Friday, October 10, 2014

of loving with a man

“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow - this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”

“I think I deserve something beautiful.”

“People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each others personalities. Who wouldn’t? Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person. But that’s not the clever trick. The really clever trick is this: Can you accept the flaws? Can you look at your partner’s faults honestly and say, ‘I can work around that. I can make something out of it"

I remember a few months ago making the crazy request to Life that one day I might be brave enough to have love become real again. And I don't mean the capital L love, like Love for Life. I don't mean that. I mean Lover love.

of Loving with a man...and I mean the real kind of loving of present person, the kind of loving that is actually with you in the arena of true intimacy, loving a present man, a man that stays long enough to really “see you” without a drive to change you, or skip over you, to look over you or look past you...of that kind of loving with a man, I made the insane request of loving with that man. And it happened. I'm loving with that man.

I didn't know that fully knowing myself, that journeying into the depths of my very soul, would show me the parts of me that I most appreciate. The ones I rely on to get through when I need strength to carry the pain of what it means to be a human living in a world where mom's get sick and need our strength, where kids get hurt and need our strength, where our own souls get beat up and need our own strength. I didn't know I would find Love there. And I didn't know that finding that place inside of me would show me the things of me that I am most scared of, that makes me hide from the Magic I stop seeing, that makes me doubt the Grace that always is, that makes me run from the Beauty that surrounds me. I didn't know I would also find Love there. I didn't know that the journey of discovering this Soul would make the standing in the true intimacy of being fully seen by the man that is looking at me, the bravest act of loving with a man.

I am loving with that man that stays long enough to fully see all of me.

I didn't know that loving with a man would be so scary and so sweet.

I guess I didn't know a lot of things until I let him in. And then I moved in with him.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Sleeping with Hope

Last night I went on a date to Tower Theater to see a movie. The movie touched on subjects like the experience of psychics and mediums, of logic and reason, and about the human drive towards and away from these in the adventure of Hope. It spoke about deluded optimism and rational pessimism. It talked about reason in love and unreasonable love. He was a magician using the trick of illusion to alter reality, she was a fake psychic doing the same thing. I left the theater with a sense of the forever existing human tension between what is real and what is not and that heavy feeling that Hope is much too often tucked-in bed with delusional optimism; like a desperate, torrid love affair. 

The movie's subjects would not have been as interesting to me be it not for a conversation I had with my sister hours prior. Something in particular, this in essence:

--Gabby, I would hate to see you hurt again.

--I will definitely be hurt again, but it won't be because of my past anymore.

--What? Don't say that.

I was looking up definitions of these words that seem to hold more than my small mind can really untangle. Merriam-Webster gives good words for big words. Hope: to desire, to cherish a desire....with anticipation of obtainment. How could someone not feel that...Hope. Is Hope always cradled in delusional optimism? I'm sure there is some movie out there that talks about rational optimism? Delusional pessimism? I'm sure there are...but last night I did not see those. Last night I saw delusional optimist and rational pessimism. And in my last conversation with my sister I felt like a rational pessimist bordering on delusional, and yet there was Hope.

Merrriam-Webster gives hard words for big words. Delusion: belief held with strong conviction despite superior evidence to the contrary...superior evidence to the contrary....superior evidence to the contrary. Reason: based on facts, optimal for achieving goal. And Optimism? Hopefulness and confidence of a favorable outcome. Pessimism: a tendency to anticipate bad or undesirable outcomes. If its true or not, I'm not sure...if its real or not, I don't know, but do we tuck-in Hope in bed with a delusional optimism more often then not as the movie suggested?  Does Hope sleep with rational pessimism? Can Hope even exist in rational optimism, is it needed then?

People are full of delusions, they are full of reason, of optimism and of pessimism...we sleep with this, that, and the other. Sometimes I am a rational pessimist, sometimes I'm delusional and pessimistic. I am definitely prone to reason, but sometimes I am the quintessential delusional optimist. Always, I cherish my desire for obtainment...what I get, I make it up as I go.

I sleep with Hope.Just me and Hope.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Love, Named

I didn't expect that fast could feel so slow and that slow could fit so much. A thing about Love. Love. Love. Love. The thing about Love. Love. Love. Love.

Its the story I haven't told yet. That I'm in Love. And he Loves me. 

And although just one letter changed, a new sweet sound my Love now names.  Meet Noe. 

Friday, July 25, 2014


This summer in the east coast I crossed off a bucket list item, one that I possibly should have crossed off during previous trips to the east but had not paid enough attention to its discovery. If I did, I do not have memory of it. This summer I saw fireflies. California is not hospitable to these amazing little beetles so we, Californians, must take trips in pursuit of their blinking light.

On the evening of my return from the music festival called Firefly, I was sitting alone in the patio of an old Victorian home writing in my journal. It must have been at least an hour before I noticed neon lights blinking around me. How can my attention be so fickle that it misses the light, the blinking light? I stopped writing and allowed the 8 year old girl inside be swept by the Magic of Fireflies, albeit the 31 year-old woman that I am was slightly embarrassed by my childlike wonder...whatever.

I left for my Summer of Music adventure excited to leave again, excited to be somewhere new where everything would seem “upside down” in my mind. Where I could get lost in Unknown parts, where I could make up new stories in my mind that would give new depths to the experiences of my life. I left without knowing when I would return. I left wanting to be gone and disappearing into adventures. I left my cat, Gimena, with my parents. I left my refrigerator empty, my apartment cleaned, and my bills paid. I left like I left last summer when I really left everything behind, when I left nothing behind: no home, no pet, no city, no contracts. This summer, I left like I left last summer.

I landed in Savannah, Georgia late at night in hot, humid air that felt as sweet as it did sultry...a feeling that I'd wear on the curve of my hips that would be deepened with the yet-to-be-discovered touch of his hand. It didn't take long before I discovered the new terrain of my soul. It was as if the parts Unknown of the Georgia South crashed against the parts Known of the California North. And I realized that I was feeling something forgotten that I had never imagined my gypsy-soul would feel again: Homesick.

Homesick flooded my experienced this Summer of Music. It was like a magical potion called “longing to stay”. But unlike the longings of summer's past, this longing to stay was not about staying in a foreign place or searching for a new place or desiring “something other” was the consolidation of Home. And I don't mean just a city, or the contract that I signed, or the lease that I'm in, or the bed I do or don't sleep in...those where just the pieces of the puzzle called Reality that I invented or that were Given to me (I can't tell the difference) where I wrote the story that I wanted to write. And they feel like Home. But I was searching for something deeper than just the pieces of reality, I wanted the parts outside to be a reflection of the parts inside. I wanted Consolidation of Inner and Outer, Imagination and Reality...I wanted my outer world, the things you see, to be a reflection of the things I see inside of me. I wanted my life to feel like a story you can know me by...I wanted it all.  And that turned out to be Home. I have all I want and I want all I have. And in recent weeks, there is so much more.

Like the Fireflies that evening in the patio, my attention again missed the blinking light of the feeling of Home in Sacramento. But upon its discovery, once again I gave myself to a childlike wonder of the Light.

I left without knowing that I had left a lot behind. And that was Music.

And then I returned.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

As if by Gypsy Magic

As a school psychologist, I do my life's work in the school system. Among the many things that that means, it means that I have the summer off to play a different kind of daily life game for weeks and weeks at a time. It also means that I have endless hours to think of something other than children. That comes with a great deal of excitement and anticipation plus a series of questions that sound something like this: Where will my thinking wander off to when kids are not there to ground and frame my thinking?  Who/what will keep me up at night? Where will I go when children's instability won't be there to stabilize me? Where will I Wander to?

The week before summer vacation began, I was working on my end-of-the-year work checklist that needed to be completed before leaving for summer. On a warm Wednesday of the week before vacation, Wandering happened somewhere inside of me and it was time to go. Oh my restless gypsy soul, I still have a few more days of work to work, why did you show up so early?

I woke up, this Wednesday, and I wore a green dress.  The only dress, and I've got many, that makes me look at myself in the full length mirror more than once to double check the length.  One time, then once more...and one last time. Its always the same conclusion, its not too short, especially if I wear it with flats...maybe covered-toe flats...otherwise, too much skin?  I wore the green dress.

I don't know if it was the warmth of the day, the green dress and opened-toe shoes, my messy curly hair, or my nerves about dancing Salsa that night but I was ready...I was ready for Wandering: to capture something new, to see something different, to feel something more. But it's Wednesday and I still need to go to work.

And it happened that on that warm Wednesday morning, I rearranged my office and I captured something new. I moved my desk closer to the window and I saw something different. I organized my books, my photos, my things and I felt something more. My movement, my vision. Mine. My gypsy yearning felt  satisfied. I went along the rest of the day and did my work. And I did good work.

And then I really knew that the summer of music had begun before I even left.

One Republic and The Script

And then I left...

Friday, May 30, 2014

Once upon this time

I'm thinking about the language of my heart, the way I experience the different aspects of who I have been, who I am, and the woman I’m always becoming. I think about how I write that out, how I write Her out. And who doesn’t think about that?

Once upon a time, as the story always goes, I shared myself with you as I uncoiled me from the spinning spiral of my double helix relationship with him and grief and death and love, his love, my love, our story. Why I shared it…I don’t know. It certainly is not easy exposing a wound…its like 1000 times that strange, uncomfortable yet exciting and intoxicating experience of taking your clothes off for the first time in front of someone who knows how to appreciate nakedness. And I don't mean a physical act, but that one too. Do you know that feeling?

Once upon this time, as the story now begins, I share myself today with you as I uncover me, a sitting still single strand of curving wave relationship with the woman I am always becoming. In the last months I have been working on this “thing”. Sometimes I call it Eva Luna. Sometimes I write it out, like writing a book. Sometimes I talk about it over coffee, drinks or dinner with girlfriends. Sometimes it wakes me up, bright and early energy that wants to swallow whole the day. Sometimes is soft and supple, sometimes hard and edgy. Sometimes I dance salsa with it, sometimes I flirt with it at some Spanish restaurant, sometimes it holds my hand walking down a street because sometimes its with a man. Sometimes he wants too much from me and sometimes he wants so little its not enough. Sometimes it wears a fitted skirt, sometimes it bares the back.

I’m about to start telling a new story. A story where the relationship is not a pair of double helix strands crossing each others boundaries, floating about without touching each others fiery core. I’m going to put my hands in the fire and tell you the stories of the single strand I pulled from a spinning double helix that turned out to be the curvy wave of a woman’s soul.

And although the story began some time ago, it will start here, with you, sharing a summer of music. And of course, some gypsy traveling.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014


Like a shooting star that holds my gaze, She flies on by and guides my sight. Like a wishful wish, I wish for Her.

And in the dark, I catch a glimpse... I see Her Light, I see a curve, I feel an edge that prods in firm. The edge in me, a curve in Her.

And when I wish upon that star, to curve the edge within this heart: a chisel flakes, it cuts and carves the pieces of edgy cuts and carves to form the Stars.

And in the dawn of a new night, a curve appears and bends the Light and a new path protects my flight.