Reconstructing Stacey

The Matrix

It has come to my attention that I've been an unreliable and absent blogger. Not quite sure why, though it's not because I've been scribbling in my journal lately, since I haven't done that either, and usually that's the culprit in my bloggy lapse.

That reminds me -- last week, I read a year's worth of journal entries (circa 2004-05) during a BART trip to and from Berkeley. I woke up last Monday morning having to interview a rich and powerful but very sweet woman in Russian Hill, having forgotten a reporter's notebook at the office the previous Friday. So I grabbed the only lined notebook I could find in my room, which happened to be one of my old journals that has a bunch of blank pages at the end. I used it to take notes. Later, when I traveled to Berkeley to interview someone else for a different story (and with a proper notebook in tow), I used it as some light train reading.

I felt like I was in conversation with a past self.

The sentiment was both delightful and eerie (how young I was!), though mostly I felt indulgent and lucky to have this glimpse of a Stacey who's, well, not quite around anymore. It reminded why it's so important (for me) to chronicle both the mundane and enormous landmarks along life's road. This world's beauty hides in the details. But raindrops evaporate over time.

Tonight I mentioned to a few friends that I'm considering no longer blogging. They thought it was a bad idea. Confirmation that even three people enjoy my blog is the honey to my composition tea. Positive feedback. Ah. It goes down so smooth.

So here are a few random thoughts:

This city is so incredibly small. On Sunday, I took a flying trapeze class with three of my coworkers (photos to come, promise), two of their boyfriends and one of their best friends who happened to be someone with whom I went out on two craigslist dates one year ago. It wasn't awkward in the least, but it was unusual: One of those coincidences where you feel like knocking on Mr. Universe's front door to see if he forgot to deliver the Divine Plan that all the neighbors received last week. We went out twice, and then I never returned his call/email for a third date. A trip to Israel just after those two dates made me sure that I wanted to prioritize dating someone Jewish, which DW was not. (And you know, it's a good thing I made that decision, since I've dated, um, NO ONE more than once -- ok, one guy twice -- since that time ... Though the man drought on my Doplar radar is entirely not the point of this story).

In other small world news, two weeks ago I went to LA, where I met this guy at  Purim party who had lived in Berkeley for 10 years but now lives in LA. I mentioned my writing a story about the mikvah, and he mentioned that his sister lives in Berkeley and would have a lot to say on the topic. He gave me her number. I called said sister. Then, I run into said sister's husband, who I have known for several months, but not his last name, and so didn't make the connection. He was like: You met my brother-in-law in Los Angeles and that's great you're going to interview my wife!

And tonight, on the way home from Casa Dolores, I heard a familiar voice. Was that B from work? I craned my neck, and sure enough, there he was, someone I had never before run into outside of the office, on the bus, talking to a friend. I slipped off the bus with much stealth. Small talk was not on the evening's agenda.

OH, and THEN, last week, I ran into A while walking to a friend's house after a really long day at work (aforementioned post-journal-reading BART ride). This was a particular thrill because for years we longed to be neighbors, and then for the first time since we shared a zip code, we ran into each other on the 16th Street, which is the most neighborly encounter I can think of. I punched him I was so excited.

I share these thoughts because they are evidence, bread crumbs marking the wide path I've made for myself in this city. Proof that I live here, neons signs indicating I am not a visitor. I'm at home. It feels nice.

Listening to: Careless Love by Madeleine Peyroux

Reading: Look At Me by Jennifer Egan

Restless

My cat sleeps with one eye open. But just for a moment. Then his lids flutter shut and he rolls from his belly onto his side, the motion inspiring the kind of deep sleep that makes his paws quiver. He is still. Then he stretches, curls back into a ball, his fuzzy midsection rising and falling in his meditative state.

I am jealous. My mind is total chaos, a blurred mess. I feel like my brain can't find its glasses, or maybe like the San Francisco fog has invaded my cerebellum and refuses to rise, dissipate and let the sun shine in. It's cloudy in here. Help.

This is why my blog has turned quite self-indulgent/reflective these past few weeks. I am OFF BALANCE.

Here, I'll show you. Come closer. OK, that's good. Right there. Now, take a look inside my brain, circa the previous 11 hours: I want to quit my job. Damn it's cold outside. I want to move to Guatemala and learn Spanish. I wonder if anyone has sent me an email since the last time I checked 5 minutes ago? I'm bored. I'm out of shape. Should I join the YMCA? Even a waitressing job would be better than what I'm doing. I'm tired of journalism. I love journalism. Am I struggling to focus at work because I'm burnt out on writing in general, or because I'm burnt out writing for this particular publication? I think I'll read Slate.com. How exactly do freelancers do it -- not just the writing, but the not-being-afraid of failure? I wonder if any new jobs have been posted to craigslist? I know I shouldn't eat that cookie but I really want it. Maybe I'll go get coffee. Should I take a creative writing class? I know O's sister recommended the classes at Stanford, but shit, I'd have to throw down $400 for that plus commute via train on a Wednesday night. Maybe there are some classes in the city. Oooh, the SF Writer's Grotto. That sounds cool. Huh, one of the founding members wrote a book titled "What Should I Do With My Life?" Bet Paperbackswap.com has that book. Score. I'm ordering it now. Serendipity. Yay, it's almost 5 p.m. I should really print my resume and take it to kinko's after work. Do I still have that last piece of Israeli chocolate in my desk drawer?

I am schizophrenic. I am so consumed by my restless state that I can't focus on anything. One minute I want a new job, the next I want to dedicate myself fully to a freelance writing career, or maybe to a different career and graduate school, or perhaps I just want to quit work all together and donate my eggs and travel the world and wear my Birkenstocks all day while slurping fresh squeezed juice that I bought from the street vendor. My skirt will graze my ankles in the warm breeze and the sun will dance on my shoulders and I will be far away from all that ails me.

If only my sage-like cat could offer me advice. Hmm. That reminds me. What would I do with the cat if I decided to travel?

Back where I started

This has been a difficult month. I've been inside my head a lot, trying to figure out what I want to be and where I want to be and how I can get there. Consequently, I've felt lonely, despondent, frustrated, restless, lost, stuck, unsure of where or whom to turn to other than within.

For months, I have told myself I'm done with journalism, that it no longer satisfies me, that I want to do something else.  I've scoured the Internet looking for another path. I've researched graduate programs in education and social work; teaching fellowships, craigslist and various job boards. It seems like at least once a week I call my parents with a new idea of how to find meaning in my professional life. I could get an MSW! I could be a community organizer! I could study public policy! I could teach high school! My dad has helped support my new curiosities by sending me links to jobs. His emails all have subjects like: "Dream job" or "this is so you!"

Meanwhile, I had flashbacks: I'm cleaning out my desk in the Courier newsroom, organizing files for my successor and sorting the good pens (ie. those I will take) from the bad (ie. those I'll leave behind). Almost everyone's gone home. And PK, working late as usual and clad in pleated corduroys and an out-of-shape droopy sweater, comes over to my desk, runs his hands through his mussed black hair, and says to me: Don't ever lose your fire. You've got something special. Don't let anyone kill it.

The exchange has played over and over in my mind. Because I really thought  my fire had died, leaving behind embers languishing under a cloud of smoke. I didn't know how to get it burning again. I couldn't find a match, and I felt like a failure. I thought the only solution was to regroup and start anew, hence the job/graduate school search.

And then. Something (actually, three things) miraculous happened last week.

a) I read an unbelievably moving story that reminded me why I got into journalism and why I have been so reluctant to leave. I found out the writer lived in San Francisco. I contacted him and he agreed to meet me for coffee Monday evening (tonight).

b) A friend sent me a link to a series of clips on YouTube (which can be found here in one video), in which Ira Glass, the host of This American Life, talks about storytelling. I am not exaggerating when I say that it kicked me in the ass and knocked me on the ground. Here's an excerpt ( I recommend watching the whole interview, but this gem starts around minute 9):

"All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste ... And it's like there's a gap, that for the first couple of years, what you're making, it's really not that great. It's trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but it's not quite that good. But your taste, what got you into the game, your taste is still killer, and your taste is so good that you can tell that what you're making is kind of a disappointment to you ... A lot of people never make it past that phase. A lot of people at that point, they quit. And the thing I'd like to say to you with all my heart is that most everybody I know who does interesting and creative work went through a phase, sometimes of years, where they had really good taste but what they were making wasn't that good, it fell short ... Everybody goes through it. You gotta know it's totally normal. And the most important thing you can possibly do is do a lot of work .... It's only by actually going through a volume of work that you can catch up and close that gap, and the work you're making will be as good as your ambitions."

I mean, holy shit, right? It's almost obvious, in a way. Journalism is a craft. And like any craft (art, music, literature, carpentry), it takes time to develop skill. It takes failing and feeling frustrated and making mistakes before anything really brilliant can emerge. I needed to be reminded that just because I feel stunted journalistically is not a reason to give up.

c) I called a different friend to dissect my crazy state of mind and journalistic discoveries. I told him I was lost and frustrated: I think I'm realizing what I want to create but am unsure of how to get there, that the normal channels have failed me, so now what? And guess what? He 100-percent sympathized with me, and explained how frustrated he is too, and that a few months ago, at the height of his frustration, he got so frustrated he applied for a PR job, which he didn't pursue. He's since found more steady journalistic work, but questioning himself and the craft all the time. And here I thought I was the only one.

Ok, so all this happened in a three day period, and I realized that I don't want to do "something else." I mean, I do, in the sense that I don't want to do the kind of writing I'm currently doing. But I don't want to not work as a journalist. I don't want to give up on this craft or this work, which for me is not a job, but a responsibility, a calling. All that has been overshadowed by the vile workplace in which I currently clock in and out. It sucks that my current job has crushed what I love. But at least I've figured out there is something to salvage among the wreckage.

So I'm back where I began.

It's certainly possible I'll change my mind. In the past 6 months, I've convinced myself I want to do 271 other things, and yes, I'd probably be good at a few other things. But I want to be great at this one thing that I love so much. I'm not ready to give up on journalism. I'm ready to do different journalism, not leave it completely.

So now what, you wonder? I've got some ideas. But first I need to get some sleep.

 

Thoughts about nothing ... and everything

This weekend I did nothing. I didn't leave the house at all on Saturday and stayed in my pajamas all day long. My roommate and I even ordered groceries from Safeway (they came this morning and I must say that it is awesome to shop online and have someone bring, for example, a dozen eggs and aluminum foil, to your door). Today I slept in again, ate breakfast, watched the New Hampshire debate (we taped it) and finally got dressed at 3 p.m., when I walked to the farmer's market, craft store and Vietnamese restaurant for some tasty pho.

I forget how much I like doing nothing. I get so busy and so excited about the city around me that I often over-commit myself. And because I prefer to be busy and engaged, I forget how nice it is to slow down. I must remind myself more often that I don't always need to be running around, that I can be lazy and that doing so isn't necessarily being lazy, but also helping to rejuvenate my spirit and energy.

This is especially true after the whirlwind trip I had in the Midwest - Cleveland, Minneapolis, Des Moines then back to Minneapolis for one night and then back home in San Francisco. As always, spending time with my family was a little slice of utopia. We relaxed, made dinners, played Scrabble, went to the movies, ate Chinese food on Christmas Eve and went to a Cavs game on Christmas Day. A good time overall.

I spent two nights in Minneapolis with my friend L and her husband S. L is pregnant -- 7 months, and my first friend who's also a mom-to-be -- and catching up with her was divine. We had lost touch for more than a year, so it's especially sweet to reconnect during this time in her life. Her belly is huge. She looks great. L and her husband rent this fantastic house on 40 acres outside of St. Paul. It was serene. L has become a gifted jewelry designer and I had never seen her work before. She taught me how to make earrings and I taught her how to knit. We also met up with D, an old friend of mine from the Waterloo Courier. He got married in September and I had not met his wife before. We ate Ethiopian food and then went to see Romantica, this fabulous indie folk band based in MPLS.

Then it was off to Des Moines. I must admit, I was nervous and only mildly excited to be in A and L's wedding on New Year's Eve (we've only been in sporadic contact since I moved from Iowa), but it proved a thousand times more fun than I ever expected. True friendship really does transcend space and time. I also had no idea how meaningful of an experience it would be to stand up for the couple during their ceremony. I'm pretty sure I cried during the entire thing. Happy tears are hard to ward off.

Being back in the Midwest for an extended period of time felt really good. There is something so centering and grounding about it. I genuinely, sincerely like the Midwest. Yes, I love California and I love San Francisco, but there is a certain comfort I feel in the middle of the country that is absent from my current locale. Is it only because the Midwest is where I'm from, and so I feel drawn and connected to it? Or is it more than that? Am I where I need to be? Will I always ask myself that question?

Monsoon Friday

San Francisco is currently experiencing hurricane-like winds (60 mph) and sheets of rain. Umbrellas are pointless. These images were taken this morning. One of my New Year's goals is to take more photographs.

Winter

I returned to California yesterday after 10 days in Cleveland, Minneapolis and Des Moines. It felt strangely euphoric and comforting to be back in the heart of the Midwest. As much as I love San Francisco, there is something about being in middle America that makes me feel grounded and relaxed. Also, I miss seasons. The snow was beautiful and serene even though I wanted to hibernate most mornings from the terrible icy air. (I say this and yet was overjoyed to return to SF's 50-degree weather.)

Here are some photos. Many more to be posted to Flickr in the next couple weeks.

Icicles in Minneapolis:

And a lonely tree in Iowa:

Platform 9 3/4

I snapped this photo last night while waiting for the BART train in Lafayette, a suburb in the East Bay. I like it (the photo, not the suburb... though the East Bay is quite beautiful this time of year since the leaves are changing color).

Tuesday night's alright

Spending time with a good girlfriend is like putting ice on a sore joint. It relieves the pressure of a long day; it cools the aching of a heavy heart.

I am lucky to have so many beautiful women in my life here. In fact, I think this is in my Top Five Favorite Elements of Life in San Francisco (I'll save the other four for another posting). ANYWAY, this is beside the point. The point is that I love having so many good girlfriends in such close proximity to me. And yet, it's hard to find the time to have the one-on-one encounters I crave, the kind that allows for deep, 3-dimensional conversation.

But somehow, in the swirl of the city, I've made a new girlfriend, and all we do is have one-on-one time. Her name is M. We met in a cooking class this summer, which was purchased for me as a birthday present from my friends. The menu consisted of watermelon-feta salad, garlic sauteed artichokes with fava beans, poached seasoned fish and honey biscuits. Divine. Well, in the midst of the kitchen's steaming and simmering, M and I struck up a conversation. We chatted easily and exchanged business cards, agreeing that meeting for brunch would be a good idea. Nonetheless, I didn't expect any follow-through, since it's become so common at social functions to say you intend to do something but not do it. She sent me an email a few weeks later and we did indeed meet for brunch. I don't even remember where our first date was. All I know is that it didn't take us long to realize we were kindred spirits.

What's great about our friendship is that exists in a perfect bubble. I have never met her boyfriend or friends, and she has never met mine (though I'm sure all these paths will intersect eventually). This is particularly awesome because when we hang out it's totally and completely without clutter. It's just good conversation and good food (brunch is our standard fare, though tonight we mixed it up and met for dinner).

I sort of feel like we have a Hollywood-Sex-and-the-City-grown-up friendship. Like tonight, we met at her fancy gym and went to a yoga class, and after went into the hot tub and sauna, nude like all the other women in the locker room. This is an experience that is rare for me and probably for many other American women. In our culture, nudity is always equated with sexuality, when in many other countries it's considered natural, human. When I was abroad in 2002 and went to the public baths in Budapest, my girlfriends and I wore bathing suits, even though all the Hungarian women were walking around sans suit, saggy boobs and all. I felt like the weird one in my  suit, and yet I couldn't bring myself to take it off. So when M first mentioned the hot tub, I thought, "Shit, I didn't bring a bathing suit." But then I realized everybody was uncovered, and so joining the ranks wasn't weird or embarrassing. It was normal. And it made me realize that even though it's unusual, it can be comforting to be naked with your girlfriends.

After the gym, we ate dinner at this delicious Rome-inspired restaurant and talked about work/career, specifically, how to find inspiration and satisfaction from  these things. We also strategized about how she could cook a Christmas dinner for her boyfriend's family (12 people). I felt very useful, taking notes in my Moleskin, figuring out if it made more sense to cook the vegetable tart or the butternut squash soup first.

I walked home (another favorite element of San Francisco) thinking how lucky I am to open my heart and expand my mind on a random Tuesday night over a dinner of roast chicken and marinated eggplant.

A gathering of change

Something remarkable and unexpected happened this evening.

I was inspired ... And not to do anything in particular, or to think anything specific, nor even to write, though obviously after 2 months without writing in my journal or blog and actually crafting something now, I was inspired to write.

What's sort of wonderful is that I initially didn't want to do anything tonight except snuggle under my down comforter and read. But last week, I signed up to go to a potluck dinner sponsored/coordinated by AJWS, and so I didn't want to be a flake and not go.

I signed up because it was billed as a casual, community potluck about "finding meaning in your work." Since I haven't found much of that recently, I thought it'd be useful. I took BART from SF to Berkeley (this is mostly why I had second thoughts about going - the schlep on the train) and walked about 10 minutes to E's apartment, loaf of farmer's market cinnamon bread in tow. I quickly realized I had stumbled into a riveting, motivated, impressive, talented, friendly, diverse group of engaged, intelligent and young Jews.

We began by introducing ourselves (two people had done the Peace Corps in the Former Soviet Union, one person had a PhD in public health from Harvard but preferred working at nonprofits to research at a university; one worked in HR but was participating in a Jewish social justice fellowship; one worked in a workforce development program with transsexual/transgender Jews; one educated Russian immigrants about the dangers of smoking; one had just quit her job in city planning to live in the woods, farm and make cheese; one woman was in the Bay Area during a hiatus from her research in Tanzania; one guy I actually knew from high school and didn't realize he moved to SF in the summer - he taught in the Bronx for 4 years and now teaches in Oakland).

As you can see, after going around and sharing these tidbits, I knew instantly I was in the presence of some very special individuals.

We read and analyzed 2 excerpts from Jewish texts. In small groups, we talked about tangible, realistic tasks that will help us accomplish our goals, whatever they are. Some of us decided we're working toward is "figuring out what we're working toward," as one guy so aptly explained. After a couple hours of chit chat, we exchanged phone numbers and emails and schmoozed a bit more. What synergy. I mean, wow. We hugged each other when we left, and you could just feel that we all felt a little lighter, a release that cleared some space in our heads to figure out what we're working toward.

It felt good to talk, to really talk -- the kind of talking where it's intellectual but not esoteric and it's deep but not sappy -- about being confused by the search for more meaning in our professional lives. As much as I worship my group of friends, I also crave new perspective and company, so being around a slew of new people was awesome.

In a nutshell, here's what I've figured out in the past few weeks: I love journalism. But the kind of journalism I want to do (investigative local features at a daily) won't let me have the life I've come to love. I want to live in a city and have plans on a random weekday because I don't have to stay late at work on deadline. I can't do that and also write for a newspaper. This conclusion has been a good one. Yet I still want to find work that lets me help people, inform people, connect people and build community, which I felt I did at dailies but don't feel I'm doing in my current position. Nor do I feel challenged. And, and this is the really sad part, I feel totally stale. I feel like my storytelling skills evaporate every time I have to write a banal, half-page feature on a Yiddish folk festival or a Maneschewitz cook-off.  I know those things matter to people, but they don't matter to me, and they're not giving a voice to anyone who's voiceless, (figuratively speaking, of course). I need to take a temporary, or maybe permanent - who knows - break from full-time writing. I need to step back, give myself some space, figure out if I still have it in me to live the life of a journalist.

I didn't resolve anything tonight. No light bulb burned bright over my head, nor did I locate some big solution to the funk in which I've found myself the past 2 months. But I have renewed hope that I will figure it out, and that I'm not alone in my search.

I will leave you with a beautiful quote one of the dinner guests said tonight during our discussion:

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” ~ Howard Thurman

'The music's never loud enough'

My orchestra is gigantic
This thing could sink the Titanic
And the string section's screaming
Like horses in a barn burning up
-- Josh Ritter, Rumors

There is something transformative about seeing your favorite musicians live. It is otherworldly. There they are, in front of you, on stage, sweating under the bright lights, grinning -- playing songs that have made you cry and laugh, feel joy and sorrow and clarity. You know every song. You sing along to every verse. You remember how it felt to listen to song A on road trip B, or song C during weekend D. I love how it feels to hear the music live -- the music that saves you time and again. 

I have been lucky enough to have two such evenings in the past month, the first being Wilco in Berkeley, and the second being Josh Ritter, tonight, in San Francisco.

Josh in particular is special (and not only because I want to marry him and have his babies). He is special because his songs have gotten me through some very difficult times, most notably in the spring of 2006, when Josh released "Animal Years." The album arrived thanks to Claire, who sent it amongst other items in a care package after I wrote a horribly depressing blog entry about how buying new socks was like the highlight of my month. Sad, right? So she thought I needed a little Josh love, and voila, I popped the CD into my computer and immediately uploaded it to my iPod. It remained in The Rotation for months.

The songs on "Animal Years" helped me find hope in a chapter of my life that was otherwise bleak and lonely. I felt like every song was written for me. So when Josh played my favorite tune tonight, Monster Ballads, I felt mentally transported to a totally different time. Here's a few verses for you:

Out on the desert now and feeling lost
The bonnet wears a wire albatross
Monster ballads and the stations of the cross
Sighing just a little bit

Ones and zeroes bleeding mesa noise
And when you're empty there's so much space for them
You turn it off but then a still small voice
Comes in blazing from some vast horizon

This is why I love music, why I crave my headphones, why I have spent and will continue to spend hundreds (okay, probably eventually thousands) of dollars on live music. Nothing moves you like seeing your favorite musician sing a song that feels like he wrote it just for you.

Oh. And. Josh. Rocked. Out. With a horn section, too.  Go see him.

How does your garden grow?

I got real busy last week and didn't check on my community garden plot for a full 8 days. I felt okay about this because it also rained a lot last week, so I didn't need to also water my plants.

So this morning I stopped by to check on its progress, and lo and behold, I have a mini jungle on my hands. I need to figure out how to pull out some of the plants; WAY more seeds took than I expected, and now I'm afraid my veggies are going to choke themselves and die. I'm going to ask the garden director to help me pull out some plants on Friday.

Here are a few pictures....

I'm growing lettuce, tomatoes, basil, mint, rosemary, snap peas, beets, carrots and broccoli raab.

Isn't it all so beautiful? It's small, but better than having no space at all. The cherry tomato plant in the foreground is actually one I inherited from the last person who claimed the plot. The person planted it way too late for it to fruit on schedule, so I have a ton of tiny green tomatoes that may or may not turn red (it's getting pretty cold at night lately, too cold for tomatoes). I guess we shall see. So far, about 12 tomatoes have turned red and they are uber delicious. Seriously, homegrown tomatoes taste completely different than store-bought and even farmer's market-bought. (But I learned that long ago, from my dad, who has the greenest thumb of anyone I know).

Happy anniversary, San Francisco

Exactly 365 days ago, I woke up for the first time in my new home of San Francisco. This means that today I celebrated my one year anniversary as a resident of what I now believe to be the best city on the planet.

I knew the date was approaching, but didn't fully deconstruct it until I arrived in Golden Gate Park after work and located my friends in a crowd of Jeff Tweedy fans. They greeted me with hugs and smiles and cold white wine. Overall, an excellent way to celebrate a Friday, especially one which marks my one year anniversary. In between songs, I told E how, cheesy as it sounds, I still feel nothing but gratitude about my locale. I remembered that when I made the choice to move here, I felt bold and brave and daring, a Risk Taker. Now I see it wasn't so much courage as common sense. I realized that life was more than work, and as such, I needed to find a way to experience that sea change of thought. I predicted moving to SF would be a start. As I reflect on the past year, I am thankful that I was right. I was so very right.

As Tweedy reached into his vault of songs and played ditties from "Summerteeth" and "Being There" and even "Anodyne," the sun cast a golden glaze over the park and the air was a perfectly cool, crisp fall day. Beautiful birds zoomed over head, dark bullets against the clear blue sky. God's airplanes.

We hung out in a clearing behind the crowd just before leaving the show. I did cartwheels and J did somersaults while A-squared made shadow dancers on the grass. I felt free. Totally unhinged, light as air, free as a bird. May we all bathe in such peace at least once a year.

I'd like to leave you with the text from last year's Oct. 4 blog posting, which I wrote the night before my SF arrival.

"My life is about to profoundly change. It's overwhelming, really. I spent 7 hours in the car today. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that I had the space and time to think about my destination and not just the logistical bullshit involved in getting there. (Moving by yourself is not something I recommend, nor is it something I want to do ever again).

San Francisco will offer me a community I've never had before. A huge, exciting, diverse, cultural city where some of my best friends reside.  It's such a giant idea. I'm going to be like a kid in a candy story for the first few weeks (or months?). I can meet Adam or Erica for coffee, which seems so small, but I haven't gone out for coffee in 16 months because the Tri-Cities doesn't really have a cool coffee shop that facilitates good conversation and steamy windows. I can see independent films in the theater. I can hear authors speak, musicians play every night of the week. I can take dance classes, creative writing classes, knitting classes.

On the morning of my last day of work, I woke up paralyzed with fear. After a good, brief cry, I went to the office and while getting my French vanilla coffee creamer out of the fridge, I suddenly couldn't breathe. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. But it made me realize that even though I'm going to an exciting place, and even though I'm ready for the change, I'm still terrified.

Like I always say, deciding to change is much scarier and harder than change itself. I was scared. But I ended up happy, smoothly sliding into the change, making new friends, keeping the old, creating a community.

Sorry about gushing, again. Perhaps my one year anniversary will also mark the conclusion of fawning over the city in which I live. But no promises.

Listening to:
 
Mr. Jeff Tweedy at bluegrass weekend!!!

In my perfect professional world

I've pinpointed my main problem with the American workplace.

Everyone with power is old-fashioned, bossy, without vision and enthusiasm, and in general, makes decisions that contradict what's in the best interest of their Gen X/Y employees and clients/readers, even though they say they want to appeal to this demographic.

Those who've been actively in touch with me the past 3 months know that all my frustration with my current job stems from the billion ways I disagree with my bosses -- their management style, their editorial decisions and the negative culture they create in the newsroom. This issue is not entirely new, since I've felt the clash of generations at all my previous jobs, but this is certainly the most egregious example. It's slowly eroding my motivation for and interest in journalism. I realized this weekend it's up to me to try to make things better, and I plan to approach my managers as soon as I mentally collect my grievances, solutions and courage.

Anyway, in a perfect world, I'd work with peers (which of course carries its own challenges, but when I think back to why working at my college paper was so damn amazing, I think it's partly because we were all the same age, all on equal ground). If you click here, you can see what my ideal workplace looks like. Can someone help me find colleagues like this?

It's all about reh-LI-juhn

You know how sometimes you're too busy to eat? You feel starving at first, but then you adjust to the hunger pains and away they go. Temporarily, at least, the hunger is forgotten. Same thing happens when you aren't able to go to the bathroom. You have to pee so so bad, but you're in the park, or you're stuck in traffic, so you hold it, and the sensation goes away.

I've been spiritually holding it for four years.

I had no idea how hungry I was for Judaism until now, today really, when I celebrated Rosh Hashanah for the first time in four years with a real community of thinkers, seekers and friends. Living in small town America, I had no choice but to adapt to feeling like "the other." Sometimes, I'd purposely avoid talking about my Jewishness simply because I didn't feel like having a conversation that marked me as an outsider, as someone different. Of course I was proud to be Jewish. But I also wanted to feel like a part of the larger community, and in general, that community was not Jewish, (nor did they know much about Judaism), so it was sometimes more comfortable to not label myself. And besides, I was a journalist first and foremost. That was my identity. My purpose. My passion.

But for the past year, I've gradually moved beyond that. I'm still a journalist, yes. But living in San Francisco and writing for a Jewish paper has allowed me to explore this huge part of my being that's been dormant for so long.

But I also didn't exactly realize just how much or what I was missing. In said small towns, there was no opportunity for adult Jewish learning or creative Jewish expression. So even though I felt a snag in the fiber of my life, I didn't know how big it was until I let myself reconnect the Jewish threads.

The realization hit me tonight at Ocean Beach. A few friends and I went there for a Tashlich service. The service wasn't so much a service as an exercise. First, we threw chunks of bread into the water, as a symbol of casting away our sins of the past year. Then, with sticks we wrote our mistakes or shortcomings into the sand so we could watch the tide wash them away. And finally, we wrote on paper our hopes for the coming year, put them in a pile and lit them on fire, dispersing the goals/hopes/dreams/visions/aspirations into the air and perhaps propelling them into our future.

About 30 people came. We spread out along the beach to throw the bread (our sins) into the ocean, symbolically casting them aside, freeing us of their weight. As we did so, the seagulls began singing and circling above, swan-diving into the water to eat the scraps. The ocean was iridescent in the sun. And I began to cry. Quiet, soft tears. I was simply overwhelmed by the horizon, the warm, saltwater-scented air and the power of recognizing my shortcomings while simultaneously letting them go. And though I often doubt the existence of an all-knowing-all-present God, in that moment, with the Pacific licking my ankles, I felt God was there, in the water or maybe in the sun or sand or breeze. It sounds bizarre and hard to explain, but it was deeply spiritual and comforting and moving.

 

photo courtesy of oo-di

Earlier in the day, I attended a service/class hybrid at a synagogue. The rabbi explained that crying on Rosh Hashanah is encouraged, a goal even. He said that crying may begin with confusion, but it also brings us clarity and purification, redirecting us, pointing us toward a better path.

Hours after this service, I stood on the beach, feeling the sun and tears on my cheeks. I let myself feel regret/guilt/shame. Then I let the ocean take those from me. The tide receded, rushed back in, receded. And all I felt was gratitude. Because as I celebrate the birthday of the world this Rosh Hashanah, I see that the prayers and rabbis are right. That to be alive is a marvelous, wondrous thing.