Ungrateful Little Besh

Every night before I go to bed, I write down at least 5 things that make me warm and fuzzy inside.

I made the change from regular diary to gratitude journal in February after listening to an Oprah podcast. She said that jotting down these simple things changed her life, and that was, of course, enough to get a pen in my hand for several minutes of vespertine venerating.

It's been working. Massive changes are occurring, mostly from within. The unexpected happens again and again. My connection to all that is has bloomed. I am very much in tune with everyone I love and anything I think about. Almost psychic. Sometimes it is difficult feeling so much, especially because I am still learning how to identify certain energies that come up.

Yesterday, for example, I woke up with a sense of urgency. I knew I had to go south and east. There was a plan in my head that I would certainly not have put there and that, in fact, I very much disliked. I worried that it had been planted by the ego, that I was being duped into an act of self-sabotage. It was a crazy idea, but there it was. I jumped into the shower, got dressed, and carefully crafted a makeup concept, and I don't usually wear makeup outside of parties and shows.

It was a weird wanting, and I rationalized it by reminding myself that this is a really weird time in my life. The weirdest, even. In that sense, it was very much in the flow of the times, so I had no reason to disobey.

I drove straight to my old apartment. Haven't been there in a year. I looked for Spencer. Yes, the little neighbor boy (of a May '08 post) who loved me and whom I carelessly abandoned without a word, even though his father had asked me to give him a proper farewell before my move. I hadn't because, at the time, I was busy attaching myself to someone my own age, and I let Spencer slide.

Yesterday, all dolled up, I stood on the sidewalk, looking straight past my former bungalow toward his home. There wasn't a peep. Having exchanged the innocent joy of watching Spencer frolic on his toy scooter for the riskier rushes of what was supposed to have had more substance, for Vespa rides with a dashing gentleman, fellow Francophile, opera aficionado, and sybarite, I had finally returned to the real. I felt silly. Lonely. Very lonely. Selfish. So silly.

I was there to atone, and I couldn't. There were absolutely no scooter boys to admire, no young one blushing in my presence, no grown one blowing me kisses upon parting. Oh, I was very much alone. There was more to my plan yesterday, but I started feeling worse about it, and, deciding that maybe it wasn't in my best interest, I dined and went shopping and bought nothing and dined again. My favorite dessert was not available. Out of season. Then I cried for a couple of hours, bemoaning my face, my body, my family, my career, my free fall into a future of forced abstinence--all the shet that is wrong right now or could be wrong tomorrow. I got it out. Phew! Once composed, I returned a phone call, and, quite magically, it seemed less a conversation with a good friend than a thorough lecture to myself. I was saying all of the things I needed to hear that I wasn't hearing enough these days.

Late last night, as exhaustion tugged on my eyelids, I picked a pink pen. It was dry, so I scooped up a second pink pen. Also dry. I gave green a try, and it wrote successfully: "Thanks for a very dark couple of hours of tears, confessions, and insecurities, followed by a sense of relief. For the understanding that my controlling approach toward my circumstances has earned me little. For knowing that I must surrender completely to what is. For my friendship with Luke. For a chat with a friend that became a challenge to myself to move more deeply into fearless faith, nonresistance, and love. For 118˚. For South Coast Plaza. For Au Lac. For kelp noodles. For durian's being out of season, so I can savor it more come summer. For finding happiness in letting go. Ahhh. For another way."