Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

Category: Uncategorized

  • Earth School

    This week, I finished reading All the Way to the River, Liz Gilbert’s new memoir about love, grief, and addiction.

    Back in the spring, when I’d seen that she was coming to the Arsht Center for a “conversation,” I booked three tickets for Ana, Kim, and I to see her speak. Our tickets included a brief meet and greet as well as a signed copy of the book. I made a calendar event for the evening, November 3rd, and then promptly forgot about it until October or so.

    I wasn’t planning on reading the memoir ahead of the event, since we were going to receive a copy anyway, but Ana forgot that she’d pre-ordered it and read it, and then I figured I could at least listen to some of the audiobook with my Spotify premium membership. So I started it on my daily dog walks, but got a bit turned off by the music, and distracted by Phoebe, and ultimately decided to just wait until the event. I let some critics get in my head too, so headed into the night a bit skeptical, which, combined with work stress, didn’t make me the most receptive audience member.

    The conversation was supposed to begin at 7:30pm, but for the meet and greet, we were required to get there by 5:45pm at the latest, the email said. So we did, and lined up, and I ranted to two of my closest friends as we waited in line to meet Liz.

    When it was our turn, I hoped she would sign my copy of Big Magic (my favorite book of hers), but it wasn’t a signing kind of thing.

    “Have we met?” she asked me when we hugged.

    I told her we hadn’t.

    Me, Liz, and Kim

    They snapped our photo, and then we went to wait in the lobby for another hour or so before the event began.

    And once it began? Whoa.

    Liz is a public speaker like few I’ve ever seen. She absolutely knows how to tell a story and engage her audience, all while remaining one hundred percent authentic.

    It truly was like a conversation with her. The meet and greet was just a photo op, but this? This was an intimate conversation. There weren’t that many of us.

    Liz spoke about creativity and love and the process of writing this memoir. She spoke about getting to a point in your life where your past lives and loves are just a distant memory. She made us laugh, she made us tear up, and she made me nudge Ana for a stack of post-its I knew she’d have and Kim for a pen so I could take some notes.

    Some small nuggets of gold I was able to jot down (some from Liz, and some that Liz quoted from others — these are not necessarily exact words, but include some exact words!):

    • We have one planet, but 8 billion worlds. Art is: take me into your world.
    • In all art, you’re revealing yourself — you’re exposing yourself, but you’re on a nude beach! What a critic is is someone who goes to the nude beach, fully clothed a with a telephoto lens, and scrutinizes you, then decides what it is. They say, I’ll tell you what she looks like naked, without taking off a stitch of their own clothing! “Get off the beach!”
    • You only need to know what you think of your art. Criticism and flattery go down the same drain — both are destabilizing. (Credited to Georgia O’Keefe)
    • The universe hates secrets.
    • Rayya would always say, since the truth is where we’re gonna end up anyway, why don’t we just start there?
    • Grief is a bill that you have to pay eventually. You can pay it all at once or in installments, but you have to pay it.
    • Be vulnerable enough to do your learning in public.

    We left the evening absolutely inspired, and also exhausted from Daylight Savings Time.

    As soon as I finished my next book, I launched back into Liz’s new memoir, this time with the hard, signed copy. I started from the beginning. I finished it this past Sunday, a gorgeous day, sitting on my balcony with Phoebe at my feet.

    Something that has really been sitting with me is her notion that “Earth is nothing but a school for souls” (48). Liz writes:

    In my life, I have certainly found that the Earth School model is a useful thought exercise during times of darkness, pain, and betrayal—for it takes me out of a victim mentality and offers up a worldview that feels far more empowering and fascinating than the limiting, anguishing cry of “Why me?!”

    A more fruitful question than “Why me?” could be “How might this terrible situation be perfectly designed to help me to evolve?”

    Because what if that’s really what it’s all about?

    And what if we are all here to help each other evolve? (49)

    I’ve found this incredibly useful lately. So I leave it here with you.

    What is a terrible situation that was perfectly designed to help you evolve? And maybe, if you’re going through one now, you can reframe your “why me?” thoughts à la Liz.

  • 10 Minutes in a Lyft

    I have 10 minutes left of my ride to my tutoring session, so I thought I’d try to squeeze a slice in.

    It’s been odd weather the last few days, humid and breezy, sprinkles of rain, likely because of Hurricane Melissa. My heart hurts for Jamaica and Cuba and Hispaniola. It’s useful to know when hurricanes are coming and at what speed, but when you are just watching and waiting for the devastation… it’s terrifying. Reminds me of the movie Melancholia which I was weirdly obsessed with in college. Knowing the planet was coming to destroy you and not being able to do anything about it.

    7 minutes.

    I found a knitting club at a local bookstore that meets on Tuesday evenings, but I don’t think I’ll go tonight. I’m exhausted, and I’ve been getting a ton of knitting in, like in the string quartet concert we went to this weekend. I’ll try again next week!

    I did set some craft goals of learning how to continental knit and crochet. Time will tell when I’ll start those. Soon?

    5 minutes.

    Yesterday I had my annual mammogram and breast ultrasound. I arrived ten minutes early and was surprised to see there were already a bunch of ladies ahead of me. They called us all in at the same time. We took turns in the two changing rooms and put on the blue robes. The waiting room was freezing, luckily I had a sweater. The tech who did my mammogram spoke to me in Spanish and pressed my boob in between the plastic slabs before SMOOSH!

    There’s got to be a better way to do this.

    4 minutes.

    I’ve started driving again, a little bit at a time. Sunday morning grocery runs after I drop P off, early enough that there are hardly cars on the road. Monday evenings for my massage therapy or Fridays for tutoring E. Easy, quick drives. I still jump at some point every time. But I’m getting more comfortable.

    Otherwise I take Lyfts, like this one, and try to distract myself on my phone instead of watching the road.

    1 minute.

    I did it! I’m going to text my writing partner and see if she can squeeze in a 10-minute slice too.

  • Halloween in the Neighborhood

    I grew up in New York City, so Halloween looked a little different from the movies I grew up watching in the 90s, but it was still my favorite holiday. As a kid with a serious sweet tooth, Halloween was the ultimate event of the year. I got to dress up in a cool costume AND end the night with a stash of candy to munch on over the next month?

    We went trick-or-treating every year, usually with my best friend Rosie and her mom and sister. We often coordinated our costumes, and there was always a homemade element thanks to our moms’ craft skills (I think my favorite costume of all time is still the felt candy corn dress that my mom sewed for me). They would meet us at our house, we’d snap a photo on the stoop, and then set off down Amsterdam Avenue to start our trick-or-treating adventure. After hitting up all the stores, we’d head towards a couple of streets where we knew there were brownstones with spooky decor that would allow neighborhood kids to visit. I’d end the night exhausted and with a sugar stomachache. It was the best!

    Somewhere during my tenure as a teacher though, I started to become a holiday grinch. I don’t think it happened in my first few years. And then at Samara, we had a Halloween character parade, which was pretty cool, though a bit tiring. But by the time I was at KLA, I couldn’t handle the energy that every holiday meant, especially Halloween. School started in August and students would already be talking about and planning their costumes. By the time Halloween actually rolled around, I’d be dreading it, and on the day itself, I would just be trying to make it through. And if we had school the following day? Forget about it — the kids would be zombies, with full-on candy hangovers. Last year I was actually relieved that I got to miss Halloween at school because I was home sick.

    Today on my afternoon walk with Phoebe, though, I started thinking about Halloween like I used to.

    Our building sits right on the border between the City of Miami and Coral Gables, and our balcony overlooks a small gated community that reminds me of what those neighborhoods in the early 90s may have been like — kids bike and play basketball and sell lemonade, neighbors wave at you and say hello as you pass, and the Halloween decorations are on point. In fact, some of them are quite creepy and have given me and Phoebe a scare.

    Like this skeleton which I thought was an emaciated child swinging! For Phoebe, it was a skeleton/ghoul creeping out of a hedge that made her jump as though she’d seen a real ghost (though for a dog this anxious, getting spooked isn’t that abnormal!). As I walked, I thought about trick-or-treating with Patrick’s daughter or our own future kid. I started getting… excited about Halloween again.

    I’m not sure whether to credit leaving teaching or our new neighborhood, but I welcome the new perspective! Good riddance, grinch!

  • Alive

    It happened so quickly.

    Chappell Roan playing on the car radio, me smiling and belting out the lyrics, just a few blocks away from my acupuncturist’s, where I couldn’t wait to update her on my progress. I cruised through the intersection, saw the car across from me signal to go left, then saw it coming closer as it turned instead of yielding for me.

    It was too close.

    I knew it was going to happen before it happened.

    No! I remember thinking as I tried to switch my foot to the brake pedal.

    But it all just happened so quickly.

    The impact, my body bracing, the loud smack of our cars as their noses hit, the way the collision shook everything inside of me.

    The cars stopped. I lifted my head.

    I was alive. I was okay.

    I could see the damage through my window. Both front ends smashed in. The other driver’s airbags deployed.

    Shit. SHIT.

    The first thought I had was that I’d destroyed Patrick’s car. He’s gonna kill me.

    The other driver was a girl, young, redheaded. She was on the phone. Where was my phone? I saw it on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, next to my sunglasses which must have flown off my face with the impact. I unbuckled my seatbelt, leaned down to grab it—ow, that hurts—and then grabbed the door handle. The door was stuck. I wedged it open enough to climb out.

    I stood, shaky, on the cement. My chest and back were tight.

    I called Patrick.

    “Hey love.”

    “Hi. I got into a car accident, I’m so sorry, it’s bad. I ruined your car.”

    “Are you okay??”

    “Yes, I’m okay. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do.”

    “Don’t worry about that now. Is the other driver okay?”

    “Yeah, I think so. She’s on the phone in the driver’s seat.”

    “Okay.”

    I told him where I was so he could uber to me and then called 911. The policeman who picked up asked me a lot of different questions.

    “Are you hurt?”

    “I don’t know, my chest and back feel really tight.”

    “Would you like us to send the fire department and paramedics to examine you?”

    “Yes? I think that’s probably best.”

    “Did your airbags deploy?“

    I looked around. What the heck? “No.”

    “Was anyone thrown from the vehicle?”

    “No.”

    “Are there any other passengers in your vehicle or the other vehicle?”

    “No, just me and the other driver.”

    “Can you see any visible signs of injury or blood?”

    I finally got her to give me a thumbs up. “No, I think she’s okay.”

    “Until the paramedics arrive, please move to a safe location away from any oncoming traffic. Do not drink or eat anything until they arrive as it might make you sick. Help will be there shortly.”

    While I was on the phone, an older black man who was on the corner had come to the scene to check if we were okay. I gave him a thumbs up while he checked on the other driver and helped her out of her car. As soon as she got out and I was off the phone, I moved towards her.

    “I’m so sorry,” she spit out between sobs, her face red and blotchy.

    “Don’t worry,” I told her, hugging her. “They’re just cars. We are both okay, we’re both alive. That’s what matters. I’ve called 911 and told them to send the paramedics.”

    “Me too,” she said.

    The man, Avery, helped walk us to the corner while we waited for the paramedics. He focused on calming her down. She called her parents.

    The paramedics arrived soon after and checked both of us out. They told me the chest pain I was feeling was from the seatbelt whiplash, and that if I was up and walking around, I most likely didn’t need to go to the hospital.

    Thunder rumbled and it started to rain. I asked the paramedics to help me get my umbrella and a couple other things from the car, as it would need to be towed since I couldn’t drive it.

    Her parents arrived soon after. Both very apologetic with me, as it was clear their daughter was at fault. She went to sit in the passenger seat of her parents’ car and I realized then that she was younger than I’d thought. Only 17.

    When Patrick finally got there, he held me in a long hug, careful not to squeeze too tight where I was sore.

    We waited for the police officer to come and make her report, and then for the tow truck to arrive and take our cars away.

    I somehow managed not to cry until we were walking away from it all.

    And that’s it, really, what I need to keep telling myself when the thoughts turn to the crash and the guilt and the fear of what could have happened and the strange confusion of what had: I walked away. I got to walk away. We both did.

    I am alive.

    Thank you, universe, I am alive.

  • Point View

    Point View

    A little over four years ago, in April, I sat by the water in Brickell after dropping my things at the Hampton Inn. It was the night before I spent the day at KLA and gave a demo lesson to my would-be students. The sky was all blues and pinks and the air was humid. My skin was buzzing, my stomach jumbled, and I was trying to imagine what it would be like to live in this new city, one that I had a lot of preconceived notions about.

    Now, Miami is my home (for better or worse). I often find myself complaining about it, or giving a disclaimer when I mention that I live here. But I should probably start changing my thinking about it, because ultimately, it’s my home for the foreseeable future, and I’ve enjoyed my years here so far.

    That day in April set in motion a multitude of positive changes that I could never have expected:

    • I got the job at KLA and spent four incredible years there, learning and growing as an educator and teacher mentor.
    • I built many friendships with incredible women, most of whom I met at KLA.
    • I got better at driving (big old SUVs) amidst the crazy Miami drivers.
    • I started copywriting for a former student’s dad’s business, which turned into a full-blown second job.
    • I ended a long-term relationship and moved into my own apartment, a gorgeous studio within walking distance of work and my best friend’s place.
    • I met my partner, my rock, my best friend. The biggest and best surprise.
    • I became a dog aunt, and later, a dog mom.
    • I made the difficult decision to leave teaching and pursue a different career.
    • I embarked on the journey of healing my mind and body from everything teaching had put it through.
    • I started a new job as client engagement manager for a mission-driven student travel company.

    All of these (and plenty more which I can’t think of right now) had Miami as their backdrop. And funnily enough, this exact spot in Brickell, a block away from my current apartment, this lovely spot by the bay, which I only today realized is named Point View, is a spot I came to again and again—alone, with friends, with dogs, and with my love.

    In two days we’ll move to a different neighborhood, one I’m excited to explore, and a change I’m ready for. But we both agree—we’re going to miss these walks and this view.

    I’m going to miss Point View. I’m so grateful that it’s here, and was here, for me all these years. I wonder where my next spot will be.

  • New Normal

    Sleeping in past my alarm. Scrolling on my phone. Taking Phoebe for a longer walk than just a quick pee before heading out the door. Do I read for a while on the couch? Do I get some copywriting out of the way? Do I have time to go down to the pool for a bit before my first meeting?

    I sit down instead to write my weekly slice. Something short and sweet to capture this limbo feeling.

    It’s strange adjusting to this new normal. One where I don’t have to be there by 8am, don’t need to have all the copies and materials ready to go, don’t need to “turn it on” as the first student walks through the door. One that doesn’t include passing colleagues in the hall, chatting with them at lunch, laughing at the darnedest things the kids say.

    “It’s so weird to be at school without you!!” Male texted me this morning.

    “It’s so weird to not be there!” I replied.

    This morning is calm and quiet. There’s no buzzing sensation as I rev up for the day. Phoebe’s curled up against me on the couch. The clock ticks, the boats cruise by on the water.

    It’s strange, this calm, but it’s also really, really nice.

  • Unexpected Guest

    It’s so peaceful here.

    That’s what I’m thinking as I paddle left and right in the yellow kayak through the canals of Xochimilco, a water transport system the Aztecs made that are teeming with life. The only other boats on the water at this early hour on a Monday morning are the large barge-like gondolas with families or friends celebrating a Monday off or a birthday, drinking and snacking and waving to us as we pass.

    It’s my first official day of my new job. I’m grateful for the physical activity, the bilateral movement helping to calm me, the way my arms and shoulder muscles are awakening in a way that I know will leave me sore in the morning. I’m also grateful for my long sleeves and long pants, protecting me from the sun that burns more intensely at 7,000+ feet above sea level, and which I wasn’t expecting this morning when the temperature was only 52 degrees Fahrenheit.

    There’s no current, and we glide along at an even pace, observing all the various plants and trees lining the canals, the birds, the bugs.

    “Ahhh!!”

    One of my new colleagues squeals ahead.

    What’s happening? The rest of us inquire, paddling closer.

    A fish has jumped into her kayak with her, nestled itself between her left thigh and the plastic boat’s wall.

    She’s freaking out and looking away, shaking her hands in disgust as the fish wriggles its body against her. Another colleague goes to help, thinking the fish will be small and she can just chuck it out, but she too shivers at the slithering thing.

    Our guide chuckles as he gets closer and sees the culprit. He tells me to paddle between his kayak and hers, removes a plastic cap at the front of my boat to reveal a grey-blue rag, then uses it to grab the fish.

    He holds it up for the rest of us to see. It’s bigger than my hand!

    It just jumped in her boat? We wonder.

    This is a good lesson, the guide says as he releases the fish back into the murky canal water. The canals are home to so much life.

    We laugh and carry on with the rest of our journey.

  • In Community at Arc

    James had asked us if we’d be interested in going to a hot-cold contrast therapy class with him and Emerald one day that we were here. He sent Patrick the website to Arc Community and we glanced at it and said sure, not really knowing what we were signing up for. 

    Mike made a joke when he found out we were going. One of those classes, for those kinds of people. Wait, you need someone to guide you through a sauna and an ice bath? Right. 

    When we arrived on Friday, we changed into our swimsuits and rinsed off, then had a tea in their lounge area, circular tiered seating around a table with incense and fake candles.

    “I think that woman has one of those sauna hats,” I whispered to Patrick. His gaze moved to her, a woman in a black one-piece with a yellow felted cap that ended in a point lying on the seat next to her. 

    Our instructor’s name was Chris. He came and sat with us, a small wooden bucket of water in front of him. As he spoke, he stirred the water, brought a ladleful up, and then let it pour back down into the bucket. 

    He asked us who had been to Arc before, who had never been in a sauna before, or never done an ice bath. We raised our hands for the latter, to which he replied, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

    “I’m going to be asking you many questions today,” he said, “some of which I want you to answer with a hand or a thumbs up or thumbs down. But some questions are just meant for you to answer internally, or for you to simply hold space for.”

    He explained that we’d be experiencing varying levels of comfort and discomfort, and advised us to simply greet each new sensation with the words: “Now this… and now this.” Eventually, he assured us, we’d settle into each feeling. 

    “Like water,” he said, pouring a ladleful back into the bucket. “Water always settles, and yet even then, it’s constantly in motion, the molecules evaporating and condensing.” 

    I held onto this metaphor through the first 20 minutes in the sauna, as my comfort shifted from pleasant to quite unpleasant. I held onto it in the first ice bath, my first ever, as I focused on my breath instead of the stinging sensation in my legs. I held onto it as I sat outside of the tub, noticing the sensations running through my limbs, akin to the feeling I get during a panic attack, though moving and resolving much faster. I held onto it during the second round in the sauna, when I got teary thinking about my body and heart’s resilience in this session echoing the strength it has shown me through all my greatest challenges. 

    “Now this,” I told myself as I shuddered violently from the cold during the second ice bath, my jerky movements uncontrollable. “The first ice bath was fine and now this one is miserable.”

    We made our way, shivering, back into the sauna to warm up before ending the class. There were eleven of us, including Chris. He invited us to share how we were feeling, what was hard, what felt good. A few spoke, the rest of us nodding and laughing. A small smile stayed on my lips as I was filled with immense gratitude: for the contrast therapy session, for the day in London with my boyfriend and his brother and his brother’s wife, for this last real summer vacation before I embark on a new career journey, for my family and friends, for my health and safety. For all the motion that has come before, and settled, and for all the motion yet to come. 

  • Health Insurance Haikus

    Oh, health insurance

    Won’t you make it make sense? Bah!

    This is ridiculous.

    *

    Look on marketplace

    Compare the insurance plans

    “Twenty-one what?”

    *

    Coverage ended.

    Abrupt! Thanks for the warning…

    At least I’m healthy. 🤞

    *

    Had no energy today to write anything else. Thankful to my mom for helping me compare all the plans and choose one that will hopefully work out!

  • Spa Day

    I could get used to this, I think as I melt into the massage table.

    Kim and I are at the Standard Spa thanks to the fifth grade parents’ generous graduation gift. We spent the morning at the pool, shared a breakfast sandwich followed by some guac and chips, fruit, and fresh coconut water, and talked about anything and everything as we always do. Now we’re in separate rooms for our 75-minute massages, and after that, we’ll head to our mani-pedis (my first in maybe two years?).

    The best!

    I let my mind wander as the tension in my muscles is released. When I flip over, the masseuse works at my neck, which is tight as always.

    “I’m a teacher,” I tell her, as though this explains the tightness, “or well, I was a teacher. I just finished last week and I’m leaving the classroom.”

    “Wow! What’s next?” She asks. The question everyone has.

    “I’m not sure yet,” I say, then explain that I have a few tutoring sessions lined up for the fall, work on the side as a freelance copywriter, and recently completed the third round of interviews for a remote position at a mission-driven global student travel company that I’m just a little bit obsessed with. “I should find out early next week.”

    When the massage is over, she offers me an herbal tea and walks me back to the waiting area.

    “Good luck with everything!” She says, then heads off to her next client.

    I sit down in one of the lounge chairs until Kim arrives, equally calm, and then we head off to our mani-pedis. The two technicians are lovely, and we chat in Spanglish while they pamper us.

    “You have a lot of cuticle,” my nail tech tells me. We laugh. I know that I do!

    When they are done, over an hour later, Kim and I feel beyond relaxed. Our feet and hands and legs and arms are oiled and soft. Our muscles are released. We practically float back down to the locker room.

    “I’m starving. Bathroom and then let’s eat the rest of the guac and chips by the pool?” I suggest.

    “Yes!” Kim agrees.

    We will juice everything we can out of this spa day.

    We head into neighboring stalls. I sit down, pull my phone out from my pocket carefully with my oiled hands.

    I see an email from the CEO of that company. It’s only Wednesday, far earlier than I expected to hear. He’d said he was busy this week and the VP is in Rwanda.

    My heart flies to my throat as I tap to open it and start reading:

    First off, I want to say that our team, including myself, were all very impressed with you, and felt a strong sense of alignment.

    Blood pounds in my ears.

    Now, this next part may be a bit complex. While we believe you were a strong candidate for the position posted, we actually have a different managerial level position available that we would like to offer you.

    “Kim?” I say shakily. “I think I just got a job?”

    “What?!” Kim yells from the other stall.

    I wait to read the rest of the email at the sink, with my best friend, my co-teacher, my work wife, the biggest supporter throughout all of this. The position he’s suggested is even better than the one I applied for. It’s… me. They see me.

    Needless to say, we were unable to use spa voices for the rest of the afternoon.

    Kim and I after finding out the good news.