking for himself when I met him, a man who adored clay and the Earth and the moon, a man who found beauty everywhere and appreciated the human form and the human touch more than anyone else I'd ever known. And whether you were a pair of shoes or a barefooted soul, I hope one day you find the pieces you were missing when I met you. And that I'll get my missing pieces back, as well.

Soleded Gutenberg is Dead. She was a Chia Pet.

Soledad Gutenberg is dead.

She was a Chia Pet.

Yes, I named my Chia Pet 'Soledad Gutenberg.

The reasoning for this lies within my own warped sense of humor when my my German friend who married a Mexican gave me the 'Hello Kitty Chia' as a silly but endearing birthday gift. Her married name is now Franziska Fuentes. The German-Mexican melding of language has such a lovely ring to it. It rolls off your tongue. Franzzzziiska Fuuuuuuentes. Lovely. I thought I would give the Chia a Mexican-German name as an ironic salute and thank you to Fran. And so "Soledad Gutenberg" was born.


If Soledad was a human she would have kicked some major ass. That's an ass-kicking name.

 Anyway, she's dead now.

I threw her out today.

But she was a fighter, I tell you.

The first attempt to grow Sole (pronounced "Sole-ay" as I nicknamed her) was met with marginal success. She did alright, but she was spotty and bald in most places, as only limited chia sprout had occurred. After a few weeks, I tried again with the leftover chia seeds. You keep some in reserve, you know, I learned that from the last time I grew Chia Pets. Don't use all the seeds at once! Aside from the fact that you're not meant to use all the seeds in the application anyway, what if you want them for later when and if you decide to have another go at Chia-ing?

So I had the seeds (lesson learned) and I tried to grow her again. This attempt was better. I had paid more attention to the areas that I had missed the first time, I made sure the seeds settled into the grooves as they were supposed to, I took extra care to water her every day, to make sure she wasn't thirsty, I did for Sole what I could do. But in the end, she still had some bald spots. She was fuller and brighter than the first attempt....... but it is hard to grow a Hello-Kitty Chia Pet.

CHIA PETS ARE NOT EASY.

The thing about a Chia Pet is that it has a shelf-life. You know from the get-go that it's not supposed to last forever. You have all that fun getting it ready to go, watch in excitement as it blooms and grows, you look beyond the areas that don't grow in, and you secretly hope that your Chia Pet might last forever, but...

Chia Pets only last about 4 weeks.

You can try to keep them going for longer, you can keep watering and fussing and adjusting, but when something isn't meant to last past a certain point, it can't survive even with the extra effort. You see, what happens is the Chia starts to wilt. It even grows a white sporey looking moldy/fungus thing on its body. It's pretty gross. The Chia is still partially green, but the damage is done. The spores have infected the whole thing. The Chia is essentially dead.

I continued caring for Soledad, denying that she was actually on her way out, I kept her around, kept watering her, kept fussing. But in the end, there was nothing I could do.

Soledad's time was up.

She looked at me, I looked at her. We saw the spores. And we knew it was time. We said our goodbyes and then I threw her in the bin.

Farewell, fine Soledad Gutenberg! You were a feisty little critter, a kooky combination from two different worlds.  You were a blast while you lasted. Fond memories abound.

Souls in Transit

** in December 2010, i met a stranger who changed my life. this is a true story and nothing in the re-telling below has been enhanced or fabricated... i was so touched by this experience that i immediately knew i wanted to write about it. i took notes almost instantly afterwards, and months later i started to to weave the story back together. this experience has met draft after draft, and about two years later, after setting it aside and coming back to it many times over and over again, i am ready to share this very personal story. my meeting with David continues to give me faith, love, inspiration, and hope when i need it most.**

*********************************************************************************

Chicago felt like it was negative thirty degrees that day. 

Ambulance sirens were blaring, trains overhead were rumbling, the blustery city wind was smacking me in the face like I’d done something very wrong, and the bus shelter looked icy and miserable. The walls were slick with frozen sheets of condensation and the small bench was covered in a thick coat of gray snow. A shockingly cold gust of wind punched my lungs as I breathed in, and as I cried out in sharp pain, I could see my shallow exhale forming pitiful halos in the bitter winter air.

Hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate was suddenly of the greatest importance.

Despite the likelihood I would miss the bus that would get me to my doctor’s appointment on time, I made the split second decision to cross the street, knowing full well that hot chocolate would soothe my tired, weary, chilled self more than being on time would.

I swiftly opened the door to Caribou and ordered a medium. It warmed my gloveless fingers and I turned the cup into makeshift mittens as I walked back to the bus stop. The shelter looked deserted and I quickly assessed that I’d most likely just missed the 156 by minutes.

My hot chocolate consoled me. I looked down at the paper cup and it spoke to me. “It’s okay, friend, I’m frothy and delicious,” it offered. I sighed for only the wind and my beverage to hear. I would just have to wait for the next bus.

I suddenly noticed an old man in the corner of the bus stop. He appeared homeless. He had a pale weathered face the color of ancient aging paper, and bulging eyes that took you in with precision. He had practically no hair, and wore a tattered hat and scarf set that was yellow and dark blue. There was something in his face that looked off, and I immediately supposed he was one of those characters you’d run into in the city who would start talking to himself out of the blue--one of those people you’d always see on buses muttering about Jesus and chocolate bars and yelling at the lady sitting across the aisle to goddamn stop staring at him when all she was probably doing was trying not to look anyway. He shifted and leaned against a metallic red walker. It was the color of a flashy red race car.

If you must use a walker, I supposed, you might as well use one with style. He caught my eye and we held a brief gaze.

“It’s cold.” The homeless man spoke.

I mustered a half nod and then looked away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I didn’t want to answer him. Why would I tell a stranger my destination, let alone one who looked as bedraggled and crazy as the man in front of me?

“Lakeview,” I finally responded. “Where are you going?” It was almost a challenge.

“Maple,” he said simply. “Are you just off work?”

More silence.

“Yes,” I decided to answer.

He looked at me as if I was going to say more and when I did not, he looked away. I thought he would be quiet now-- I was tired and had left work early to go to the doctor. My body was sore and I was aching and the last thing I wanted was to engage in conversation with a crazy old man. The wind whipped around my face and slapped me a few more times.

“Are you married?” the homeless man asked.

I was somewhat stunned. “Married?” I made a noise that sounded halfway stuck between laughter and disgust. “No.”

There would be no silence, I realized.

“Well, how old are you?”

The man was getting personal. I didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with him about anything, let alone why I was still single, especially when we were going to be riding the same bus, but all of a sudden, he didn’t seem so crazy. There was something about him that seemed completely unthreatening. He looked a little helpless even. For a flash, I saw my grandfather in his stance and in his eyes.  And in that moment, I decided to humor him.

“Twenty-nine,” I said. My mind struck me with lightning. “Wait, I’m twenty-eight! Oh God.” It was approaching my birthday and I had already started to accept one more year.

“You’re fine,” he smiled. “You’re young. People get married later these days. Not like when I was growing up---”

I interjected. “Yeah, my grandparents got married when they were just eighteen or so…” 

“---Back then, people got married when they were eighteen,” the old man and I both said eighteen at the same time.

I smiled back at him.

“People didn’t live as long back then.”

“Well, my grandparents lived into their eighties,” I told him.

“Ahh, they were babies,” the man responded.

I focused on the icy ground, contemplating my deceased grandparents and their beautiful sixty-year marriage, unsure whether or not I should be upset that this strange man seemed to be making assumptions about them, unclear as to whether he was insulting them or simply commenting on marriage in the past.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked me.

“Oh I don’t know…”

“Come on, how old.”

I took a good look at him. He looked like he was maybe in his seventies.

“I don’t know, thirty-eight?” I answered playfully.

He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, come on.” He paused for effect as if he was both very proud and very sad at the same time.

“I’m ninety-four years old.”

“Ninety-four!” I was shocked. “I never would have thought. Well, you look very good for ninety-four years old!”

The old man looked pleased with himself.

“I’m David,” he told me. ‘What’s your name?”

Normally I would have given a fake name to a stranger-- partly out of suspicion and partly as a fun game to see what name I could come up with quickly, but somehow, I was not afraid to give him my real name.

“Katherine.”

“I like to talk, you’ll talk with me?” It was both a question and a statement.

“Yes,” I smiled at him again, somewhat charmed by his oldness and his oddness.

He slowly shuffled to the bench and made his way into the seat with great effort. Just as he sat down the bus turned the corner and I immediately felt concerned he’d just exerted so much energy only to have to get up once again. “David, the bus is coming. Let me help you.”

“Oh, it’s here? Finally.”

I took David’s arm, and as the bus rolled up to the sidewalk and stopped in front of us, I stood behind him, making sure he got on okay. We took the row that faced outward and I purposely left one seat between us.

“Sit next to me so I can hear you,” David told me.

I hesitated for a split second but moved next to him anyway.

“I need you to do me a favor. Don’t let me forget this bag of medicine. I did that once before. That’s what I came down here for. I’ll ask you a few times.”

I imagined David getting home and realizing his whole afternoon had been a waste-- that he’d just thrown away precious money on pills he’d left on a lonely bus. “I won’t let you forget it. Promise.”

“Good,” David said.

I looked around. There were several people on the bus, some of them giving me funny looks, I’m sure wondering why I was speaking with this old man who looked very much at first to be something he was not. I ignored them. I imagined how lonely he must be. Ninety-four. Getting his own medicine. Astonishingly able to navigate the city by himself at his age, he was a bit of a marvel. And it seemed he just wanted someone to talk to. I had time, my doctor lived Near North and David was getting off at Maple. Maybe we would have ten, fifteen minutes on the bus together.

“What do you do,” David asked me.

Here we go. “I’m an actor.”

“An actor… It takes a lot of work and a lot of luck in your field.”

“I know.”

“There are a lot of untalented people in your field.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You need luck for money, to be at the top.”

“You sound like my mother,” I sighed.

“And without that luck, you’re never going to be making a lot of money.”

I was quiet, contemplating why I had ever chosen this career. A life of rejection and self-imposed poverty. So often it made me question everything about myself…my talent, my looks, my purpose.  So often it was so difficult.

“You know that,” he said. Again, it seemed to be both a question and a statement the way he said it.

“I know all too well, David....” I didn’t know what else to say.

David quipped in. “Do you love what you do?”

Visions of my work flashed in my eyes. The words, the emotions, the tears, the humor, the intense joy I would feel when the right human qualities would surface at just the right moment, the unexpected beauty and grief that would surprise me, the constant search for answers…There was so much uncertainty in a life on the stage, and yet there was nothing else I could ever see myself doing.

“Yes…I do. I really do,” I told him. And I meant it with all my heart.

David took me in with his huge eyes. His pale skin and large nose made his face look like an antique painting. I saw so many people in his face. People I had never met, people I had always known, people I would meet in the future. We had a powerful and silent understanding in that moment.

“I loved what I did,” he offered.

“What did you do, David?” I asked. I was truly interested in this man’s life.

“I was a liberal lawyer, graduated class of ’39 at Northwestern. And then World War II was two years later…. I’m Jewish.”

“That’s amazing, David.” I meant it.

“I still work sometimes. Corporate law.”

“Really?” I was a bit surprised, but his mind, indeed, was still very sharp.

“Yes, people still ask me for help. I love that. It’s a compliment.”

“It is definitely a compliment,” I agreed.      

“I don’t do it as much anymore. All the lawyers I help keep dying.”

I realized what an astonishing man this was. David had lived such a full life and had outlived so many. At ninety-four years of age, I wondered if he had anyone left in his world he could talk to, if he had any family or friends he could count on. We could both feel this reality sting the air.

“I would have guessed you were an actress, anyway, with your personality,” he changed the topic.

“Why is that, David?” I smiled.

“You keep doing these funny things with your mouth.”    

   

I laughed, embarrassed. “I’ll take that as a compliment?” I wondered aloud.

“Yes, it’s a compliment!” he assured me. We sat for a moment. “Do you have a boyfriend?” David asked me. He was in no way coming on to me, he really just seemed curious about my life.

I had one once, I thought to myself.

“No,” I said simply.

“If you find a doctor or a lawyer, grab him,” David advised me seriously.      

        

“Ha, now you DO sound like my mother!” I laughed.                                        

“Your mother’s got a lot of common sense.”

All of a sudden the bus lurched forward and David grabbed my hand as I moved my arm in front of him. I felt protective of him, and visions of my mother driving me in the car as a child flashed through my mind. I remembered how she would always move her right arm in front of me whenever she had suddenly pressed on the brakes, as though her arm would protect me from flying through the windshield, as though her arm had the power to protect me from traffic and bad guys and everything else in the world that could ever hurt me. Sometimes I wished I still had my mother’s arm in front of me, protecting me from the world.

David was still holding onto my hand. He looked a bit embarrassed and apologetic. “I’ve fallen before,” he explained. He still didn’t let go of my hand. And I didn’t let go of his.

“It’s okay, David,” I told him. We continued to hold hands on the 156 LaSalle bus going north. We were a strange pair, the two of us, and yet, I think we were both slightly comforted by this random act of human connection.

“You have warm hands,” he told me. “Warm hands, warm heart.” I smiled  that he had confused the proverb.

“I think that’s because I’m drinking hot chocolate!” I guessed. “Normally my hands are always cold.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“…Does it bother you?” he finally asked.

“What, that my hands are always cold?” I laughed, confused.

David looked serious. “No, that you don’t have a boyfriend…”

I looked away. I had only just met this man, had only just started to talk to him maybe fifteen minutes earlier, but in this short time, David had somehow found the two things in my life that I was most uncertain of--my career as an actress and the lack of love in my life--and had exposed them both. He had looked into my eyes and seen through my hot chocolate and my layers of winter gear and had stripped me down to the most very basic elements. And the very simple facts on this very cold and very gray winter day in Chicago were that, yes, I felt uncertain of the direction of my life and, yes, I felt very much alone. And it did bother me. Not all the time, but when it did bother me, it bothered me very much. I knew that past relationships had ended for good reasons, had ended because they were supposed to, but the truth was, it was hard to be alone in the city--hard to be alone in general--when you had at one time not been alone. It occurred to me that David was very much alone, as well.

“No, I’m doing alright.”

“It shouldn’t bother you.” He could see through me.

I turned back to him, afraid I might unravel.  “No? Why’s that, David.”  

  

His own eyes twinkled as he looked straight into mine.

“Because you never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

And I could say nothing in that moment.

His words resonated within my heart. I hadn’t known why I’d met David. I had almost gotten on a different bus altogether. I had almost avoided any type of conversation with this man at all. But his warmth and strangeness, his wisdom and knowledge had all culminated in this one last exchange, in this one beautiful and simple message that seemed to calm all of my insecurities at once. We looked into each other’s eyes. I felt a calmness and an affirmation I hadn’t even known I’d been looking for.

David kissed my hand.

“This has been a very fruitful ride for me,” he beamed.

“…For me, too, David.”

“I think you’re going to be alright,” he assured me.

We started passing the streets that meant his street was coming up. I pulled on the cord for the next stop. “This is you, David.”

I helped him get up slowly. “Oh! Your medicine!” I grabbed his bag for him and hung it on one of the handles of his walker, assisting him to the front of the bus. He had told me he would remind me more than once not to forget his medicine. But he’d forgotten. I was glad I’d remembered for him.

I helped him through the opening doors onto the sidewalk. David stood outside and I stood in the doorframe, a final tableau of a meeting I would never forget.

His next words endeared him to me even more.

“I hope that I brought you good luck,” he whispered.

I took him in, this unexpected man, and let his words hold me. “Me too,” I managed to breathe. “Merry Christmas, David. Happy holidays.” The doors closed. It occurred to me as soon as I said it how silly it was of me to have wished him a “Merry Christmas.” He had told me he was Jewish earlier in our conversation. I wished I’d told him I’d been raised Jewish too. I held his image in my heart, part of me wanting to get off the bus with him. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. But the doors closed and the bus drove off. I looked behind me and saw David steering his race car red walker down the icy sidewalk.

I sat back down, the entire conversation replaying in my mind. It was remarkable how intimately we had spoken with each other in so short a time. How deeply he had observed my soul and how simply I had offered my soul to him to be observed. I wondered why I hadn’t asked him more questions--how I didn’t know anything about his current life, if he had someone to take care of him, if he had a daughter or a wife, a grandchild or a caretaker---if he had anyone. But even though he’d obviously enjoyed having someone to talk to, David had seemed to know right from the start that this meeting was not to be about him. Rather, he had known that this chance meeting on this chance winter afternoon had been about teaching me a lesson I desperately needed to learn. 

You never know what is going to happen tomorrow.

I thought about David and I thought about my existence and tears came to my eyes as I realized I would never forget him and the lesson he had taught me. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this meeting had not been by chance like I’d first thought, but rather, it had always been meant to happen.

And almost as if I had been visited by an angel, the bus continued on its way north while I held close to my heart David’s beautiful belief that, yes, I was going to be alright.