Poetry in the Sky

My dear friend Bunni Lesh took these pictures over the last few weeks. She was kind enough to let me share them on my blog. I think, one of the reasons I write is to try to find words for moments like these so I can share them with the rest of the world. If there is any shred of poet in my personality, it is because my roots were planted and grew in these Pacific Ocean winter sunsets skies.

The Purse is Half Full

If you are male, squeamish or lacking a sense of humor:

WARNING THIS POST CONTAINS MENSTRUATION CONVERSATION

This morning, something happened to me for the first time EVER in my 30 years of life. When I turned 30, I braced myself for all sorts of new issues--grey hair, stray cats, a large collection of empty ice cream pints and wrinkles. However, this morning, something I thought should have happened to me in junior high occurred for the first time.

I didn't sleep very well and woke up cranky, was mean to my little sister without provocation, and just felt like crying for no reason. Well, at this point in my life, I know what that means. PMS Express, round trip ticket for one. The "P" in PMS for the men who continued reading despite my warning, means pre...it usually means in a week, mother nature will remind me with a vibrant shade of red what exactly it means to be a woman.

I decided to drop everything, put my headphones on and head out for a run to clear my head. I hoped to generate enough endorphins to make it through the day without physically assaulting my innocent little sister. Despite the bleeding blister on the back of my heel I hit my stride pretty quickly, felt the sun on my shoulders and began to cheer up a bit. But then...

Well, apparently Mother Nature's New Year's Resolution was to be more punctual, so punctual that she decided to show up a whole week early.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. When it comes, it comes and you know it the moment it happens even if its off schedule or in the middle of a much needed run. Men, you don't want me to describe it in anymore detail. Let's just say, I turned around and ran back to my house much faster than I ran out starting my run. I was feeling quite dejected. I had set out to turn my day around and ended up turning around faster than I had hoped. The attitude I had hoped to shake, was not only still there, but worse now.

Since she arrived a week early, I wasn't prepared with the proper toiletries for Mother Nature. I dug through my purse and found not only a tampon but half a bag of Peanut M&M's. I ate them for breakfast.

Now, even after the rough start to the day, I'm eating my Peanut M&M's, writing a blog post that will hopefully make you laugh and believing that the purse is half full.

Weather

Today I am pondering the weather, probably because I am supposed to be writing my column for DEEP Magazine. My feigning focus is easily lead astray by the rays of 80 degree sunlight shining through my living room window. In Santa Barbara, we have mild and unpredictable weather, i.e. the heat we are experiencing in January. I want to state that this post is not a compliant, just an observation.

I lived in Chicago last year, and even though the temperature there rises well over 80 degrees at certain times of the year, it is currently 34 degrees with conditions described as a wintry mix--I'm guessing some combination of rain and snow. (I personally prefer the snow to the rain.) While my friends in Chicago consider me lucky, I have a longing for flakes--the weather condition, not the personality type as I find flakiness most aggravating.

The thing I love most about Chicago weather is that you get a bit of everything. I appreciate 80 degrees so much more after thawing out from winter. I found a quiet white winter wonder in Chicago that I will never find in Santa Barbara. My SB winter, not to be overshadowed, says goodnight with a sunset of poetry in hues of pink and orange that paint purple our island blues. I love them both for completely unique reasons. And because I am in Santa Barbara right now I will be grateful for the poetry of my sun as it departs for the day, but that doesn't mean there aren't quiet winter snowflakes softly falling in my soul.

Bye Bye Borders

The Santa Barbara Borders is a ghost town already. I went in over the weekend to buy a magazine, the only thing that wasn't on sale. I rarely shop at Borders. It is too big and if I want a coffee I go to the French Press (ok, sometimes Starbucks too but shhh don't tell anyone) not Borders. I don't like how organized everything is, plastic and perfectly in rows. There is no magic at Borders. How am I going to trip over my new favorite book if all of the books are perfectly lined up on shelves?

I grew up going to Chaucer's and The Earthling. Silent pause for The Earthling, long departed bookstore that graced various State St. locations through out my childhood until Borders came to town. I still frequent Chaucer's regularly. Walking into Chaucer's, I feel as if I am walking into my own imagination. The tall and narrow aisles are like the deep chasms of my brain. I don't even know what is lurking in them half the time but just like waking up from a dream, I am pleasantly surprised by new discoveries each time I venture into the depths.

I always refer people to Chaucer's. Even if you have to drive a little further, it is worth it. And if you really want a coffee there are a couple of places right around the corner. Also, Via Maestro 42 has excellent Gelato if you have a sweet tooth.

I don't know what is going on with Borders but I don't think its good, for them at least. I've seen a couple of Borders south of Santa Barbara with the same "Store Closing Sale--This Location Only" signs. So obviously, its not that location only. My friend in Chicago mentioned that the Michigan Avenue Borders is closing too. I didn't ask her if those sale signs said this location only or not.

As a lover of books in general, I should support the art form in all its various facets but I just can't help it. Borders took out my beloved Earthling...and though we will never have it back, I am happy to see the shift back to small bookshops. I was in the Chaucer's parking lot at 9:30 am and already it was bustling. And then I read this Daily Sound article link on their Facebook page today. Chaucer's has been a tradition in Santa Barbara since 1974, longer than I have been alive and I am getting old! I couldn't be happier that it will become a new tradition for others, hopefully many others. Now, if only they would consider opening another location downtown...maybe close to the French Press.

My December Sun

My Dad always used to tell me that only 1% of the population of the world gets to see the sunset over the ocean.

Each December my sun creeps out over the Pacific. On clear bright mornings (like the spectacular one today!) it paints a glimmering path of gold across the sea to the edge of the world. Maybe the ancients wanted to fall off--into its beauty and so they hoped, rather than assumed, the world was flat. On grey December mornings my sun yawns sleepily and stretches its refracting light through fog and ocean, its like waking up to a morning dipped in sliver. In the shortest days of the darkest month my sun shines the brightest.

It says goodnight to me in hues of hopeful pink and magnificent magenta. Each dusk my sky is a finer masterpiece than you will ever see in a museum.

Leaping into my 30's

I turned 30 this year. With my birthday falling at the end of the year, I spent most of it pondering how to mark the occasion. I wanted to find a way to celebrate and honor the first 30 years of my life while also setting the tone for the direction and goals of my next 30 years. I wanted a little fun and a little reverence.

I've always wanted to go skydiving. I don't know exactly why. I am not afraid of heights, in fact, I often climb to the edge of structures both natural and man made while fighting the urge to jump off of them, to jump away from them, to not be held down my gravity's force, or any other forces for that matter. I think more than anything else I wanted to experience something new, something I had never experienced before. I love the symbolism of jumping out of a plane...leaving my 20's behind and leaping into my 30's.

On the morning of my first day as a 30 year old adult, my mom, sister and I drove to the Lompoc Airport, home of Sky Dive Santa Barbara. Despite Skydiving being the choice sport of adrenaline junkies, I found it to be more peaceful than anything else--once I was out of the plane. Sitting on the edge of the plane, with my feet dangling 13,000 feet above the Earth I was afraid I was going to fall, as soon as I realized that I was supposed to do just that it was smooth 120 mile an hour sailing through the sky. As I tumbled toward Earth, I revered at the beauty of it all, the blue of the Pacific stretching out for miles, the green of fields and trees. I thought about death and then life. I felt like I was in God's hands, my atoms mingling with the upper atmosphere. I was out in the universe and I loved every second of it.

There is a unique perspective provided by 13,000 vertical feet of space. Space enough for the wonder and the possibility and the passion to set in and take hold of you all over again.

Perplexing Grace

For those of you who know me well, this will come as a shock. One night last week, I indulged a panhandler outside of Seven Eleven. My late night, insomniac sweet tooth got the better of me. So, my roommate and I walked two blocks for some Reece’s Pieces and maybe even a package of Mint Milanos. There was a small and withered man sitting outfront in a wheelchair, and all he wanted was something to eat. He said he didn’t want booze, or cigarettes, or any cash. Just something to eat.

He must have caught me on a hormonal PMS upswing because I caved and bought him a turkey sandwich, potato chips, and a bottle of water. I almost started crying as I stood in the check outline. (It was a busy Wednesday night at the Seven Eleven by City College.) I don’t know what came over me. Maybe because this wasn’t some kid with dreadlocks and a clever sign about needing cash for weed, but a man who just needed something to eat. Maybe my Uncle Marty, a passionate advocate for the homeless who passed 3 years ago, was watching over me. I am not usually sensitive the plight of the homeless. Though I try not to be judgmental, I find it offensive to be harassed for my spare change while I’m walking home from work.

When I handed the man outside of Seven Eleven the bag of food, he asked me for one more thing. He asked me to say Grace with him. I held his dirty hand as he blessed his food, thanked God and blessed me. His name, he told me was Gaston. It was only the second time in my life I’ve been afraid to shake someone’s hand. I’m not gonna lie…I washed my own hands as soon as I got home.

In no other place I’ve than I’ve ever been to before, Santa Barbara always feels so disparagingly extreme between rich and poor. I’ve almost always been self conscious and concerned about my own place on this monetary totem pole. I’d be lying if I said, never once was I consumed and led astray by trying to climb higher on it. But that night, outside of Seven Eleven, a perplexing sense of Grace helped me get a little more perspective.