Blessings Abound

Santa Barbara at Shoreline Beach

It rained today.

That may not seem extraordinary in many parts of the country and world, but in drought-stricken Southern California, it was like manna from heaven. Rain so soft and steady—though pounding at times—it made me ache with the sense of a long-lost familiarity, of something lost for a very long time and now rediscovered.

Two friends and I walked at the ocean yesterday evening, just before the deluge, and I walked again this evening on the beach, picking my way among the strewn detritus thrown upon the shore by the storm's waves and marveling at the rushing rivulets that poured from the hillsides down to mix with the storm-sized surf.

Pink and yellow sunsets lit up the evening sky, and I had to catch my breathe in awe and gratitude.

So many in this world live in places where they might never see the sun dip into the ocean waves, the clouds pink and heavy above, coloring the sky and the world. I am blessed, and want never to take this world for granted.

Yesterday I walked with two dear friends, our dogs and our paces matched from years of sojourns together. This evening I wandered out to the beach during a break in the rain with my dog, Chevella, and ran across two similar-minded friends with their two hounds. Bundled against the wind, we walked as the sun moved toward the horizon and its inevitable dip into the deep sea, pinkened clouds hovering above like harbingers of sunrises to come.

We walked, the three of us, and came across another friend with her new Irish setter puppy, bounding with puppy energy and enthusiasm from person to person, dog to dog, tennis ball to tennis ball. There’s nothing like a puppy to remind us that life is for grabbing the absolute most out of the moment—chewing it, sniffing it, jumping up in joy, bounding down the beach with abandon.

I am grateful for this life, this place, this most magnificent point in time. Would that we could all feel—and recognize—the blessings that flow in and around us. There is so much to appreciate, despite the very real difficulties many of us endure. Open your heart, open your arms, open your sensibilities to the gifts available to you. May you feel the generosity of the universe in this new year.

Moving into the New Year

What a year 2015 has been, and 2016 promises to be another year of change and transition. In fact, we are literally moving into the New Year.

Rob sold his office building in Pasadena in November and is moving his office and shop (two rooms full of tools and construction equipment) up to Santa Barbara next week. At the same time, we are moving him out of a guesthouse in Santa Barbara to our place across town. And in mid-January, we will move him out of his apartment in Old Town Pasadena. We have been organizing and packing and planning for several weeks, and I’m grateful we at least got to get away to Mammoth (and a day of glorious skiing) for a few days over Christmas.

All of this moving is crazy-making hard work, and to be honest it has tested our young relationship at times. You learn a lot about your partner when under intense pressure. And we’ve certainly had enough stress the past few weeks to last several years. Thank goodness we also know how to laugh—at the circumstances and ourselves. Rob somehow always knows the exact thing to say to humor me out of a foul mood. And he is a fount of optimism most of the time.

But all this moving also makes me mindful of how much change and transition is still ahead of us. We have been looking for a house to buy, but meanwhile are renting a darling place by the beach in Summerland, a tiny burg just south of Santa Barbara. Tiny is the operative word here; our place is small. It’s been fine for the two of us, but when we add all of Rob’s things from two different residences we will be overflowing with stuff. My tendency is to get rid of most of it, but Rob is a bit of a packrat (in fact, I think he could fall into major hoarding if allowed). So another negotiation is necessary. For now, most will end up in storage. But that is not a long-term solution.

All of this has made me consider just what it means to be settled. I have been in a state of transition since August 2014, when I decided to move to Santa Fe. Most of my belongings went into storage. When I moved back to Santa Barbara a year ago to be with Rob, I remember how good it felt to unpack at least some of my boxes and settle into our new place. For the first time in months I had my own things around me—my furniture and kitchen items, my bedding and clothes, my desk and office supplies.

As we unpacked last January, I realized how many things I really didn’t need—or want. I have learned I can live without most of the things I thought were important to me. And I have come to understand how little I need to be happy. In fact, having less is a path to a kind of freedom, really, that I didn’t know one could feel. It’s a letting go that comes with an emotional bonus. Untethered, unfettered, unburdened.

So, a dichotomy at this New Year. As we pack and move and plan and organize, we also see the value in letting go and giving away. Which opens up our lives—and our hearts—for the intangible gifts of love, purpose and joy.

May you have a 2016 full of the intangible gifts of life. Let all the rest fall away.

2016—A Year for Writing

It is not the New Year; it is barely Christmas, but I am in a mood to celebrate the turning year.

What a momentous year of change this has been. (See my post on Dec. 18.) I have a sense we are not done. I have been blessed to have worked with nearly 100 authors over the past seven years, coaching and helping them craft their memoirs, novels, self-help and poetry books. What an immense privilege this has been. And most especially seeing the result in tangible fashion—12 books successfully published both independently and traditionally. (See the list here.)

In 2016, I am shifting my focus a tiny bit to put my own writing first. You’ll see more regular blog posts and excerpts from my memoir, which I am revising after an unsuccessful tilt at traditional publishers with two agents. I don’t know what the end result will be, perhaps independent publication—we’ll see. For now it feels good and right to be revising. I have other writing projects in the wings, too—a novel and an anthology of essays by women in collaboration with my friend Kathleen Barry, who writes the blog Whispers of Wisdom.

I hope to go on retreat several times in 2016. I’ll write more about that in coming weeks.

I am excited about the coming year and all the possibilities it holds: travel, writing, working with my incredible client/writers, and love!

Who could ask for more?

What are you doing to feed your writing muse next year?

Solstice—Dark Unto Light

Solstice—Dark Unto Light

As we move toward the darkest day of the year—the Winter Solstice—I’m mindful of the light to follow. I think that might be the theme of my life, at least over the past few years.

It’s been almost seven years since my life fell apart—lost my mother, my marriage, our house, the writers conference. It seems a millennium ago. And yet, the lessons are so present with me today. That loss and grief give way, eventually, to light and hope. That trusting in yourself and the goodness of others will always turn out right in the end. That friends and family are treasures beyond reckoning. I am surrounded by light and love.

The last time I wrote on this blog was almost a year and a half ago. So much has happened since.

As some of you know, I decided in June 2014 to move to Santa Fe. After almost 30 years in Santa Barbara, I sought a new life in a new place that called to me. I love Santa Fe. Love the warmth of the people, the arts community, the architecture, the mountains, the snow, the extraordinary light. So I started to make plans and to pack, with a target date for moving of mid-September.

I found an adorable short-term rental with a woman artist named Bonnie Coe and made arrangements to stay through November, just to make sure I wanted to put down roots there. I planned to put everything I owned into a storage container and pack my belongings and Chevella, my dog, into the car for the trip across the country. Then….

In late July, I went to a benefit concert for Youth Interactive featuring Michael McDonald (LOVE the Doobie Brothers), and there, at the end of the concert, I met a man. He invited me to dinner that night, at the Lark around the corner. We had a lovely time, and, of course, I mentioned I was moving to Santa Fe in a month or so. He gave me his business card, and I sent him a nice thank-you email that night. I didn’t hear from him. Odd, I thought. So I texted him several days later just to make sure he’d received my thank you. He called that night and we talked for twenty minutes or so, and then hung up. And I didn’t hear from him again. My sister said, “Well, of course not; you told him you’re moving to Santa Fe.”

One evening a couple of weeks later I had a couple of glasses of wine and decided to text him (this is not advised, by the way). I wrote: “Hey, I haven’t heard from you, and I’m guessing it’s because I told you I was moving. That’s okay if it is; just tell me.” And when I didn’t hear back that night, I tore his business card into six pieces and threw it away.

The next morning he texted me and said, No, it wasn’t that. He’d just been really, really busy (his office was in Pasadena) and he hadn’t had a moment to call. Could he call the next afternoon? And what time?

I texted him back and said, yes, after 2 the next day. I fished his business card pieces out of the trash and taped them back together.

And then…he didn’t call.

I decided that was that. Went on with my life, packing, planning the move, saying goodbye to friends.

On Labor Day, he emailed. Some lame excuse about dropping his phone in the ocean and losing his contacts and he’d finally found my first email and if I was still even willing to talk with him could he call me?

Honestly, I had to think about it. He’d already failed on two occasions. Yet…something made me say yes.

He did, and we went out that night and talked in a sweet little restaurant for five hours. A week later he brought me roses and took me to the El Encanto for dinner, and we walked on the beach.

I left for Santa Fe six days later.

But, you know what? He came to visit me two weeks later. Then I visited him in California three weeks after that, and we went back and forth two more times before he asked me to come home for Christmas. And why didn’t I plan to spend a couple of weeks here?

I did, and we’ve been together ever since.

We’ve gone back to Santa Fe to visit, and in September and October we went to London and Ireland for three weeks. My life is gloriously wild and madly uproarious. Back and forth between Pasadena and Santa Barbara for almost a year, he’s finally moving up here full time in January. He makes me laugh every day, and it feels like we’ve just met yet been together forever.

So much change, so much transition, so much newness and joy. I think back on past years and all the heartache, and I am thankful for all of it, and for all the light that has come to be. This new life, this wonderful man, this exhilarating love. His name is Rob.

May this season of hope and new light bring you peace and joy. And may gratitude be the guiding force in your heart and life, as it is in mine.

Flowers from my Garden

Pelicans - Being in the Moment

I walked at Santa Barbara's breakwater today, and took this image of a flock of pelicans perched on the deck of an old dredger that is always there, hauling sands out of the harbor's mouth so the boats can come and go. I never tire of watching the pelicans. They are so gangly and yet so graceful in flight and when they dive for fish. Their tremendous bills seem fitting metaphors for capturing an abundance of whatever life offers, and sorting through that which serves you, then letting the rest go. A fitting metaphor for us, perhaps.