vocab and worldview, expanding

Hold on to your knickers, I have an announcement that’s sure to make even the most ladylike lose function of a vital organ or three. I’ve been reading.

Not in a facebook-status or magazine advice column kind of way, but in a way that mimics the focus and precision of a surgeon. Pen steady in hand. Pupils allowing just the right amount of light into interlacing tubes. My brain, it glows, buzzes even, in the most active state it’s known since high school Calculus. None of that Kindle shit, I hold my book in hand, smell its long-lived life and scrutinize its innards for a good long while at a time.

You see, I’m becoming a writer because writing is becoming on me.

And in my last mass, I focused on diction that wasn’t quite familiar. Circled it, underlined it, listed it out to create stories and fold each acquaintance into the next day’s dough. Kneading as necessary. Rolling as is so assuredly required. Maybe it’s my upcoming trip to France, maybe it’s the hardwood floors that are soon to be mine to have and to hold, to rent and to build a home upon. Either way, I loved this new-to-me German word immediately.

Done

I was making a break for forested air, cool and compact, chaotic and inviting. There, in the thick of dense and delicate avoidance, I’d hide away in gentle webs.

I was set on running away from the kind of closeness that comes when you let someone in. Fearful, yes, of exposing the wrinkled cuffs of my pressed blouse, the jarring snippets of my sad dadlessness.

But tonight the grip came, caught me by the ankles and dragged with care. No coldness of touch, no signs of bruising, and a painless avalanche of newness poured radical thought hot as lava, discolored as dish-soap a top a man who’d surely run. He didn’t. He looked my crazy square in reddening eyes, cupped my drooping face, glorified my humanness and I could feel him feel with me.

I think they call that empathy. And I think they call this collaborative conquest against the tawny-eyed grief monsters a relationship. Support. That I could be so genially guarded, and think it possible to control what he sees through selective emoting, tightens the twists on my curly little head. From tonight on, I’m done running for the woods.

Purging words about truthfulness

This just happened: In an attempt to preface this blog post on truthfulness, I used my opening sentence to do what any good writer does and stretched the truth. Then, karma timed itself in perfect synchronization with my punctuation; as I placed the period, my right eye insta-burned. Folded, tucked, and held hostage by the untouchable crease, my contact took a just-because-break and decided to wander off the job.

I get it, world. You proved your point. Bad things happen to those who lie for relief — comedic or otherwise.

So now, from behind framed lenses, I write earnestly on earnestness.

Tonight’s yoga class, taught by none other than the prettiest Amanda Seyfried look-alike Amanda Seyfried never did see, lit my fire. The instructor helped us set our intentions, nudging us around the theme of truthfulness, and Lord, did it hit home.

I interpreted it as accountability. As integrity. As the token that separates those admiring from the admirable. Normally, I ditch the training-wheel-intention in pursuit of my own, but this one spun through the asanas. It was sticky because it was timely, because I was still feeling guilty from this morning’s failed attempt at the first of “many” 6:30am work outs — a scenario that when something like this:

I vowed to wake up and be at the gym at 6:30am. I set my alarm, heard it ring, then promptly pressed snooze more times teenage girls press pause during Magic Mike.

I felt like my word meant nothing, and that while I hold other people to their promises, I let myself off the hook like a desperate step father would to his newly acquired responsibility. But of course, in the spirit of yoga, I am not to beat myself up over this morning’s glitched genuineness. No, I’ll remain unattached to outcome, aware of my intention and strong in my future convictions to myself. I will hold myself to the same standards I hold my friends, and they hold me.

Truthfulness. Honesty. Integrity. Like a good that’s-what-she-said, it’s applicable in any scenario. I’ll sleep to that — goodnight world.

George’s Nameday

Tonight, I felt very much like my former me. Not a vacant shell. Not a hallow vat.

Tonight, my heart rate climbed. Sweat the toxins, two more miles.

And my tiny kitchen, swollen with the smell of curried lentils and rhubarb chutney. The feel good of my favorite movie on a screen so puny it may actually be smaller than an Android phablet. The girl my dad knew. The one he loved.

Feeling ever like herself on his Nameday, and smiling at the thought of his sillies. Lotsa Xionia, Dad. 

Anthro suits

Did that thing where I went to the beach today wearing a bikini I bought in 7th grade. Luckily, the Roxy tag fell off 1,192 swims ago, and could not be publicly held against me. Time to don me now new swim apparel–but first to decide: piece one, or pieces two?

goals

I consider myself a hopeless romantic for two reasons: 1. Tom Hanks 2. Meg Ryan.

They just knew how to make rom coms in the 90s.

K, glad that’s out there. The two real reasons: my unapologetic crush on 1. sappy love stories 2. Chopin’s Nocturnes. I’ve been a Nocturne girl all my life, until one fateful day in November when I set a goal for myself to learn Prelude in C# Minor by Rachmaninoff. To answer your question, yes, it felt a bit like adultery to flail my loyalty so, but for the sake of accomplishing a goal, I did just that.

I openly and proudly give you an imperfect 5 minutes and some odd seconds of what I have spent the last 5 months learning, unlearning, relearning, forgetting, remembering, and loving. It is full of unplanned pauses, abrupt tempo changes, missed keys and ‘whoops’ notes. I considered recording it again, when I was happy with the result, one that didn’t resemble such a work in progress state. And then I realized, life is beautiful because of its snags–so may you see them all in happy wonderment.

(sidenote: I hired my main lady love to turn the pages for me. This role was a complete shock to her senses, as momma dearest is not only completely sheet music illiterate, but also swimming in a sea of pain meds for her recent knee replacement. You’ll hear us laugh after I mess up from a premature page turn. I love her.)

And for my next goal…

Deer Sounds

The day my father died became the day his girls saw deer differently. They became less prancy, less skiddish, and more spiritual. Omens, but positive. Do they call that a symbol? Or is it a sign?

It’s a story for another time, but deer are now spiritual animals for George’s girls. When we see them, alone or in pairs, our hearts stop but our blood rushes. It’s this inexplicable instant connection that manifests in four-legged form, and it happened tonight to 66.67% of my dad’s true loves. My sister saw two standing in her court as she came home from work. I saw two on my walk home from Trader Joes. And to be frank, I’m convinced that if my mom wasn’t cooped up with a bruised leg the size of a Costco bag of pretzels, she’d have seen two too.

Dear deer, thanks for bringing him around.

And when he comes around, which is a welcomed often, I think of things that double knotted our laces–his and mine. Music. It tied us together.

Download this mix of my recent repeats here.

all music is for sampling purposes only – please go out and buy the artists’ records & support them at their shows!

Roll with it

What started out as an innocent quest for a pie recipe ended in a directionless Pinterest power hour. But had I not got sucked into the time-punching vortex that houses Foodie, Treats, Yummies, Sweets, or OMG Pies boards, I would have never thought to a) roast pears with Espresso Mascarpone Cream or b) roll a dough right.

These rolling pins are part of an ‘Altered Appliance’ project by students of the Masters of Interior Architecture and Retail Design program. They investigated how low-tech appliances can be remastered into alternative design tools for a fresher kitchen experience.

Alls I gotta say is: birthday month.

 

Tents, treats, tunes

This happy little birthday girl is jumping for joy right off the grid this weekend. Gonna plant a tent in line with the curving Big Sur shore and wake up to the sound of ninjas in raccoon suits diving back into bushes unscathed.

I may read. I may write. I may quickly come to realize that I only know three words of Kumbaya and have a rudimentary understanding of how fire works.

No matter how the next 72 hours are spent, I know they will exist in a perfection all their own because I am now, more than ever, unattached to outcome. A lesson I learned twice-over tonight.

Exhibit A: My one and only job for the weekend was to hunt, gather, create, buy, or bargain for our breakfasts. I, of challenge-oriented mind, decide to try my rusty baker’s hand at a gluten free, sugar free morning glory muffin recipe thinking it would taste like Egyptian cotton feels.

And I’m sure it could have, had I not burned it. When I pulled those brown little muffin tops out of the oven, I had no choice but to laugh that neurotic Jack Nicholson laugh, which luckily bled into a half pathetic half genuine laugh. And when laugh 2.0 ended, I realized that, unlike what I had previously envisioned, my tentmate and I would never fawn over the mouthfuls of organic heaven I spent an evening preparing. And that was damn fine by me.

Exhibit B: I’ve been listening to this song non stop, and would have never in an eon and a half guessed that this voice comes from that woman. Or that her official video would dance around the storyline like it does.

It all just goes to show that to get along in this world is to be adaptable. Open to whatever comes our way or burns in our ovens. If everything happened as planned–outcomes met as expected–life would be one giant snoozefest swimming in a bowl of reduced sugar vanilla ice cream. Nope. Not my style. Camping on the other hand. Camping is my style. See you lovelies laters on the menjay.

George’s Girl goes to Israel

In a swift act of courage on a cold January night, I booked a flight to Israel. It was a calculated risk, no doubt–one that required hours of research, deliberate introspection, and a built up bank of vacation days.  And while I had many a moment of ambivalence before clicking that oversized ‘confirm’ button, I’m proud that in that frigid winter moment, I did not let cold feet get the best of me.

Follow along day by day to see and read snippets of the most eye-opening, reverent, streetwise, blissful, aware, joyful 10 days I’ve been privileged enough to know. Israel did so very right by me.

T U E S D A Y 3/12 — The starting tone

As he drove me to the airport at 5 AM, my favorite brother-in-law asked me what Dad would think of me going to Israel. Like any good joke, my answer was stitched with the truth: “He’d say, NFW, Nicole. No Firetruck Way.”

But in my heart, I knew my dad would do the opposite of hold his adventuress back. He would have turned his own schedule upside down to help me in any capacity–‘Do you have your passport? Copy of your passport? Enough cash? Snacks? Chargers? Modest clothes? Have you checked the weather? Is your flight on time? Who’s picking you up? Do you know how to say anything at all in Hebrew besides those three lines from the Torah you learned from attending all those bar mitzvahs?’

Yes. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. I have no idea. Ditto that. Absolutely not, Mazel Tov.

He would have printed my boarding passes and shepherded me to the terminal with an unforgivable amount of time to spare.

And in the car on the way to the airport with Yianni, I simultaneously smiled and cried to myself loving my father for that. I pictured him behind his Costco reading glasses tracking my flight as it soared over states, seas, and strange lands he’d never get the chance to visit.

W E D N E S D A Y 3/13 — Life in a floating torpedo

Sitting in the same clothes and inhaling the exhales of a hundred other passengers for hours on end was enough to make a girl mad. Luckily, a few things saved me from losing more than just 9 hours and a healthy line of immune system defense.

1. Austrian Airways indulging its weakness for particularly excruciating puns. It’s cheeky slogan, Time to Say Dubai, both won my heart and broke my soul.

2. Seeing the new parents in front of me do the ‘lift & sniff’ test on their baby no less than 25 times over the duration of the flight. Hyper considerate and cautious Russian first-timers, I thought. I loved them immediately.

3. Sharing row 11 with a hoary-headed Jewish man with gripping blue eyes and genuine intentions. He turned the pages of his book left to right as I turned mine right to left. He tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that by my penmanship, he could tell I had good character. He waited with me to make sure I made my connecting flight to Tel Aviv and told me of his wife, eleven children, father, home in Jerusalem, and his visit to Seattle where the rain, he said, was “gentle.”

T H U R S D A Y 3/14 –Jerusalem

I haven’t been particularly close to my faith over the last several years, and I’m beginning to think it’s because I never bothered to take the stories of the Bible as anything more than fable, let alone codified snapshots of history. This day trip gave me with context, relevance, and an unsuspecting closeness to the church my father was so faithful to. I felt close to him. I felt like I wanted to bury my nose in the Old Testament and history books alike to learn everything I possibly could about the 2,000 year old olive trees, tombs, walls, rocks and meaningful paths that encompassed me.

The view of Jerusalem from Mount of Olive:

  

The Garden of Gethsemane

The Church of All Nations which houses the rock where Jesus knelt to pray after The Last Supper, knowing how he was to die after being betrayed.

The Tomb of the Virgin Mary

The journey along the Via Dolorosa, the path Jesus walked bearing his cross towards crucifixion.

Along the Via Dolorosa, Jesus’ hand print remains on the wall he used to support himself when nearly stumbling to the ground bearing his cross.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. [ Note the ladder on the second story. Known as the “immovable ladder,” it has been there for as long as America has been a country. The six ecumenical Christian orders created an understanding that no one may move, rearrange, or alter any property without the consent of all six orders.]

The rock that held Christ’s crucifixion cross.

The rock Jesus’ cleaned body was placed on after death, as depicted in the icon above.

The Holy Sepulchre.

The tomb of St. Helen, and the deeper layers of the rock that held Christ’s crucifixion cross.

The Western Wall

The underground tunnels of the Western Wall. [ Jerusalem is a city that has been built and rebuilt on top of itself over thousands and thousands of years. These underground passageways go at least six stories deep into the crust of the earth and showcase the original stone work of King Herod’s original temple and palace. Layers and layers and layers of history beneath unsuspecting pilgrim feet. Unreal.

   

The church of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary, where she fell into eternal sleep.

The tomb of King David.

The place where The Last Supper took place.

F R I D A Y 3/15 — Tel Aviv Half Marathon

After what could only be described as a spiritual whirlwind in Jerusalem, Inbal and I woke up at 4 am to hit the starting line for the Tel Aviv Marathon. Since she had to work the event, and I had no choice but to accompany, I watched the first signs of light dust the sleepless city and stretched for approximately 115 minutes longer than I needed to.

At 6 AM the race started. There is no better way to tour an unfamiliar city than running 13.1 miles through its veins and arteries. Despite the early morning heat and my inadequate training, I finished the Half in 2 hours and 5 minutes. I promptly vomited from a combination of sheer exhaustion, a completely effed body clock, and the questionable decision I made to down a whole milk yogurt upon crossing the finish line.

S A T U R D A Y 3/16 — The Dead Sea

With a combined local and domestic knowledge that one upped any travel book I could have ever read, Inbal and her two friends, Keren and Rinat, packed a cultural and political power punch on our day trip to the Dead Sea. On the drive we passed through Druze and Arab villages, as well as Bedouin camps. The ringleted beauties offered me their opinions, thoughts, beliefs, and frustrations regarding the occupied territories and Jewish settlers. They offered me fodder for which to place my own opinion, that for once, would be contextually informed.

Just above the Dead Sea, a lush oasis of life exists. I give you an unintentionally asymmetrical tank top in front of the Ein Gedi Nature Reserve:

[Despite what it may look like, I am not singing sharp nor using a clear and coiled earpiece to navigate.]

The lowest and saltiest place on Earth:

Salt Deposits

S U N D A Y 3/17 — Losing myself on a long walk through Tel Aviv

 

I hope I never forget the happy little screams of these sweet mini humans as they yelled to ‘Abba’, Dad, to watch them play.

I also hope my part longing/part goofy stare and picture taking did not worry said ‘Abbas.’ YOLO.

The Carmel Market.

The Mediterranean Sky Gods flexed their guns real good for me. Nothing like a stroll in fine sand with this view of a striated horizon melting day to night.

And as night fell, Inbal and I gave Tel Aviv the old American cheese and laid down a Dropkick Murpheys song at an open mic night to pay homage to a heritage neither of us possess.

Lies on the Irish punk band point. We sang Lykke Li like good little indie girls.

Unfortunately, since we steered clear of Tracy Chapman, George Michaels, and Aaron Carter, our Israeli audience–of sophisticated music palette–did not recognize our song choice. The applause was   one degree of separation from a golf clap. Can’t win ’em all.

And then we danced until 5 AM. I may or may not have done the splits on the dance floor. And when I say ‘may not’ I mean: most definitely did.

M O N D A Y 3/18 — Nazareth

While Inbal was at work, I took a little adventure by my onesie. With a little faith and a stable internal compass, I set off for Nazareth to view the Church of the Annunciation, and the city where Jesus spent his adolescent life.

When I walked into the church, I was entirely alone. Except, that is, for the ‘keeper of the keys’ who was  a sweet little Arabic man who looked alarmingly like Count Dracula, but in an endearing way. He spoke English well, and asked me about my religious background. When I told him I grew up Greek Orthodox, he immediately started reciting every Greek Liturgy hymn he had ever been exposed to. He missed some words all together, broke melodies without looking back, and blurred the lines between chants–connecting them in ways that were, for all intents and purposes, unorthodox.

He had this sincere grin on his face the entire time, and I knew he was so proud of both his memory and voice. We engaged in a little game of call and response chanting, until I exhausted his repertoire and he let me be.

It was, to be honest, hilariously magical. And it made me think of my dad and how he would always sing unfitting pieces of the Doxology at random times… i theotokos so son imas, aaaaammmiiinnn… in the shower, in the car wash, in the check-out line, in full confidence.

 And then I wanted to go to this old underground spice market. The only problem, it was so hipster that no one had heard of it.

Except, that is, for Poopah. An unsuspecting thirteen-year-old on her way home from school, Poopah was kind enough to help out a wandering American who’s pursed lips and furrowed brow gave her less-than-found coordinates away. She led me down cobble stone paths, around markets, up hills, down corridors and to the Babor. But not without lovingly gabbing my ear off first about Justin Bieber, her music lessons, her mean music teacher, her Facebook friends, how she wants to be famous, and her flattering curiosity that kept her harping on the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend. But you’re so beautiful, she’d say.

I wanted to keep her and give her Justin Bieber, fame, and everything she could ever want. But instead, I said thank you and bought an absurd amount of spices from this scensational (couldn’t help it) little hole in the ground.

T U E S D A Y 3/19 — The Golan Heights, Sea of Galilee, Kibbutz

Wildflower season in the North. Every breath and step had me smiling wider than the Cheshire cat.

The Sea of Galilee

The Greek Orthodox church of the disciples Peter and Paul, right on the shore of the sea.

Dinner for three at a Kibbutz overlooking the sea at sun fall. That meal and those moments that wrapped the view in memory foam. Divine.

W E D N E S D A Y 3/20 — Jaffa, the ancient port city

T H U R S D A Y 3/21– Lod

I set out on another out of town adventure. Train>>>Taxi>>>Walk>>>Disappointment. The church that houses St. George’s relics was closed.

No no no no no.

With my tail between my legs and a perma-frown on my face, I made it back to Tel Aviv to meet Inbal for her coworker’s wedding. It started at 9pm, and breezed through the night. Love, happy couples light on their feet, an unstoppably Mediterranean menu of delicious proportions, and more love.

F R I D A Y 3/22 — Lod take 2.

I cannot forbear to thank Inbal for being not only an unbelievable host and guide, but considerate and loving friend. We spent 10 days around each other catching up and confiding. Trusting and loving and laughing and dancing and opening up about any and everything, and it was truly a rare and special bond we grew together. Over hummus. Over halva. Over careers, men, family, my father.

My father. George.

I couldn’t let this trip end without visiting the Church of St. George, and Inbal–bless her giving soul, did everything in her power to get me there. She found every possible loophole to maneuver around a city that shuts down for Shabbot on Fridays. She made phone calls to the national bus hotline, hailed taxis, found the right train that was still operating despite the impeding hours of rest. She braved a bizarre, yet unforgettable dust storm with me and walked through what, in retrospect, was a rather sketchy and questionable “city.” She joined me hand-in-hand and walked down the stairs into the crypt.

She wept with me as I thought of my own St. George, and how mirroring myth or legend or scripture–whatever it may be–he was the one to slay my every dragon.

It was a wildly beautiful visit. Surreal. Victorious against the elements. It was George’s will all along, though, and knowing that brought me unrivaled serenity.

And just like that, it is already a distant dream.

Well that was weird

Kick it old school for a second with me, and think back to the first time you watched Toy Story. Remember the complex that followed? How you’d tip toe down the hallway and sneak up on your stuffed animals, trying to catch them in the act of being alive? Or peer through a cracked door in hopes of finding your figurines forming a conga line or lighting mini cigars around a pocket-sized poker table? To your baffled dismay, though, they were always where you left them. Lifeless.

I have absolutely no idea where I was going with this.

Honesty Oddity policy: I originally set out to tell you about weird things that happened today.

Starting with the guy at the gym who literally locked eyes with himself as he held a dead lift position for roughly two minutes. Knees bent, fingers wiggling energetically through the air, back-end making its presence known, the dude had form. He was just missing function, as he stood atop a stretching mat with no weights, bars, or dead-lifting paraphernalia in sight. I wonder if felt me staring.

Ending with this post.

George’s Girl Takes 5: Up Late Edition

Oh this week. This cloudy mind and puffy eyed week of thrilling highs and satisfying lows. Plump as can be, this week. Loaded as ever, this week. Bursting with music and heart felt gazes. Brimming with gripping goodbyes and subtle yet sudden realizations. There were jalapeño drinks wrought with gin, this week. Quality time with the keys, this week. Clean sheets and still too much cheese, this week.

On Thursday night I looked down at my feet that rested on the coffee table. They looked so much like my dad’s. I think I’ll keep them unpainted for a while.

6 months hit this week, and I was a damn mess. I assumed my position beneath his old phonograph and spun this song on repeat. Spun it so long and so loud that I tranced into twilight.

But I woke up strong and able. I greeted the day George couldn’t blessed and bright. This week was a good week. A pure, raw, real, unnerving, fleshy week that tested my resilience but pushed me out on top.

A close friend of mine left on Friday to travel Thailand for two weeks and packed his pocket with this folded up picture note I wrote for my father. He’s taking George into Thai palaces, up Thai mountains, down Thai streets. He’s inviting George to Thai dinner tables and Thai conversations. He’s giving my dad a chance to see a world he never explored.

Saturday morning I shook off the residual tears and laced up my running shoes. I faced the most spiritual scenes for 10 miles straight, and never once did a less than loving thought occupy my mind. My eyes were too swollen for my contacts, but my mind was trim. Reduced to thoughts of gratitude and acceptance.

Only a simultaneous sunset moonrise can make you feel both giant and microscopic at the same time.

I live in wine country. I do a lot of living because of that.

George’s Girl Takes 5. The Sort-of Edition.

Things that happened this week: Trail running, truffle making, gourmet grilled cheese partying, motorcycle riding, Steinway playing.

Things that didn’t: Sleep.

Because of that, we’re going to play a little game together, you and I. It goes like this: you assign each photo to whichever of the 5 senses you see fit, I go to bed.

I hope I make you proud every day. I toss and turn about it often.

Floored

 

After a ten hour work day, I wedged my yoga mat under my arm and set off in pursuit of a great Tuesnight.

Tonight’s Shavasana was so quiet that I heard my cells dividing. I heard keys fumbling in apartment doors across the county line. I heard saliva pooling, smoke rising, split ends fraying.

I lied lifeless on the ground with my limbs loosely stretched to starfish attention. Still as a stump. Accepting as I’d ever been.

I guess Great happens when you let your guard down. Well I’ll be damned  floored.

Got a second or 17?

Behold the Fastest Possible Drawings of Everything.

18 seconds

8 seconds

15.4 seconds

32.7 seconds

9.6 seconds

12.4 seconds

Average 5.2 seconds

6.7 seconds

22 seconds

 

This is a game we play. We’ll each write a noun onto the back of a card and hand it over, starting the clock once the card is flipped. With few exceptions, we don’t know what the object will be, and we often don’t know how to draw the thing well once it’s revealed. Some of the results are horrifying; the less-horrifying things show up here. We highly recommend this game.

Rules of the Game:

1. We are not artists.
2. The point is not to be pretty. The point is to get the point across.
3. This is fun. 
4. We want to draw as much stuff as possible. 
5. We have these things littered around everywhere. 
6. Not everybody knows how to draw, but everybody should try

I love this idea like I love the feel of fresh sheets and ginger pear tea. My roommate and I are all set to incorporate this brain game into our next get together. Which just so happens to be scheduled for Saturday. Expect greatness.