beezie

this past year has been equal parts everything and nothing. everything that happened is too extreme to relive; and then there was the day-to-day monotony that consisted of nothing worth regaling in… i am determined to write my annual end-of-year post, but honestly i am STUMPED – and to think how much i struggled just to craft a couple of sentences for our holiday greeting cards!

i am grappling to write any of this at all, because goodness knows we have ALL been hit in some weird way or another this year; so in one way it feels redundant to address anything; but alternatively, while we’re all weathering a catastrophic storm, each experience and perspective truly is unique…

but, in the end, that is the general point of a blog: a space for the writer to share their experiences and observations, however painfully relative or contrarily trivial they may be. and alas, the bulk of this post is trivial, because i have no intent or desire to wallow in the dire…

for me, the oddest contradiction this year was having such a vastly open datebook, and yet the time zipped by as swiftly as our more heavily occupied calendars of years past. and what do i have to show for it? ab.so.lute.ly nothing. and that’s okay. i’m not going to shake a finger at myself for not working out more (okay, let’s be real: at all.) i’m not going to reflect dejectedly for not writing a book, or learning a new language, or baking sourdough bread. i am going to end the year perfectly content that i spent an ungodly amount of time binge-watching any worthwhile television series (we watched ‘the sopranos’ for the first time during the spring, and i am still missing it)… having watched numerous high-quality shows at this point, we’re now yearning for new content, so our trivial complaint now is: how can there be sooooo many television series out there, and sooooo little worth viewing? first-world problems. i know.

there were two weeks in may where i was laid up at home and couldn’t do anything remotely physical. having never been one to sit idle, i figured i’d be very restless and prepared for this period of recuperation by setting aside a bunch of mellow, bed-rest-friendly activities. turns out i can lay around just fine. as the end of two weeks came to a close and i had to get back to work i reflected from the couch: “already?!?”

as this year comes to a close i’d like to say that i am rested and revitalized and welcome the new year feeling invigorated; but that would be a lie. however scarce my physical activity has been, my scrambled mind has made up for it ten-fold and left me consistently exasperated…

our family has experienced loss, and not in any way related to the mass scheme… our hearts have ached, excruciatingly, but have been repaired with hope and reason to keep holding on… our bodies have been wounded, but have since healed… we’ve encountered – and continue to encounter – challenging situations, but address them the only way we know how: we work through them with weary albeit steadfast strength…

one thing is certain: our household still has a hell of a lot to be grateful for.

perhaps the coming year will be the time to bake croissants from scratch. perhaps i will weed through the excess and purge the miscellany that’s been sitting in neglected spaces. perhaps i will write that first chapter. perhaps i will dive into my masterclass membership with gusto. perhaps i will add foam-rolling to my morning routine. perhaps… perhaps… perhaps i will continue to accomplish little or nothing. and that will be just fine.

 

as a child, i didn’t have grandparents in the conventional sense… my paternal grandfather passed away four years before i was born… my paternal grandmother passed away when i was four years old… my maternal grandfather passed away when i was five… and although my maternal grandmother died only three years ago, we were estranged… yet, while peers would regale stories of the time they spent with their grandparents, i never felt jaded: i had my great aunt jeanne…

auntie jeanne played a profound role throughout my childhood; and remained an engaged and enthusiastic guardian beyond those formative years… from infectious giggles to words of wisdom, jeanne consistently bestowed a warmth and camaraderie that i will remain forever grateful for… and it’s with many thanks to my mum that we all enjoyed such a bond… mum and i spent countless weekends and summer days with jeanne – they were simple opportunities to pal around, but nothing shy of enriching…

she taught me chinese checkers, and how to track and balance my money . she enjoyed eating watermelon in the backyard and seeing how far we could spit the seeds . her living room held endless competitive hours of our favorite card game, nertz . she shared stories about her adolescent years in newport beach, and about dancing through the late night hours at the rendezvous . items that were miniature yet functional delighted her . she made a potato salad that we enjoyed so much we’d eat it as a meal instead of as a side . when the jim and tammy faye bakker scandal was making headlines, we all applied gobs of mascara and had pizza delivered – the poor delivery boy’s face exhibited equal parts confusion and alarm as jeanne imitated tammy faye with mascara-stained tears streaking her face . hand-written notes were exchanged frequently . anagrams were a shared past-time; well, until i gave her supercalifragilisticexpialidocious . an avid follower of wimbledon, the latest match was discussed on balmy summer days . i have her expertly crocheted blankets stowed away for the next big chill . a collection of heirlooms she has shared over the years are peppered throughout our home . her extraordinary charm bracelets, clustered with special mementos, inspired cris to help me establish my own .

we spent holidays together . we ran errands together .  we laughed together .

in my teens she was one of my fearless passengers as i gathered driving experience to obtain my license…

in my twenties she was patient yet encouraging as i’d share my naively fantastical endeavors that would ultimately end up fleeting…

in my thirties she would inquire enthusiastically about our next trip, expressing her joy in traveling vicariously through us…

after my dad passed away, she was the first person i notified… the immediate concern she expressed for my mum was so moving i will never forget her compassionate perspective… and when those first holidays without him came upon us, she reached out with words of comfort and genuine understanding…

my great aunt jeanne would have turned 93 years old today… may she be cracking a cold one with my dad right now…

 

although i read slooooooowly, and am horrible at recalling details upon inquiry, i am a voracious consumer of books; and have been my whole life… feasting on books began literally: as an infant i chewed on any title from the golden books series – a smart tactic that mum employed to keep me occupied in my stroller while she checked errands off of her list.

once my reading skills developed, dad secured a monthly book subscription through a local boutique lovingly managed by sara brant called the children’s bookshoppe… every few weeks i would receive a brand new book, chosen by sara herself, with a hand-written note expressing why she thought i might enjoy the newest title… from mystery, to adventure, to classic prose; she was great at sharing an assortment that any child could joyfully transport themselves through… several titles arrived personally inscribed by the author, and sometimes even the illustrator… i still have a handful of these treasures tucked away… there is one title, in particular, that i have purchased numerous times in recent years for my friends’ children: king bidgood’s in the bathtub – it is a fun, giggle-worthy tale; with truly superb illustrations…

as a pre-teen, and well into my teenage years, i relished weekends for the sheer opportunity to visit a bookstore and spend any money i had received as a gift or from babysitting on more books that i could devour during those two brief days… tucked away in my bedroom, i would curl up in my cozy armchair and get lost in the latest mystery i had selected… reading for hours on end, i would be unaware of the sun setting outside. the light would diminish, and as my parents would retrieve me for dinner, they’d kindly remind me that reading in such a dim setting was putting too much strain on my eyes…

during high school i glommed on to true crime novels – the more gruesome the details, the more enthralling to me… i recall sitting at my desk in drafting class, speeding through the latest mechanical drawing so i could dive back into vincent bugliosi’s ‘helter skelter’ in between tasks… glimpses of ‘a father’s story’ by lionel dahmer come to mind as well, as i try to remember the sordid tales that occupied my time while i’d wait for classes to begin… (although my curriculum incorporated required titles, those always took a back seat to my latest acquisition…)

my first trip to paris, though, at the age of twenty, really set the tone for my preferred genres. already missing the city of light on my flight back home, i didn’t want to let go of the surroundings i had just been immersed in. not long after landing, i headed to the bookstore to scour the history and biography sections; and sought out french lifestyle books as well… in between my college courses and assorted jobs i traveled back to paris through the pages of the various titles i had collected… through the simple desire to revisit the sights i had admired, i learned the fascinating histories behind each and became all the more captivated…

it dawned on me that i had no patience for fiction, unless it was classic and has held a place in culture… why would i want to read about something that hadn’t happened, or couldn’t happen; when i could read about something that actually had? that perspective continues all these years later…

although my fascination with paris has tapered off a little (i’ve probably read every book ever printed on the subject anyway) my interest in history and biographies continue, and selections are shaped by recent travels and documentaries… the french section of our library is beginning to wane next to the manhattan section that has been growing rapidly these past couple of years… furthermore, points of interest have broadened; and essay collections by david sedaris, nora ephron, and carrie fisher are interspersed for amusing perspectives…

all-in-all i am generally quite pleased with the titles i choose to read. most of what i select keeps me engaged, and the pages flipping. on rare occasion, though, i’ll end up with a dud – such instances are, miraculously (given the vast inventory from which to select) few and far between… however, i landed on a bad lot recently that had me doubting my ability to suss out the best choices anymore: i went through three books, consecutively, that i had to abandon part-way… not finishing a book gnaws at me, but slogging my way through one that is dry, or too abstract grates on me more… i put the third one down feeling defeated, and was reluctant to select the fourth attempt – will it be lackluster too? is it just me? has the way i read changed? i tried to silence my concerns, and chose a book from the stack on my desk haphazardly: ‘save me the plums – my gourmet memoir’ by ruth reichl… i turned the introductory pages timidly until i reached chapter one, and within those first ten pages i was instantly swept up in the story she was so eloquently illustrating… i noticed myself breathing a massive sigh of relief, and feeling at peace… the images she describes are so vividly clear, and the tempo with which she writes has such a natural conversational feel… i am feeling that electric buzz that radiates from such articulation and i think to myself, “this is why i read…”

while attending a beginner’s french class in junior college, our teacher outlined details about a study-abroad expedition based in paris that would commence that summer. she listed the various sites and activities that would encompass the itinerary; and i suddenly felt swept up in this opportunity and knew i had to go. my french skills were basic, at best; and i’d never been on a plane before – the farthest i’d ever traveled was arizona – i was completely green to the travel scene but my gut was telling me that this was meant to be.

between my fledgling vulnerability and the chunk of change such a voyage would cost, there was much concern to deliberate; but i shared with my parents what my teacher had shared with us, and they too saw the potential in such an experience.

twenty years ago today, with tears of excitement and anxiety in my eyes, i flew to france. i was fraught with nerves. after all, this first flight of my life was eleven hours; i didn’t know anyone in the group, and my language skills were elementary. i was then dropped in an entirely different time zone, in a foreign country, and left more-or-less on my own to figure out where my dorm was. once i (barely) pushed through language barriers and received the keys to my room, i carried my 40-pound suitcase up an alarmingly narrow staircase to the seventh floor, struggled with the antiquated key, dropped my luggage, slumped onto the bed, and started shaking. the barren room echoed my cry: “what the fuck have i done?”

it abruptly struck me that i hadn’t spoken with my parents since i had left the house to go to LAX. hours had passed since my plane landed at charles de gaulle. i needed to get to a phone tout suite. it felt like an eternity, but i finally located a phone across the street and was somehow able to connect – the process was a blur of confusion. upon hearing my mum’s voice – which came across the line as a distant crackle – my eyes welled up. it took everything that was left of me to try to keep it together. i was 5,600 miles and 30 days from home – the last thing i wanted to do was worry my parents and fan any flames of regret for blessing this endeavor.

that evening, i attended a welcome reception, and got acquainted with the individuals that i’d be attending class and going on excursions with in the days to come. it was a refreshing distraction, and we received envelopes which provided helpful insight, metro cards, and more details that further fostered assimilation. back in my room, i reviewed my packet and reflected on the people i had just met – suddenly i felt grounded, safe, and secure.

the days that followed were some of the most enriching experiences i have ever had. the journey in its entirety remains a profound part of my life, as it helped shape the person i am today; for i received far more than just lessons of the french language – i learned how to navigate (both literally and figuratively), i recognized what my true interests are, i embraced a remarkable culture; and carried so much of their lifestyle into my own.

on june 30th, 2000 as i was having breakfast at home before heading to the airport, i flipped through the newspaper to read my horoscope, just for fun. it read, “travel occurs with greater frequency in the next year. you will have opportunities to learn and grow. tonight: split for the weekend.” maybe there’s something to horoscopes after all…

[photo: mum took this photograph of dad and i – my eyes wild with anticipation just moments before i stepped out the door to begin my adventure…]

recently, while cris and i were cooking, he paused and asked, “what is your favorite memory of your dad?” caught off guard i faltered, “how could i possibly choose just one?” scattered bits of images started to stir in my mind as i tried to grasp a specific memory from the assortment… i felt my heart swell, my face smile, and my eyes well up with warm tears… cris quickly realized that a singular memory wasn’t realistic, and asked that i just share what came to mind:

when i was home with a cold, dad’s jaunt to the balboa pharmacy would then include ‘wizard of oz’ and disney figurines, coloring books, and vick’s orange lozenges… whether it was grammar school, junior high, or high school; any class after lunch was treated to a roaring engine and burning rubber as dad would rev his latest automotive creation just outside the building… my endless summer hours were spent in dad’s shop while we respectively worked on our own creative outlets and bullshitted with his friends who stopped by to crack a cold one and add color to the atmosphere… when books were distributed at the beginning of a new school term, mum would patiently and expertly wrap them in paper grocery bags; and then dad would customize them with the deft swipe of a sharpie… the rare times we would get separated in a grocery store were quickly resolved: i only had to listen for his whistling to determine which aisle he was on… he bravely yet casually volunteered to go on the gravitron at the county fair so i wouldn’t have to go alone…

the list could very well go on and on; but cherished memories go far beyond specific events… a subtle motion, predictable reply, or triggering topic – however simple it may be – can revive dad’s presence in a mere instant… i can still hear his giggle, and hope to hear it forever… i am grateful i inherited his nose because i get to see it every day… classic cars will always stop me in my tracks, and the smell of exhaust will never cease to transport me to the shop… new novels still make me giggle as i can hear dad exclaiming, “what! no pictures?” his influence over the years has enhanced my ability to randomly identify vehicles, fish, and tools… i frequently catch myself expressing, “i just took the trash out – how is it full already?” – an utterance i never understood, until now… i gain serene satisfaction when i sweep out the garage and see that everything is in its place… i become sentimental upon the faintest aroma of fishing lures, lumber, varnish and freshly welded metal…

memories involve all of the senses, and i am forever grateful to dad for providing such an enriching assortment of experiences worth embracing and reminiscing…

based on other peoples’ posts, i think this is day 35 of quarantine? aside from the eerily consistent calm, it’s essentially any other day for me. my routine has remained mostly intact. cris’s routine has carried on unchanged as well. we are both very fortunate to be in an industry that is essential, as our respective roles assist the supply chain. but even with our routines in place, i can’t help but feel off; and i have no doubt that this applies to most of us whether our schedules have continued as “normal,” or have been turned completely upside down…

at this point in the game [and yes, i use that word with loaded intention] the hyper-panic is diminishing; and the new norm of overly-sensitive protocol is settling in… however, some practices should have already been in place: i’ve been washing my hands thoroughly and frequently, and sneezing/coughing into the crook of my elbow, for yeeeeears – c’mon people, you should have already been doing that… furthermore, the masses should have already had emergency reserves on-hand without turning our stores into post-apocalyptic depots – this is earthquake territory after all…

the weird thing is, in the weeks leading up to this surreal atmosphere, i was already mentally preparing myself for a temporary stay-at-home stint for completely unrelated reasons… then covid-19 swept in, my own personal circumstances were dashed until further notice, and now everyone is sheltering-in-place while i continue making my daily commute to the office. [on a positive note: my commute has been an absolute dream… i do, however, need to keep a conscientious eye on my speedometer; because i’ve been treating the 5 freeway like the autobahn…]

so, i’ve been in this bizarre limbo, like everyone, no doubt. but really, as much as we might all be in the “same boat” we are all experiencing unique strife that is specific to each individual… however, the way we are maneuvering through this alternate universe has been interesting to observe… from cooking to crafting, and seemingly endless outlets in between, it’s been inspiring to see how others are utilizing their new form of time…

when the prospect of going to work was hanging in the balance, i immediately started listing activities to embrace should i be forced to hunker down… however, the last couple of weeks of uncertainty, specifically, have left me feeling heavy with fatigue and entirely unmotivated – ALL of my best intentions were flagging… today, however, i suddenly felt an encouraging shift [all the more so just by writing my way through this]: i’m tired of being tired; and feeling listless because of this perpetual if-this-then-that hamster-wheel of a mind-fuck… i’m ready to shake off the lethargy and dive in, regardless of what limited pockets of time are at hand… instead of wondering and waiting for those extra days – that, if i remain lucky, will not come – i just need to grab whatever extra minutes i have and make the most of them… which really, should be the standard frame of mind whether we are in quarantine or not…

our intentions for 2019 were to slow our roll, and we did; but i think we sort of found ourselves in a hungover stupor from the hyperactive years prior… what was meant to be a take-pause-and-embrace-what-we-have opportunity turned into a blurred haze of zoning out, with random rushes of events sprinkled here and there… while 2019 was not for nothin’ these past 365 days have inevitably left us realizing that this forthcoming year presents a genuine chance to consciously cultivate balance and truly pay heed to the present moment – thereby setting a more deliberate tone for the year and decade to come…

we experienced 18 live performances, enjoyed a few semi-local destinations, and appreciated a significant two-week journey along the east coast… all the while, we continued what we seem to do best: EAT… and i’ve got 28 more titles to my reading credit…

this seemingly lackluster recap is not meant to slight the year, by any means… each and every day, no matter the year, is valuable for a myriad of reasons: from experiences enjoyed, to lessons learned… from moments of quiet, to occasions of chaos – whether mundane or manic there is always something to be cherished; and my gratitude swells daily…

moreover, all of the performances, travels, restaurants, and books don’t hold a candle to the blessing we brought home this year: sir ollie… a scottish fold who will turn eleven months old tomorrow on new year’s day… he has transformed our home in the most fortuitous way… after lola and inky’s respective passings about five years ago, i had been reluctant to bring another pet into our home – they had been such an integral part of my life for so long, and losing them was absolutely crushing… cris – who had never truly been a “pet guy” – always expressed his support of my getting another cat “when [i] was ready”… but the thing is, i never felt “ready,” as i only ever saw the inevitable heart-break down the line… his nudges started to pick up in frequency and i continued to reject his encouragement… then one evening he just started looking on his own, and came upon ollie… as soon as i saw his picture i knew we were sunk… we met him amongst a litter the very next day, and within an hour we were driving home with him in my arms… we’ve been bestowing our adoration and appreciation for him ever since…

cheers to the new year… cheers to the decade ahead… and cheers to each day we are given to experience life, love, and laughter…

today is the first day of autumn, and my first foray into my forties… how the hell did that happen? my first few years on the peninsula are a brief but happy blur… then my formative years in newport heights form a vast collection of brilliantly joyous and carefree memories… then there was high school where i was a mixed bag of false certainty and guarded skepticism as adult-hood loomed – teenage angst strikes us all, doesn’t it? then there were my twenties where i was so steadfast-certain in my choices, only to look back and realize i had no. fucking. clue. what i knew. what i wanted. what i needed. but you could not have told me that then. and now i’m looking back at my thirties – feeling that i had only just turned that corner – and seeing just how much had transpired during that alarmingly fast decade… my thirties were just as challenging as my twenties, but in an entirely different, and far more grounding way… my twenties were about growing into myself, while my thirties were about growing into life itself… i gained independence in my twenties based purely on age, while i earned independence in my thirties based on genuine experience… each decade has had its devastations, has had its mix of bittersweet experiences… but it was this past decade that grounded me as much as rounded me… during these last several years, life itself threw me some of the biggest, most jarring curve balls; while in my twenties i threw the curve balls myself…

and now here i am… 40 years old… just like that… feeling reflective, sentimental, and nothing shy of stunned… it’s a bit surreal… no, it’s far more than that… it’s an absolute mindfuck cloaked in humbling subtlety… i could go on and on about each respective decade that has passed; and perhaps someday i will, but for now i am looking at this new decade ahead of me… i am embracing it, albeit cautiously… i have no qualms about getting older, but am apprehensive about what the future holds; for the sheer sake of what i have learned first-hand in recent years: nothing is forever… while we all know this to be true, it’s easy to overlook until you experience it… to brush things off as happening at a later date – more specifically, when one is “older.” well, i became “older” a while ago; and will only get older from here…

however, on the other side of life’s coin is an equally wonderful assortment of adventures, experiences, emotions, sensations, flavors… countless degrees of ecstatic joy and awe-inspiring wonder… the continued desire to learn, to stay curious, to further develop perspective and enhance what is already known… exploration should never end… and at this rate in my life? it – thankfully – never will… i bid adieu to the past 39 years with overwhelming fondness and gratitude; and welcome however many years the universe blesses me with; with openly inquisitive, and grateful arms…

“isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different…” – c.s. lewis

seasonal affective disorder is “a mood disorder characterized by depression that occurs at the same time every year.” this disorder literally pertains to seasons, and the climate-induced depression that “often starts in the fall and may continue into the winter months.” also known as SAD, appropriately enough, it strikes me in the unconventional sense; as it hits during the brilliant and beautiful spring, when everything is dazzling, breezy, and bright… ultimately, when i know may 26th is just around the corner…

don’t get me wrong, i do love spring; but i have come to embrace it trepidatiously, as i know there is a tender wound lurking in the shadows… after all, it’s not the weather that affects me (how can it when i live in southern california, of all blissfully temperate places?) rather, it is realizing that i must acknowledge reality once again; and this reality stings just as much as it has each of the five years prior…

as mum can attest, the first couple of years shrouded us in an inexplicable heaviness that seemed to come out of nowhere, that is, until we realized what time of the year it was… during the past year or two, we thought we were clever by anticipating these feelings ahead of time; yet grief is a tricky bastard, and attacks like a ninja. while we may have a “head start” on expecting such feelings, and are better at identifying them more easily, there’s still an element of abruptness; because just like death itself, there is no suitable time to mourn – at least not at the pace that mum and i live our lives… we’ve always been notoriously occupied individuals; but we’ve become pros at upping the ante when sorrow starts to surface – suddenly, there is just so much more to do (i.e. distract).

for some reason, my mind skewed time drastically these past few months and i thought may 26th would mark five years… and then just last week it dawned on me that it would, in fact, be six. it is all, still, so bizarre. TIME is so bizarre. it feels like an eternity since i have talked to my dad; and yet it feels like only last week i received the phone call that changed the course of our lives forever. i catch myself inadvertently measuring everything against may 26th, 2013 – pre and post… someone will mention a date in conversation, or a documentary will illustrate a timeline, or i’ll read an old article, or notice a postmark; and i immediately, involuntarily note whether dad was alive at that time… the closer the expressed day falls before or after may 26th, the more i dwell on it… i can’t explain why i do this, as the observation provides nothing constructive, and certainly nothing comforting as it only ever wedges the thorn deeper…

with memorial day preparations underway, and talk of the indy 500 circulating, SAD takes a stronger hold: american flags going up en masse against the bright blue sky, and engines revving at the brickyard were two of dad’s favorite things…

excerpt from ‘(back home again in) indiana’ – the song performed by jim nabors for 41 years during the indy 500’s pre-race ceremonies:

fancy paints on memory’s canvas . scenes that we hold dear . we recall them in days after . clearly they appear . and often times i see . a scene that’s dear to me

i’m at a loss. mentally-paralyzed really. the desire to write is there. the topics to write about are there (mostly). yet. i. am. STUCK. my writing has been stunted by a crippling combination of procrastination, disconnect, intimidation, distraction, self-doubt, and general overwhelm.

i find myself trapped in my self-imposed uncertainties:

do i go broad and provide a general sense of the overall picture? or do i go small and give the reader isolated yet enhanced experiences? do i stick to one subject and cover it in chronological order? do i begin on experiences/observations of-the-now and just move forward? or do i dabble in different topics scattered throughout time?

and insecurities:

is there any value in my writing? in other words: would my writing enhance anyone’s perspective; or provide inspiration or comfort or just a general sense of “yeah. that’s what i felt, but thought i was the only one.” what do i have to say that hasn’t been said already? why would anyone care about my observations or experiences that may already well be redundant? aside from mum and papo, who the hell would want to read my work, whether fresh or reiterated?

i love to read. and i love to feel inspired to write from my reading (and an assortment of other experiences as well). there are some passages or posts that just seem so simple and easy and make me wonder, “well, why couldn’t i create something like that?” but then they also seem so brilliant that i stop before i even start and figure i really don’t have anything remarkable to say.

then i savor something and am full of energy, and am bursting to sit and write about it. i finally take a moment to write and then. BLANK. everything – from motivation to vocabulary – eludes me.

while time is a factor (at least, that’s what i tell myself) i have all of the necessary tools (and then some) to write. i know am my biggest obstacle. so. how do i get around myself? as nora ephron (one of my literary inspirations) once scripted: “i just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. so good night, dear void.”