I could feel myself slipping into “can-do” mode—into the desire to deep clean my closet and drawers, to fold the laundry and scrub the toilet bowl, to somehow appease an inherent sense of guilt and/or obligation—but I resisted. I made so much progress at work today, and felt I should plow ahead at home, but I came to my senses. The laundry basket is at the foot of the bed, spilling over, looking perfectly messy and voluptuous in red and white floral, gray and white polka dot. My boots are kicked against the dresser, looking alive and lived in. Johann Sebastian Bach—composer, organist, harpsichordist, violist, and violinist—is kickin’ it, and so am I. And so I am. This is a lived in room, after all, not an exhibition or stage set. In the same vein, these are lived in bones. This is loved in flesh. This be a worn out, famous heart. It’s gonna keep trucking on. “I think I can, I think I can …”

Love. It is all I can write about. Is there any other subject?

On Sunday I dedicated my yoga practice to “loving bigger,” all the while wondering what exactly that meant. Does loving bigger mean burning incense for the ones I’ve lost, for those who’ve gone missing, purposefully or unwittingly? Yes. Does it mean blessing those who’ve disappointed, those who’ve let me down? Yes. (Sing it, Ben: “Yes indeed I’m alone again/and here comes emptiness crashing in … yesterday seems like a life ago/cause the one I love/today I hardly know/you I held so close in my heart, oh dear/grow further from me/with every falling tear.”) And does it mean rolling to my right side, sitting up, standing up, raising my arms to the sky, and opening my heart with an outrageous, ego-defying back bend? Yes, I think so.

It always hurts a little, it always leaves you sore. But you must. You gotta move on.

The terrain changes, and one must adapt (one must love what is—and love it well). The map doesn’t change, however. We have to keep this in mind. We still know where we were: where we loved, where we gave it up, where we lost it. It is there, on the map, beneath the index finger of a meticulous, pulped-out heart. The other index finger, the dominant one, is pointing here, at the point of arrival. It is pointing here, at a town called Uncertainty, which is wedged awfully close to a town called Hope.

And so we arrive. We show up. We may feel a little disheveled and scattered, but Goddammit, we get out of bed and we show up. We nervously indulge in a diner breakfast and three cups of mediocre coffee in Uncertainty, pay the bill, and move on to Hope. We laugh while en route, thinking, “I don’t usually like omelets and M&Ms, but right about now, I do.” We roll into Hope at midday, our t-shirt clinging to our back, our mind a bit freer, a bit looser and wobblier after miles of nothingness, miles of grassland and Neil Young. Stepping out of the car, testing out our sea (road?) legs, we realize that this, the trip to Hope, is the ultimate road trip. We’ve always wanted to visit—and maybe even stay awhile in—Hope.

And so we do. We arrive in Hope, where we get a reasonably priced hotel room and indulge in room service. We dine on the terrace. The meal is sub-par, but never mind. This is Hope, after all; this is a place to stay in Hope, this is room service, this is a frickin’ terrace; from here, we can see wild lilies and the ocean. This will do.

In the morning, after a mellow, uneventful rest, we stop by the front desk and ask (politely) for a free map. “What do you recommend?” we ask the desk clerk, an Indian man married by arrangement. “Madam,” he replies, wiggling his head from left to right, “Realization is a lovely destination, worth the short but steep climb.”

Realization, you realize, is not a place you had thought of visiting—or staying, that is. Do they serve run-of-the-mill road food in Realization, you wonder, or do they cater only to my deepest cravings? Good God, do they serve luscious, satisfying things in rooms off Realization Highway? Do they even have a frickin’ highway, or do I have to get there by way of desolate, unmarked roads? Will I ever see the comforting (guiding?) light of malcontent again, or will I succumb to a quiet life of luscious, satisfying things?

You see, I’ve been dwelling in a town called Possibility all these years—a town inhabited by the likes of Emily Dickinson—and to be frank, I’m not sure I’d do all that well in a town called Realization. If I really settled in, if I really, truly set up camp in Realization, would I die in my tent? Would my dreams and ambitions come to a halt, would I stop breathing?

Once, while lying beneath a magnificent, sun-domed oak tree in Multnomah Village with my best friend, I confessed that when I am most deeply content, my inclination is to close my eyes and slip away into a deep sleep, into a God-given dream. Is this what I would do in Realization, I wonder? Would I surrender, give up? Would I stop fighting (for beauty, justice, rightness), and in so doing, stop caring? Would I grow fat, lazy, numb, pedestrian?!

“I am afraid of Realization,” I blurt out. The Indian man shakes his head. “But Madam, why would you be afraid of Realization? It is a steep climb, sure, but once you reach Realization, you’ll have a great sense of perspective; you’ll be able to see all the roads you took in getting there, and without binoculars! It promises to be absolutely stunning, Madam!”

With this, I nod, settle my dues, throw my bag(gage) over my shoulder, and walk to the car, my legs feeling lean and my heart feeling unreserved and fucking brave. I toss my bag and myself into the car, adjust the rearview mirror, and say it: “Realization, here I come.” And then I turn the key, step on the gas. Good God, be with me now …

Here is to Loving Bigger.

“Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated.
Since I was cut from the reed bed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone separated from the one he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.”

—Rumi

I guess the whole point is that there is/was a Source, and that returning is an option.
In the meantime, I find the heartache pretty beautiful.

I am close to creation. That much is clear. Creation, that is.

I am meeting wild brides at Berkeley Rep—violinists and Russian acrobats—and riding home with film producers. At night, I dream of Byron and gold laid sea turtle shells, and in the morning I slip into Argentine dancing shoes, into a desire for still a different air, a different breath, a different morning. I am all bells and whistles. I am all motion, I am all moving. Moving on? Moving with? This time, my Romani heart sits plump and unpretentious on the table, loving what is; this time, I am pleading for someone to come along, to share the almond and olive harvest, to share the long night.

My God, to see the almond tree blossom. To speak of God.

After driving circles around North Portland—trying initially to make it to an Asthanga Yoga class on Williams and then, realizing I would not make it on time, deciding to tuck into a warm café and write to fill the pre-Elsa hours (we are meeting at 8:30pm at the Doug Fir, where Ages and Ages is playing)—I have at last arrived, landed in my sit bones at the Secret Society, a cozy little bar on Russell that is lit entirely by candles, crowded with vintage books and wine bottles, not to mention an elegant brand of hipsters. I can’t help wishing I was the dark-haired woman at the far end of the bar sharing drinks and dinner with a cutie in a plaid button-down, a hybrid of Jeff Buckley (circa “Grace”) and Jake Ryan of Sixteen Candles. Then again, it is quite nice to be the anonymous girl drinking a glass of Cotes de Rhone and typing away in the corner.

There is no doubt about it: I have a highly idealized, starry-eyed view of Portlandia, “where all the hot girls wear glasses.” As a young woman, I found it depressing and sluggish, mossy and morose, but now that I have lived away for so long, I find it wildly charming. I dig the burly beards and bicycles, the purposefully disheveled hair and thick-rimmed glasses, the reclaimed wood and recycled clothing, the chicken-coup and urban farm craze, and of course, the proclivity for bird, gnome, and mushroom memorabilia. It is fun to laugh at oneself, to see one’s life and passions in caricature. My sister Casey is convinced that I am attracted to men who look like Jesus, and after recently visiting with two of my ex-boyfriends (Bicycle Jesus and Surfer Jesus), I support her hypothesis. Bicycle Jesus’ curls have gone gray, but not much else has changed; he still makes me feel alive, he still makes me laugh and think. Surfer Jesus has a serious beard these days, but it frames the same imploring, sparkling eyes. He still knows how to build a real fire. They both do.

I hate to say it, but San Francisco men don’t do it for me. I can’t handle the idea of dating someone who waxes his eyebrows and doesn’t know how to (or want to) read a trail map. I’ve recently latched on to the idea of moving to Vermont, but suspect that this urge is related to my hankering for good, honest men—and also know that I wouldn’t last too long in that climate.

“Just go to Europe, Heid. No detours.” This is the message I am getting from all of my closest friends, those who know me and have been listening to me sing the praises of Lady Europa over the years. I may well do that, but in the meantime, I want to fully embody and live inside of the life that is presenting itself right now, the life that is in Portland, in Boulder, and in San Francisco. I’ll be here for three more days, celebrating with and loving on family, and will then fly to Colorado, where I’ll ring in the New Year with my mountain family, my dearest friends. There are stories to be shared, tea to be poured and sipped, old crushes to visit, new babies to coo at, and majestic lakes and trails to be worshipped … I am excited, thrilled that this is the choice I have made.

Let me correct that: I am thrilled that these are the choices I have made, the places and people I have gravitated towards and fallen for. I have been subject to doubt and regret over the years, but in rare moments like these—when I feel part of a secret, knowing society—I trust that we are all somehow guided, somehow on track, and somehow held in love. Who knows, maybe we’re held by a hot, bed-

headed goddess in thick rimmed glasses … I’d like that.

Nested in the “Productivity” pocket on my iPhone is a “Notepad” with 9 entries, dating from Aug 18, 2010 (shortly after my arrival in SF) to Dec 4, 2011 (not so long ago). Looking over them on the train tonight, I was struck by their titles and range. In the interest of exposing my *productive* side, I’ve decided to record them here:

485 days ago: Buddhist deity Guhyasamaja (Sandui)/Guru Nanak, Life Stories (Sikh)/Istanbul: The Collected Traveler (Kerper)

198 days ago: Laundry/Pack/Taxi res./Sublease/Talk to Nancy/Italian/Dinner/Bath/Dr. appt./Call: Gigi, Skip

181 days ago: 1. Baci i Bari: It begins here. Qui, in la plaza di … It begins with Andrea’s scraggly beard, phosphorescent eyes and Milky Ooolong. Whisks and canisters, ice tea for the crowds. My very own alchemist, my very own Sufi. Sufism as a “patch” (I think he meant to say “path”).

88 days ago: Because I want someone to go to the Middle East with, and someone to walk with through the markets of North Africa (everyone tells me it is not safe to travel there alone). Someone with whom I can drink uber-sweet mint tea. Someone to come home to. Someone to share a beer and an inconsequential story with. Someone to tell the truth to, to collapse before, to spill open before, to cry with, to make love to, to fuck, to mingle with and transform, to co-create with, to baptize the mundane with, to steal away with, to forgive, to see, to love. To really love. Someone. You.

74 days ago: Stockholm 1/Stockholm 2*/Copenhagen 1?/Aarhus*/Paris*/Greece

67 days ago: Goddamnit, Riccardo. Throw me a fucking line. Say something, anything. I want to shake you, slap you, wake you up. What the fuck was all that for?!

18 days ago: Poets: Mahmoud Darwish/Yehuda Amichai/Ed Hirsch: The Living Fire … You (Turkey, Koc, Psych are great)/Me (I’m great)/We (We’d be great together)/Why (You should hire me)

12 days ago: Does it get any more “Sex in the City” than this? I don’t think so. Late night beers and tortilla chips in North Beach post-Christmas party … a drunk friend, a handsome Phillipino with freckles who pays for everything and admits he has a crush on me, even though I don’t seem sold on San Francisco and seem hung up on an Italian lover-boy. He’s right, and I feel sad for him as I peddle down the MUNI steps, but not as sad as I feel when I see a young man collapsed and crumpled beneath an “anything helps” sign … not only a young man, but a veteran of the Iraq war. My contemporary. So sad. Why don’t I want Gabriel, who wants me? Why didn’t I want Greg? He is a beautiful man! Why am I pining after someone who likes but doesn’t quite want me? This all seems so fucking ridiculous. We’re a crowd of heart-breakers, a crowd of  self-made victims. But whose hearts are we really breaking, whose hearts are we holding at bay? Our own, of course. This, my friends, is getting old.

12 days ago: I give thanks to the one who had the guts and grace to tell me the truth: that the gift and burden of self-love and validation is mine, not his, that I am wonderful, but that he is not in a rush to convince me of this. He didn’t want to say it, but damn, I’m glad he did. His words have given me a lot to think about, a lot to confront and remedy (and love) in myself. This was his bouquet of roses, his offering, and it was in wild bloom, all beautiful.

Tonight: As it turns out, looking for a place to live in San Francisco is kind of like online dating. Tonight: a squinting New Yorker with tight curls and too much to say, followed by a Native American beauty named after a butterfly. The first flat was too dark, the second flat was too far. I am reminded of the Rumi poem, “In Baghdad, Dreaming of Cairo.” In other words, I am beginning to realize that I’ve got it pretty good. I would’ve absolutely gone for the place on 17th, but alas, it was not offered. Now I find myself at Pomelo on Church (PaPai lives on 30th and San Jose), supping noodles and feeling bummed that things fell flat with Justin. This is really a sweet, atmospheric place. In retrospect, I feel honored that he brought me here. But never mind. I put it out there, I tried. The good news is that I am now on winter break, and that I have a few unscripted weeks before me, weeks to fill with writing and yoga, morning coffee with Mama Middy and Bella, sister and niece pow-wows, solo hikes in Forest Park, Shannon at the Dragonfly, New Seasons, boots and beards, kombucha and reclaimed wood (Portlandia! Home!), and then Boulder … my God, so much to look forward to: so, so much fierce and homespun Love to look forward to. I am going to be just fine. I AM just fine. I guess you could say I am in Baghdad, loving Baghdad.

Waking slow, sauntering through the corridors of my mind in a silky, bone-colored robe and a crown of tousled gold, combing the delicate cobwebs away. I am an elegant old maid with a sweeping collarbone, the stuff of a Dickens’ novel. My eyes are polished looking glasses in which you can see yourself quite clearly, my limbs as pale as the day. I’m waiting for a lick of honey light, for a reason to leave the house. And while I wait, I will float through these halls in my  bone-colored robe, pressing memory into marble, ether into flesh.

I feel lucky, that’s all. Tonight, I feel lucky. I have a cloud-like pillow on which to lay my head, I am sleeping well these days, I am nourished, and I am stretched—literally and metaphorically—on a daily basis. I live in an original, sparkly, quirky city. I have honest friends, friends who write emails entitled “Fuck this,” friends who value authenticity as much as I do. I have real, generous friends. This means everything.

Dinner with Gabriel tonight. Mediterranean fare, oranges and pomegranates in the Castro (always). He came in looking flustered, looking sad. Many of my friends seem a bit flustered and sad at the moment, really, and that is more than alright. Friendship is long; it spans lean seasons, and lush ones too. This is the gift of getting older, I suppose: the deeply-felt sense and realization that this, too, shall pass … and come again. All things come and go: insomnia, summers by the sea, new motherhood, new love, loneliness, disillusionment, health, beauty, lust, excitement … all of it. We are all on this tilt-a-whirl, tilting and spinning, rising and falling, and memorizing each others’ astonishment and shocking beauty. It is just right, even when it makes us dizzy, even when it makes us sick.

Tonight’s journal entry, pre-Gabriel:

“A deep practice tonight, and the dawning realization that it is not only the teacher, but it is me! is me! is me!  I moved (easily) into postures I didn’t know I could do, into sanctuary places …

I miss the little Catholic church in Peschici, the candlelit one on the square, the one Riccardo loathed. I miss the bench outside, where we lapped up lemon gelato and surveyed the human traffic, tapped into the underground current between us. I miss the bench on which I grew sticky and sublime, no-longer-alone.

He’s left me, but he hasn’t. He loves and misses me back. I can feel that, even in times of density and insecurity. And he loves Nicole too. Maybe he has even chosen Nicole. I sense that he has. Life is complicated, that’s all.

Our time together was medicine. Can’t I just let it be that? Soul-plumping medicine that cured something that needed curing? Medicine that expanded my heart a little more and revealed an important truth to me: that I know how to BE in love, that I know how to love quite well. And that this, too, shall pass … and come again.”

Yo soy ardiente, yo soy morena,
yo soy el simbolo de la pasion,
de ansia de goces mi alma esta llena.
A mi me buscas?
- No es a ti, no.

Mi frente es palida, mis trenzas de oro:
puedo brindarte dichas sin fin,
yo de ternuras guardo un tesoro.
A mi me buscas?
- No, no es a ti.

Yo soy un sueno, un imposible,
vano fantasma de niebla y luz;
soy incorporea, soy intangible:
no puedo amarte.
- Oh ven, ven tu!

——————————————————————–

I am ardent, I am dark, I am the symbol of passion,
Of longing of pleasure; my soul is full.
Do you seek for me?
- No, it’s not for you, no.

My face is fair, my hair, of gold,
I can offer you pleasure without end;
I, of tenderness, guard a treasure.
Do you call for me?
- No, no, not for you.

I am a dream, the impossible,
Vain phantom of fog and light;
I am incorporeal, I am intangible;
I cannot love you.
- Oh come, you come!

Several weeks ago I went out with three of my girlfiends from work (the language teachers, of course) and was saying goodbye to them at Starbelly when Zoe remarked that we were clearly a little West Coast reflection of “Sex in the City.” She then proceeded to assign us roles. “You’re definitely Carrie Bradshaw,” she exclaimed. I thought of that this evening and, out of curiosity, looked up her character bio. It is embarrassing. Am I really that predictable and transparent?! Apparently so.   

http://www.hbo.com/sex-and-the-city/cast-and-crew/carrie-bradshaw/bio/carrie-bradshaw.html

Her glass is almost empty, but she doesn’t mind; she’s dancing with a bearded man with a thick, dark braid at his nape. He is bear-like, chivalrous, kind. The hills beyond are hazy, the sky is lemon. They’re alone, this woman and this man. They’re waltzing in the gravel driveway, bringing dignity to the burly weeds, sanctifying the thirsty ground. From her profile, I can tell that she is beautiful, and that this dance means everything to her. The empty glass, the beard, the braid, and the lemon sky are her prayer. Her prayer answered. His shoulder is round and warm and reassuring, his shoulder is built for leaning on, but she is not feeling fatigued or hopeless, not in the least. She’s a little tipsy, it’s true, but never mind that; everything is real, sincere. She is looking to her left, he to his right; they’re looking in the direction of their clasped hands, the cupola of their shared hope. They’re looking in the direction of that which is intimated, but not yet articulated, that which will be and always has been.