Last night I went tangoing for the second night in a row (am considering going again tonight). I'd worked a 12-hour day and gone straight to Barry's to dance with two older, distringuished tangueros who were kind enough to dance with an amateur like me (it helped that I was the only female who showed up to Tuesday tango night). As I drove home last night, I wondered why I was spending my time dancing when there were so many other things I should be doing. I have goals I'll never reach if I don't start getting organized and apply myself and there are people I neglect to feed my dance habit. I thought about it, and this week I'll spend five nights out of seven out dancing. Why am I doing it?
For one thing, the exercise is great. It's the only workout I enjoy and as my appetite shrinks and my legs grow strong, I feel my waistline veeeeeeery slowly diminish. But there's a better reason: four years ago in Buenos Aires, I tried to tango and after a horribly failed practica, I swore it off for life. I just knew I couldn't do it and uncharacteristically took it off the table forever, or so I thought. Now that patient instructors and kind male partners have taught me that I can be an acceptable tanguera, I feel immensely empowered. It is the first time in a very long time that I believe that we can do the impossible if we try. That, as cheesy as this line is, we truly do miss 100% of the shots we don't take.
Now that the lessons and practicas aren't a huge struggle, just a matter of polishing and improving, I feel ready to use this as a springboard toward accomplishing other things I've been putting off out of laziness and hopelessness.

Thanks for indulging yet another selfish post—I hope that someone might read this and feel encouraged to try something unfamiliar and uncomfortable and overcome his/her own fears. It's a wonderful thing to discover you have more in you than you thought.

Five Great Things Friday

I'm never as homesick as I am in the autumn here in San Diego. The mornings are brisk but toast up to the 70s or 80s by noon, no cloudy days, no wind, few changing trees, and San Diegans generally revel in their still-constant fair weather (go figure).
I miss wind too. Big gusty, stingy wind that makes you grateful to be indoors with a hot cuppa.
So, today, I celebrate five great things about San Diego to remind me why everyone and their boyfriend wants to live here:
1) I love the military presence, although it is a grim reminder that we are a nation at war whether we act like it or not, I feel safe when helicopters hover, indestructable ships float in our harbor, and men in uniform guard the city.


2) The big blue bridge to Coronado is a beautiful feat of architecture and I almost can't keep my eyes on the road whenever I'm driving by it.


3) I love the Mexican influence in the city, only thrity short minutes from Tijuana, and I've never had better Mexican food in my life. Here's Alison from her visit last year, we were in a traditional tin shop where you find these glorious stars so indicative of Mexican decor.

4) I drive by the San Diego Mormon Tabernacle every day (it's simultaneously creepy and beautiful...doesn't it look like it's made of paper or foam board?), ironically, I don't have my own photo of it—I had to go to a mormon Website to get one and the site wouldn't let me go "back," "forward" or click out of it which I thought was pretty funny. Yikes!

This thing looks BUCK when it's foggy, it's absolutely haunting.
5) The sunsets here aren't too shabby. They're as beautiful as those in NE, but they're just totally different.



Home is where the heart is, and I left mine in Nebraska, but I guess I can stand San Diego a little longer.

What's in a name?

I had a wonderful Valentine's Day. I received a package from my parents at work containing a GPS navigation system, a Garmin, and I was overwhelmed by their generosity. If I wasn't the happiest girl in San Diego, I was certainly the most spoiled! The sick feeling I've repeatedly fought back down as I've ventured into six-lane traffic while simultaneously trying to read a map quest print out and keep the sun out of my eyes resulted in less-than-safe driving and I am so grateful for this gift.
I visited "World Market" after a good day at work, bought a bottle of Riesling called "Polka Dot" (I'd been eyeing it for a while, today it happened to be on sale!), went home and wriggled out of my work clothes and put on a French film, "Avenue Montaigne." Actually, I don't recommend it, but it served its purpose. I enjoyed tearing open some mail from friends and family, Heather and Alison, thank you so much for thinking of me. Your cards were wonderfully encouraging!
I'm concluding my day now by listening to my favorite mix CD from Heather and writing this note.
Despite a really blessed day, I'm beginning to feel some of the symptoms of heart sickness loved ones gently warned me about as I prepared to leave home; gently enough that I wouldn't be too scared to go or sleep, numerous enough that I was mentally prepared.
I have everything one would need to be content and I can literally list the things I "want" on one hand: patio furniture, a piano, an ankle that doesn't hurt anymore, and a friend. Four, not bad. Despite this, I can feel satan working so hard to draw out the joy in my life leaving a hollow space in my head where thoughts of greed, self-pity, bitterness, and malcontent echo off its walls. For some reason I'm finding it difficult to keep that space filled for very long, people far away are working overtime to do their part, God walks beside me constantly comforting me with his blessings -- quick fixes, no matter how worthy, are not the remedy. What I need is not something I can work hard for, not something I can strive to be good enough for, it is something that requires me to do the thing I'm very worst at; trust God. I must metaphorically unclench the fists I so bravely made and go before God palms up. I have to show Him, more for my sake than His (He already knows), that I have nothing to offer and I come broken and sad to be a daughter so unworthy. I can't tell you what the immediate benefits of this are because healing, at least for me, doesn't work like a shot in the arm, but more like a balm that is soothed on and goes to work with time.
Today, I went to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription (face meds) and the woman behind the counter asked for my insurance card and said "I thought you might've stopped by yesterday, Mary." Initially annoyed by the subtle reprimand, I paused, hand hanging in midair as I extended the card toward her, and looked at her. "What did you say?", I asked. She repeated herself and I heard her say my name again without having glanced at my card or white Rx sack yet. I said "okay" and finished the transaction and wished her a happy Valentine's day. I felt better as I walked away, she is the first person to remember who I am outside of the office. It sounds ridiculous, but what had been "sweet anonymity" had begun to make me feel quite invisible in this place whenever I wasn't at work. I'm anonymous no longer, one person down, an entire city full of people left to go, a season of growing stretches before me. I feel more and more ready.

How am I? How I am.

After a dreary weekend of rain, disappointing company and poorly prepared calamari (tasted like fried rubberbands), I am resolved to be better. I had said before that loneliness is a state of mind and not a state of being. This weekend it seems I had a lapse in memory. However, my old boss from Lincoln, NE came into the office a couple of days ago (the San Diego office, that is) and left today after a grueling 48 hours of meetings. On his way out, he asked me how I was doing in my new position in life. I thought it was an odd sort of way to put it, but I did a split second analysis and responded "I'm doing great. I love it here.", and I was a little shocked to hear myself saying it. But as he smiled, gave me my first hug in weeks, and walked away, rolling suitcase following behind, I realized that only a small part of me wanted to follow him back to Lincoln. I wasn't ready to leave. I'm not ready to leave. I won't be ready to leave here for quite some time. And guess what? I don't have to.
Between finishing my first book since October, letting my nails grow long, watching movies I didn't have time or money to see in the theaters and feeling the exhilaration of being somewhere new every single morning as I drive to work -- I knew that this place is good for me. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's good for my soul, but I'd go farther than saying it is good for my mind...my spirit. This place is good for my spirit.


P.S. So no one sues the pants off me, this photo is courtesy of Getty images

Sweet Anonymity

I am in the seventh largest city in the U.S. where 1.3 million San Diegans crowd 6-lane freeway lanes, dine in posh restaurants along the boardwalk and flood the beach when the surf is high. Only about 13 of them know I'm even here, probably fewer than that remember my name; my supervisors, my landlady, my great-aunt who is probably landscaping her backyard with a swimming pool in her new hilltop abode overlooking the city as we speak, and a handful of coworkers who barely caught my name today between sips of corporate coffee and retrieving faxes.
I make a point of smiling at cashiers, produce vendors, and fellow residents in my apartment area and try hard not to convey the sentiment, "will you be my friend?" behind the grin that comes easily and, so far, is somewhat effective. I chat pleasantly with the check-out guy at Trader Joes, ask the farmer selling produce on the corner, "¿como se puede saber si un mango es maduro o no?" (how can you tell if a mango is ripe or not?) and he responds warmly in Spanish and smiles back. I met a woman in the apartment a few away from mine who works in the cancer clinic on the UCSD campus. She was dressed in a pretty sundress but looked a bit tired and told me her name was Katie. I hope I'm spelling it right and that her day wasn't too hard.
Coming home to an empty apartment isn't all bad. I no sooner do I latch and chain the door behind me, and I wriggle out of my stuffy work clothes and leave them in a heap in front of the door. I proceed to the kitchen, wearing what's left and assemble a salad made with the produce pictured here, some baby mixed greens and thai peanut dressing I concocted last night.
I know I will go to bed without having anyone to whom I may say 'goodnight' to and wake up with no one to whom I may greet with 'good morning'. That is the strangest part.
But I have no one telling me when to do something or how best I might proceed, no one to interrupt my thoughts in the coffee shop as I write letters or read (presently, am enthralled by Jane Eyre) except to ask me, "are you going to use this chair?". "No, please feel free", I reply, mentally adding, "who would I know that could occupy it?".
Perhaps some sadness will creep in later, but for the moment, all this I take in with a sort of wide-eyed consideration and am fascinated to learn what it is to be on one's own. I feel very calm and content. I feel that if that peace were disturbed, I can drive all of six minutes to the beach and watch the ocean's undulating waves licking the sand, inhale the sea scent that no man will ever succeed in bottling: the sweetness of the flowers that bloom here even in mid January, a hint of salty fishiness, of wet sand (it sort of smells like dirt but different), and that unnamable agent that distinguishes it from all other perfumes.
I miss you all, dear loved ones. Your phone calls, emails, messages, posts, and letters mean more than I can say. I don't have to be there to be "here for you", and thank you for returning the sentiment.