What Luck

Luck Depends on Willingness

My week-long vacation from work is coming to a close.  I haven't gone anywhere - but I have enjoyed every single minute of this luxurious stretch of time to myself.  Here are some highlights:

• No need for office wear, or to have make-up and hair in place as is required by 8am on my typical workweek mornings.  Pajamas are the daywear du jour until about 10am.  Then, leisurely, I don whatever stretchy, comfy clothing will carry the afternoon and evening. 
• My home has been a neat and tidy little model of efficiency and beauty.  The bed is made, pillows plumped, each morning.  Windows have been opened to the springtime song of birds - doves and mockingbirds, jays, and the haughty, irascible crows that flap and jive along the sidewalk.  Dishes are washed, as I use them, and are immediately put away in the cupboards - form finally matching function as the carpenter had originally intended when he built this duplex in 1968.  Bathroom faucets sparkle, rugs are fluffed and remain squarely in place. An ovation of orchids has borne jubilant witness to my week of accomplished - yet almost effortless - housekeeping.
• I cleaned and ordered my little patio.  I trimmed the rampant jasmine hedge that recently bloomed with a great and  perfumed floral flourish - that had passed its prime. Some crafty scissorwork left it lovely, again, sans browned and tattered blooms, ready for its summer debut.  I repotted some plants, and swept, and rearranged my little bonsai garden.  I put a long floral cloth on the shaded patio table.  Ahhh.    
• I have walked each day, for at least an hour.  I have sauntered down State Street, amid tourists and townsfolk, with no destination or timeclock in mind.  I have skimmed along Shoreline Park, and down past the busy harbor, over to the wharf where gulls and flags both played in the breeze.  I have rambled through parks and paseos and narrow little hillside paths.
• I have found - finally - an online group of women who write seriously, many of whom seem to be on a quest similar to the one upon which I have embarked this year.  What a relief!  What a joy!  What Luck!  Seriously, it's called She Writes.  I joined.
• I've had time to spend with a couple of friends.  I have had time to call and visit;  during our get-togethers, I have had sufficient energy to laugh, commiserate, plan, and reflect with them, in depth.
• I have an idea for a writing project.  Although in its incipient form just now, I think it has potential.  More about that in the future.

And, like all weeks of the year, the good and wonderful is blended with other things, too.  My mom is going back in for surgery this morning - her second bout in an attempt to eradicate the breast cancer that was discovered just this month.  She could use your prayers this morning - if you are so inclinded.

I launched this year-long project for change and growth, because I know, from many years of practice, that movement begins with willingness.  A huge, whole world of change can begin with just a thought - an acquiescence.  It's like entering in to a contract:  here are the changes I want, and I am willing to do the footwork and expend the energy.

And I am willing to follow the trail that now begins to glow, more vibrantly with each step through the previously impassable forest of doubt and excuses.  My willingness is the magic, alchemical ingredient that vivifies my surroundings, my discoveries.

This week, the way has become clearer.  Wonderful things have been revealed.  And although next week will bring a descent into the usual domestic anarchy in which I reside during the typically grueling workweek, and my precious mom is facing one hell of a fight (as is my dear old dad), and although I won't have the time or energy to connect with friends and family at such frequent intervals - I will carry a bit of this week with me.  I'm refreshed, and stronger, and more resolved than ever to take the next step, and the next, in the special quest I have started, with myself as both leader and follower.

Go Ahead - Put All Your Eggs in One Basket

The day of the jack-of-all-trades man has passed.   This is the age of specialization.  The man who puts all the sap of his life into one specialty wins out over the man who distributes his energies among several specialties.  Carnegie says,  "A man can thoroughly master only one business,  and only an able man can do this."

Here is the prime condition of success,  the great secret: concentrate your energy,  thought,  and capital exclusively upon the business in which you are engaged.  "Don't put all your eggs in one basket", is all wrong.   Put all your eggs in one basket,  and then watch that basket.   You must have definite plans, you must work according to a pre-arranged program, the ideas you have collected and stored in your mind must be systematically arranged so as to be available for immediate use when needed;  you must not allow yourself to be distracted by a thousand and one things that you might possibly do.   Focus all your thoughts and energies at a single point.   This is a great power.   Cultivate it.   You will find that this power of concentration is a mighty force and wins out every time.

~ D. Chas. O'Conner, Spatula ~ An Illustrated Magazine for Pharmacists, 1916

Not long ago, I, too, decided to put all my eggs in one basket.   I determined that this is the time in my life to begin writing - in earnest.  However, I have learned that these days, "writing" can be something of a many-headed hydra.

A writer may write.  And, naturally, a writer should be read.  I've been posting to my blog, Cartas...Letters From Home, for about three years now.  I have really practiced the act of writing.  I have polished my skills, as much as one can while writing in a vacuum.  Now, I feel ready to take the next step - to write for readers.  A heady concept.

However, I had no idea of the collateral demands placed on modern writers - or musicians or artists, for that matter.  It is not enough to write, a veritable ME campaign must be launched.

And in that vein, I am more of a Harper Lee than an Elizabeth Gilbert.

But to be seen, and noticed, and read, I understand that I must learn to navigate these new technological seas - I must become fluent in the language of social media.  I'm trying to learn.  I'm searching the landscape, I'm exploring and clicking and back-arrowing through the ether.

I have identified a new breed of creature, one who thrives online - the vanity persona.

I exist - therefore, I am endlessly fascinating. 

You mean to tell me we've built this elaborate, mystical, technological construct to support - what?  Expositories about the latest addition of Louboutins to your shoe collection? Photos of people in various states of intoxication in front of pool tables in Nebraska?  Those are good settings for an in-depth delve into the meaning of post-modern life and culture, but more often than not - that's it!  "Here are my new shoes."  That's all! 

SURELY there's more.  You must be holding back.

Humans do not grow well on pedestals.  We have to be down in the mud of life, at least a little bit.  That's where we get all Jacob-like and wrestle with an otherworldly conundrum, an angry angel who could crush us with a glance; but we fight and endure, and we emerge, wounded, to be sure, but able to  go on, to strive and grow stronger.  Woo! freakin' Hoo!!

We have developed one more mechanism that will sustain us in our trudge through this mortal coil.  Because at times, it's a g.d. march through hell, is it not? Don't we owe it to each other to share that part of our life, to haul the epic and evolutionary tales and meaning out of the muck and into the light - from which to learn and declare our fullest, most divine animalian humanity? 

Or, cupcake recipes are good, too.

When heartbreak or disaster or disease or the unthinkable actually occurs - what happens when your self-sustaining structure is built on regular mani-pedis at the spa?  What happens when the little phony Outback Steakhouse universe collapses and leaves you out in the dark parking lot, all alone?  And your cell phone is dead - what then?!

And it's not just an American phenomenon.  My son told me of a Japanese sub-culture of youth, hikikomori, mostly young men, who suffer from extreme social withdrawl.  They live in a padded, precious world of isolation and make believe.  They are never forced to venture out, to test their mettle, to become individuals.  They have meals brought to their rooms; they hardly interact with their families, let alone the outside world.  They don't go to school, they can't work.  I wonder how the hikikomori have fared following the recent earthquake in Japan.

Far be it from me to say what kind of world anyone has to live in.  Sometimes make believe is best. And every day does not have to be a psychological autopsy. But just a leetle more of a peek behind the curtain would be nice.

If we are brave, we can find the treasure embedded in our own deep, intricate,  and capable psyche.  The gem that will lead us one step closer to developing a genuine self. 

That's the blog I want to find.  That's the tweet I want to receive.  If a person has overcome some of life's trials, how have they done it?  What changed him or her?  What has made a life to be a rich and beautiful experience - maybe in an unexpected way?  How has levity and joy brought depth and meaning?

Don't tell me it's the shoes.

I'm searching through posts and facebook, and other places online to find that genuine gold.  I'm sure it's there.  I'm just learning how to navigate, so maybe I'm not in the stream, quite yet.

After all, I've been a little hikikomori myself during the past decade or two.

Lucky Me

Lucky me.

I have a week of vacation.

I have no money for travel, and so ~ no plans.  But I have all to myself ~ time.

A week to sleep in late - every day.  A week to wake up and let my thoughts and plans unfurl at their own pace, at their whim.  This morning, while bees huzzahed and hummed over the jasmine hedge,  I drank two cups of dark coffee with cream.  At my leisure.  I sighed with contentment.

Then I went for a very long walk through my town.

The red tile rooftops were luminous against the sharp blue of sky.  The sun itself seemed to flicker in the town's many fountains, full warm in the afternoon.

I spied a lovely gold-and-richly-purple patch of iris near a small Victorian house, the fresh blooms translucent and sweet-smelling; tall stalks of sturdy green sprang from sword-like leaves. 

Seagulls, brilliant white, crossed in the sky above Canon Perdido Street. 

Small groups of students from the EF Language school walked together, some arm-in-arm, the mix of their colors and languages mellifluous in the cool ocean air of afternoon.  These kids from many countries are always in town, a rotating passel of international youth.  And always, it seems, to a one, they attractive and exuberant and energetic.  They laugh freely and often, and I love to see them around town - hopeful and happy and learning the world.

I stopped at the store, and strolled along neighborhood streets, and finally made it home.

Later, I lunched and napped and read.  

(True crime. The Girls of Murder City: Fame, Lust, and The Beautiful Killers Who Inspired Chicago.)

I have a week to wander, wherever the day directs, to discover just what lies ahead and nothing more.  A luxurious, languid week.

Only a week.  It's enough.

Lucky Me, Lucky Me, how veryvery Lucky for Me.

Define The Bohemian Life

But who,  and what,  then,  is the Bohemian? you may ask. Define him at once,  or we find it more difficult to tell who is not a Bohemian than who is.

Well then,  I proceed to my definition:

A Bohemian is a man with literary or artistic tastes and an incurable proclivity to debt

My own opinion...is that women are not fit for Bohemians. They are flowers too delicate for the violent extremes of the Bohemian climate. They can't stand the ups and downs. When women have to pass from luxury to privation (positive or comparative) they are in danger either of losing their temper, or of going to the bad altogether. Moreover,  it is difficult for a woman, without some loss of delicacy,  to be very unconventional and that is just what a Bohemian is apt to be....

~ Charles Astor Bristed, A New Theory on Bohemians, The Knickerbocker, 1861

Allllrrriiigggghhhhhttttt.  So one of my tasks with which I have been charged (by myself - meaning that I, myself, have given myself a charge) during this year of transformation, is to find and read other blogs, and to develop some kind of repartee with said blog creators - to encourage, support, and edify each other, if you will.

However, as I have suspected all along, I am somewhat of a solitary species. I am seeking other women who write, who nurture a bit of the bohemian in themselves. The description of bohemianism, as described above, seems to capture the essence of my personality - except the "...a Bohemian is a man..." part.  I am something of a dusty bohemian facing the winter of my life:  literary, artistic tastes, living in some kind of a garret that's been jazzed up with old, tattered watercolors and threadbare velvets on the windows - and the proclivity to debt - yeah, that's me.  (I've also been the worst-case-scenario girl in the bohemian-identification entry, above; I've gone "to the bad altogether" when I was younger and had more energy.  And actually, there is a lot to be said for the bad altogether, in that it's not all together all that bad.  But it's a lot of work.   And not appropriate after the half-century mark.)

I have been looking - and I mean really looking - to find like-minded women, around my age, with whom to share this blogging experience.  Bohemianism is not required - nor is a proclivity to debt. I'd like to find a certain laissez-faire attitude, a polished literary flair with a smidge of brazen.  Women of wit with an interest in spelunking the depths of life's meaning.  Dark, scary places, if need be.  Golden, mountain-top places, too.   That seems like an appropriate strata to explore.  But I'm also hoping to read a wide variety of interesting blogs by anybody, of any age.  Blogs that are thoughtful and well-written.  But it's a big ether-world and there's lots of stuff to sort through, and I am searching for something pretty specific, here.

I am not interested in people who have causes to promote, banners to wave, political axes to grind.  Please, no red hats with purple feathers.  No kundalini-awakened acolytes of the goddess.  Just good reads.

So far, I haven't found much that resonates.

I have found a Christian romance writer who home schools six children.  I found a blog featuring a group women my age who dress in tutus and funny glasses, and every year, mind you, go to Burning Man and take pictures of men's penises,  and then the women dance around, in faux-libertine-like poses.  Methinks they try too hard. 

I found a group of women truckers who blog....but, no.  Just - no.  There are lots of women-who-live-with-cats-plural blogs, or w.w.l.w.dogs blogs.  I found a blog about magickal manifesting (the attendant two-day conference that will provide step-by-step instructions is $1500).  These are all fine blogs - all of them.  But they are too far outside my locus of intent.

And I'm discouraged.  Really, I am.  I'm not looking for a clan or a club or a kitschy twist on my grandma years.  I don't want to read blogs by women who use the words rant,  rave, or muse in their blog's description.  I don't want anything shabby, or chic, or blog pages that play a soulful country tune while I'm reading.  If I see one more post with a glamour shot of Elizabeth Taylor I think I shall crack like mommy's old ming vase.  I don't want to read the blogs of young girls who describe their club-hopping escapades, or scrapbookers who are stay-at-home-moms with shopping addictions.  I don't want to see pages and pages of photos lifted from magazines and pasted under a blog title.  And they, with good reason, would not want to read my blog.

I am grateful to have the time and luxury to pursue my goals - through reading and soul-searching  and writing.  Imagine the mindless hell that those little darlings faced in the picture above (our grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and those before them).  Too delicate for the bohemian life, indeed. 

Imagine it in their day.  To make have a chicken sandwich, they had to: chop wood, light the stove, catch a chicken in the yard, kill it, let it exsanguinate while they made bread, let the bread rise while they plucked and gutted the chicken, bake the bread, haul the water in which to cook the chicken, take some eggs, make the damn mayonnaise or eat plain chicken on plain bread.  Jeezuz.  Give me an opium pipe and a stiff shot of absinthe.  Now they were freakin' warrior women.  Just getting through one day took the kind of gravitas most of us cannot even imagine.  Next to that kind of life, bohemian is real smooth and easy.

Just as water (and whine) seeks its own level, I'm looking for some like-minded women who are writing.  I'm seekin' my peeps.  Women who are a bit bohemian - even better.

Tonight - just a few minutes ago, I bumped into Gina Barreca's blog, Snow White Doesn't Live Here Anymore, on the Psychology Today website. 

And now I can sleep. 

Birthday - A Re-beginning

My birthday came and went, with phone calls, gifts, flowers, cards, visits and good wishes from my little coterie of friends and family.  They love me.

And in return, I am going to invest everything I have in creating change for the better - for one full year.

Not that I haven't tried every other year of my life, mind you.  Indeed I have.  There has been mixed success.

I would like - more than you know - to remain committed to my solitary life, my low-key existence.  I would like to extend my commitment to the non-committal, if you will. 

But for them, I will do it.  I'll take classes, and write about myself (although I am loathe to do it), and I will learn and grow and find my place in the world.  A new place befitting of my new year.

Those friends and family - they believe in me, even when I have a hard time believing in myself.

I love them for that - and many other reasons.

Time's A-Wasting....

They always say time changes things,

but you actually have to change them yourself.

~ Andy Warhol

The Borders in our town just went out of business, but I imagine that they must have a whole section devoted to year-in-the-life blogs that became books and sometimes movies.

I am not daunted.  Lots of stuff has been written about pasta but nobody is backing off of that topic, either.

My birthday is tomorrow.  From March 27, 2011, to March 27, 2012, we're going to look for luck, and we're going to embrace new challenges, and we're going to see what happens in the next 365 days.

I think I found a bit of luck today, in a roundabout way. 

Yesterday, after a week of feeling kinda blue, I decided that although I never celebrate my birthday, I would host a little, minor soiree on Sunday, and have a couple of friends over.  We'll knosh and talk and laugh and it will be a "yes" rather than my annual birthday "nah."  I'm making an effort, here.  This morning,  I planned to stop by to Farmers' Market and the grocery store to buy some goodies for my little party. 

I walked out to my car, which is parked on the street. 

Now I'm going to take you on a little side journey, so please bear with me:

Finances are tight  and I don't have enough money to get an oil leak in my car fixed.  That means instead of parking in the nice, sheltered carport (the leak is making a mess),  I have to park on the street every day until, somehow, god or good luck drops about $700 in my lap.  My car is also in desperate need of alignment, and must be smogged and registered to stay legal before anything frivolous - like fixing an oil leak - can be considered.  And I can't afford a smog and registration and alignment right now either, so I'm really in a bad way. 

Anyway, I washed my car on Thursday.  By Friday morning, recent rains had splashed mud from the parkway, all up the side of my old, but freshly washed, car.  Then, this morning I go to the curb to find that a covey of birds had sat upon a high branch and rained a shower of shat upon my recently clean, more recently muddied car. 

So, now I'm really discouraged because I have to drive to the store in an old, muddy, shat car.  Financial difficulties seem to have infinite ramifications. You can't even begin to guess at the quality or number of threads that run from, say, having a minor oil leak in the car - which is why poor people are so tired and overwhelmed.  It's not JUST the car - it's not being able to park in the carport because it's making too big a mess, and then the car gets dirty really fast, and you either wash it 3 - 4 times a week, or you drive around in an old, now dirty car, which adds a whole new layer of frustration and angst - which adds to all the other reminders about how financially inadequate you are. 

And then you look into the future, and like dominoes, you see a whole raft of other things that are going to happen that you can't prevent, either:  What if the car is vandalized?  What if some fool runs into it? And look at the damaged finish on the car - the funky lookin' clear coat is already peeling, leaving ever-larger mottled patches on the always old and now frequently dirty car and parking out in the elements will make it look even worse, and the car is already  muddied and shat upon and this is where I would normally just go back in the house and say forget having friends over.

Instead, I pressed on.  I went to the drive through car wash, for the second time in three days, to wash my car for another $7.00.   I also bought a Lucky Poker Hand lottery scratcher.  And won.  $64.  What luck!

I had a nice walk around town, and got some terrific food to share with my friends.  I spent more than I had intended, but oh, well, it's my freakin' birthday, and I just won $64. 

Then I checked my bank account and found that I must have completed the long-term, monthly IRS payment plan in which I was enmeshed for.ev.er, because the IRS has dropped in an unexpected deposit remaining from my refund, which they normally would have kept.  And - it's just enough money to cover the alignment, smog, and registration for my car! 

Truly - What Luck.

I'm going to bed pretty soon.  I made a lovely window shade from that antique fabric panel I told you about a couple of days ago. I have some good friends and they're coming over tomorrow to celebrate my birthday. My car is clean - again - at least it was when I left it at the curb a few hours ago.

I was thinking earlier about whether the $$ stuff was luck.  I know the birds crapping on the car was a direct link to washing my car to buying a ticket to winning $64 to paying for the groceries I bought for my party, so, yeah - Lucky. 

The IRS thing - not really, but certainly good timing. 

All in all - a good day, and I hope, a good portent of things to come.

I've Been Wrecked....

Two things are infinite:

the universe and human stupidity;

and I'm not sure about the the universe.

~ Einstein

It all started when I was in fourth grade.  Our family lived in the little tiny town of Solvang, California. Every day after school, I would walk to the bowling alley in the middle of town with my best friend, Julie C.  Julie's dad was the owner of the bowling alley - as well as the cocktail lounge next door.  The bowling alley didn't hold much appeal, but every afternoon, we'd pull open the heavy, padded door of the cocktail lounge, and squint into the sweet, musical darkness.  We entered the cavern of cool, the home of hip, and I was giddy.  Tiny lights glowed; rum and vodka and bourbon bottles were displayed behind the bar like promising, magical elixirs.  Glasses clinked; high heels tapped out a secret code on the wooden floor.  I felt the rhythm of it in my blood.  The air hummed with promiscuous possibility - anything might happen.  And it was sure to be delicious and tainted with naughty when it did.

I felt at home - really at home here.  The ladies wore tight, colorful, fitted dresses with drifts of glittering jewelry at wrist and neck and upon their earlobes.  They smoked and laughed,  and were draped like exotic birds, perched on tall stools set aside the polished, wooden bar that uncoiled with a serpentine flair down the length of the lounge.

We were seated near them at the bar.   Julie's dad served us sodas embellished with colorful plastic picks stacked with maraschino cherries.  Small paper umbrellas with Asian motifs crowned our drinks.  I inhaled the effervescence, the cigarette smoke, the Nat King Cole that wafted, in a slow syrup of sound, in eddies around the bar. 

I looked at the grown ups: the handsome men seemed captivated by the elegant, dazzling women who held court in a small bar in a small town in the middle of a weekday afternoon.  They were so very glamorous and other-worldly, some breed of exotic, alien beings.  

The adults I knew lived in the brightest light of day; they were open, easily-understood, quickly decoded.  But these others - they were cloaked with a clandestine, shadowed mystery that promised excitement and intrigue.

When I grew up, I wanted to be just like them. 

Guess what?  My wish came true....

<:><:><:><:><:><:><:><:>

Earlier this afternoon I walked along Santa Barbara Street in a late springtime rain shower.  Two young women, bundled in pretty parkas and wearing colorful rain boots, emerged from Daily Bread.  The bakery windows were all golden and steamy against the chill.  When the door opened, a swirl of fragrance from hot coffee and fresh bread escaped.

I did not intend to walk with the ladies, it just happened that way.  They spoke to each other freely, asking, in conversational tones,  "What did you like to drink?" "Anything.  No really, it didn't matter." "Me, too.  Mostly vodka though."   "It was terrible.  I was a wreck."

The conversation continued in this vein as we crossed De la Guerra street.

I chimed in, unable to stop myself:  "That's my story, too," I said. "Seriously - that's exactly my story!"  

They were momentarily taken aback, but soon, we were discussing how very not-unique we all are.  For all alcoholics, really, it comes down to: drink, drank, drunk. 

Some of it, in the beginning, was all-out mind-blowing better-than-anything-else-ever fun.  Drinking made me feel superhuman, electrified, invincible. I was glamorous, funny, sexy, irresistable.  Briefly. 

Alas, I found that, for me, alcohol was a double-edged sword. At first, alcohol, my beloved darling, seduced by bestowing a feeling of power, camaraderie, and wild adventure.  An effusive bonhomie.  A singular brilliance that I alone in the universe possessed.

That, I liked. 

However, in the end, I had bowed, daily, in a way that was servile and scraping, to my master, King Alcohol.  

My former friend and confidant had become a rapacious destructive force that wielded power with no regard for me.  I drank and drank and raised the very devil - literally - until alcohol was done with me.    

So this afternoon, as the younger ladies and I continued walking, we introduced ourselves - understanding that, despite the 20-year difference in our ages, the fact that we had never laid eyes on each other before - we knew, deeply, who the other was.  More so than family, sometimes, or lifelong friends.  We identified.   We said goodbye and walked on.

Alcoholism is not a fascinating story (unless maybe you're Robert Downey, Jr).   It's not my sole point of reference.  I don't filter everything through that single lens. In fact, until I heard the ladies talking right next to me, I hadn't thought about it in awhile.

I'm a woman.  I am a mother and sister, I'm a good friend...an artist, an executive assistant, a gardener, an avid reader, a hell of a cook.  I'm an alcoholic.

It's like that.  It's a part of me that has its rightful acknowledgement, its proper place in life.  It's in perspective.   You see, I found a permanent state of recovery.  It is possible.  It happened to me.

I endured terrible things.  I knew unsurmountable terror and bewilderment - and wrestled with deathly despair.  All by the time I was 24 years old. 

I knew I would die - or accidentally kill someone else - unless I got help.  I contacted the National Council on Alcoholism, and they pointed me in the right direction.  I found a group that had been around for decades.  There were no dues or fees.  There were no leaders.   There was a book that described - exactly - how to get sober and stay that way.   I did what the book recommended.  I still do - it's just part of me now. 

I don't have to belong to anything, or see the world through a Me (alcoholic) vs Them (non-alcoholic) lens.  That is the most hideously boring vantage point in the world.  It's refusing to grow.  I was given the tools, and I use them.  And I am free.   For 30 years, now.

I embedded the truth and recovery deep in my heart, where it lives and grows, day by day, quietly, still.

Thrift Store Luck in Santa Barbara

 Okay, so although I am reticent to state, categorically, that Luck exists, I know where Luck's lucky hangout is. At Catholic Charities Thrift Store on Haley Street in Santa Barbara. You can visit this miraculous repository of incredible luck too, every week, Monday through Saturday.

There is a perfect blend of circumstances that make this such a magical place.  It may involve ley lines, but aside from that, there are many prosperous people who call Santa Barbara home.  People who love beautiful clothes and shoes, artwork, furniture, jewelry, home furnishings - and they can afford the best, most beautiful stuff the world has to offer.

And when they want to "clear clutter", reorganize, clean house - they call Catholic Chairities to bring the donation truck and haul their stuff away.  Then the staff at the thrift store marks these incredible items at rock-bottom prices, and the stuff moves.  This cycle, repeated daily, has brought me more joy than I can tell you.  And when I am there, I will swear that luck really does exist, and it is in operation right before my very eyes. 

Last week, on a dark rainy day, I wished for a nice, new summer purse.  Today, I found a darling, authentic Kate Spade bag for $6.99. (Oh, and all items are half-price - every day.  Why?  No one knows! It's just one of the quirks of the universe.)

So was my wish granted?  Was it just coincidence, or real luck?  The jury is still out, but I got a bitchin' Kate Spade purse for $3.50. 

I also found an antique chinoiserie fabric panel - a colorful, polished chintz in hues of gold, rose madder, forest green, and French blue, for $5.95.  So that would be....that's right!  $3.00!

A couple of years ago, Santa Barbara had a very fashion-forward prosperity minister.  The Reverend dressed in bespoke clothing, she wore iridescent make up and shimmering jewels, and she hung ropes of little crystals in her hair.  She drove a Jag, gathered unto herself a prosperous congregation, wrote a book, put some video up on You Tube, and expanded her ministry.  And, I learned, the Reverend loved expensive, unique, beautiful possessions. 

It came to pass that the Reverend entered a new phase in her spiritual life.  She decided to eschew the material, embrace the ascetic. She donated huge a truckload of items to the thrift store. 

Lucky ME!

On that day in the housewares aisle, I had something of a spiritual experience myself....there before me, like the treasures of a sultan's kingdom, were laid out the Reverend's former possessions. 

There were delicate, antique dishes, old framed pictures, Victorian purses, feathered hats, boxes of valuable books - stacks and piles and bags full of beautiful, beautiful  things.  And they were all in a price range I could afford. 

A word to all of you who wish to simplify, clear clutter, reorganize - I say thank you. What you donate, I will take home.  What you no longer need, I will treasure.  What you have grown tired of, quickens my blood.

When clothing or home fashions or books or furniture no longer offer you the joy it once did - donate it.

After all, it's "green", tax deductable, and it's offering others the opportunity to find a bit of luck in an otherwise ordinary day.

And yes, I will say conclusively that Luck does exist in one little shop in the universe: Catholic Charities in Santa Barbara.  Stop by, and see what I mean.  Tell Joe and Jerry that I sent you. 

Executive Assistant by Day....

 

The California economy has collapsed into a haute debacle of Hollywoodian proportions.

And where am I at a time like this?  Well, I work for a state-funded non-profit social service organization, and I live in one of the most expensive small cities in the entire United States.

What Luck! 

Imagine my despair as my fiscal landscape, already ashy and gray, has become, daily, more bleak and ever more hopeless.  Never one to have any discretionary cash to start with, I have more drastically cut my expenses.  I have whittled my budget.  I have wept with worry.  I have wrestled with dark demons: Blight and Fear.

I have tried to imagine a workable solution:  Change jobs?  Get a second job? Move to a tiny studio apartment and get rid of everything I own? Leave my beloved city all together? Give up? 

I could.

Or:  Powder my nose and apply lipstick.  Look in the mirror and say, "Give up?  Oh hell no."

In a place like Santa Barbara, it's easy to look around and see a lot of women who have big homes, darling shiny cars, beautiful clothes and scads of financial security.

And, it is just as easy to look around and see a lot of women who have lowlow incomes, old crappy cars, a big stack of bills and they are required, daily, to conjure up a whole world - out of nothing. 

(And there are thousands and thousands of people in the middle somewhere, too.)

Many years ago, I was driving along the freeway, and I looked left - I thought, Wow - look at that lady - she's got the beautiful car, the hair coiffed by angels, the perfume contrail flung out behind her on the 101....

Then I looked right - I thought, Wow - look at that lady - her cigarette smoke is billowing out the cracked window along with the Merle Haggard tunes and the stuffing from the torn upholstery....

I had an epiphany - a blaze of enlightenment realizing I had spent so much time in life, looking right then left, right then left - better than, less than, better than, less than....

I have to keep my eyes on my own mirror, not judge my life by what others have or don't.  My life has not, by any measure, been easy.  I get overwhelmed and distraught.  I go to work, then come home and take to my bed.  I isolate, withdraw, hibernate.

But, eventually, when a modicum of hope returns, I cast about until I think of something new to try.  Something I probably wouldn't have attempted if I had been all cozy and comfortable.  When I think back to the incipient lousy event, I am now able to think, "Hey! What luck!"

This blog is a response to just such a bout of ennui and defeat.  This blog a scaffolding - an open, airy structure constructed around my current life to provide support and access - for change.  It's in a public place, so I am especially accountable for one full year.  Passers-by will be able to observe and comment.  Neither of us really know what the final result will be - we have to wait and see.

A few weeks ago, I decided that this portion of the program will feature me, learning new skills, redoubling my efforts for success, embracing creativity, and, however faltingly, pushing on toward some new measure of success.  I would like to supplement my current income by learning to write for publication.  To write for readers.  To write for money.

Today I enrolled in Writer's Bootcamp, a class offered through our local city college.  I will even pay the $20 "Optional reading fee", for the privilege of having someone read - and critique - what I have written. 

I have cast my hook in the stream of luck today.  With luck - and hard work - I hope, as Ovid promised, when I least expect it, there I will find a fish.  And some cash would be nice, too.

What Luck, Cathy Berry!

Luck affects everything.

Let your hook always be cast in the stream;

where you least expect it, there will be a fish.

~ Ovid

For a number of years now, Americans have been enamored with imperatives:  Dream.  Wish. Create.  Eat.  Pray.

Live. Laugh. Love.

These evocative words are perfect emblems of our desire to plumb the depths of life - superficially.  To imbue our lives with meaning - without a lot of effort.  To lightly ride atop the waves of emotion, accomplishment, society - without experiencing the full measure of the salt and grit and chill of the tide.

I, too, would like to take a waverunner across the blue bay on a warm and sunny day, to the Isle of My Dreams.  Upon my arrival, the clean white island beach (studded with palm trees and rocky grottoes that glitter with rare gems and cool waterfalls) would be fragrant with the scent of honeyed flowers and succulent fire-roasted island fare.  A ukelele band would seranade me as I walked the clearly-lined path to meet my handsome Guide, who, proffering a colorful map, would show me the way from "Here" to "Success", with several spa days embedded in my itinerary.  I would sashay into the sunset, wearing a smart, sassy sarong.

But life has never been that clear cut for me.  Rather than quick, bright imperatives - I have lived according to well-turned, oft-worn phrases: Please Tell Me You're Kidding. Paste It Back Together. What 48-Hour Notice?

No, life has not been easy.  There have been black blitzkreigs of isolation and despair.  And there have been days of triumph and elation when I have high-fived my own self and shouted "Good for you, Cathy Berry!  Good for you!" (In my head.) 

The result of this rich and varied experience has been that I am, in my middle-life, creative, colorful, intelligent, and strong. And I am ready for a new challenge.

For the whole of my 55th year (from March 27, 2011 to March 27, 2012) I will step out of my cozy solitude, my abundant anonymity.  And,  I will incorporate luck in my search for success and meaning. 

Sometimes I believe in luck - most of the time I just don't know.

But this year, I will hunt for it.  I will seek evidence of its existence,  like searching for a rare bird that may turn out to be only myth, or may, in fact, be identified as a real creature of feather and bone. I will chronicle my search, I will tell the places that I have looked for it, and I will tell in great detail, when, god willing, it appears in everyday life.

I will continue to do the necessary footwork to accomplish my goals, but I will look for Luck, I will court it.  Not the voodoo kind of charm-and-spell-filled luck, not the superstitious you-better-or-else kind of luck.  But I will seek and acknowledge the genuine, perhaps-as-yet-undiscovered kind of luck of which Ovid wrote, an elusive occurance that perhaps cannot be measured just yet, but may actually exist in the quantuum world, the spiritual plane, the universal realm of all that is as yet, unknown.

I'll continue to write for my blog, Cartas...Letters from Home.  I will also find ways to help promote it and garner more readers.  When I read the blogs and writings of others, I will post comments, I will engage and interact - I will participate. I will take a writing class through adult education, and see what I can learn from that experience.  I will pay the "Optional Reading Fee: $20", and have others read my writing and provide feedback.  I will learn about publishing what I have written.  I will walk for one hour,  at least five days per week for 52 weeks of the coming year.  I will attend at least one social event per month, and participate - you know, socially.  Not lofty goals, these.  But as yet, (cleverly avoided) untapped resources for renewal and growth. 

I will write about my explorations and accomplishments here - as we, together, dear reader, cast our hooks in the stream of life, because, I'll just bet - Luck really does affect everything.

Write and tell me about Luck in your life....