On losing my keys and finding my happy

The description does not define reality.

I mulled over these words, which I read in the book Trespassing on Einstein's Lawn by Amanda Gefter. The book is an attempt to discover how something (the Universe) came out of nothing (defined as a state of infinite, unbounded homogeneity). Not your typical beach read.


It's full of quantum physics and theories and fancy words and my brain is saturated with information, only about 60% of which I understand.

But it has me thinking, and my understanding is growing, and slowly, the pieces of information are relating to my life and clicking into place. Or maybe that's just what it feels like when your brain is getting ready to explode. Thank you, Einstein. E=MC pour me a drink because my head hurts.

And, in a seemingly unrelated event (though I'm learning that everything is related, down to the Planck scale, a millionth of a billionth of a billionth of a billionth centimeter, watch out for that exploding brain matter as you try to process that), I realized how the description of something does shape reality, but only as it pertains to us as individuals. True reality, at least as defined in the book, is only that which is invariable from all perspectives. So far, the only thing that has been proven to be invariable is nothing.

But I'm getting way off my story here.

The other morning, I was getting ready to go out and about. I had my keys in one hand and a sack of garbage in the other. As I hefted the sack of garbage up, it caught my keys and took them with it to the bottom of the dumpster.

I had just showered. In the summer, that's basically a bigger feat than understanding string theory, because jumping into any body of water counts as a shower, right?

I stood looking down at my keys, the possibilities of retrieval and of missing my brunch date running through my brain. Even if I weren't now locked out of my house, I couldn't think of anything I had in there to fish them out. And in the moment I accepted the solution was me climbing in and getting them--soiling my new romper, my clean hair, and my dignity--my neighbor, that chain-smoking old hippie from Unit 4 walked by.

I explained my situation, and he went to retrieve the wire coat hanger he keeps around for when his mom locks her keys in her car, which apparently is a frequent occurrence. So, while the smoke from the cigarette dangling out of his mouth contaminated said romper and hair, and the coffee in his other hand grew cold, he fished out my keys.

Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, even if they're missing teeth and haven't showered since 1982 (see above for why that last part isn't judgmental because summer accomplishments).

I thanked him and as I got into my car sans dumpster filth and stank, I realized how lucky I was. Because, as we all know, little annoyances like this happen. Dropping your keys, losing your keys (or mind), flat tires, etc. As far as this situation went, I really believe the easiest scenario possible played out.

And for that, I am lucky.

I could have bemoaned dropping my keys in the dumpster, being late to meet my friend, having to stand by the dumpster longer than my senses and pride enjoyed, but instead I felt a moment of gratitude that it was all so easy.

I realized that moments like these are what shapes our reality. When we see a situation as lucky, then our world becomes one where we feel and therefore are lucky. It becomes the truth of our world--our reality--because that's what we make it.

Dr. Wayne Dyer says "Hostile people live in a hostile world. Loving people live in a loving world. Same world."

Which seems to be in direct contrast with the opening statement here, but somehow this came around full circle when I thought of it. I can't remember how now, and I'm going to leave it like that for you to ponder, comment, or not care at all, because I'm still in summer vacation mode and I'm far too busy enjoying my infinite, unbounded homogeneity to try and figure it out.

Humble

Halt, you tell the naked earth.
Let my spirit speak its piece.
But nothing ordinary
stops the world.
Yet you are not
but a snowflake still.

You open like a flower
to the sun, your nectar
for the bees on a summer's day
You close when winter comes.
And good or bad, you keep
only what you release.

Your soul stretches to the sky
or just in your mind's eye.
Your heart opens or closes
to harvest heaven or hell,
Love or fear.
Your love hangs on
this dainty thorn,
holds your crown there tight.

Synchronicities

“He said he was into self-help, but when I mentioned Wayne Dyer, he drew a blank, and that’s how I knew he wasn’t my soul mate.”

I had forgotten all about the guy who moseyed up to me over avocados at Vons last September until last week, when I decided to scroll back through my timeline on Twitter and read what I’d tweeted around this time last year.

 I never went out with him--I don’t remember why--and promptly forgot about the entire incident.

Fast forward to Thursday. My friends and I were at breakfast, a local little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves foods like quinoa, green juice, and organic flax smoothies but has terrible service, is too hot to be comfortable, and has too many flies to be completely sanitary.

It’s my favorite place to eat off last night’s bad decisions.

My friend received a text from her crush, a simple message that said nothing and everything at the same time: the tongue emoji. 

“What does this mean?” she asked. I didn’t know what it meant per se but we both knew there was some sort of innuendo there that wasn’t necessarily appropriate for such a new relationship.

We spent a good half hour trying to decide what to text back. Something that had no obvious or even obscure connotation. 

“Well definitely not a peach,” we agreed.

We scrolled through every single emoji on either of our phones, until we landed on what we thought was the perfect response to derail an inappropriate remark: a paper clip.

We mulled the potential hidden meanings of a paperclip but found none.

Later that day my handyman showed up to determine why my closet doors kept coming off their tracks. He poked around for no more than five minutes, then told me the reason the doors were having problems was because something had jammed the tracks. He held up the culprit: a paper clip.

There came my day, seemingly unconnected events, full circle. 

I went to the grocery store that evening and passed the peaches. I snickered as I picked one up., remembering the earlier conversation I'd had with my friend.

And that was when a guy in a suit walked over and asked me if I thought they'd be good peaches.

“Well I believe it’s too early in the year for peaches. You’d have to wait a couple of weeks, and then you have to feel the peach. If it’s soft, it’ll be juicy and you’ll enjoy it. But see this one? It’s hard and you’ll regret the moment you bite into it.” I told him.

“You know, this sounds like a wildly inappropriate conversation for the grocery store, but it is really just an innocent conversation about peaches,” he told me. We chatted a little more. He noted my sass factor and said, “you’re trouble, my mom warned me about girls like you.” And then he somehow wove into the conversation that he does gratitude walks and is into self-help.

“Oh, me, too! I watched a Wayne Dyer video just this morning,” I said.

“Who?”

And that’s when I realized that the guy who was hitting on me (rather calculatedly, in hindsight) over peaches at Barrons was the same guy who hit on me over avocados at Vons a year ago. He had no idea he’d used the same lines on me a year before at a different store. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, holding out his hand to shake mine.

“Kelli with an ‘I’.”

“Oh, you love saying that, don’t you? I’m Brett. With two ts.” He said, which I already knew because we’d been here before. 

I will note here that I haven’t quite mastered the art of telling a guy “no thanks” when he asks for my number, even if I have no intention of dating him, because I just hate the thought of making him feel rejected. I guess I’d rather he feel rejected over text than to face-to-face.

He handed me his phone to put in my number, and I prayed it was a new phone and the awkwardness of his discovering he’d already ran his game on me wouldn’t come to light.

But no. I punched in my number, and there popped up, “Kelly Vons.”

“Oh. Apparently we already know each other.” I said, feigning surprise. “But you spelled my name wrong.”

“Oh, I’ll have to change that.” He didn’t seem too embarrassed.

“And also change Vons to Barrons,” I winked. “I have to finish my shopping now.”

He texted later that night, asked what plans I had over the weekend.

“It was fun running into you, but to be honest you’re too young for me.  Nevertheless, I look forward to our connecting over the produce at Sprouts some point in the future.” Was my response.

I didn’t hear from him after that, but somehow, I don’t think the Grocery Store Dating Bandit is going to be deterred from running his game and using cheesy pick-up lines in aisle 4 at the grocery store.  

Fair enough, as I shall not be deterred from analyzing how the events of the day came full circle and trying to figure out what it all means in the grand scheme of things, if it means anything at all...

Connections

One of the things I love the most about my Summer of Nothing is waking up, lying in bed, and deciding what I feel like doing for the day. Of course, there are some non-negotiables like coffee, meditation, reading Emerson, exercise, and a dip in some body of water, but for the large part of the day, I can do whatever I want.

One of the things I keep finding myself doing after I run but before I drink my morning green juice is cruising over to my friend Lacey's house for a morning cup or five of french press. We sit on the patio of her cottage by the beach, sip coffee, and talk about life. We talk in the way old friends do about the past, the present, the future or maybe all three because according to quantom theory they're happening simultaneously, anyway, so why not cover all bases.

I value this time because Lacey is golden and friendly and clever as hell.

Her wit rubs off on me and together we are more than the sum of our parts. We stay laughing most of the time, even if its through tears at some stupid lesson (read; mistake) one of us is going through or supposed to be learning from.

But the way she helps me look at life keeps me smiling, in check, and on my path. She never tells me what she thinks I should do, only offers mostly impartial perspectives I might otherwise fail to see.

Anais Nan says, "We do not see things as they are, we see things as we are."

Thinking can be our worst enemy at times. We are programmed with our unique schema of the world, and stepping out of our own perspective can be a challenge without the help of another. Sometimes, we need another frame of refrence to bridge our path north, if that's where we intend to go. Of course, we sift through the pieces of alternative view point and decide which will help us grow in the direction we want, or which to take with a grain of salt, a shot of tequila, and a prayer for the good of all involved because sometimes that next day can really creep up on you and you have to think about these things when you're an adult.

You are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with.

I like being around people who help me grow, who challenge me when I'm wrong, and who know when to stop talking even if I'm wrong because maybe I can't handle admitting it in that moment. Good friends know this because they're connected like that.

In my seemingly infinite amounts of free time and flow, I'm savoring the connections that enhance me and examining those that bring out the less savory parts of myself.

Flowers and weeds both grow toward the light, but the adoration of one over the other is obvious.

Going Without

A month of obligation-free summer looms before me. And sometime last week, I made the decision to do something I’ve never done before: nothing.

No plans, no trips out of town, no schedule. 

In fact the only thing on my agenda is to explore what life feels like when I have nothing but time. You know, that thing we all think we need more of.

In our everyday lives, we get too busy to call our moms or work out or complete any of those “someday” projects that we always talk about but rarely do. We become too busy to do anything other than manage our hectic schedules and zone out in front of the TV at the end of the night. And then repeat it all the next day and live for the weekend when we can relax and feel some sort of relief from what is really just life.

But what happens when all that goes away? What’s left? Is it a void? Is it boredom? Is it happiness?

I spent years working non-stop. It wasn’t enough that I worked full time. I did coaching gigs on the side and published two novels. I bought a big house and filled it full of things I thought I needed like big TVs, nice furniture, and shoes. I went to the gym in the morning and avoided processed foods and stayed up-to-date on the latest trends. I was constantly exhausted and overwhelmed, yet I thought I was fulfilled. I thought I was living.

Except I wasn’t. I was simply surviving. Numbing. Avoiding.

Somehow--thankfully-- I woke up one day and asked myself what it was I really needed to thrive.

In The Power of Intention Dr. Wayne Dyer says, “realize how little you need in order to be satisfied and at peace.”

I didn’t need the house (besides property tax is ridiculous here). I didn’t need 40 pair of boots. I didn’t need to fill my time endlessly with tasks, because in the end, what I was really doing was avoiding an emptiness that would never be filled, no matter how big my closet or impressive my resume.

I sold the house. I downsized my closet (down to 10 pair of boots!). I found the beauty in sunsets and still moments, where sometimes the only thing to do was sit in silence and find the joy in the scent of a lit candle and the feeling of the ocean air breezing through my patio door. I looked inside myself to figure out who I really was and what I was contributing to the world. Some of it was good. Some of it sucked. Some (read: most) of it I’m still figuring out.

In theory, I’m happy now, or at least striving to be every day. In theory, I live a humble life where I explore nature and meditate and drink green juice (because it makes me feel good, not because it’s trendy, duh). I believe that if you’re truly happy, you can be happy anywhere, anytime, with anything or anyone. Or without, as it were.

Knowing who we are and what we really stand for is where we find our sense of purpose. Trying to find peace or happiness or love through external circumstances, possessions, or people will never be enough.

Life is about living through the heart, and the only way to do that is to go within.

Someday is elusive...life is happening now.

Life is happening now.

A year from now, you will wish you started today.

The best time to start was yesterday. The next best time to start is now.

I could go on and on with quotes about how we only have right now, but quotes are meaningless unless you actually understand them. Actually, maybe what I really want to say is that quotes are meaningless unless you apply them. Live them. Synthesize your knowledge with your life and then you have wisdom.

 But I digress.

I’ve been living my life waiting for “someday.” Someday I’ll stop eating sugar because I know how awful it makes me feel. Someday I’ll get better at keeping in touch with the friends I rarely see. Someday I’ll start writing again.

Someday has been a long time coming. I’ve had these vague goals for a couple of years. But I haven’t given up cookies and processed foods completely (I have the tight pants to prove it), if my mom calls and I’m tired I’ll probably let it go to voicemail, and I can’t remember the last time I sat down and worked on my latest writing project.

Someday hasn’t come around in two years. At this rate, it might never.  Someday is elusive. Life is happening now.

And if life is happening now…that means the me that I am right now…is who I am. Which begs the question…am I proud of who I am right now? Am I who I want to be right now? Because being anyone other than the person you want to be is settling.

And I refuse to settle. Life is too short to settle, to keep putting off what you want to do, where you want to go, or who you want to be.

And what I know about myself is that I want to be the one who is acting rather than speaking, going rather than thinking, and achieving rather than dreaming.

Life is now. The time is now. Live life in a way that makes you proud right now. Because right now is all there is.

The Journey

It was the lowest point in my life.

It was the desolation. The reservation on the southeastern part of Utah just above the four corners area, the desert we let the natives keep...probably because there is nothing there but sage brush, lonely highway, and complete lack of cell service.

I had no Pandora, no radio stations, and had long since grown tired of the handful of songs I'd downloaded onto a USB stick before I'd set out on my journey.

I drove down that road and cranked Amarillo by Morning for the 38,959th time, but the music wasn't loud enough, or my thoughts were too heavy, or there was just no more running away from how I felt inside.

Barren. The lifeless desert was a perfect reflection of my life.

We'd just sold our house, our five bedroom, four bath slice of SoCal real estate. We sold it for half a million dollars, which, as it turns out, is nothing compared to the price of giving up on the dreams you made together. The future. The family. The plans.

Shattered.

I'd gone to Utah to connect with my roots, to escape from the reality that my life, as I'd planned it, was over. I hadn't meant to drive, but my flight got cancelled and I couldn't bear to stay in the house that, after the 30 day escrow, was no longer ours.

So in the comfort of my childhood home, nestled in the loving embrace of my parents and brothers, or on the back of a horse chasing cows, I hid from the emotions that were under the surface, an underlying current of hot lava that would destroy anything it touched if I let it escape. Even though this was all my decision. I was the one who took it there. I was the one who decided this was no longer right for me. I forged ahead with it all. But once we sold the house, it felt so...final. And with that finality came doubts. So many doubts.

Had I made the right decision? Or could we still go back? Maybe it--he-- was what I wanted, after all.

I stayed home with my family for a few days, then decided Moab would be good for my soul. Maybe I could regain some of the appetite I'd lost. Maybe those splendid arches or that slick rock would fill that void in my soul. Maybe the brewing company would let me bring my dog in and stay forevermore, or at least until that weak Utah beer brought on the numbness I used to be so good at harboring.

I stayed only one night, enough to do some hiking, not long because it was a place we'd gone together many times and it brought back too many memories and dreams that would never come true..also because Hank wasn't allowed on the trails. He had to stay in the car, waiting, wondering if I'd ever return.

In a way, I wondered the same.

I wondered if I'd ever feel whole again. if I'd ever feel happy again. If I'd ever stop crying. Because, as I drove down that highway of broken dreams, it felt like despair had taken over every fiber of my being. My tears flowed from a spring of eternal sorrow. Invisible, yet so very real.

Seven hours later, I landed at my sister's in Flagstaff. She hugged me--even though she's not much of a hugger--and I sobbed and blubbered about how I was alone and I wondered if the hurt would ever go away. This wasn't how I pictured my life at 35.

She looked at me, comforted me in the way that sisters do, and said, "don't be afraid to go to the doctor and let him help you get through this hard time."

Indeed.

Except I didn't. I got back to San Diego and immediately fell for a charming man, one who serenaded me and sent expensive flowers to my work, distracted me from my grief..and had serious commitment issues.

A few months later, I was alone again.

The despondency came back again, this time worse. But that was when I knew.

The only way out was through. I didn't know it all would affect me like that, not when I was so sure I had made the right choice. Still. Losing your best friend and partner, even if it is your decision, even if you choose to remain close (which we are to this day), is akin to death.

Divorce.

It's been two years. I don't feel despair anymore. I'm happy. I feel alive in a way I never have before. Now I'll go outside during a downpour, just so I can feel the rain on my skin. I'll shiver and let the ocean spray my face on a cold winter night while I watch the sunset, just so I can appreciate what it feels like to be warm. I'll jump into the Pacific after a long morning run because then I can remember how cool it felt while I'm enduring one of those hot fall days at my AC-less job.

It's feeling. It's plain old living, and I'm finally doing it.

And I'm almost certain that when I make that drive next week--two years after that initial desperate, soul-seeking 10 hour drive--I won't be crying. And if I do, it will be because I'm listing to Adele (seriously though!) or just feeling gratitude that after all that I went through, the pieces of my heart are back to together and I finally feel whole again.