Gone Writing

(this photo is entitled Meg Pontificates)

Hello Dahlings,
To all my faithful (and tolerant) readers, thank you very much for visiting my blog. I wanted you to know that until further notice, my posts will be more sparse than usual as I am working on writing an actual story. I am collaborating with my mother to develop a story she made up for Michael and I when we were little. She'd started this wonderful story and never concluded it so it's time these characters and plot were put to paper. Wish us luck and I offer the following recommendations for much better reading than you'll find here:

The Tao of Pooh is my most recent read, it's a well-thought-out argument that Winnie the Pooh is the West's version of a taoist. It's an academic argument with none of the pompousness and lofty reasonings. Though I, myself don't subscribe to the teachings of taoism, I thorougly enjoyed this short, fun read.

Bleak House, I'm not reading it; I'm watching it. This is a FANTASTIC BBC production of Dicken's book and I haven't finished it yet but I've seen enough to recommend it. I'm hopelessly hooked and thrilled by the film and the language found therein. Rent it from your library, they'll probably have it or order it for you if you ask.

For fantastic tips on everything (and even better recipes), visit the RealSimple Web site by Martha Stewart.

Go to BBC's news site for the very best of the best journalism, in my opinion.

As a former employee of and a current fan, I must tell you that for me, every Autumn's sweater shopping begins and ends with a visit to the GAP, you'll have these sweaters forever.

If you haven't igoogled yet, you must. It's basically a personalized homepage for you to add whatever you'd like (sort of like Mac's widgets, for my fellow Apple mates). I have a banner across the top featuring art by Jeff Koons, a crossword that renews itself every day, places one must travel to, BBC headlines, How-to tips, and more. Now go make your own.

Finally, to the right of my blog you'll see a list of other bloggers. Feel free to peruse their prose and enjoy their thoughts. Mama Mullen is, truly, queen of the kitchen so go there for some yummo recipes, Tiffany is brilliant and sees the world through an imperfect-Christian lens we all need a prescription for, Heather loves life more than most, and Gina is a modern-day Diana goddess of the hunt/fish/climb/camp, just to detail a few.

I'm off to write, cheers!

A Forrest in my sunset

I have a story today, I know I haven’t had one for a while. Three weeks ago, I was driving home and took a detour so I’d drive by La Jolla beach. As I could’ve predicted, the ocean worked on me like a magnet, I was compelled to pull over and park, slip on my flip-flops (I always keep a pair in the car now), and run down to the water. I only meant to get my feet wet, but I played in the water, sand, and tide pools from 4:00 p.m. until the sun began to set (about 7:30 p.m. here). I hadn’t even realized how long I’d been out there but seeing that the sun was setting, I made my way back to the top of the cliffs for a better view of the scene, sat on a free bench and decided to have a chat with God.
I’d been feeling a little, okay a lot more distant from God than I’d like to admit and was ready to have quite the little discussion with Him. As usual, I came to him with the sort of indignance and frustration that I know for certain is my own doing, but I like to pretend is his fault. God doesn’t mind, I’m sure. It’s so incredulous and foolish that he can only shake His head and return my fist-shaking session with patience, waiting for me to get the picture. I asked God what I was doing here in San Diego and why I wasn’t meeting more people and why he wouldn’t give me a church and a community.
I was engrossed in this mental vent session when this man suddenly appeared at my side. I was truly startled and looked up to see a grizzled man peering at me from under a fisherman's hat, wearing soiled clothes, and holding an engorged plastic sack in one hand and a tattered backpack in the other.
“I’m having a barbeque,” he said, “but the problem is I don’t have a grill or anyone to share it with.”
Never at a loss for words, I responded coolly (I was more in the mood for conversation with the Almighty than a bum), “That sounds like a conundrum.”
“Conundrum! Now there’s a 5-dollar word!”
I have a curse for using overly large words when in the presence of those who are least able to grasp them. I’m not joking. It’s one of the things that makes communication with children difficult for me. Inevitably, whenever I need to sound eloquent and well-spoken all the richness of the English language eludes me. But put a homeless man in front of me and eureka! It immediately put a wall up between this man and myself, though I hadn’t meant for it to.
I began to say something else but he interrupted, “Do you mind if I sit here?” as he set down his bags and eased himself down beside me—I noticed that the bulging platic bag contained cans and cans of cheap beer. I inwardly sighed and consented though I wished him gone. He began a few more times to make conversation with me and I, while trying to remain somewhat civil, ignored each of his queries and icebreakers. I did a safety scan: were there people within screaming distance? Yes. Were there cars frequenting the street behind us should he choose to attack? Yes. Did I have even a remotely sharp object on me should I need to protect myself? Yes, I loosened the cap off of the pen in my pocket…just in case.
As I wound up my analysis, he expressed his impatience for my disdain and accused me of not even being able to look him in the eye. This I proceeded to do and asked him with equal impatience if he could honestly blame me, a woman on my own, for being wary of a strange man with a plastic bag full of beer. His expression and tone of voice changed immediately. He said, “I’m not really a bad guy, if you don’t mind alcoholics.” I told him I’d not known any so he would be soley responsible for the basis on which I would form my opinion. He cracked open a can and cheered to that.
He repeated, “I’m not a bad guy, in fact, I would like to give you a present.” He proceeded to dig around in his back pack from which he produced a canvas back full of seashells and a length of elastic. He asked me to hold out my wrist, I refused. I was uncomfortable. So he pursed his lips and nodded and encircled his own wrist with the elastic and cut off a length a bit smaller than that. He looked at me and asked, “I don’t have any friends or anyone to talk to. Could you do something for me? Can you stay here with me? You can leave either as soon as the sun goes down or as soon as I finish your bracelet, whichever comes first. But please stay.”
I nodded, and he set to work, his clumsy hands and painstakingly stringing the small shells onto the elastic explaining that this is what he did for a living. It was too hard for me to watch him. The craft would’ve taken young, dexterous hands moments to complete, but his rough hands with scabs and cuts all over them worked so slowly. I had to look at the sunset, I would guess we had about 15 minutes left. He almost completed the bracelet when the elastic broke and he had to start over again. I helped him gather the shells that had flown off. He patiently began again, using his own wrist to measure, not asking me this time. At this point I felt so bad, I offered to purchase the bracelet from him, I only had $3, but he seemed grateful for the offer and accepted. The sun sank faster than I’d predicted and he prattled on about disconnected facts about himself I tried to follow and stories whose meaning was indiscernible. "By the way, I'm Forrest." All the while he talked, I tried to find a way to introduce the subject of God into the conversation, for what could offer more comfort to a man like this? Maybe he could even go to a church for some aid. That's what I was there for right? Isn't that how the Chicken Soup for the Soul books go? There to pray but a serendipitous encounter leads to warm and fuzzies in the end? But he prattled on without ceasing and I never felt like that opportunity presented itself and I inwardly yelled at God for the second time that day, “What the heck am I doing here if you don’t want me to witness to him God? Why this utter waste of my time? Why won’t you help me do what I'm supposed to be able to do?!” I was so angry.
He finally finished, just as the sun hit the water and he held it up to examine it. I started tearing up out of frustration at not being able to introduce the subject of God and at the overwhelming pity I felt for this man, luckily it was getting too dark for him to tell. I handed him the money, and he held the bracelet open for me to slip my hand through. I tensed at once, having no desire whatsoever to touch or be touched by this man. But then a moment of clarity—Jesus never refused to touch anyone no matter what their status or situation, and he was God! He, of all men, did not have to condescend to touch and interact with the lowly. The man’s hands were still suspended in air, holding open the ‘o’ of the bracelet for me and I looked him in the eyes and saw him as an equal, for the first time. I put my hand though, feeling his calloused skin brush mine, and he took the back of my hand, turned it over, and examined the inside of my wrist staring at it and stroked it with his thumb then released it. It was a very intimate moment that could’ve easily taken a on a shade of perverseness, but was very innocent and our eyes met as one human to another, his were clear of any ulterior motive and full of appreciation. Mine still welled with tears. He thanked me slowly and sincerely saying, “Thank you for letting a lonely man share a sunset with a beautiful woman.” I didn't feel beautiful at all, I felt like an insufferable snob who was rubbish at witnessing. I thanked him for the bracelet, put on my sandals and told him to take care of himself.
There's no punch line, I'm about as confused now as I was when I drove away from the beach. I failed to share Jesus with Forrest, but I gave him the only thing that occurred to me that Jesus might give; a touch.

(Photo is, finally, not "borrowed" from the Internet. A shot of sunset on La Jolla beach--not taken on the same day as my meeting with Forrest.)

Cuppa at Pannikin

Pannikin Coffee & Tea is my Sunday afternoon spot today and I’m soaking in my surroundings. It’s a lovely little place with the feel of a backyard even though it sits just off of busy Girard and Pearl streets in La Jolla’s quaint beach community. A white-washed wooden front with slightly protruding bay windows introduce a natural wooden deck with plastic patio chairs and mismatched, wobbly tables, all of which overlooks a small cement and garden patio with umbrella-shaded tables with chipped Spanish-tile tops.

http://entertainment.signonsandiego.com/places/pannikin-cafe-la-jolla/

I’m perched at the corner of the wooden deck with a perfect vantage point of all the diners and drinkers, just under the outdoor speaker exuding pleasantly mellow music in a language I don’t recognize, Portuguese maybe. There’s a man sitting in the space across from me on the opposing porch corner smoking and doing what I’m doing. He languidly takes in his surroundings as he smokes and, I imagine, records what he sees in his mental journal. He seems particularly fond of looking up through the leaves of a big tree around which the porch is constructed, with a big hole in its wooden slats with enough room to allow for the tree’s girth as it ages.
Two women sit below me, chatting sporatically over their cold dishes. One has hair color that, even in Dr. Seuss’ world, does not grow naturally on human heads. She separates the components or her salad (alfalfa sprouts, tomatoes, red onion, carrot shavings, etc.), then, spears each in assembly line fashion. Her friend is sipping an impossibly frothy cappuccino and an plate of pita bread, hummus and assorted veggie sides. The smell from the cucumber slices on her plate pleasantly waft up to me.
There are others too, the man sitting at the table directly in front of me is old and a bit grumpy. He, in what must be his 60th year of life, has still not discovered the art of anchoring down loose items that might blow away in the breeze. Since he sat down, he has lost three napkins, the sports section of the Union Tribune and his to-go coffee cup—the latter of which provoked the most grumbling and under-the-breath cursing on his part.
My tranquil setting is interrupted only by the banging of espresso tools and crotch rockets firing down the street I forget is there b/c of the high hedges around the patio and lulling music overhead. I’ve spent the whole last week in bed, at work, and all else is a medicated blur. I did have a few meaningful conversations on the phone, close girlfriends from Lincoln have proven to be as loyal as can be and frequently ring to keep tabs on me. I also had a lovely chat with my endlessly-talented friend, Peter, who has written the most fantastic play. I’ve read it three times now and my liking for it increases each time. Like any good fan, I’m already impatient for his next creation.

(Note: this photo isn't mine, I stole it from the Internet. Again, hopefully this is enough to prevent someone from suing the pants off me.)

Snapshots: Better than Better | Have a Good Day Sun! | Afraid of Heights | Cake

Me: Were you scared at all when you found out?
Rita*: Well no! When the doctor told me about it, I just told him, "That's stupid".
Me: Huh. I don't think I would have been able to say that.
Rita: Well, don't you think it's stupid?
Me: A brain tumor?
Rita: Yeah! I mean, being scared doesn't make something go away.
Me: So how did treating it with contempt work for you?
Rita: Pretty good I guess, it's not in here anymore anyway! (self-consciously smoothing down the back of her hair over the long scar trailing from the nape of her neck into her scalp)
Me: I'm glad you're better.
Rita: Honey, I'm better than better. No go get to work. Come back to my office for lunch sometime. We'll clear off my desk, put down a tablecloth and order in and have a picnic.
*Coworker, and survivor of a brain tumor diagnosed in December 2007
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I watched my first sunset on the beach last Saturday night, "alone" in the La Jolla Cove. I'm learning that alone isn't a state of being, it's a state of mind. If that's true, then I shared the sunset with a father and son and here's what they were talking about...
Dad: See? There it goes! Say buh-bye sun! (or maybe it was "son")
Boy: (loud enough so the sun could hear him) BUH-BYE SUN! I'LL SEE YOU...um...I'll seE YOU TOMORROW DAY!!
Dad: Yup, because right now it's going to bed.
Boy: HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY!
Dad: A good night, you mean.
Son: (thinking, then saying with conviction) Sure.

There was an old man about 4 feet away from me who eased himself down on the low wall along the walkway and sat with such a hunch that his eye level was even with top of the cane he used, held erect and steady with his hand atop it. He looked sooooo lonely and it ached somewhere beneath my collarbone to watch him sit there alone waiting for the sun to set. I'd almost decided to go over there, but rethought the action; not all those who are alone are lonely, just as not all who wander are lost. Then it occurred to me, that it was I who was a little lonely and I got up and sat beside him.
Meg: Excuse me, I'm watching the sunset alone, and you didn't look like had any company either and I figured... (I sort of started to lose my nerve a little, though not usually shy)...
Man: Are you afraid of heights?
Me (caught a little off guard): A little, why?
Man: I'm pleased with myself, because I am afraid of heights and this is the closest I've gotten to these cliffs by the beach before.
Me: That's pretty good! (looking over the side of where we were situated safely and really not that far up at all) I'm impressed.
Man: Well thank you, but you shouldn't be. To be honest I was just tired and didn't want to go any farther so I stopped here.
Me: Still counts.
Man: I s'pose. (smiles)
Me: Would you like to watch the sun set together?
Man: I'm sorry, I'd love to, but I'm meeting my wife at a restaurant a little farther down the way.
I was surprised that he had a date waiting for him; I'd misjudged his situation. He got up, smiled, and started walking away and I felt a pang at being the one left. I sadly watched him walk away but after he took a few shuffling steps away from me, I couldn't hang onto my self-pity another moment, so pleased was I to know that he had someone and somewhere. The ache let up and I smiled to myself. My ocean sunset was, as you can imagine or have see for yourself at one time or another, marvelous. It burns red just before it dips down to the water, I imagine that were I closer to it, I could hear it sizzle as it hit the water; the white light reflecting on the water just below the sun moves to-and-fro as if it were simmering, making the metaphor more substantial.
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Why one should never underestimate the power of the chocolate and coffee bean to remedy a situation.
I went to a crowded coffee shop appropriately called "The Living Room;" it was furnished with old chaise lounges, velvet parlor sofas, and mismatched dining sets. I claimed a table and began to write letters to close friends and family. Soon after, two older ladies came in and settled just behind me. No sooner were they there than they began to complain about the overly-trendy crowd, lack of space, and shabby furniture. As one of them incessantly bemoaned her surroundings, her friend had enough sense to take some kind of action...
Lady 1: I'm going to go buy us some dessert
Lady 2: It's 10:00 in the morning!
Lady 1: So what? What would you like?
Lady 2: How should I know?
Lady 1: Would you like to come to the front and look?
Lady 2: No, just pick something you think I would like.
Lady 1: Something with chocolate in it?
Lady 2: No.
Lady 1: What about pie or a tart or something?
Lady 2: No.
Lady 1: A danish, croissant, muffin?
Lady 2: I don't KNOW! I'll just have whatever you get.
The first old lady got up to make her purchase, mumbling a little as she went, and returned five minutes later carrying two (mismatched) plates with large pieces of chocolate cake and forks sliding precariously on each. She set down the plates, and wordlessly they began to eat the cake. I got up to get a glass of water in order to better view the scene, I got the cup and glanced over. They were sitting straight, just as proper ladies should, I smiled and looked down to focus on what I was doing. Once I'd filled my glass, I squeezed a wedge of lemon into it and started back to my table. When I took in the ladies a second time, their faces were significantly closer to the plates and their forks scraped against their dishes as they collected the final morsels of their morning dessert. I stifled a giggle and sat back down to listen...
Lady 2: The lighting isn't very good here, is it?
pause
Lady 2: Though, I'd say they make up for it with their food. I always say that dessert should precede a meal, that way if you run out of room you don't miss the best part.
Lady 1: I like the music. (it was classical, maybe Wagner)
Lady 2: Yes, it's actually very good (I hear her fork clinking on the plate again, though I know the cake is no longer). They should still replace the furniture in here, but my chair is surprisingly comfortable.
Lady 1: How have you been feeling lately?
Lady 2: (ignoring the question) Thank you for the cake.
Lady 1: I ordered coffee too, but I forgot to make it decaf.
Lady 2: (threatening to relapse into grumpiness) Oh, well I'll never get to sleep tonight, the last time I drank...
A server approaches the table and says
Server: Here are your coffees ladies, and I'm sorry but we just ran out of regular so I brought you decafs until we get another pot of regular brewed.

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