Joyful!

I was reading Junie B. Jones to Owen at bedtime tonight and she said she loves how Junie B. always uses the word "joyful". I thought the same thing. What a great word and why do we not use it more? What better way to express an extremely happy sentiment? I have been thinking about a passage in the Bible that says to do "all things joyfully onto the Lord". So, even doing something as mundane as laundry, I want to be joyful.

Super fun weekend. Just what I needed to feel happy and at home. My girlfriend called from Georgia yesterday at 1:30 and was in town with her family by 5:30. Her husband is a pilot for Delta, so she called to say they were thinking about coming to Florida. Just like that, with their 2 kids. They were here in time for dinner and swimming in the rain. Happy day. Happy that it rained a magnificent and cooling storm last night. Happy that the thunder rolled in again for that strangely peaceful sound. Happy that we had a housefull of kids and friends again. A slumber party, even! Joy!

Berta is a California girl, born and bred. Then, 4 1/2 years ago, she had to leave LA with her kids and follow her husband to Delta's hub in Atlanta so he could keep his job. She was not happy about it, but she has come full circle and, of course, is thriving there. We spend the weekend with hours swimming in the ocean, more swimming in the pool, laughing and gossiping. It doesn't get any better than that. The kids love each other, our husbands get along, and Berta is like a long lost sister to me. She has this amazing way of seeing things from a wonderfully different and brilliant perspective. She not only sees the world with rose colored glasses, she passes those glasses around to everyone else and convinces us that the world is that beautiful. She enabled me to see things from a slightly happier perspective ("Yes. It is hot sometimes here, sometimes even miserable, but it is just weather. We are lucky enough to have air conditioned houses and cars, and pools and cold things to eat."). Her favorite saying is, "What do I care?".

This visit, coupled with a 15 mile run with the Sun Runners yesterday morning, made for a really complete, if not exhausting, weekend. Even more exciting is the possibility of running the Marine Corps Marathon in October. While discussing the disappointment I was feeling of not having a fall marathon on the books, Lisa and Kim from the group yesterday told me there is a number for sale for MC since one of their friends has a conflict and cannot go. I simply have to pay the transfer fee to my name and I can stay in the hotel with them for the race. It sounds like so much fun....I just feel a little sick about leaving the kids and Marc for the weekend. That and the fact that I will have to run 20 miles in 2 more weeks. Usually this would be thrilling, but I have this little hamstring problem right now. My lame right leg is still giving me issues. Time will tell.

More and more I feel like life is really all about relationships. The people I hold so close in my heart (Roberta) and the people we are meeting along the way (Kim and Lisa, etc) are what make life worthwhile and interesting. I am nothing without these people who help define who I am and what matters most...faith, family, love, running, routine....Shocking, but it seems like there may just be a place for us here...at least for now.

It's Hotter Than Hell Here...

...but with the beauty of heaven. Not sure how to really classify what I think of Vero. Mostly, life has taken on a very different flavor with a familiar taste. People and pace of life here are so different from anything I experienced in California, but people really are just people anywhere. Time marches on, kids go to school, people go to work, the sun comes up and the days roll into weeks. Here we are, living like locals. I refuse to change the name of this blog...not yet. It pains me to commit like that.

Obviously, we still live in a beach community, although a much smaller and more intimate one. Walking through the market last night with Owen, a man coming in the door behind us was staring at me. I kind of smiled at him and then turned away, uncomfortable, diverting my attention back to my daughter. She had just gotten out of the pool and we had to do a quick drive by to get some groceries. A few minutes later, we crossed paths with this man in produce, and he was still looking at me intently. Now I was a little freaked out, but his face was kind and somewhat familiar. Finally in the dairy section, he said my name with a question mark attached to the end. Now I was confused. He asked if we ran together that morning, which, indeed, we had. It was coming to me. Craig. He was part of the Sun Runners, the early morning group I am trying to hold on to at 5 am. A casual group of burners, out for a jaunt in the darkness three days a week. It is so dark here and with few lights on the island where we run, I really did not recognize him. If I do not come away from here a stronger runner, I am not sure what will make me faster. Trying to run with zero air into my lungs is never fun. The humidity is so thick, it is like running in a sauna, even that early in the morning. Then, when the sun comes up, it is scorching hot. I am going to need a good dermatologist. Hell is trying to keep up with these people who grew up in this heat. Heaven is getting back to the car and sweating like I never knew I could.

In keeping with the morning workout routine, I am happy and feel content. The runners are just as they were in San Diego: down to earth, happy to talk endlessly about pace and races, always ready to roll out for the work ahead. The courses we run are flat and would-be fast, if I could breathe. The swim leaves a little (or a lot) to be desired, however. I miss a large workout out with tons of people in a lane to chat with. I miss the jacuzzi in the morning (those do not even exist here and they have pool cooling systems to try to keep the water around 85 degrees).

The coaching here is whole different issue, too. Picture a 77 year old man in jammers. A mean old goat of a man, quick to tell you he is an ex-Olympian coach, Don barks militant orders at those of us in the pool. Sadly, he is so offensive, he has scared away most recreational folk, so there are very few of us. The upside to this, I have had private coaching and am swimming better this last week than I have in seven years. No joke. This man has communicated so much to me about proper technique where others have failed (or maybe I am only now willing to learn out of sheer terror of this man?) to bring it home. Because he has so few to pick on, he has stood over me for this past week and single handedly deconstructed my stroke, piece by piece. It is like the light has gone on and I actually understand the timing of the whole thing now. Despite his delivery, Don is a fabulous coach, and if nothing else, I think I may come away from here prettier in the pool. Though it kills him to hand out a compliment, he told me I am swimming "sixty percent better" than when I began with him. Take this for what it is worth. When one begins at ground zero, sixty percent is not that great. Hell is being in the pool with Coach Don. Heaven is getting out to shower and feel accomplished.

The kids' swim team, on the other hand, is superb, with excellent coaching and tons of involvement. Owen experienced her first workout in the middle of a thunderstorm last night, which was really cool when it later escalated into a lightening display. She loved it and celebrated with her lane mates. "It's raining!" she exclaimed to them. They looked at her like she was an alien with her little arms reached to the sky, and replied, "Yeah?" Her coach was quick to interject with a smile, "It doesn't really do this much in California, huh?"

It is like living in a rain forest here. The heat and humidity just keep bringing in the rain, which cools off the air briefly, only for the heat and humidity to return and the cycle goes on. The thunder is becoming like white noise in the background to me now, as is the constant sound of the cicadas that once really irritated me with their song. From their perch in the trees, these bugs are so loud, I cannot even hear the announcements from the school's loudspeaker when I pick Owen up. It is a constant chatter. Living in a rainforest does have its advantages, though.

The beach is unreal in beauty, with bath tub temperatures and white sands. Everything is so clean and unspoiled. People are so far and few between, it seems like a private affair to go. I think that is what this whole experience is feeling like to me...a temporary affair. Something that I am not totally settled on or comfortable with. Like I am cheating on California. How can I really not be a California girl? I was not able to surrender my CA licence today at the DMV. I opted for the temporary residency option here, so I did not have to claim Florida as my permanent state. I am not ready to go there yet. So, they took my picture and told me I cannot vote here. At least I can still pretend like I am just on vacation. An extended tropical one.

Heaven is my boy peacefully napping next to me, his breathing so even, with thunder booming outside. Hell is having to go out in the heat for any period of time, like walking from the car into a store. Heaven is the lush greenery all around the island, and the oaks that grow in canopies over our street. Hell is living without ever opening a window to let the breeze in: there is none. Heaven is how blue the water is here, with multiple islands to kayak to, and how quaint downtown is, with little shops and eateries. Hell is saying goodbye to the Pacific and Mexican food...it doesn't exist anywhere near us. Mostly, hell is feeling so desperately homesick for the familiar and heartsick for all of the people I care so deeply for on the other coast.

Purgatory

Uncertain dread is the general emotion today. Still floating somewhere between dream and reality, but the feeling has evolved more into the space between heaven and hell,,,,purgatory? Heaven is being home in the Bu with family and friends, lounging by the pool. Hell is the certain destination I face on Wednesday: hauling the kids to the airport, more tearful goodbyes, a day of travel and too many DVDs and junk food for the kids en route. Then, ultimately, the sweltering heat and humidity. And the bugs. And the snakes. And the wildlife, in general of that other state.

Of course, the obvious treat at the end of the travel will be reuniting with the husband I feel so far removed from. My life feels so disjointed. I am a single parent, living a luxurious lifestyle right now, albeit it not my own. I am so tired of living out of a suitcase, but living in dread of what is to come. I hate that Marc has been across the country from us for this long, unpacking boxes and arranging a house I have not even seen, while I parade around with his friends and take in the delicious sights all around me. I have no sense of what our new home even looks like, though he claims it is large and nice. I hate the fact that he has been cleaning and organizing and I am so helpless here, waiting for, or more like prolonging, the inevitable. Not wanting to-being fearful of-see what is to come. It leaves me with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach.

"Pea," he says to me today, "You are really going to love it here. It is so hot, you are never going to want to eat and all you will do is drink water. I think I have seriously lost ten pounds already." As if coaxing me back into my anorexic roots is a consolation for leaving everything here. Maybe I will end up with a smoking hot body since the weather is so smoldering all the time, but where was he going with that statement, anyway?

Purgatory is really not a fun place to be. Waiting for something that might be really great or could be really bad is not a very good feeling at all. The anticipation is killing me already.

The Dream

I feel as though I am floating somewhere between dream and reality. So much of the dream is such a pleasant one, that it is a mild annoyance when I think this is not my reality. I love LA. I love being here. I love being with family and friends, How can it be that I love this city and these people with the passion I do? How was I blessed enough to grow up in a city with such privledge and promise? Where dreams are real possiblities and they are seemingly endless, if directed properly...

The dreamlike state is the part that includes meeting up with old friends and discovering their new babies, dining next to movie icons at Paramount studios, while enjoying the most elegant and delicious cuisine, picking up perfect berries from the Brentwood Farmers Market. Dreamlike when I am floating around the canyons in the X5, hugging the turns and loving that it performs like a race car, swimming laps with a view of the Pacific, or shopping in Santa Monica. The state I am living in, living the Malibu soccer mom life in a house that requires a housekeeper's attention more than 2 days a week, a collection of landscapers to maintain the property, wine specialists to harvest the vineyard, an indoor plant lady, a pool man, and various other professionals to deal with any maintence problem that may occur. This is what life is here. Laughable to me that the man from the Home Elevator Company had to come this week to deal with a glitch in the elevator. I love LA when people here have to have a home elevator for a three story house. I love all of the modern conveniences that come with living with everything at the touch of a button. Everything is within reach or a phone call away. Most all things are seemingly possible with the right connections and checking account.

There are still the responsibilities and perfunctory tasks, of course. The kids still have to eat (albeit mostly out as of late), the dog has to be cared for, the service guys need to be let in and out of the gate. But for the most part, the time here has been so carefree and unaccounted for, hampered only by the random appointment or obligatory luncheon. It is hard to imagine moving so far away from it. I ran through Pointe Dume yesterday, along the trails high above the buffs and thought of so many people from my childhood. I thought of elementary school and my buddies who grew up in that particular neighborhood and I wondered where they all are now? Are they happy? Are they successful? Are they married with kids? That is the funny thing about Malibu. For such a beautiful place with beautiful people, there seems to be a plastic sadness about it, too. Malibu has a way of breeding illusionists who look like they are so put together with their designer labels and expensive cars, but under the anorexic frame or behind the bloodshot eyes, there is a real emptiness, a longing. Home elevators or not, is this really happiness or is it us spinning our wheels? Is there something to be said for the fact that with money comes responsibility and sometimes even a hole in the soul? A void needing to be filled with more things? This is just my observation, of course. Not everyone turns to retail or implants as therapy. However, there is an underlying discontent, a stirring or unrest.

I feel that here, too. The empiness comes and goes in waves between the elation and excitment. There is a real shallow quality to a lifestyle that sometimes lacks the feeling of real purpose. So many kids here are detained for drug addition or killed in their brand new superfast sports cars they were prematurely given. Marriages are broken and schools influenced too much with the politics money brings. People have come to expect this as a tragic part of this lifestyle, as though it is the acceptable accesory to having wealth. Sometimes the relationships get in the way and there are casualties among us. Are these people living in a dream too? The one that is kind of a fog, a fleeting moment where we know something needs to change, but we cannot quite put the responsibility into motion? As if we are immune to mortality. Unbelievable to me is how so many of the guys I have seen on bicycles do not wear helmets around here. Call it European if you must, I call it ridiculous. I have a sickness inside everytime I see them. It is like they are above being hurt or killed, they are living the in the dream, too.

As I climbed into bed the other night, I thought about how the room I am sleeping in would be the absolute worst one to be in if an earthquake were to rattle through here. It is a room next to the wine cellar, that is so quiet on the bottom floor and it gets the most amazing ocean air though the windows. It is a room that is flooded with morning sunshine and cool summer air. Standing on the deck off that room, one can smell the summer sage and the salt of the sea. It is quite peaceful. I closed my eyes that night for what seemed like a minute when the next thing I registered, the whole house began to rock and sway. I looked at the clock to see the time was 1:00 am and the dog, who lay asleep next to my bed, raised his ears. Was I dreaming this? How could we really be having an earthquake? Not a chance, right? I was so delirious that I simply rolled back over and went to sleep again, in and out of a dreamlike state when I realized those were in fact aftershocks rolling through the house. It sounded like footsteps on the hardwood floors above me, as though an intruder were in the house. For a moment, I was scared and I took the dog with me upstairs to investigate. Alas, it was just another aftershock as a result of the earlier 4.5 on the Rictor Scale and nothing to be alarmed about. Just another minor detail that comes with living in LA. The quake was not a dream, but a blip on the radar. So is this time in LA. The dream of living here again any time soon seems to really be evading me now,