The Virtue known as 'Losing'

If you go to Wikipedia and look up 'virtue', you will find a rather long list of examples. Things like trustworthiness, beauty, charity, fairness, justice and kindness are on the list. Lots of words for things that most of us aspire to be, to project, qualities we hope are in our best self. Some words appear in different ways like acceptance, sympathy, empathy, compassion, understanding; these are similar attributes of the gentle, good person, aren't they?

But loss, losing, getting lost, loss of stuff, loss of love, loss of a loved one, well, I don't see any words that convey the virtue that I will simply call, 'losing'. And, gosh, it sure should be on the list today of all days, of all times, decades, historic gyrational periods. Period. My goodness, right now, at this moment in time, being able to 'lose' certainly should score some points. Big ones. Oscar winning loser! That's what I'm talking about.

I mean think about Annette Bening losing Oscars not once but twice to Hilary Swank. (Not remembering? Think about the movies American Beauty, Boys Don't Cry, Being Julia, Million Dollar Baby.) How is that even possible? Would odds makers ever have predicted such a thing? You try and coach Annette. Right now. In your head. You're Annette's good friend. You are sitting with her at the Oscars. Knowing how good at losing you are, how would you counsel Ms. Bening? What 'teaching moment' could you motivate to take this from an emotional earthquake to one of virtue?

I've been giving the whole idea of 'losing' a lot of thought. It's occurred to me that maybe the learning experience, the teaching moment, is not about winning at all. Are we passing on the wrong or less than valuable lessons to our children? Like how to lose. I am not talking about being a gracious loser. Or how to be inauthentic. To kowtow (look that one up, will you).

I'm talking about how to accept 'losing' as a quality in your life.

Perhaps, all of us who have the chance to teach, parent, encourage, motivate or coach should focus on 'losing'. When was the last time you heard someone with a microphone stuck in their face saying, "I owe this to my father who taught me the value of losing."

Don't we often hear that we learn more from our mistakes than from our victories? That the only stupid question is the one you don't ask? Winston Churchill, who probably didn't know he was the master of all things quotations for all times said, "Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm."

He also said, "If this is a blessing, it is certainly very well disguised."

So, in my thinking about 'losing', as a parent it occurs to me that maybe I should have spent some time building up the virtue of 'losing' in my children. That if I were asked to recommend a parenting skill, it would be to make 'losing' into a family event, to share your losses, to even encourage a loss now and then. Would it be awful for a baseball pitcher to give up a hit to someone who so needed one? And Serena, you obviously need to lose a lot more tennis games so you can find the pleasure zone of 'losing'. The Cubs sure have used the art of 'losing' to their advantage. Would we care so deeply about them if it weren't for their losing streaks? The San Diego Chargers are just as loss worthy but are movies and theatrical productions made about them? Can you imagine being Barry Bonds and so cutoff from the joy of the great loss that you would do anything to just plain win?

The home of a friend of mine's was burglarized last week. It's awful. To lose memories. Stories misplaced that come to you when holding a piece of jewelry from your mother. Lost feelings only recovered when you touch the earrings your love gave you decades earlier. A brooch made of slivers of emerald; who would so broach your life to take away this remembrance of your grandmother? The devastation of this is not the things, the stuff as George Carlin might point out, it is the pain, the gut clenching pain of loss. It is the actual deep down wretchedness of life that rips through one's being due to loss. It is all of Kubler-Ross's stages of grief and the knowing that such sadness has no stage, no theater in which a happy ending is due.

I don't want to speculate that my friend will get through this or past the pain of the loss of her things. Or that she will be better, stronger or more capable because of it. I just want her to know that her friends know she's in pain. It may quell but it won't subside completely. Just like another friend, the image of losing her grandmother's crystal during an earthquake has never gone far away. It is one of her guides. A task master of loss that keeps her grandmother still by her side.

My nephew lost at a sports game a few weeks back. The loss meant he wouldn't evolve to a match with a formidable foe who he had spent many days anticipating with almost glee. I wasn't there but I can imagine my nephew's pain; the unfairness of it all; the inequity of sport. But I also know my nephew when he gives in - to his sister, to bedtime, to his aunt in a mall when she says no more to continued shopping. I've seen my nephew let go of stuff. I've seen him accept that we've bought all we'll be buying. I've heard him say, "But aren't you getting anything?"

There's something very deep to the virtue of losing. For me, I can conjure up far more depth of feeling when I think of my brother at my mom's funeral, when I recall our family coming together to embrace my dad, when I see my youngest sitting at her grandfather's feet for hours as if she were his guard llama, there to allow him his loss without requiring anything from him.

Most all of us have lost so very much in the last couple of years. I think it is a sense of security that began with 9-11 and then moved to encroach upon all aspects of our lives be it jobs, money, cancers, deaths of parents, health insurance and for one good friend, having to give up his Harley. What represents a devastation of emotion to one person may be a small piece of jewelry on which you always meant to get the clasp fixed. It might be selling your motorcycle. Learning not to assume you'll so easily make it to the next rung in the match. Accepting that our children will learn the virtue of loss most likely without the compassion of our embrace.

The pain of losing is perhaps more valuable than any win possible. It may be our best virtue.


Maybe Tennyson meant to say, 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to to have 'lost' at all.'

Marcia's 'listen to' twofer for today: Gone by Jack Johnson and Lord, I'm Discouraged by The Hold Steady

Wheelchairs, Surfers and Human Contact

Some years ago, I heard or read an interview with a gentleman in a wheelchair who said that one of the challenges for him was that, 'people no longer look me in the eyes.' He described how folks avert their eyes, look away, surely out of a sense of politic, of not wanting to cause discomfort. But, in fact, the loss of human eye contact left him lonely and disheartened.

Since that time, I have acted on my personal commitment to seek out eye contact with people in wheelchairs or in anyway disabled. I've thought a lot about what it would be like to have people always look away, to turn their heads, or look down rather than to look at me. As a single woman who lives on her own, I know that I relish street walking, or here in CA - pier walking, and I unduly appreciate a smile, a raised eyebrow, a look between me and another person.

Today, on my morning walk to the beach, I counted how many eye-to-eye moments I had. I tried to take hold of the stories these encounters brought into my head. True stories, no, not, not at all. But it came to me how when I connect eyeballs with another person, a kind of not at all psychic story pops into my head, as if I understand somehow something about that person. Today, I counted my eye contact moments, I think there were 17.

An Asian couple, arm in arm, both in white tops, beige pants, and straw hats. The man put his hand up to the brim of his hat as he passed me. Our eyes connected. And he tipped his hat, I think. I can't say I've ever had a hat tipped at me before. It was a marvelous moment. As if I was back a hundred years or so. Maybe in the movie, The Painted Veil, and Edward Norton was walking by me in Shanghai. I felt the Asian couple were happy. Happy, but maybe he had a secret personality. A different bent. A desire to have whole-hearted discourse with me. His tipped hat was like we were having a conversation. A nod to what we might discover, if we talked, if we could.

Two Eastern European women walked towards me. One in dark red and maroon. One in a white jacket over a black and white top. She had eye glasses that looked framed in crystal, like wings on her face. I looked up, smiled, and saw her look over her glasses directly into my eyes. Piercing but in a nice way. Like an aunt or grandmother looks at you. Inquisitive but cautious. Pleasant.

I passed a man who might have been of Thai descent - he looked like a shorter version of Larry King with an even darker tan. Big glasses. A heart-shaped face. He didn't smile at me. But he didn't frown. He seemed like a person that you could sit next to for a long time and stare at the Pacific Ocean. You wouldn't have to say anything at all. He'd j understand.

I saw surfers in the ocean from the Venice pier. They looked right up at me much like we were all meeting at Starbucks. One guy took off on his board. Here's the gang that was just hanging out.


I saw my new office. Take a look:


Then, I saw a black woman in a red sweater fishing next to her young son in a red hoodie. He was bouncing up and down as if he would hook a fish by sheer energetic will power. She smiled at me, the smile of a mom to another mom, that look of pure hope and pride.

A middle-aged all American man walked by me, flannel shirt slapping, ball cap on head, a good morning grin shared with me.

I thought how boring to be us, me and the American guy, just plain old Americans. No discernible ethnic origins. I don't think anyone can look at me and imagine any wondrous heritage. I look like a middle-aged white women. A few freckles that could be seen as interesting. iPod earphones stuck into the sides of my head. Oakley sun glasses. Triple Venti latte in hand.

Kind of just plain me.

But you know what makes me different, maybe, perhaps? I look at people in wheelchairs. I make eye contact. I concoct fascinating human stories from the faces I see. I'm sure the lady in a dress and black suit jacket and 4 inch heels that I passed on my way back was enroute to her way to her job as an up and coming CEO. I hope that man going through the trash is a collector. And that the athletic looking guy in the yellow jacket, who said excuse me when he jogged by, is going to be at the Olympics in Chicago.

Something else about me is that, no matter what, in my heart, deep down, where it matters, I hope I made someone's day.

And lastly, what I really hope doesn't make me different, is my hope that all the citizens in our country continue to love our differences. All of them. Our myriad colors of skin. Our eye glasses of all shapes and sizes. Our origins. Our roots. Our beliefs. Our wheelchairs. Our bikes. That our food courts have Barbecue, Mongolian, Thai, Italian and Subway!

That we are as different as night and day.

Marcia's advice for today: Look at people in their eyes even if you have to bend a little.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Instant Karma by John Lennon

marcia update, marcia update

Hi everybody. Here's the latest news. Most of you know that the most important thing an out-of-work person can do is find-work. What's the opposite of 'out-of-work' anyway? So here I am. I made land fall on the west coast. (Per dictionary.com, that's, "the land sighted or reached.") I'm hanging out in Venice Beach, sojourning down to Pt. Loma in San Diego some days, eating sushi in L.A., and hanging at the Hudson Bay Seafood Restaurant in Pt. Loma where you can sit harbor side, eat the best fish tacos ever, and watch the fishing boats haul in their mother lode each day. See picture above that will make your mouth water. I gather they also have scrumptious donuts made onsite in the mornings but I've never managed to get there when they have any left!

Most mornings, I beach wander and plan my strategy for the day.

Then, I assure you, I do get to work on the Marcia-Must-Find-Work-Project. I am discovering opportunities, and best of all, my incredible network here in Southern California continues to support me, push my resume to others, and in general keep my spirits up in the midst of my job search journey.

Thank you all! Oh I must share with you a sign I saw down the street. No deep, golden meaning. Just a cool sign. Did you ever think you'd see a sign like this? Here's to incredibly super tsunamis of good fortune for us all.

Marcia

and sushi sushi sushi

I didn't always love sushi. Years ago (many many), I lied to a young man saying, "I love sushi," and proceeded to marry him. One day, in a fit of venting, I yelled out, "And I HATE sushi." I suspect it was more a moment of, 'I hate everything,' but it seemed the appropriate time to begin to dismantle one of the foundational blocks of our relationship.

If you've been in that mode, that process of breaking the glass walls of a loving partnership, you know years can go by before the real crash occurs. My, "I hate sushi," moment was a very early on predecessor of things to come. But it did elicit the response I wanted. Ahhhh, the sweet moment of success when you thoroughly pull the rug out from under - or in this case, the placemat off the sushi bar.

But you know how when you do that, when you pull the rug out, you've won but you're also left feeling uneasy, off balance, and you spend much time afterwards waiting for the other shoe to drop? Not your own shoe necessarily but you know it's coming. No one wins an argument without losing something else. The comeuppance for me, the just deserts, was that sushi was not mentioned ever again. When looking for dinner options, it was not suggested. If passing a heretofore favorite sushi bar, eyes averted in a different direction.

Sushi was never again offered.

I found myself missing being greeted at sushi bars with their rousing chorus of, "Ko-neeeee-cheeee-wah!"

I wanted to get up from a sushi bar and turn to the Japanese chefs and say, "Ar-i-gato gez-im-us," in order to enjoy their big grins at my attempt at a Japanese thank you.

But, oh my, it is hard to give in, isn't it? To step back with humility and say that maybe, perhaps I was a bit harsh, that after much thought, I was in fact 'having a taste' for sushi. That the thought of a bowl of fresh steamed edamame was wafting through my consciousness. As odd as it seemed, could I admit that sudden pangs for raw fish were entering my being?

To fall on my own sword and say, "I'd like to go for sushi. Dough-Zo." (That's please.)

Then, alas, this stronger than I could bear desire for sushi came when I was pregnant with Daughter Number 1. And so began, after a sheepish admission on my part that I might like some sushi, a journey into the culture of raw fish that has stayed with me through Daughter Number 2 and to this day. The penance I now pay for this is that both Daughters have been sushi mavens since toddler days. Yes, we were those annoying parents, with a two year old taking up a seat at the sushi bar and another one in a back pack turned front. My children were those impish darlings smashing rubber banded chopsticks at each other. Rice droppings covered the floor wherever we sat. When many parents had children who screamed for Happy Meals from McD's, I would beg mine to want a meal that cost only $2.99. "No," my daughters would plead at seven years of age, "Can't we have sushi?"

Over the years, it became a mainstay of our culinary life. Mine as well. It grew on me to the point that I do, I admit, I do love sushi! Ar-i-gato!

It's not a surprise that both daughters live in California and eat sushi for breakfast or lunch more often than not. Daughter Number 2 often gets looks of adoration from sushi bar chefs as she 'shoots' a half dozen raw quail eggs, her true favorite order at the bar. Daughter Number 1's first choice is a full-on plate of raw white fish called, 'Is-Zoo Zoo-Cur-i' which, if you ask for a bite, she gives you a look that begs the question - can't you get your own?

In Chicago, it's not that you cannot find sushi, and it is good, but the Southern CA culture of raw fish is much more embracing. Most of the restaurants in Chicago, in true Democratic fashion, have added a player to the game - the waiter who takes your order even at the sushi bar. This little additional cog in the wheel, this person standing next to you with an order pad, well, for me, it really zaps the warm hug of ordering from the sushi bar chef. How do you say to a waiter, "You pick it, make me something special." Or ask the waiter, "What've you got tonight?" When I've tried, it takes the fun out of it to see the waiter's quizzical look or them turning to the sushi bar chef and asking for me.

This is just me, my own weird want, but that deprives me of a moment of connection, the look from the sushi bar chef showing that he respects my request, that in fact, wow, on occasion, what I asked for was deemed 'way cool'. Sorry to say this, but going for sushi was kind of depressing for me the last few years in Chi town. Not bad. Just not a soulful high.

Now that I'm back in L.A., I've got to tell you, I've returned and found a 'raw fish phenom!' Whereas, in the past having a sushi meal was a big bucks investment, now sushi is AVAILABLE. Every couple blocks, in most L.A. neighborhoods I've passed through, there is sushi. Fancy sushi. Expensive sushi. Cheap sushi. Fast food sushi. Sushi alone. Sushi with Thai. Sushi sushi sushi. A quick google search and up comes at least a dozen places within a couple miles of me. Look at the list below. And thank you to Pazzaz Sushi for the cool pic above. If you are nearby, I had an incredible meal last week at Sushi Koda on Sunset in the Junction. The chef, Josh, is kind of a talker, but he's into it and that makes it all the better. Or, go to the Century City Mall and see what they've done to the marketplace. Wow! Sushi and much more. (Hey all my ex-BA friends, remember when we worked near there:)

It's superb to be back, surrounded by sun and good food, and lots of raw fish.
Happy meals.

Sushi-Gen · (213) 617-0552 · Directions
Sushi Roku · Website · (323) 655-6767 · Directions
Takami Sushi & Robata · Website · (213) 236-9600 · Directions
Sushi Sasabune · (310) 820-3596 · Directions
Sushi Go 55 · Website · (213) 687-0777 · Directions
En Sushi · Website · (310) 477-1551 · Directions
Mori Sushi · Website · (310) 479-3939 · Directions
Mia Sushi · Website · (323) 256-2562 · Directions
En Sushi - www.ensushi.com - (323) 664-1891 - 12 reviews
Niko Niko Sushi - maps.google.com - (323) 953-8900 - 19 reviews
California Roll & Sushi Fishi - maps.google.com - (323) 666-1400
Sushi Kaiho - maps.google.com - (323) 666-1019 - 6 reviews
Pizzaz Sushi - pazzazsushi.com - (323) 644-0771 - 5 reviews
Saito's Sushi - maps.google.com - (323) 663-8890 - 23 reviews
Pazzaz Sushi - pazzazsushi.com - (323) 662-0038 - 1 review
Zen Sushi Restaurant - maps.google.com - (323) 665-2929 - 28 reviews
Mia Sushi - www.mia-sushi.com - (323) 256-2562 - 67 reviews
Koda Sushi - maps.google.com - (323) 663-1048 - 15 reviews

Marcia's advice for today: 鮭が上流に泳ぐ (that's sink or swim)

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Lovers in Japan by Coldplay

Street Signs

Oh my God, I truly had forgotten how nice it is to be in a state that recognizes that when it comes to driving, 'we are all lost.' I lived in the L.A. area for over 15 years and I do know it pretty well. I know that the 405 goes south to San Diego. The 10 goes east. The 101 to Hollywood, etc, etc. Sunset Boulevard may look kind of stark the further east you go, but go west from Dodgers Stadium and you will hit super trendy areas like Silverlake, then Hollywood, and then it will begin to curve and take you through postcard pretty areas like Bel Air, Brentwood and on into the Palisades. And if you want an insanely gorgeous drive hop on Mulholland Drive most anywhere like from Topanga to the Valley - you'll wish you could stop, sit on a porch, and 'codge' forever. (If you missed my blog on the joy of codging just imagine a happy, old codger sitting in the late afternoon, just sitting.)

But with all the twists and turns of the roads in L.A. and the many times you quickly turn left or right just to get off a traffic-jammed street, it's way too easy to get turned around and upside down. I'm forever twisting my head left to right and towards the back window looking for the sun and repeating in my head, "Rises in the east, sets in the west," while realizing I'm heading the wrong direction.

Thank you L.A. County and all of California for SIGNS. You lead us, point us, give us the road forward. I'm not talking about only highway entrance signs. If you aren't familiar with CA, if you are a road traveler, I assure you that you would appreciate the many signs on these roads. When I'm driving and begin feeling that anxious, oh my goodness, not sure where I am, maybe I'm lost, queasy sweat thing break out on my skin, I take a breath (a very Zen thing to do in L.A. despite what you may think of the air) and I know that in a block or two a sign will appear and I'll know what to do. Another thing to note, u-turns are pretty much legal anywhere here. So, see a sign, realization hits, 'got to turn around,' make a u-turn. Sweat dissipates. Queasy stomach relaxes. And, I'm back on the road, driving righteous, headed to my destination.

Oh, alright, it's not perfect here. Way too many cars. Streets aren't so clean (we need a Mayor Daley and his brigade of Polish street cleaners or Mayor Bloomberg and his clout). But I'm telling you, directional signage is significant and important. It's why I'm here. It's what I'm looking for. No, not little Armenia. Not Hollywood. Just some signposts so I know I'm going the right way.

Not so much to ask for, is it?

Marcia's advice for today: Watch for signs.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: I Don't Know by Lisa Hannigan (Sing along, "If you walk my way, I could keep my head, we could creep away...." Dance along, too. It's mega fun.)

Toilet Seat Covers

I've been away from California only a few years but I'd forgotten some of the real perks of living here. Critical benefits immediately recognized:

Toilet Seat Covers
Street Signs
Sushi

So, let's talk about Toilet Seat Covers.

If you rarely leave CA or if you live elsewhere, you may not enjoy the superb benefit of paper toilet seat covers in 'every' public rest room. Yes, every! I'm not sure how CA has managed to pull this off for as many years back as I can remember. But as soon as I entered CA and pulled off to use a restroom, the deep down real joy returned with going into a bathroom and finding, there on the wall, voila!, was the paper seat cover dispenser. Californians, take note, with all the things you have lost due to this economy, the toilet seat cover police must still be on the job.

I don't know how it is that I very rarely have found a seat cover dispenser that is empty. I'm not Pollyanna and I'm sure it happens. But having spent the last few years in a city where seat covers are rare, and certainly not required by law, this is a great luxury. I also think that the state of CA must have managed to put the fear of God into public establishments because they still fill the dispensers! Or, it is possible that the business owners in CA really do care. Just like the cut indentation in the paper seat cover, the truth may lay somewhere in between.

(Oh, thank you to TradeIndia.com for the perfect pic above.)

Marcia's advice for today: Take nothing for granted.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Fitz and the Dizzyspells by Andrew Bird

More Pics From My Travel Album

Here I am about to leave Western Spirit Ranch in Parker, Colorado. There's nothing like me, myself and I in my Miata. My car loves the open road. And folks on the road love us. People passing by always smile at me in this little red car. I think it's spiritual. My car just stirs people's hearts, I can tell.
This is part of the The Capitol Reef Inn & Cafe in Torrey, Utah. It's an amazing stone structure. I'd like it to be my house! I just stopped for a moment but from their website, "The Capital Reef Inn Cafe is a special treat--fresh, natural and local foods deliciously cooked to your satisfaction. Healthy meals--lots of fresh vegetables, local fresh trout, brown rice, whole-wheat rolls, no additives, no preservatives, low in fat and sugar. Open 7am-9pm for breakfast, lunch and dinner." I'd say I'm stopping in for a meal next time for sure.

Travel Photos

Remember years ago bringing home 'film' from vacation trips. I even can recall the anxiety of going out to buy film before leaving on a trip. How many rolls to buy? How many could I afford? What if I ran out? Do you remember rationing your photos - only 12 or 24 pictures on a roll? Do I really need to take this picture; can I save the film in case; what if a better photo op comes along and I'm out of film? In 1972, the Pocket Instamatic, with film cartridges, came into our marketplace, just in time for me to begin my world travels. This easy loading camera was a real miracle then!
110 film cartridges were all the rage. I don't remember how much one cartridge cost, do you? But I clearly remember how easy it was to take this camera and its film on trips. It was a new day, an incredible invention, and all of a sudden people could take more pictures than ever before. No more heavy cameras that were unwieldy and hard to manipulate especially if you had to load film. For my generation, this was akin to everyone running around today with cell phones that take pictures.

The difference though was the wait. Finishing the roll. Taking it to Walgreens. Filling out film envelopes. Or mailing the roll off to get developed. The anticipation when your pictures were in. The anxious fun of it all. Getting the 6" x 8" envelope in the mail. The decision to open it then or just hold it. Yes, just hold the envelope for awhile to enjoy the glory of what was inside. The thrill of lifting each photo, one at a time, saying to a friend or nosy family member, "Don't jump ahead. I get to see them first!" And, even the sadness of blurry pics or a ruined roll. Browned out pictures, like a thumb had been over the camera lens. Lost vacation. Oh, the ruin. Even the drama of ruined photos was memory making.

Clearly, ours was a generation of delayed satisfaction. Maybe that's how we learned patience and the art of waiting and the joy of arrival. Perhaps that's why we, or at least I, wasn't as great at imparting these skill sets to my daughters. They've never been told not to make a phone call because, "It's long distance." Between beepers, car phones, and PDA's, they weren't ever really far from me. I remember the codes we had for my beeper. 911 meant, 'Mom, call, it's important.' 911911 meant, 'Mom, CALL NOW!' For them, getting a car was part of growing up, in some ways more for Mom's convenience than theirs, it was just another life step, not a dream come true. Same with so many things. Health care. We always had insurance and going to a doctor at the first sign of any illness was rote. Go in. Get fixed. Move on.

Now, I look at the world they are adulting into and as angry as I am that we haven't solved many USA challenges, perhaps I'm more upset with me, myself, just I. Have I taught them the right life skills? Prepared them to handle tough things? Given them backbone and assertiveness and drive and the passion to get it done!

Maybe we should never have given into digital photos....what do you think?


Marcia's advice for today: Nothing in life is instamatic.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: For My Family by The Devil Makes Three

Entering California

I'm a traveler. I travel. Have forever and a day. There's an actual moment for me on a plane where I make a conscious decision to change my watch. It's a part of the excitement of leaving and arriving. Change your watch too soon and it kills the fun anxiety of getting somewhere.

In Utah, I thought about changing my watch. But I didn't. Wasn't ready. Didn't want Utah to be the place that a new time zone became mine. Not in Las Vegas or Primm. Just not the location where I would move the hands on my watch on my wrist. My life wasn't going to change in Nevada. Even winning at the slots wasn't enough to effect the change I'm readying myself to meet and embrace.

Years ago, driving across the desert, after Nevada, before California, ranch guy and I picked up a young man walking alone in the heat. He wore a white shirt, black pants, and he held a bible. Just walking through the desert to a town where he worked in a restaurant. Ranch guy had to help him. He couldn't take this young man walking alone in the hot desert.

David sat in the back seat and told us how much he appreciated the ride. Said, "No, not a lot to do out here." Told us he reads the Psalms as he walks.

I was reminded of David as I entered California. Time to reset time. I poked the buttons on my radio and launched Pacific time into my life. I'm here. I'm back. I have no idea where I'm going to live, what I'll be doing. But for this 'lady alone,' this 50+ woman, traveling light and living large, I'm anticipating life. Psalm 108 says, "Through God we shall do valiantly."

So valiantly, my watch set back to the time of Pacific coast sun rise and sunset, I am here, and anticipating my life. Gosh, thank God, that I can still pickup, drive across country, change my life, and throw caution to my guardian angels. All of you!


Marcia's advice for today:
If you need encouragement, go to the psalms. There's one for every occasion.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Round Here by Counting Crows.

Not so Prim in Primm, Nevada

Although it was warm in Zion, like eighty degrees, it was pleasant with a little breeze rustling through all that red rock. Trees here and there. Curved roads that, with my top down, made me feel like I was flying along. Then, I entered Nevada, where the temperature soared and my rag top was up again, saving me from the beating sun if that was possible. My little car couldn't take it when we hit 120-degrees. The car temp gauge shot up, and I got scared. Ranch guy had warned me, "driving across to Las Vegas into the sun is not fun that time of the day... NOTHING between Mesquite and North Las Vegas." And right there, south of Mesquite, car got mega hot, a/c just quit, and I looked around to see ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

My psychic guardian angels called one by one. First ranch guy, "Turn everything off. Your car is fine. It's responding to the conditions. The only thing you'll hit is the Moapa reservation - look for the fireworks sign. But you should see the temperature gauge start dropping right away."

It did.

Daughters called next. Oldest said, "Turn off the a/c. Open your window. I have a theory on this," (a theory, of course, from my anthropologist). Her theory: "We shouldn't have air conditioning."

Sister called as I turned off at Moapa (ranch guy was right again). Checked my fluids but everything was okay. Feeling like I should do something, I bought a $20 bottle of coolant and refilled an inch's worth in the car. No room in the Miata for the gallon so I gave it to a lady in an old station wagon that was held together with duck tape. She said, "Wow. I don't need it now but I will."

I kept the a/c off and zipped past Las Vegas giving up on driving as I hit Primm, Nevada. If you don't know Primm, it's a great stop 44 miles past the Strip. Casinos, a super outlet mall, and get this, my hotel room at Terrible's Primm Valley Resorts (yep, that's the name) was $18.00 - king bed and all. For that, I could afford some time at the slots.

I'm not a gambler but my Mom and Dad were big fans of Vegas. Over the years, I'd meet them there and one or the other would sit me at a slot machine and explain the gig to me. I didn't really listen or care. It was more fun to see my Mom say, "Jim, Jim, come here." Then my Dad would rush over to my Mom playing Video poker. He'd hold her hand while she played the next round. They'd say a prayer and wait to see if she won. If not, Dad would say, "Don't worry, Shirl. Next time." Then he'd add, "I'm out of money. Can I have a twenty?" (Mom was in charge of the cash in Vegas.)

I walked around all the slots at Terrible's looking for my Mom's favorite. It's one where Elvis lights up on top, sings, and plays a song when you win. But I couldn't find it. I picked a quarter machine and then, like I was channeling my parents, all their tutorials came back to me.

"Always play progressive." I don't even know what that means but I started to understand at this slot machine. "If it lets you place 3 bets a play, or 5 bets a play, do them all." That was my Dad talking. So I did it. "If someone near you has been playing awhile without winning and they leave, take that machine." A sour looking lady left a few seats down from me. I moved over quick.

Then my progressive bets started paying off. Fifty bucks down. Won twenty back. Played on. And then, "Bingo!" I won $180.00 big dollars. First time ever for me. I could feel Mom and Dad's pride as they whooshed back up into the clouds. Mom was whispering in the wind to me, "Quit while you're ahead."

Three bucks on a piece of pizza. I headed up to my $18.00 room. It wasn't a great room. But all in all. Not a bad end to the day. Zion to Moapa to Primm. Tomorrow I'd be back in California. But for now, I was sleeping in Primm. Oh, there goes Mom and Dad to the big casino in the clouds.

Marcia's thought for today: You never really travel alone.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Hope There's Someone by Antony & The Johnson's. (Take a moment and listen to this stirring music. Antony's voice is beautifully haunting.)

I failed to mention Behunin!

By the way, along Route 24, before Zion, you hit a bunch of curves in the road. Not a lot to do except think as you swallow in the vast untouched space that is Utah where you can still find quiet and lots of sky and occasionally a place like this Behunin Cabin.

According to the Utah government website, "A family of ten lived here. Braided rugs covered the dirt floor. Ends of dress materials became curtains. There was a fireplace to cook in, and a water supply near the floor. The family probably ate outside. In 1882, Elijah Cutler Behunin and his family built this cabin, and stayed a brief time until the rising river washed out their crops. Behunin was one of the first settlers in the area. Father, mother, and two smallest children slept in the cabin - Jane's post bed almost filled one side of the room. By widening a dugout in the cliff the older boys had a place to sleep. The girls made a bed in an old wagon box."

I promise you there's nothing else around. No other cabins. Nothing but rock and sky. How they raised crops, I do wonder. Take a look at this family.
No McDonald's or CVS or school or Direct TV. Nada. Nothing. In 1882. Only 127 years ago. Gosh, can you imagine life 127 years from now?


Marcia's advice for today:
Imagine eating outdoors because you have to.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: The Fox in the Snow by Belle & Sebastian.

For True Believers - ZION

Here's the thing. At least for me. Maybe for you. We are way too much a goal oriented society. All through our lives we are led into setting our sites on something. Achieve it. Give a cheer. Move on. Set the next goal. Achieve it. Move on.

Think about it.

We don't go to school. Not really. What we do is start heading to a bunch of finish lines. We finish kindergarten. Hurrah! We speed through 1st 2nd 3rd grade with our eyes on middle school. Do you have kids? I remember mine. Middle school was like getting through a half marathon. Hurrah again! Like clipping a nail. Off. Done. Gone. Move on!

High school. Senior year. Graduation. Hurrah hurrah. Hurry hurry hurry. Hurrah. Jobs. Marriage. Kids. WHEN ARE WE GOING TO STOP?

Have you ever seen in movies, like cowboy movies, where they ride through a dusty old town, and they pass a few 'codgers' sitting on the stoop who raise an eyebrow as the cowboys ride on. When was the last time you just 'codged,' the last time you sat on a porch and stared at life with no thought of multi-tasking?

You get it, don't you? For me, when I'm long distance driving, the Interstate, the big 'I' takes over. Suddenly, time is of the essence, even though all along it was to be a comfortable pace through our glorious country. I blame the INTERSTATE system. Look at a map. You can take 2, 3, 4 interstates and get from any point A to any point B. Not much along the way. But the goal is as clear as can be. Gosh, kind of ridiculous, isn't it?

So, don't give into 'I' thinking. Get off the big 'I' like I70 and go somewhere you'll never be near again.

Just past Green River, Utah, on I-70 (gas up at the West end of Green River!), take Hwy 24 South to Hanksville. If you're hungry, stop at the Red Rock Restaurant right on Hwy 24. Ask for Sonja. She's not sweet, not happy. But so much a cranky good waitress. She turned to me and said, "You just get finished cleaning and here come some more."

In walked a bunch of midlife crisis bikers asking for a table for ten! It rolled right off Sonja who said, "Right there," pointing to a table, "It's ready for you." I think she'd had it with the legions of bikers who'd been passing me on the road, with their bandanas and Harley trailers, and amp'd up accelerator noises.

I liked that. Her having had it with everything, in a town about one block long, at the Red Rock Restaurant, with nothing else at all going on.

From Hanksville, just past Loa turn left (West again) on Hwy 62 which comes to a junction with Hwy 89, going South. At Mt. Carmel Junction - finally - turn right onto Hwy 9 and head West again through Zion National Park. It's $25.00 dollars to take the road through the park but it's $25.00 of heaven. I asked Lila at the park entrance booth, "How's business this summer?" She said, "It's really busy. Lot's of people who would normally be on cruises or in Hawaii are here."

I said, "Well, that's good."

Lila said, "It's good. But it's like they don't know what they're doing here."

Hmmm. Here's what I'll tell you. Zion means, 'heaven as the final gathering place of true believers.' Drive through this park even if you don't know what you're doing here. It's a miracle of rock. Plenty of places to photo stop. Look at this tunnel. And much more that's worth slowing down to see.

Marcia's advice for today:
Even for just an afternoon, be a true believer.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: David Byrne's Dirty Old Town

Green River, Utah

There's a truck stop little town 52.3 miles west of Moab. To be honest, you've got to go north on I190/UT-128 until you can get onto I70 West but all told, it's an hour away. Green River. Not a lot there. But in Moab prices are more than double, and you're not even looking at the red rock Priest and Nuns. Try www.rodewayinn.com - (435) 564-3421. It's clean, quiet, and has the West Winds Restaurant alongside. I had a grilled cheese on whole wheat (yep, whole wheat), with fries and pickles. You know, after all that driving, just sitting on my bed eating a grilled cheese was kind of comforting. Feet up. No shifting gears in my 6-speed Miata. Me, Jeopardy, a glass of nice Sauvingnon Blanc (oh, I had that in my trunk), and all was right in my world.

Marcia's advice today: On the road, BYOW.

I can't help it. My 'listen to' song for today: Woke Up This Morning by A3

Get to Moab! To Moab, to Moab to Moab (like Beyonce singing, To the left, to the left, to the left)!

Castle Rock in Moab, UT known as 'Priest and Nuns'

I had never heard of Moab, Utah but my ranch guy knew every incredible diner, night stop, and geographical wonder along the way to California. Something about the name 'Moab' was more than enticing. I couldn't get it out of my mind. To Moab, to Moab wound itself into my thoughts as I drove. Then as I talked to friends and family others said, "Oh, Moab, you've got to see it." My friend Katie from Louisville now from Chicago said, "Moab! It's incredible. I was there with my father." How is it that I'd never heard of Moab yet it caused people to gasp and said, "You must," and "It's unbelievable!"

If you have reason to be driving west on I70, you might, like me, think there would be no reason to turn off it. There's nothing along the way that teases you into suspecting the grandeur of Moab. I was watching for the turnoff onto South US-191/UT-128 and thought I'd missed it. Just passing exit 181 I saw out of the corner of my eye 'Moab' and an arrow. But it wasn't Crescent Junction and it wasn't US-191 but when you are driving for miles, without any much signage, no billboards saying IHop or Stuckeys, the question of turning around gets creepy.

Thank you to the USA and to each state for incredible rest stops. Every 50 or 100 miles or so, there are rest stops. It's a guiding light when you are out driving across the plains of our country. When there are no billboards, no turnoffs, nothing at all, knowing that you'd seen a sign a few miles back that said a rest stop was 38 miles ahead is like knowing there's a god. Things go through my mind like, "Even if something happened now, there's a rest stop coming." And, "There will be a soda machine at the rest stop if you're really thirsty." I banter back and forth with myself whether or not I really need to use the restroom. But all in all, it's a peaceful discourse all because, I'm here, in the USA, and there's always a rest top up the road.

About 8 miles before you reach Crescent Junction, there's a Utah Rest stop with a manned Info Counter. Do you believe that? Truly, in the middle of all the nothingness, there was a lovely man at a counter waiting for me! I said, "I think I missed the turn for Moab. I saw it on a sign last exit."

"Oh no, you didn't," he smiled, "It's just up ahead at Crescent Junction. Then you take 128 south, drive 31 miles, and you'll see Moab." Then he added, "You wouldn't want to have taken that route. It's two lanes, nothing more, right on the edge. Curves. A big curve near Moab. You miss it, you drive right over into the Colorado River. I wouldn't recommend it."

Well, you don't have to hit me in the head with a stone. (Get it, stone, Moab, all kinds of red rock:)

I took 128 south. It's 31 miles of nothing. Some brush and more nothing. Scary, like you wouldn't want to run out of gas or stop for a picnic lunch. My guess would be snakes out there. But the enticing image of Moab was keeping me going. And I got there. Entering Moab you cross the Colorado River (of course) and drive straight into the cutest little Moab of a town. Filled with rock stores and galleries and a great bookstore - don't miss it - http://www.backofbeyondbooks.com/ that invites you to meander and read and enjoy the experience of books. But where in the world was the real Moab? The Moab I was lusting for?

Turned my little Miata around, stopped at the visitors center (don't you just hope there are visitors centers along the way to heaven), where a lovely lady pulled out a map and showed me the way to the Priest and Nuns at Castle Rock. She kind of scratched the path onto the map. No ink in that pen. Hey Hilton or Marriott, how about sending some pens to the Moab Visitors Center?!

So, head back towards the river, and just before it, right before you cross that river, stop. Turn right and enter the real Moab. To Moab, to Moab. Surrounded by Sears Tower tall red rock, on both sides of the narrow road, little pull off areas, where I sat and swallowed in all that Moab is. Yes, I found the Priest and Nuns, but I kind of think it should be renamed, 'Town Hall,' but be that as it may, this is an exquisite place. There's nowhere to stay along 128, in the midst of all that rock. No hotels, or diners. Which seems appropriate. But I didn't want to stay in town. If I'm in Moab, I want to wake up in the midst of the red rock along the Colorado River. I'm not a camper (as you've figured out, I'm sure) but there are places to put up a tent and drink it in all night. When I return to Moab, that's what I'll do. You might want to, too.
Marcia's thought for today:
To Moab. To Moab. As sung by Beyonce, "To the left, to the left."

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Irreplaceable by Beyonce.

Visiting the Future You Didn't Get

Bah, bah, bah……like, blah, blah, blah……or blog, blog, blog.

My destination after Lincoln was to make it to Parker, CO, outside of Denver, to visit Ed and Deb at their ranch. It meant I would have to drive like heck across Nebraska which goes on and on and then just continues without much momentum. One road. One direction. Good high speed limit.

I arrived at Deb & Ed's Western Spirit Ranch just in time for dinner. Take a look: http://wsrllc.com/

I must say, it was everything I expected and more. So, here I'll share a secret with you. At one time, I thought I would live on a ranch with Ed someday. This was back in the hey-day of telecommunications. He was an engineer in San Diego and I was in MarComm. A dynamic west coast, near the Pacific Ocean, couple. But after 9/11, so much went awry. Telecomms was nose diving, and the many perks of engineering in San Diego were changing. Ed kept talking about going to Colorado and I kinda many possibly thought about it,,,,,but truly,,,,,I mean, do you know me? I don't get to shop at Saks that often, but Saks Fifth Off is a favorite of mine! As destiny would have it, Ed did head to the Rockies and I stayed in San Diego, and life played itself out.

You know that feeling when you 'let life play out' and you are left wondering what would have happened if you'd exerted yourself, your soul and spirit, your energy into making_something_happen. Then other things happen and life moves a little too fast and things fall into their slots, and you want to say, "Hey, wait, I wasn't ready for that to be set in stone." But it is. Ed got a job there. Met a lady who loved to ranch. Who was in telecomms and raised llamas! Alpacas, too! I mean go figure? How does that happen? Deb. Lovely Deb. With her own RAM 2500 truck. A smart lady, with llamas and lambs, and a RAM truck. And get this? Are you ready? She rides horses as well. Oh, just throw me to the slaughter.

Now you may be thinking, what is Marcia doing going to visit the ranch?

But if you know me, you know I really don't ever let go of a friendship. People may come, then go for awhile, I might flit in and out, but even if I don't have a mate, my friends are my mates for life.

I spent two days following everyone around on the ranch. Watched them pickup bales of hay for the animals. Walked into the barn as Ed called out to about 50 alpacas, "Hey, how are my ladies?" All 50 of them walked forward in their corral, big black eyes, resting on us humans, and I must say, these ladies are stellar beautiful.

There's the guard llama (that's a guy). My picture does no justice to this guy at all. Imagine that he has dreadlocks trailing down him, a coat of henna red brown

long hair. Like major cool. And a blond lady alpaca - isn't she a lovely lovely soul?

But you're wondering, what was that like for you, Marcia? On the ranch? On Ed and Deb's ranch? Cute animals, yes, but reality, please.

Well, the truth is I had a wonderful time. Some moments of wanderlust. Thoughts of what if, what if, what if. But, bottom line, Deb and Ed are perfect. An incredible home on the range couple of people who love what they do, who give to the land and to animals with their generous spirits, and who will leave this world a much better place for having cared for Western Spirit Ranch. And as for me, well, I did fall in love while I was there. At long last, the dog of my dreams, Wes. Who decided to be my guy, my guard, my angel. Wes followed me anywhere I went. Sat at my side while I read. While I watched day turn to evening to night. Finally, a dog that I could relate to. Those of you who know me, know that I'm not much of an animal person. (Not much, you say!) But I've always thought that if there was a dog that would get my heart, it would be a Border Collie. Wes proved this true for me.

Maybe, I don't live on a ranch. But I've got friends on the range. A dog named Wes who loves me. (He was 'that into me,' I could tell). And I had the gift of seeing with my own eyes what might never have been. How many of us are so blessed....I am.

Marcia's advice for today:

Going west is easier if you get to visit with Wes.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Stay by Sugarland.

Leaving Lincoln, a passing fancy?

The things one sees along the road. When I drove down the service road to the hotel in Lincoln the night before, I passed a store that said Dr. John's Novelties. I thought, "That's kind of nice." In the morning I saw the rest of the sign which also said, "...and Lingerie." Here I'm thinking it's some kind of five and dime. Well, sort of.

Marcia's thought for today:

Nothing like memories of root beer floats, penny candy, and lingerie?

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Be Be Your Love by Rachael Yamagata

Iowa...Nebraska...Discovering Lincoln, NE (Chicago's little sister?)

Leaving Illinois and heading west should be heralded by music and chimes and archangels singing as the sun rises to midday. But that doesn't happen. There's not a lot along the way. I stopped in Dixon, IL. Reagan's birthplace. It made me wonder who, what kind of people, would be stopping to see the home Regan grew up in. There weren't crowds but some people were there. Mostly with McCain/Palin bumper stickers on their cars.

I didn't really hang out but headed into town and found a super Mexican Restaurant. Two brothers and real Mex food. I highly recommend the chicken tacos but think they could work on their red salsa. I bet later in the day, with a Corona and some chips, it's probably a good spot from which to sit and watch Dixon. For me, Reagan vs. Salamander - easy pick! Here's their sign:

I hit the road west and must tell you, there's not a lot of compelling distraction after Dixon. Thought I'd end up in Iowa but kept going. Thought I'd end up in Omaha but kept going. Kind of tired when I got to Lincoln, NE. It was late but I did a quick drive through the downtown. Very CHICAGO! I'm wondering if maybe Lincoln and Chicago are sister cities. Anybody know? Even restaurants with Chicago in their name. Looked tres north side!

It wasn't fancy but I spent the night at the EconoLodge run by Victor and Suni Patel. Clean place, nice people, and only $49.00. Great deal. Suni seemed pretty serious when I checked in. No smile. But in the morning, I said to her, "Gosh, whoever does the sheets - they are super. Like the nicest sheets ever!" Then she lit up like a smiley face. Glad I could make her morning. So, if you need a good 'value for money' place, go to 1140 W Cornhusker Hwy and check out the sheets. Here's Suni smiling:

Thanks, Suni!

Marcia advice today: Go ahead, make someone's day.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Sister Nebraska by Tarkio.

First Stop means leaving the Last Stop

I'd been away from Chicago for about 30 years when I moved back a couple dozen months ago. It all made sense then. New job. My dad, a widower, in Chicago alone. A year later Dad died, and not long after, I lost the job. The twists and turns of fate? Who knows?

I got to be at my Dad's bedside when he passed into the big casino in the sky. I guess those quiet moments as he died was his gift to me. Most of the time, Dad just growled at me. Not hugely mean. More like he was saying, "Without your Mom, life just sucks." Kind of like martinis for him. In a restaurant, he'd always order a martini, "With an olive and a twist!" Heaven forbid if the guy or lady waiting on us asked, "Gin or vodka?" That would just about ruin the evening. He'd raise his blue eyes up at them and say, "Martinis are made with gin." That was his way of growling.

Watching him die was maybe the most peaceful time I had with him that whole year.

No more, "I said an olive and a twist!" No more, when I cooked something for him, "Almost as good as your Mom's." And the worst of all, no more raised eyebrows and that look that told me he thought I was surely half-cocked. In death, he just went. His eyes weren't open. He was barely breathing. Thank you, God! I couldn't have taken anymore of the lackluster sadness that had come into his staring blue then almost gray eyes. His eyes were closed. Never opened. No last words. Nothing. I didn't know what to do. I whisper sang, Morning Has Broken, which people think Cat Stevens wrote but really it's a very old hymn. Don't know why I sang that. But I did. And Dad died. Like that. As I sang Morning Has Broken.

My Dad spent much of his childhood in a little place called Pistakee Lake in Illinois. We still have a small fishing cottage there. It's not truly on the way to California but it's my first stop. Out of the sounds and stirrings of the big city to spending my first night of this journey at the cottage. When I walked into the kitchen the floor was covered in water. Something wrong with the water heater. Something is always wrong at the cottage. It's a given.

I ignored the water for the night. Drank New Zealand wine, ate cheese, an apple and, as a bath was probably not a good idea, fell off into the deep sleep of saying goodbye to Dad yet again. When I woke up this morning, I could watch the world over the lake awaken. The sun takes over. Without turning my head, I can lazy eye the change of day. There's a tree by the lake. It's my weather meter. If the tree is still, the lake will be calm. I love this tree. It's my Thika tree, like the flame trees of Kenya. From the vantage point I have, head settled on a pillow, no need to move, watching the sun up, and my tree, I could be anywhere. Here, there, or in Kenya. It's a superb feeling.

Morning has broken. It's 0630. I'm going to cleanup the water. Call the brothers about the latest something that is wrong at the cottage. Put on some Cat Stevens.

"Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning."

Say bye to Pistakee. To Dad one more time. Here's a pic of Dad BMD. That's 'before Mom died.'

Time to go.

Marcia's advice today: Stop and say goodbye.

Bye Dad. Bye Dad. Bye Dad. Loved you.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Keep Me In Your Heart by Warren Zevon

Leaving the Emerald City of Chicago!

Yesterday was a massive heart attack of emotions, stressors, and some smiles. If you haven't lived in a 60-story building in downtown Chicago, you may not have ever envisioned how the hell someone moves in and out of these places. First, one has to book the dock in the building. Getting on the schedule is akin to getting the best airfare on a Friday, booking within a week, to go from L.A. to NYC. You only get three hours of dock time. I've been in a couple of buildings. It's always the same. Three hours. Like the God of Docks has decreed that all people can move in three hours. Go figure.

My dock time was 12-3PM. At 130PM, I was on the phone for the third time with the Corrigan Movers, where an incredibly patient Chrystal said, "I don't see why you're worried. It's not a big move. They'll be fine." By 145PM, I was not fine. Chrystal was on the phone again, 'talking me down.' (You need to understand that at 3PM, the next person would be standing at the dock telling ME to get out of their God given time slot.)

A few minutes later three biker type guys showed up. Mike, Jaime, and Jeremy. Not only big, strong and looking like they could save the world,,,,,but also, soft spoken, kind and reassuring. "Hi, I'm Mike," said biker guy number one (who looked like a twin brother to a friend of mine named Mike who rides a Harley). He reached out and shook, or rather took, my hand, and I felt like I was going to prom! "Don't worry. Sorry we're late. I told the guys to get off Ohio (that's a main drag in downtown CHI). The traffic. Oh, god, the traffic. But don't worry."

I started to say something about not knowing how to pack up a glass table and Mike just took over with,"We've got it. Don't worry. We've got everything."

And that was that. From high stress to no stress. From, OMG, I'm out of packing tape to Mike, Jaime, and Jeremy who kind of walked above the ground, like ANGEL MOVERS, like Harley guys with wings, they swooped in and out. In 30-minutes, we were more than halfway done. I learned that like me, Jeremy and Jaime both lost their jobs a few months back. One is really in construction but doing this for now. Mike told me how they are doing back to back moves with no 'travel time' in between. No wonder they weren't here at noon. All three wanted to go with me to CA, I think. I asked Jeremy if he was an ex-Marine. He asked why. I said, "You and the guys, you're like super hero types. You look like the Special Forces." He was quiet. Sticking tags on the boxes. He looked up. "I used to be a boxer."

Of course.

We all used to be something else. Think about it. If we hadn't made dramatic changes in our lives, they were made for us. I went from crazy lady on the phone with Chrystal to, "Wow, look at these Zen movers."

Just then, I was sitting in the window seat taking my last look at all of the Emerald City. The Chicago River down below. A yellow water taxi zipping by. The historic river tour cruise going the other direction. The Tribune Building. Wrigley's clock. That Trump tower that has trumped the others around it. Beautiful but no character. Not like the old Morton Salt building that still has a bronze plaque with the umbrella girl on it. And Morton helped pay for Chicago's Art Institute, too. Wacker Drive winding below me. The Michigan Avenue bridge crossing the river. So much to say bye for now to.

I wanted to go down to the dock and give Mike a big hug. But things were moving fast. Dock time had run out. The guys were angel moving my mattress out and saying goodbye to me. Two gone. Only Jeremy still in my place. He said he hoped he'd get to CA someday. Handed me a bunch of paperwork. Before he left he said, "Don't worry. We'll take care of your stuff."

That's all we really want, isn't it. Someone to take care of our stuff. While we figure out other stuff.

At last, I started my drive west. I know the environment shouldn't match the moment when one is writing. Like dark nights of the soul shouldn't always be paired with dark storms outside. But the Emerald City was in my rear view mirror smiling a goodbye to me. And the sun was setting to the west, turning all red and golden. My stuff was in good hands. My life was in mine.

Moving on.

Marcia's advice for moving day:

Take a valium. Give it up. Give it over. It will get moved.

Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Chicago by Sufjan Stevens. Also listen to, Come on! Feel the Illinoise! Sufjan Stevens is incredible, outstanding, amazing!

The Power of What If?

You know that tired old quote that today is the first day of the rest of your blah blah blah.  It's simply NOT true.  We spend day after day blodding along (that's plodding outside the blogosphere).  To work. Blodding home.  Blodding to stores, restaurants, blodding to read books.  Blodding around looking for that pearl, that moment of riotous revelation, that second in time where we can say, "Today the rest of my life changes."  It's not a fork in the road.  Or a new diet or taking a class.  It's throwing caution out the window, making a stand while moving in a new direction, it's g with g (going with God), saying, "Okay, life, I'm jumping off, I know you will catch me, I'm giving in to faith and belief in the power of what if."  So, what if?  What if?  Today is the day I begin my, "What if!"

Marcia's advice today:  If you bother to smile, bother to mean it.