the old man and the red sweatshirt woman

i keep playing it back in my mind in slow motion. in real-time, though, it happened so quickly. the roar of the crowd. the pounding of footsteps on pavement as racers held the finish line in their sights just fifty yards ahead. metal crowd separators stood between us and the runners in the lanes leading them just fifty yards ahead to the finish line. on the far side, separated by red ticker-tape were the marathoners in their own lane. on the near side, closest to me were the half-marathoners, so close to finishing, yet so far away. my eyes scanned for a single familiar face as i stood on my tippy toes and watched too many strangers to count run by.

a man in his late fifties or early sixties as he came into my sight, as if i was meant to see him. just as he passed my foothold in the crowd outside his running lane, i watched his body pause and head almost snap back. he dropped to the ground and i saw, heard, felt his head smack the asphalt. his body lay limp for a single second before he began to convulse. is anyone else watching this? i looked around as the women huddled next to me in search of their own family member or friend looked on in horror. several runners stopped and kneeled next to the man, unsure of what to do or how to help.

i gasped for air, feeling claustrophobic but unable to move or look away or close my eyes. someone yelled for a medic. the man seized again and i felt tears streaming down my face, and a rock in my throat, which must've risen from the pit of my stomach where it sat quietly just moments before. a medical team arrived and asked everyone to step away. people around the man scuffled and scattered. a woman kneeling next to the man did not get up, but continued whatever she was doing. a medic must've asked her to step away again, because she yelled, "i'm a nurse and a paramedic, i know what i'm doing!" more scuffling as the medic came in closer and allowed the nurse to continue working while he asked her questions to understand the man's situation.

i looked on and saw the man had stopped moving. complete stillness. a woman next to me said, "oh god, i think he's dead." i don't know what possessed me to look back over but when i did i saw the man lying limp, except for the movements from the nurse performing cpr on him. i turned away and didn't look back.

just as i turned away from the scene, erin returned from her search for our first friend to cross the finish line to report that she lost him in the chaos beyond the finish line. she asked if i'd seen our other friend and i said, "no," then explained that a man had passed out right in front of me, cracked his head on the pavement in seizures and now they were giving him cpr. tears had been on my cheeks, but now i couldn't contain my sobs and erin pulled me away from the crowd to console me.

i sobbed uncontrollably in her arms for what seemed like forever, thinking to myself, stop being so stupid, dian! you don't even know the guy. i paused for a moment, lifted my head and said, "i can't see that man die, we have to go now," then dropped my head again and wailed more sobs into erin's shoulder. she tried to honor my request and back me away, but my legs would not move.

once my emotions were somewhat under control, we walked forty feet closer to the finish line and stood back from the fence, where we could still see racers pass by, but where the crowd also blocked my view of the man and his cpr administration. i stood facing the race lane, near catatonic as visions of my father flooded my mind.

seizures in the hospital. seizures that started in the early afternoon and got progressively worse until 3am, but didn't subside completely until after 6am. seizures i documented from 10pm to 5am, cataloging length, intensity, and interval. seizures i witness alone while the rest of the family slept comfortably in their beds like i'd asked them to. seizures i thought i'd moved past, more than five years after his death. seizures i now knew i would never forget.

just to my right, a woman in a red sweatshirt slunk down to her butt and held on to the legs of a woman in a white sweatshirt standing next to her to keep her from falling completely to the ground. the white sweatshirt woman removed her sweatshirt, folded it up and put it under the red sweatshirt woman's head for comfort. a police officer walked past and asked the women if they were okay. he spoke into the speaker/microphone attached to his shoulder, an extension of the walkie talkie on his belt and calls for paramedics.

just after an ambulance pulled up to the scene, erin overheard someone say something about an iv. she looked over to the area the medics had been tending to the man to see the paramedics were preparing to load the man onto a stretcher. the red sweatshirt woman next to me seemed to be fine, although she would also be loaded onto a stretcher for further precautionary evaluation.

it was super bowl sunday, and we had plans to watch the game at a friend's house later in the day. the thought of laughing and cheering being anywhere other than on my couch with my girl and my dog made my stomach churn. erin canceled our plans on my behalf and held me tight. my heart pounded as i thought about the man getting on the stretcher and being taken away. i was relieved to think he'd survived. a wave of tears came and i let them. no sobs, no sounds, just tears, and the slight rise of another lump in my throat. both the tears and the lump subsided within sixty seconds and i focused on the race again, attempting to pause the loop of my father's seizures.

erin's face lit up and she screamed our friend's name. i followed her lead and found myself surprised to be hooting and hollering right along with her, "wooohoo! yeah, you did it!" in between whistles and clapping, the ring on my middle finger slapping up against the bones on the inside of my palm. erin grabbed my hand and asked if i was ready to go find them.

i was ready. ready to leave the man in his ambulance on his way to recovery. ready to leave the red sweatshirt woman in the care of the white sweatshirt woman and the paramedics. ready to leave my father's seizures and my heavy heart at the finish line and move on to whatever was next.

we found our friends, congratulated them on their half marathon finishes, and chatted for an hour before heading back to our respective homes. erin and i stopped for lunch on the way home and i continued to process the morning's events. i apologized for bringing up the man and the sound of his head hitting the pavement and his seizures again, but i needed to process it all, rather than let the tape of my father's seizures continue to loop in my head. she held my hand and let me talk, let me cry, let me be.

---

as i sit here this morning trying to put everything together and make sense of yesterday's events, i'm struck by just how random life really is. that man woke up yesterday morning to run a half marathon, and instead got within fifty yards of finishing to be taken away in an ambulance, barely clinging to life. a woman woke up yesterday morning, put on her red sweatshirt to cheer on a friend or family member, and passed out on the sidelines, missing whomever she'd been cheering on.

and me, i woke up thinking i'd do some cheering, some eating, some more cheering and more eating, surrounded by friends. instead i was reminded of just how fragile life is, how sacred the space on my couch is, and how my memory isn't about what's important, but what's impacted me the most, no matter how much i try to forget.

---

sometimes we're the old man who's so close to finishing, and life takes over with its own agenda. sometimes we're the woman in the red sweatshirt who pushes herself too hard for the sake of another, doing more damage to ourselves than good for another. and sometimes we're the innocent bystander who watches it all and tries to piece the learning together for the good of us all.

Detox Tea, Unknown Release, and Being a Better Person for No Apparent Reason at All

it's been windy most of the early afternoon. rainy most of last night, although just enough to send a few drops every other second maddeningly down the rain gutter from the top of the second floor to the base of the house, just outside the bedroom.

haven't been sleeping well lately. been drinking detox tea this past week and i believe it's working. slowly, but surely. i listened to a detox meditation track a couple of days ago while i focused on a single word: release. it worked.

i bawled uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes. other than the tears and gut wrenching cries, i have no idea what i released. i was grateful to be at home alone. grateful to have a puppy to lick my tears when it was all over. and grateful that i didn't feel sad or weepy for a single second after the meditation was over.

detox. i almost don't know what i'm detoxing from. i know i have things to release, i can feel it in my bones. i just don't know what i need to release. i'm fine with not knowing. it's kind of like tossing a box in the garage after not opening it for two or twelve years.

i can sense i'm in the middle of a great shift. i'll look back on this period in my life and know that this was when things started to change for me. again. funny thing is, i thought things could only change for the better when everything was falling apart. it's almost odd that nothing is falling apart, and still i'm in deep need of release, in this deep bend into a shift.

i'm tired of spending time on things that don't matter. i'm tired of making up reasons to do things, as if they do matter. i'm tired of idolizing a minimalist life. i'm tired of walking along pretending i'm getting accustomed to all the changes in my life over the last few years. i'm accustomed. and it's time for more change, more growth.

in a space of clarity around what's important to me: family, friends-that-are-like-family, animals-that-are-family, my health, laughter, being myself, and growth, i see spaces of comfort, spaces of resistance, spaces of longing, and room for exploration.

this is no mid-life crisis. i am not leaving anyone, i'm not dissatisfied with my life or relationship, and i'm not in need of a brand new shiny car to prove to myself that i'm not getting any older.

i just want to be a better person today than i was yesterday. and a better person tomorrow than i am today.

it's not that i'm not good enough or that i'm trying to be perfect. i guess it's more that gravity is what it is, and i feel pulled. i am not a moth pulled toward a flame, drawn to my own demise by forces i don't understand. i am a person pulled toward the universe, drawn to my expansion by my own intuition.

i don't need to fall apart to understand that. at least, not today.

A Year Ago on DRW: Lather, Rinse, Repeat

August 11, 2009:

I just finished the book. My emotions are all over the place. I cried this morning because Erin walked past me as she got ready for work. Which is what she does every morning, but this morning I wanted her to stop. To stop and look at me. Notice that tears were welling in my eyes. Notice that my emotions were too raw for her to get ready for work. I walked around the house. I fed the cats. I sat on the bed. And when she walked in to get dressed, I could barely get the words out, "I'm feeling a little emotional today." I cried in her arms and didn't know exactly why I was crying. Guess I didn't need to know.

This morning I printed a copy of the book and handed it to a friend to give me some feedback. I'm headed to Kinkos as soon as I'm finished with this blog and printing off six more copies. One for Texas, One for Orange County, two for Long Beach, one for Studio City, and one for Venice Beach. Some are giving me technical feedback of, "take this out, put that there, add more here," and some are giving me real life feedback of, "this really spoke to me, wish there was more on that."

My emotions seem to be bred from fear. Fear that it's all crap. Fear that I just spent three years putting my soul on paper and it's not going to amount to anything. Fear that I'll get ripped to shreds in the feedback that I've gone and asked for. I realize the fears are unfounded, even irrational. The important thing is that I'm processing through it. Feeling the fear, addressing the fear, and moving forward anyway. It's the only way to let the fear go. It will come up again, I'm sure of it. No life is sans fear. And when it does, lather, rinse, repeat.

The book has since taken on another series of rewrites and is hoping to be edited again soon. This is the kind of book I can't rush, and still I know it's dying to be ready by all of your eyes.

In Progress (Aren't We All?)

Draft 7 is on the way. In progress (aren't we all?). Streaming wildly, slowly, softly, thoroughly. Writing in stream of consciousness style of late, and it seems to be working. The connection to my father grows and grows as the days without him pass me by. It seems to me that the connection I create (retain?) by writing about him and me and our relationship and what it was like to lose him and live with him and take care of him and feel guilty for not taking better care of him, for not making him well and making him beat the cancer. By writing about all of this, my love soars and my heart grows for him. I have new and old appreciations coming to light for all of my relationships. I feel less at ease with questions in passing and long for deep conversations about who you are and what's important to you. I feel motivated to share this connection with my father, to share this connection with you, with him, with her, with everyone, everywhere. Because aren't we all connected? Don't we all share something (what is it, what is it??) with each other? We share this emotion, this passion, this grace, this gratitude, this life, this focus, this awareness, this conscious effort to [be who I am], this grief, this loss, this air, this memory—albeit for different things, but we share it nonetheless.

And so I remain in progress, as ever I will be while I'm alive (don't you, too?). At some point the book will be finished and cease to be in progress, but me, I prefer to always be on to the next bit of growth.

As for the book...I'll be testing excerpts (although is it still an excerpt if it doesn't actually end up in the book?) to see how it feels to get some of this out into the world.

I must remember to breathe.

Inspired

always too long since the last post. the thing about blah blah blah is blah blah blah. it's all the same thing. i've got to get back to being connected to writing. i've got to get reconnected. and i've got to realize that the connection is never lost. this is not like a magnetic field that gets interrupted, this connection i have to my source is all powerful, all abundant, and so is my ability for keeping things invisible. like my good state of mind. it's always good but sometimes i think it's not because i hide it from myself. where does it go, my good state of mind? it goes in the closet, out the door, left behind with the shoes i wore last week on a run, or maybe in the grass where jackson peed while we were on our run. he looks so free when he takes off running without me. i let the leash down and tell him, go 'head good boy, and he runs and runs and runs as if he'll never come back and then he reaches that point, that same point every time, only sometimes it's 5 yards, sometimes it's 50 yards away, where he stops and turns around, looks over his shoulder to make sure i'm still running behind him, still trying to catch up with him, and then takes off for another sprint way. and all the while i see myself in him, longing to have that run to be free and let myself loose with each moment of each day. only i feel like i can't be that free, i can't be that loose because there are bills to pay and mouths to feed, bills to feed and mouths to pay. oh jewel, where are the days when you wrote a good song again? but songs won't reconnect me to writing. or maybe they will. maybe that's what i'm missing is to turn on some music and get myself inspired, like the blog told me to. i read a blog this morning that told me to read newspapers and magazines and blogs to get inspired, and to listen to music and the radio to get inspired. hogwash. inspiration comes from beauty and i don't feel beautiful right now. i feel horrid. and cold. and disengaged. and there is no inspiration from where i'm sitting, but i can't seem to choose to get up. the cold keeps me here, staring out a window that surely holds beauty on the other side of it, but I can't for the life of me figure out where. and so i sit here, waiting for inspiration to find me, inspire me, take hold of me and toss me around like a rag doll until i am shaken and stirred, like a dirty neat martini on a friday night.

Digging Deeper and Oprah's Couch

Today I get back to work on the book. There are parts that I need to dig deeper into, so I'm starting that process today. I'm simply writing short stories about my mom and I, my dad and I, and Reese and I. I thought I was done digging deep, but I'm learning that life is all about digging; deeper is where the goods are.

So with today comes a breath of fresh air, fresh life into the book. I don't know that everything I'll be working on in the next couple of weeks will even make it into the book, but I must start this process.

I had a dream I was on Oprah's yellow couch, listening to her talk about my book. Maybe that's because I (poorly, as you can see, but it gets the job done!) photoshopped myself onto her couch last week with my book in her hands. I believe in the law of attraction, and am certain that posting it on my vision board will help me get there. Of course, I know that just posting it won't get me there...and that's where the digging comes back into play.

So, off to dig I go...I wonder what I will find for you....

Thursday Exploration

Yesterday was a day of exploration. My friend, Lisa Mae, and I got on a train in Long Beach and headed north at 9AM this morning. Here's a recap of our experiences:


A man with extraordinarily long legs sat next to me, and was gracious enough to apologize when his knees bumped me along the ride. My favorite part of his interaction with me was his direct eye contact. Eye contact can be so uncomfortable with strangers, yet with this man, I saw his kindness and warmth, without an ounce of "I bet you'll look away before me!" What a great start to the morning!

A woman on the train just a few minutes later began a conversation with Lisa Mae over her hair. Lisa Mae apparently resembles the woman's daughter, and so she felt it necessary to give Lisa Mae tips on how to dye and take care of her hair. After the short conversation, the woman moved back a couple rows to sit with her friend, and continued to stare in silence at Lisa Mae until she stepped off the train. I guess we all need a little conversation.

We walked up one street and down another and across another and back up the same street to find a breakfast spot near the Staples Center. Thinking we were headed for IHOP (which we weren't terribly excited about, but it seemed to be the only place promising to be open in the area before noon), we happened upon The Original Pantry Cafe and proceeded to eat breakfast inside the Historical Landmark. Do you know they've never been closed since they opened their doors in 1924? They don't even have locks on the doors!







There are no bars on Sunset between Vine and Highland (aside from the one inside the Arclight, which we bypassed, thinking another would be just up the street--not a good idea, walking in 100-degree weather). Lisa Mae said out loud to me, for no apparent reason, "I'd love to see Michael Jackson's star!" Just a few minutes after her wish, on our way up to Hollywood Blvd from Sunset (simply because that was the route we accidentally took), we glanced down to find this:


My, the Universe is speedy.

We had a drink in Hooters and all I can say about that is: it must be hot running around in those pantyhose all day.

We skipped half-way down a street block to a vintage clothing store. While skipping, I turned to Lisa Mae and said, "I don't think it's possible to skip without smiling!!"

While walking around City Walk at Universal, this sign caught Lisa Mae's eye:


So then we did this:

If you know me at all, you know that I despise the heights. Especially the variety where people jump out of planes that aren't even on fire. It seemed like a happy medium, where the wind came out of the ground, I never got more than 6 feet off the ground (which I think is a pretty good way to stay away from 6 feet under it), and I didn't have to jump out of a plane. Afterward, we celebrated with a beer.


This man joined us on the last leg of our trip back to Long Beach:


He brought his own chair and sat at the head of the train. It was like he planned to have an audience. In my bliss of the day, and enjoying my previous experience of direct eye contact on the train, I looked the man in the eye and smiled. This was apparently his cue for action. He took off his headphones and began to preach verses from the Bible. I sat next to Lisa Mae and watch this man perform his sermon of sorts, delighted with his passion for the Lord. And then it turned... well, I'll let you be the judge. He said (and I quote), "God don't like it when one woman lick on another woman. No he don't." He went on to say something about balls on a billy goat and a giant knocking at the door, at which point I stopped listening. But with all the ruckus of his ranting, I couldn't help but look up at him every now and then and smile. One of the times I looked up at him, he looked me right in the eye and said he'd kill me if I raped his wife. I had and ahve no intention, so I felt safe. A few minutes later a LA County Sheriff's officer stepped forwards and we all though he'd escort the screaming man off the train. He did not. He pulled out his ticket book just before the train stopped, stepped off the train and proceeded to walk to patrons on the deck to see if they had a ticket for the train. Apparently it's more important to the Sheriff's office that you pay for a ticket for the train than maintain orderly conduct once you're on it. Which isn't to say that I wanted the screaming man to get arrested, or even a ticket, I just would have liked a quieter ride home. But I guess if I had that, I wouldn't have this story to tell you.


And that was our day. How was yours?


For another spin on this day from me, go here.

Holding Period

I hardly know what to do with myself now that this phase of the book is done. I printed 10 copies total and have sent nine out for reading and feedback. I hope it's not too much feedback. I hope it's not too little. Maybe I'll be like Goldie Locks.

I can't seem to remember all the little projects I used to distract me from writing the book (for a while there I seemed to be pretty good at finding things to do that were not writing my book). You'd think a writer would have made a list...

Maybe I'll paint a little. Maybe I'll start another writing project. Maybe I'll golf. Maybe I'll coach. Maybe I'll take a bath in the middle of the day just because I can. Maybe I'll cook up some poetry, or an essay, just for fun. Maybe I'll celebrate. Whatever I do, it won't have anything to do with opening up a word document from the folder, "7 Days". At least not until September 1st. Seems like the right thing to do, to wait for the feedback before I start making changes.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat (Or: Holy Crap)

I just finished the book. My emotions are all over the place. I cried this morning because Erin walked past me as she got ready for work. Which is what she does every morning, but this morning I wanted her to stop. To stop and look at me. Notice that tears were welling in my eyes. Notice that my emotions were too raw for her to get ready for work. I walked around the house. I fed the cats. I sat on the bed. And when she walked in to get dressed, I could barely get the words out, "I'm feeling a little emotional today." I cried in her arms and didn't know exactly why I was crying. Guess I didn't need to know.

This morning I printed a copy of the book and handed it to a friend to give me some feedback. I'm headed to Kinkos as soon as I'm finished with this blog and printing off six more copies. One for Texas, One for Orange County, two for Long Beach, one for Studio City, and one for Venice Beach. Some are giving me technical feedback of, "take this out, put that there, add more here," and some are giving me real life feedback of, "this really spoke to me, wish there was more on that."

My emotions seem to be bred from fear. Fear that it's all crap. Fear that I just spent three years putting my soul on paper and it's not going to amount to anything. Fear that I'll get ripped to shreds in the feedback that I've gone and asked for. I realize the fears are unfounded, even irrational. The important thing is that I'm processing through it. Feeling the fear, addressing the fear, and moving forward anyway. It's the only way to let the fear go. It will come up again, I'm sure of it. No life is sans fear. And when it does, lather, rinse, repeat.

30 Minutes

I'm in the middle of so many things I can hardly keep myself sane. I'm updating my Twitter and Facebook accounts, and redesigning my coaching website. I'm creating a brand for myself and my coaching company, Authentic Realities Coaching (actually, I'm having someone else create it and I'm just approving it). I'm working on a coaching workshop on coming out for the LGBTQ community (and friends and families of). I'm building my coaching practice (2 clients and counting). And I'm working on the book with a deadline of July 31st to finish draft #6 and have it ready to be edited.

I've barely been able to find the time to relax, which has taken its toll on me in the form of sleepless nights. I've been waking up at 1AM, 3AM and around 5:30AM just about every morning. This week my coach is working with me on self care. Self. Care. How do I care for myself when I'm spending so much time caring for...not even for people, but all these things? And it's not like these things aren't things I want, but they're taking so much time out of my day, I don't have time to just sit and relax and be...or do I?

I've planned on taking 30 minutes every day that's just for me. Which is something I've had posted in my calendar for some time. It shows up as "Dian Time" and when the reminder pops up, I've been promptly dismissing it and getting back to whatever I'm doing. So it's time to start honoring that schedule. And how do I do that?

For me, it's about making clear exactly what I plan to do in my 30 minutes of Dian Time. So on Monday it was "plant cactus," which meant that I spent 30 minutes planting cacti I bought over the weekend to replace several plants that Jackson decided were planted for him as midday snacks. It took me about 15 minutes, so I then allowed myself to sit in the sun in the back yard and just relax. What a notion.

Yesterday my Dian time was "meditation." Now I didn't meditate for 30 minutes, but I did meditate for 10 minutes. And then went outside and soaked up the sun again. And enjoyed my newly planted cacti (after putting up a fancy wire blockade around the edges so a certain puppy wouldn't have easy access).

And today my plan is to walk on the beach. I have a meeting in Manhattan Beach at noon and immediately thereafter, I will be putting my toes in the sand and breathing in the ocean air and letting the energy of the earth rise through my body from the warm sand and rejuvenate my soul.

I figure with all this life going on around me, the least I can do is to take a few minutes each day to really enjoy it and not get so caught up in living the good life that I miss it as it passes me by.

Having Fun

I tend to be pretty serious with the posts up in this joint, so I'm taking a detour this post. I went to Palm Springs for my birthday weekend a couple of weeks ago and here is a little of what happened:

And not necessarily in that order.

In other news, I've spent the last week without my computer, as previously reported, and it's created such a beautiful space for learning more and more about myself. It was nice to not be tied to my computer, opening up Word and typing and typing and typing and getting distracted by email and FaceBook and Blogger and IM and checking my account balance and then chastising myself for getting distracted.

I just wrote 3 paragraphs that were (while interesting, I'm sure) not fun at all. I really need practice at this fun thing. So here's what I propose:

Do five fun things this week. Try at least two from this list and then make up a couple of your own:

1. Laugh out loud in the middle of a crowded room
2. Dance in your living room with your dog or cat or an imaginary friend if you have no animals
3. Sit on your couch with your feet in the air
4. Stick your toes in the water on a sandy beach
5. Have your favorite dinner for breakfast
6. Roll down a grassy hill (unless you're allergic to grass like me!)
7. Send someone a silly card in the mail
8. Play with your food
9. Hula hoop in the park
10. Run like Phoebe around the block

My plan is to get to all of these in the next 7 days... and you??

Furrowed, Playful Brow

This weekend I finished my Coach Training with CTI and I'm exhausted! I'm still letting the learning sink in, so not much about that right now.

I feel a sense of relief lingering in my entire body now that the training is complete and I can go back to having all the weekends in a month to play with.

I have this overwhelming urge to talk about what I learned and the fantasticity (I'm a writer, I can make up words if I want to) of it all, and I'm trying to stay in a playful place because I've missed it so.

["What is playing, again?" she asks intensely with furrowed brow.]

And as I sit here and try to think about something playful to write...I'm not playing. So with that, I'm going to go run around outside with Jackson for a while and just be silly. And I think you should too. Jackson would love it!

Equality

I can hardly begin to express my frustration, but let me take a crack at it. The California Supreme effing Court just doesn't get it. How is it possible that the Supreme Court of California has decided that the ban on same sex marriage is constitutional? This isn't about people voted on it and I should just deal with it. This is about people voting on rights, which should be disallowed in the first place. 

Murderers are allowed to get married. Murderers. People who take the lives of others. People who willingly and knowingly strip people of their right to live and breath...those people can get married, but me, no I can't. And I'm tired of hearing bullshit arguments of, "Well you can get married, you just have to marry someone of the opposite sex." Well isn't that fancy? 

You can't always get what you want, 

You can't always get what you want,

You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometimes

You might find

You get what you need. 

~Rolling Stones, of course.

Maybe this loss is just what we need to propel ourselves forward into growth. Maybe this loss is a sign of rampant stagnant behavior in believing that someone else is and will be responsible for making sure my rights are handled neatly and tidily so I don't have to get my proverbial hands dirty. 

---

So that was on Tuesday as the decision was announced. I tend to not act out of anger. It's just how I was raised. It's not about not doing something I'll regret, but taking the best step forward. If I'm angry and haven't processed that part then I tend to not know what the hell I'm talking about and I just spout out silly arguments that sound better in my head than spoken. 

A friend of mine said that the decision was exactly what she expected, but I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed because I really thought that the Court would see that Constitutional rights were being trampled on. I'm still in the midst of processing exactly what the decision means, as far as what action needs to be taken so that I (we) may realize equality in rights around marriage.

There are arguments that state calling it marriage is the whole issue and as long as we (the gays) don't call it marriage, then we can have all the rights we want. There are arguments that state that not calling it marriage keeps a same sex [married] relationship different and somehow less meaningful than a heterosexual marriage by simply changing the word. This argument states that there is a specific connotation that comes with marriage, that connotation being that it's a permanent relationship and unless it's called "marriage" it's just not the same in the public's eye. There are the arguments that marriage ought to be between a man and a woman because that's the way that God intended it. And of course there are countless other arguments around this issue that I could spend all day recounting.

At the moment, I have no problem with calling marriage between same sex couples something other than "marriage" as long as the rights of each institution are equal. My inclination is to believe that no matter what "it" is legally named, it will end up just like Kleenex. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. So really, call it whatever you want to because to me, it doesn't matter what you think of my relationship--I'm not in it to please you. I'm in it to fulfill myself and my partner in sharing love, growing individually and as a couple, and everything that comes along with those paths.

My relationship with another woman has only the effect on another couple's relationship that they choose to allow it to have. One can choose to see my relationship as one of love and trust and support and partnership and growth and fun and struggle and learning; just like many heterosexual relationships. And of course there are other ways to view my relationship, but to do so is to ignore the truth of what the relationship is: love and growth. 

I challenge anyone who believes that God disapproves of my same sex relationship to look at your own life and address the things that God disapproves in your life and relationship before you go judging mine. I have my own relationship with God, and it doesn't include the judgement anyone else brings.

And as for Prop 8 being upheld, my first thoughts included: "This state sucks!" and, "Maybe it's time to get out of this place," and, "How can this progressive state be so shockingly stand-still?" I'm allowed my initial thoughts to flee. I'm glad I don't act on impulse. Because the reality is that California is a great state. I love living here, and this issue is not enough to get me out of here. And learning takes time. 

I'm willing to be a part of an action that brings California back to a state of grace, back to a place where people can come as they are and simply just be themselves. I am willing to fight for the things I believe in. I am willing to be a part of something greater than myself so that people after me can benefit from things I never had or things I had to struggle for. I hope that someday the GLBT community has the opportunity to take our equal rights for granted, and that we never do. 

Process

I sat in my chair thinking about how wrong it all was. How wrong that this man was yelling at this woman. How wrong that this woman was not able to ask a simple question to get further clarity. How wrong that this man was unleashing his frustration on this woman. How wrong that now it was two women and they were both crying. How wrong that these two women had been victimized by this man’s anger.

I wanted to walk across the room and hold those women. Hold them and tell them that everything was going to be okay. That this man was just a big bully and that his manners were terrible. That this man had lost himself and was too arrogant to see that you were just asking questions. I wanted to tell that man to get a hold of himself and have some compassion. I wanted to walk across the room and protect those women. Protect them from that man and his anger. 

And all at once I wondered what it was in me that made me think that these women needed to be protected. I began to think about my own emotions and was completely uncomfortable in my chair watching this confrontation unfold. Confrontation is uncomfortable for me and I can’t be with it. I can’t just sit there and watch it unfold. I need to take action; I need to do something. And instead of doing anything, I continued to question myself and my motives as to what emotions were being stirred in me by just watching it all happen. 

I felt uncomfortable, yes, but that was just on the surface. There was something more than discomfort there, something deeper. Underneath the discomfort I started to feel sadness. Sadness, not for the women being confronted, but for myself. Where did that come from? I could see my child-self in these women, and as a child I was incapable of protecting myself, I was incapable of standing up and speaking my mind--doing so would create a physically and verbally unsafe environment for me. As a child, I was unimportant  and need not share my opinions because they didn’t matter, and wouldn’t be heard regardless. As I sat there and thought about these childhood feelings that were very much visiting me in the here and now, it occurred to me that somewhere along the line I became an adult.

And as an adult I have grown to learn that I can and do stand up for myself. I’ve learned that sometimes people get angry, even get angry with me. Sometimes the reason is valid, and sometimes it’s not. Whatever the reason, I’ve developed the skills to assess the argument, know its truth and address it accordingly. I’ve learned to own my part of that truth and discard the rest as I see fit. And then a flash of anger came. 

As an adult I’ve learned these things, but as a child I hadn’t learned to protect myself. That job belonged to my parents. And they didn’t always do a good job. As I thought about that, the anger became stronger. Tears welled up in my eyes and my heart beat faster. What was this about? And almost without thinking, I began to sob, I began to yell, to spew, to actually feel the feelings instead of sitting in my discomfort and trying to shift the focus onto something or someone else. 

This experience happened over a period of a couple of hours, some of it in a large group of people, and other parts in a smaller, more intimate setting . These interactions and thoughts were the result of my training in Process. Process, being actually processing what’s happening for me right here and right now. What’s going on, what’s happening in my body right here right now, rather than what am I thinking about and how can I shift the focus from myself to someone else?

From that experience I was able to let go of some of the past simply by reminding myself that it was just that: the past. And the rest of it I was able to let go of because I allowed myself to just be present with myself in the moment. I was able to own my feelings as they were coming up, and acknowledge them, hold space for them and then give them permission to be released. I don’t need to hold onto that anger because I’ve now been able to express it. In that experience I was able to feel it all and let go of it pretty quickly. I suspect other things may not be as “easy” to release. But the important thing is that I’m learning to exercise the muscle that allows me to really be present with myself rather than deflecting.

Staying in the here and now has no room for anyone but whomever your emotions belong to (that would be you). I encourage you to find something you can’t be with today, and then to own it. For me, it was confrontation. My hands got clammy, my heart raced, I physically felt uncomfortable. Find whatever puts you in that place and then be with it. Really be with it. Honor it. Have compassion for yourself and those feelings, those emotions. Stand up for yourself and those feelings and emotions. Address them and love them. Actually feel your emotions. When you do this, the discomfort you feel will no longer be for hiding; it will be for growth.

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This post is also available at coachdian.com. As I continue to build that site, I am working towards putting all coaching related posts there. I welcome your feedback!

Coming Back

I've been MIA, it's true. And all with good reason. Not that I need to get into any of that here, suffice to say that 7 Days is coming along better than ever, and I've been able to take some successful strides in my Coaching career. 

I have a couple of posts I'm working on around Balance and Process. Balance being how effectively we are able to balance ourselves on one leg while life is coming at us full force, and Process being what's going on right here and right now. These two pieces of my learning in Coaching have transformed my personal state and being. And that's what the posts will be about.

In a matter of just a few months I've read more books than I have in the past few years, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the growth I've encountered as a result. And maybe I'll have a post about that this week. 

All this to say that sometimes life comes at you. And what can you do but roll with it. I'm not sorry I haven't posted, but not posting reminds me how much I miss it. So, thank you for that.

Time Flies

Today I'm writing about the last day. The last day. Some days it's so easy that I feel guilty for remembering it all so clearly. And then there are days like today where I struggle to remember what exactly happened at all. I remember there was a day we had In N Out Burger in the room. What day what that? I remember there was a night my uncle fell off a chair. What night was that? I remember that there were a few days where my father still had his eyes open. I don't remember the last time I looked into his open, aware, alive eyes. And I feel guilty for not remembering. 

This book and writing it are my life. There are ups and downs, some days are easier than others, and  some pages flow and flow and flow like it's not even me writing them at all and some pages feel as though they're being ripped from me--even my finger tips feel bloody as my heart is transfered from my body through the keys and into, up onto the screen. And still there are times where I feel everything flowing through me just as it should be, like it's all a part of me--my body and soul (even my father's soul) are connected and creating and owning this piece of my life that is so important, that shaped me, that molded me from the woman I was before into the woman I became after. And all of this helps me recognize that it will all happen again because this is the way of the world, and I accept that.

I am not the woman I was when my father died. And in reliving those days just before his death, I see clearly just how strong I was, just how weak I was, just how normal and crazy I was. There was so much growth to be had in those last few days that I couldn't possibly have absorbed it all in just those days. It's in looking back with an honest eye that I can both see and acknowledge where I really was and thus track my growth over the past three years. My God, has it been three years? Three years, four months, three days. Yes it has.

Time flies, even when it's not all fun. 

Not What It Always Seems

I like to think of myself as an organized woman. Somehow this gives me the warm fuzzy that my mom would be proud. Which is really to say that my mom's psychosis of needing me to do what she said so she could feel loved and respected worked. I'm learning to let go of that, which makes me happy. I do so love things being clean and neat and tidy, but there are some things that just need the space to look and feel and be lived in. One of those spaces is the dresser in our bedroom.

There's the candles on the edge that give a cozy feel to it, knowing that at any moment we can light the candle and thus give life to the bedroom by creating the fire. There's the the self sufficient succulent which needs watering only every 3-4 weeks, but still needs watering or else it will die. The framed picture of love and smiles in the snow: even when it's cold outside there's warmth in the heart and seeing that always reminds me of just that. The cases for our glasses, which is just a part of life that we've accepted: sometimes we need help to see things clearly, and there's nothing wrong with a little help. My favorite pair of sunglasses which belong put away (as well as the other pair right behind them), but there they are, out on the dresser where they don't belong and which won't give me anxiety for at least another hour. The money on the dresser that may or may not be salvageable after Jackson decided $20 bills were his chew toys of choice. The money we budgeted for and did not spend and therefore set aside to spend in Vegas as a reward. Fat Bob, who's housed said budgeted and unspent funds until he no longer could fit anymore. A necklace which doesn't belong there but will sit there until it gets moved to its rightful place, be it around a neck or in a drawer, and until then will not give me anxiety because I refuse to let it. Three tubes of Chapstick because apparently moisturized lips are very important to me. And my very first business card proclaiming my status as a writer and where one can find samples of various parts of me and my writing. 

I look at my dresser and I no longer see clutter, but I see a life that is lived and a room that is lived in. These things will all find their rightful homes in good time. They will keep there until we need or want those items again, and then the cycle will repeat itself. Sometimes things get put away, and sometimes they don't. I worry less about the appearance of being neat and tidy simply for the sake of appearing neat and tidy. And I listen more to the importance of just letting life be what it is. And what it is is sometimes messy, sometimes clean and sometimes in between. But it's always lived, whether for outward appearance or inward reflection, only we can decide. 

Struggle Is Me

The past couple of days I've struggled to find myself. I've struggled to find who I am in my writing, in my self, in my coaching, in my world. It just happens that way sometimes. I wake up in the morning and I don't know who I am or how I got here. I live in this beautiful home near the beach with a beautiful girl and amazing animals that give me unconditional love and food in the fridge and dishes on the shelf and money in the bank. And I wonder how I got here? I'm sure I didn't just land here. I'm sure I drove myself here. I'm sure I walked myself here, crawled myself here, cried myself here, died myself here. This is all me and I'm okay with that. I'm not here to understand the how, I guess, just the me. This isn't someone else's life happening to me, no matter how much it feels like that sometimes. This is my life and I accept that. I like that. I love that. I am grateful for that and for all that's in it. So if I'm struggling to find myself, just look in the mirror. Like me or not, I'm right there. 

You Can't Go Home Again

After reading three books (ranging from 80 to 200 pages each) in the span of about a week, I got challenged to read one that might take more than just a couple of days. I obliged. And just a month and three weeks later, I've finished this massive epic novel, You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe. Whew.This book came to me in a box with six other books (two of which were read as noted above), all with little neon green post-it notes attached. Some notes gave a three- or four-word summary, some a reference to why the sender thought I might enjoy it. The note attached to this particular book: "My favorite book." 

For the details of the book, you can read it yourself. As for what I got out of it, I'm happy to share. The title of the book is anything but true. You most certainly can go home again. But what you find there is never going to be what you remembered. We tend to go to extremes when we think about our pasts--we glorify or vilify whatever we remember and use it all to our advantage or disadvantage, whichever works best in the moment. The looking back, in and of itself, makes it difficult to move forward. So we spend a lot of time turned around, looking at the past analyzing it and figuring out where we went wrong, all the while we stand still, looking back at something that will never be again. It's not that there's no importance in looking back and figuring out what the hell happened back there, but there's something to be said for not pulling off the road in order to do so. Especially for something that no longer exists, save inside our minds.

There are parts of this book that are written so eloquently and truthfully about life and the way we go through it (albeit written in the 1930's), and the way we use our egos to maneuver through this piece and that and ultimately sacrifice the things we want for the things we think we ought to have. It's these portions that made me contemplate my own ego in this capacity. The idea that I have a past but don't use it against my future in order to "succeed." The idea that I have a future and don't discard my past in order to bypass the trickery of achieving a future at all. The idea that what happens in my reality is not only my reality, but a portion others' as well. That my world not only affects my self and my ego, but that it has effects on all mankind, even if I should choose not to believe so. That what goes on in the world is not just something happening some place else, but that this is all our home, my home and ought to be looked on with familial care. That just because what happens "over there" doesn't affect me over here, it has a great impact on the world in which I choose to live. That my existence, while mostly lived in the solitude of my own head (and briefly spilled out onto the pages of the internet via private journal or public blog), is not just my own (in part, because of these things). There is more to me than just what I see. And just what I say. And just what I remember. Because every time I try to go back where I once was, it is always someplace different, and thus, so am I. And that became clear to me as I read this book, in all its glorious 704 paperback pages. 

This feels a little cut off, but that's really all I have to offer right now. I'm trying this thing where I post what I have to post instead of saving draft after draft after draft because it's just not right quite yet and then sits there for three weeks or four months before I delete it because it's no longer relevant. And there you have it. 

Just one more thing: I wonder what makes this book anyone's "favorite book"? Not because I think it can't possibly be, but because the things that become our favorites become so because they've touched us in such a way that can never be forgotten. I cannot say that this is my favorite book, but it's touched me in such a way to see that it's possible.

Small Steps

This afternoon I finished my chapter on Acceptance from 7 Days and I feel great. It's crazy to me that writing about something that seemed so depressing while going through it is now so uplifting to me. I've learned so much from my father's death; so many really wonderful things in me have flourished as a result, and it's not that I'm happy about his death, it's that I've learned from it, I've grown, and I've become a better person through the process of it all. 

This past weekend I was in another coaching course with CTI and we focused on perspectives. I have more to post on that in a bit, but for now, I'm astounded at how little I've gotten done with my book in the past three years because I've looked at it as one giant step I have to take: write a book. It's not that I haven't done anything on the book, I have. I've even posted excerpts of some portions I thought might end up in the book here in this blog. But I never acknowledged myself for the small steps I was taking.

Every word I've written for this book has been a step that's gotten me to where I am now with it--whether it gets cut, fought for, or printed. It all leads me to whatever will get printed. So I'm celebrating this completion of this chapter by buying myself flowers for the flower box I put up today outside my writing space. I'm proud of myself, and I don't mind saying so. This is a small step. Which actually means it's a big step. Because in the end, any step is a step forward, no matter which direction it takes me.