I See You

Biking to work is one of the great joys of my days here in LA. When I have time, I linger over coffee at a neighborhood Peets on the way. This morning a little girl and her mother were sitting at the next table, the mother absorbed in her iPhone. The little girl said, "Mommy, look at this," but the mother did not glance up. The child continued to ask her mother to look every three or four seconds, escalating in volume over several minutes. The little girl finally resorted to shrieking, but the mother's eyes and attention remained riveted to the phone.

I fled.

A few more blocks into the ride, I slowed when a parked car seemed poised to pull into traffic. The driver rolled down her window and motioned to me to ride on. "You're all right," she said. "I see you."

The woman's kindness stayed with me all morning. So did the little girl's shrieks.

Half a Life

The voice has been whispering to me lately. I see something especially lovely, and a description arises unbidden. Joy and sadness narrate their marches through my psyche. As I bike to work, the voice edits passages I have not written.

After a weekend surrounded by creativity at Maker Faire, I read Half a Life by Darin Strauss last night, and here I finally am, on this page, hands on keyboard, not sure where to begin.

Let's start here: if you love memoir, if you love language, if you love the courage required to face deep truth, read Half a Life. Strauss' writing transcends the tragedy of the story, drives it all the way to quiet hope.

I Feel Bad About Nora Ephron

Nora Ephron died today. At least according to the NY Times and many other news agencies. For me, Nora will never die. Her intelligence and her humor and her ability to laugh with and at herself live on in film and in my heart.

Like Nora, I Feel Bad About My Neck. Like Nora, I Remember Nothing. Like Nora, I survived divorce and emerged from the ugliness with renewed hope and stories whose goodness is based on their fundamental awfulness.

Nora's work entertained; her attitude inspired. She rose above. She illustrated living well as the best revenge, especially when you no longer need or want revenge.

As Nora aged, the geese she once loved began to annoy her. She turned her attention to hummingbirds, saying, "I love to watch them because they're so busy getting the most out of life."

Like Nora herself. Reading stories of her life and loves, I think, I'll have what she's having.

Blessings to you, Nora. And to all you love.

Hope Floats

Checked the air in my tires before riding the beach path this morning. A man in a park services truck stopped to tell me the guys in the maintenance shed had air and would help me. I have no trouble using my hand pump with its built-in gauge, but the man was so kind, I felt compelled.

At the shed, another very kind young man checked my tires and asked how far I planned to ride. "Good for you," he said. "Don't give up. Riding your bike is very good exercise. You can do it."

Half a mile down the road, an extremely handsome man about my age pedaled up. "Look at you!" he said. You're going 12-and-a-half miles an hour! Good job!" We chatted for a few minutes before he picked up his pace and pedaled away. "You're doing great," he said. "Don't give up!"

A young woman wearing rollerblades cautiously stepped onto the path. Made-to-order boobs. Fully extended, bleached blonde hair. Eyebrows arched into permanent surprise. Kewpie doll lips shellacked with Kiss Me Kate pink gloss. A bikini top covered with turquoise sequins peeked from beneath a neon-pink t-shirt sliding off her shoulders. The front of her shirt read, "Wild Chick."

Another rollerblader on the Venice boardwalk. Black socks, black shorts, black t-shirt. Black and silver hair past his shoulders, hanging beneath a "cowboy hat" made from Jack Daniels cartons. In one black gloved hand, he held a clear plastic cup aloft like a torch. Pale amber liquid sloshed back and forth but not a drop spilled. "Breakfast! Breakfast!" he yowled.

At the end of the road, a homeless man lounged in the shade of a recycling can. Matted hair of an undetermined color. Plaid shirt and khaki shorts stiff with salt, sweat and sand. Layers of battered silver duct tape held the soles of his black Vans to the uppers. A clear plastic bag filled with hundreds of aluminum cans supported his back and another filled with plastic bottles cushioned his legs. Lips moving in silent rhythm, he traced the lines of a racing form.

Don't give up?

Why You Always Got to Be Running?

Dad's been in the hospital since Sunday. Pneumonia. Good news, though: He's better and ready to go home tomorrow.

After talking to someone who recently read big chunks of this blog, I re-read many, many posts last weekend. So many are about Mom and Dad and the sweetness of their relationship. On Father's Day when I couldn't reach Dad and then found out he was in the ER and then being admitted to the hospital, those posts haunted me.

Talked to Dad today. He's thrilled about the hospital room he's in. It's so comfortable for Mom, he says -- almost like a small apartment. It's not terribly important this time, he thinks, but he's glad to know she'll have these luxuries available when he's hospitalized for the final time.

Walking to my car later, I passed the jewelry store. Tears streaming down my face, I asked those watches, "Why you always got to be running?"

Couldn't hear their answer but felt every tick, right through the plate glass window.

100 Things Before I Go, Redux

Some of you -- the extraordinarily patient among you -- have been reading long enough to remember my Life List. Back then, I had a good handle on the reasons for the list. "...writing them down forms a commitment with your soul to reach further. To live bigger. And smaller. To remember that we all go. To recognize the time is now."

Yet another of the threads I dropped in the long haul to my new job and new life LA. (sigh)

But this summer is about picking up those threads, about beginning again. Today I started a Spark board for my 100 Things, a pictorial journal of the list and my progress.

Building the board, I was forced to recognize that I've missed the boat on some things. For example, Over the Transom Books in Fairhope Alabama, no longer exists. I no longer live close enough to the Katy Trail to ride it easily. On the other hand, now it will be a lot easier to meditate at the Joshua Tree and drive the PCH and visit Yosemite. (Who know CA loomed so large in my dreams?)

Anyway, check out the Spark board if you get a chance. May it renew your commitment to your own dreams.

A Tale of Sunglasses, Foolishness and Self Awareness

Hanging out at Maker Faire in San Mateo this weekend, I pushed my nearly-new Ray Bans to the top of my head as I stepped into the Expo building. I know better.

Actually, I know better than to buy good sunglasses. I'm more of a $13.99-Target-special kind of girl when it comes to things I can misplace or lose or damage. But...I succumbed to peer pressure here in LaLa Land and bought cool shades. We can talk about that later. (sigh)

So, there I was, gold John Lennons on head, when something shiny caught my eye. I looked down to the floor and felt the glasses slide toward the concrete floor and their doom. My stomach fell at approximately the same rate as the glasses. Examining one shattered lens, I had no one to be mad at but myself.

On Monday, I stopped in at Sunglass Hut on the Promenade, hoping they could replace the damaged lens. Lo and behold, they replaced the glasses. Free. Even though I had not purchased the glasses at that particular store. Even though the damage was entirely my fault. Even though they did not carry the same style.

Moral of the story: 1) shop at Sunglass Hut; 2) keep your receipts; 3) if you're going to do something stupid, do it within 90 days of purchase.

What's that? The moral should be "Keep the glasses on your face or in the case," you say. Yes, it should be. But we all know me better than that, don't we?