chardonnay

Last night, my beau took me to MiLa for dinner. I had previously had their tasting menu with my mother when she visited earlier this month, and I was pretty excited about tasting the menu again. We ordered our 6 courses to be paired with wines; I really enjoyed everything. The final course came with Abita root beer sorbet, which I hope I can talk my friend Lindsay into recreating.

The third course was a seared scallop, and it was paired with a “French-style” chardonnay. Beau looked quizzically at the bottle, which was entirely en francais, and asked the waiter what “French-style” meant. I responded, “not buttery and oaky and gross.”

It reminded me of another date I had, several lifetimes ago.

*

chardonnay

"do you prefer red or white?"

he asked politely

genuinely inquisitive

"either, as long as its light"

was my honest response

the waiter brought

an unfamiliar bottle

to our table

and as I swallowed

the thick, buttery tones

with hints of grapefruit

I guessed he knew his wines

about as well as he would know

my bed.

5 June 2003

do you think there's a heaven where all the screams have gone? --tori amos

I've been practicing yoga on and off for nearly 15 years. Until tonight's class at Wild Lotus Yoga (forgive the comic sans on their website), I had no idea that "om" represented a specific chakra (if it's on wikipedia, you know it's true).

Right before Christmas last year, my mother and I went to Canyon Ranch, where I learned that wellness was equal parts diet, exercise, and meditation. I think that at any point in my life, I've been good at two of any three things.

I'm trying, in various intervals and at widely various degrees of success, at being good at all three. Yoga counts for two of them for me, so I try to make time for that. Rather, I'm trying to make time for yoga... at least until happy hour counts as diet, exercise, and/or meditation. (Blessedly: sex, at least the way I have it now, tallies in my favor.)

*

the silent "om"

I didn't know different "om"s represented different spheres

"om" as I always knew it

as it is commonly known

represents third eye

the center of the forehead

vision

"hom" came from the throat

and another noise from the heart

but the sound of the crown

the "om" from the top of one's head

this voice

is silent

tonight I learned four different "om"s:

their existence

their difference

their purpose

but the silent "om" stayed with me

during and after class

screaming in my head

echoing into the space

underneath my halo

begging you

to breathe with me

to be

to listen.

Friday night blues

Friday nights are difficult for me. I'm usually exhausted from a long work week and four nights of activities. Plus, I tend to believe that they are amateur nights... like people don't know what else to do on a Friday night besides find a good happy hour.

We did that, tonight. We found outdoor space, had one cocktail each, and went our separate ways, to our separate houses and lives. I leave in the morning for a wedding in Florida, so I did laundry and cleaned my bedroom, to include mopping the floor. This is out of character for me.

What was I really trying to cleanse? Why am I so irritated by the separateness?

He messaged me to ask me to go for a walk in the morning before I hit the road. I reminded him (again) that I have an early yoga date.

Me: I look fwd to the day when I don't have to say, "baby, I gave you access to my calendar for a reason." B/c you'll be a part of all my plans.

Him: I will never be a part of *all* your plans. I am sorry that I forgot to check your schedule before asking.

Me: Ok.

Him: You will go to yoga, drinks with the girls/boys, dinner with funders, some I will be included in, some I will not. I'll forget stuff. I will try not to, but I will. And it will always annoy you because you are a planner and I am not. And we will be alright anyway.

*

I took a deep breath before admitting (to myself) that he's right.

I'm going to be annoyed, but, at some point in the not terribly distant future, our lives will not be separate. He will help me with laundry (and/or contribute to the housekeeper I desperately desire), travel out of state with me, attend weddings with me, be a part of the minutiae (or hugeness) of my daily routines.

It reminded me of Richard Gere's "perfect proposal" from Runaway Bride, one of dozens of rom coms that shaped what I thought love would be:

"Look, I guarantee there'll be tough times. I guarantee that at some point, one or both of us is gonna want to get out of this thing. But I also guarantee that if I don't ask you to be mine, I'll regret it for the rest of my life, because I know, in my heart, you're the only one for me."

In my heart, I know he's the one for me. And we will be all right.

Goodnight, productive Friday night spent alone. Maybe this is our last meeting. And, if not, we will all be all right.

sweet dreams

Now I lay me down

in prayers of gratitude, love,

kindness, kisses, rain.

seasons, reasons, lifetimes

the beginning of a story

is never the beginning

I met Rebecca on a plane to San Francisco

a trip I never would have taken

if I hadn't worked for a company with very generous comp time

a job I never would have had

if I hadn't worked with Carolyn's husband on a campaign

and our candidate won

If I'd been able to take AP English in high school

I'd have probably placed out of my freshman seminar

meaning I might have not met a professor who changed my life

or a boy I had hoped would, but didn't.

These tiny details. The strangers along the way

who sculpt us, change us, direct our paths

give us beginnings

or segues

or conclusions

broken, imperfect choices

that brought me to this love

this day.

anniversaries

Spring semester, senior year of college, I took Maya Angelou's poetry class. I tried to take advantage of a celebrity professor, to earn two credit hours without much effort, to find my voice.

At that time, a decade ago, online enrollment was in its nascent stages. It was merely by the luck of the draw that I got a high enough lottery number to enroll in her course; my impending Bachelor of Arts in English did not guarantee me a spot in a Humanities course.

Since then, I've lived in four different states. I've loved, in varying degrees of truth, three different men. I've worked in (at least) 14 different office spaces. I read a poem from Maya Angelou's class at my college roommate's wedding.

I wrote this poem a decade ago, today. It is dramatic and true and yearning and mine.

*

scents

even my skin smells like you

the places around my lips, my fingers

that small place beside my hipbone

the mole on my right calf

even my heart smells like you

it reeks of you

of what you wont take

of what youve rejected

of what you stole

even my soul smells like you

especially my soul

march 5, 2002

*

I look forward to happier, more meaningful anniversaries in the next decade.