The Best Is Yet To Come

I have a chalkboard that hangs over my head while I sleep that is the full width of my bed. From time to time I would write meaningful words that I wanted to somehow absorb telepathically into my mind while sleeping or at the very least I would see and subconsciously start to believe over time.

The last phrase I wrote was something I felt had been impressed upon me about a year ago: 

The best is yet to come.

I didn't know exactly what it meant. I didn't know when The Best would get here. I simply heard those words in my mind and caught glimpses of it wherever I went. So, I wrote it down in hopes that over time I would unravel the mystery, be able to look back, and say "A ha! I see how The Best got here!"

The adventurous part about this mystery phrase I read every day I wake up and every night before I go to sleep is that the best is always somehow still coming. In some strange way this mantra has changed my perspective over time and made me appreciate when The Best is happening right that very moment and not always dreading the current place I'm in, constantly in agony over when the next big thing will happen.

That being said, I am waiting for another big part of my life to begin or happen, as it were. But for now I find myself being content to know that The Best is both here and still coming. My reasoning being that if I heard that The Best is yet to come a year ago then The Best must be here now.

And maybe The Best has been here all along.

This Not Knowing Has Its Charm

I plan. I make lists. I make lists about making lists. I plot. I scheme. I will shed the brightest of lights on every last detail and nuance of every situation I enter. And I always have a plan to somehow master whatever I put my hand to.

You can't do this in relationships. Not possible.

I have a new mantra I'm trying out that basically entails letting go, ditching The Plan, and just letting whatever will be be. And I am taken aback at how quickly I've adapted to my new life slogan. Yet again, I find myself in a relationship, but this time with a new game plan in that there is no plan. I have no expectations, no designs on the man, and oddly enough no worries.

My heart is a kite tethered by a string of wisdom.

It can go where it pleases, but is ultimately guided by the experiences and smarts I've gained in my 32 years of living. And this not knowing of what will be has its charm. This not knowing is OK with me. Every once in awhile it may just be alright to not know every detail of every little thing that is yet to come. It may just be the right thing to be in dark for once.

Peter, Peter

It wasn't too long ago that I embarked on an adventure.  Although, I find myself on an adventure that wasn't in my plans and each day has been a little bit of a battle.

Just to catch you up to speed...
I've recently stepped out of my boat.
I've started on a journey that's not exactly on solid ground.
I'm fully aware of the fact that no person can actually walk on water.
And yet I've been tempted to see if I am so special that maybe I could.

This morning I woke up feeling anxious. I couldn't take my eyes off my boat. It had drifted just far enough away that I felt I could never make the swim back. Panic-stricken, I look to the sides and saw monstrous waves waiting to barrel overhead and swallow me whole. If waves had eyes, these were staring me down. I felt my feet begin to slip beneath the surface of the water. And in the midst of my noisy sea all I could hear was this: 

Are you looking at the water, Peter, or are you looking at me? 

I know my name isn't Peter, but I recognized the voice and knew to whom it was directed.

I was looking at the water. I was drowning and all I could do was describe the strength of the waves and how deep they seemed to be. But then I heard that voice. It was The One who whispered to me about this adventure, knowing that danger and excitement lied ahead. The One who recently told me that this will be my best year yet. The One who has led me by still waters and fed me green grass before I ever got out of my boat.

So, I changed my gaze. I looked up; the raging waters only in my peripheral. And there, right in front of me, I found peace.

A Case Of The What If's

This is too hard.

It's never going to happen.

I give up.

Phrases I've spoken from time to time that are usually preceded by some difficulty or barriers that can be hurdled with enough determination and the correct mindset. Recently, I've found my thoughts bouncing between both ends of the spectrum, one side saying I'm almost there and that dreams will become a reality, the other side saying to throw in the towel and call it a day.

Last night, I was out for run with nothing but the fresh air, a little music plugged into my ears, and my trusty old running shoes. I always like the way it feels to run long distance. I know the minute I get beyond my neighborhood I'm officially on an adventure. Given the back roads and dirt paths that I often run, there's no one close by to pick me up right away if I get tired. There are no cabs, trolleys or shuttles waiting off to the side for emergencies. If I want to get home I'll have to get myself there. And while at times this is an exhausting thought, the thrill of not knowing whether or not I can truly make it keeps me moving forward, pushing through all those leg aches and side cramps.

It was at about mile 4 of my run last night when a cramp in my ribs started whining to my brain that it was time to stop or slow down. So, I did what I always try to do first and started breathing a little more deeply, counting to 3 on the inhale and counting to 3 on the exhale. I know what it's like to push through the pain and taste victory. I also know what it's like to stop all together and inevitably end up kicking myself for not trying to get a little farther down the road. It was while I was breathing deeply that I started to have "what if" thoughts.

What if I gave up right here and just around the bend was a pile of cash just waiting for someone to pick it up?

What if I stopped running and just around the corner is Ryan Gosling, stranded, and in need of a cute, single girl's help?

What if what I truly want is right in front of me and just within reach?

What if the reason why life is sometimes really tough and the feeling to quit becomes so overwhelming is because our goals, our dreams are just about to be realized? 

I finished that run last night without slowing down, stopping or quitting. I ran just about 5 miles and it was the longest distance I've ever run by myself. No one was next to me chanting in my ear, "You've got this, girl!" There was no elusive pile of cash around any of the corners I rounded and Ryan Gosling was nowhere to be found. But I reached my goal last night. I finally ran the distance that I've been wanting to say is my short run, all by myself, without it feeling too painful.

I went to bed last night in peace. It was a peace I had been missing; the kind of calm presence that says, "I'm not worried. I know what I want is just up ahead." I may not know exactly how the life I want is going to become a reality, but I'm up for the adventure. I'm willing to keep going, to see what's just around the bend.

To Grandmother's House We Go

Whenever I drive away from The Beach and head back to The Ranch there are roughly 3 or more stops that need to happen or else….my world implodes? People will be sad? Not sure, but those stops had better happen or else!

One of those stops absolutely has to be my grandmother’s house.

Now, first of all, I will always refer to her as my grandmother, never my grandma. What is the difference, you ask? In my opinion there is a class difference between the two titles. The word grandmother will forever be classier in my mind. Secondly, she is one of my all-time favorite people. She is one of the most innocent, naïve, classically sweet old ladies I’ve ever known and she just happens to be related to me! I’m a lucky girl. And I mean that relationally and physically, as I could’ve easily been in yet another car accident the other night when I stupidly let her drive us to dinner. In the dark.

I made a comment at the first stop sign about how I bet she never would’ve thought she’d still be driving at 90 years old. Her response: “I didn’t think I’d make it to 90!” That should’ve been my first clue that she is, in fact, fearless when it comes to driving no matter who may be along for the ride, because death is probably a welcome relief from carting around a 90 year old body.

A few blocks later she told me that she doesn’t drive at night anymore. And I’m pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye and a smirk on her face. I was starting to get the feeling that my mom and her sister have requested that she not do any night driving and my telling her we couldn’t take my overloaded car just gave her the green light to run wild through the streets at the dark hour of 6pm.




Oh. Shit.

Soon after, we had rounded a corner and I knew we were almost to the restaurant. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. What should be an easy drive down a straight street apparently looked like an obstacle course to this little lady who drives while looking through the steering wheel. We were almost to the end of the street when I couldn’t help myself any longer. My sweaty palms were begging me to say something about how close we were to all the cars on my side of the street.

Me: “So…uh…we got pretty close to that truck back there.”
Her: “Yep, but we didn’t hit it!”

I sat the rest of the way speechless. What else could I say? That darling little 90 year old had a point. Why be scared of what could have been when it didn’t actually happen. There is so much wisdom I have yet to learn from that woman. My all-time favorite person.

Lessons in Learning How to Rest, Part Eight.

Lesson Eight: Let your freak flag fly.

I was sitting on the beach today just letting a slapdash stream of consciousness flow through my mind, when out of nowhere my thoughts landed on a memory I hadn't visited in years. It was almost as if I had invented a past memory that wasn't mine. It was so...out of character for the girl that writes this blog today.

Or was it that this girl just forgot a part of herself that still existed?

This City Girl is sorry to have to admit that in the middle of finding herself all over again and laying down some new ground rules for her life, she wasn't having as much fun as she used to. Even with the quick wit and dry humor, having unadulterated fun was not a part of daily life. Sarcasm and the occasional humorously odd observation does not (necessarily) a fun girl make.

Breaking into a 5 star hotel, stripping down and skinny dipping in a rooftop pool for 15 minutes until you get kicked out by the management, however...

A few months ago I had a short, but funny conversation with a boy I was dating. We were in the middle of a romantic entangling when he pulled away from my lips long enough to say, with an inquisitive tone, "You're kind of wild." I hadn't been labeled wild since high school. In fact, I couldn't really remember the last time I was truly "wild" by the world's definition. I had just polished off a crazy two years full of dramatic situations, haphazardly dating parts of Oregon and California, and heartbreaking lessons, but only once or twice had I acted like a wild child. If that!

Remembering the hotel incident today awakened a small part of me. And I'm happy to say that a new breeze is now blowing through my daily thoughts. I don't know how often my tempestuous side will make an appearance, but heaven help the uptight bystander that happens to be near when it does. Because I make no promises or apologies for where this City Girl's freak flag may fly!

Wanderlust Strikes Again.

Wanderlust/ˈwändərˌləst/ : A desire to travel to understand one's very existence.

So, for the millionth time I find myself pausing at a fork in the road. Once again, I have to make a decision between awesome and amazing as I begin planning for the chasing of my future self through Europe.

Boohoo. Poor me, right?

The question du jour: Do I put my life in storage again for a couple months and travel around Europe? Or do I try to find an affordable place to live at The Beach, which is like trying to find a needle in a haystack the size of Texas, so that I have a place to come back to? It's not a super tough decision, it's just a quandary. Which is the smarter move for this City Girl? Hmm.

Italy

So, I've been saying for months now that I want to go to Italy for my birthday. I'm turning a rather pinnacle age this year and refuse to turn said age in a ho-hum city. I want to be somewhere exciting doing exciting things!

Now, I've been reeeeally good lately and have turned down some very fun adventures and put off the new tattoo all for the sake of having enough money to get my patooty to Italy by September. So far, so good. I might be squeaking by, but I think I'll just make it!

Why, you say? I say why not!

The question for me these days that's on everyone's tongue is: Why? Why am I moving back to The Beach?

I wish I had a good answer for this. I wish I could say something that sounds grown-up, mature, responsible. I wish I had some sort of dream job that was leading me back there; something that makes sense of the last year of my hopping from city to city. But the truth is I don't. I usually just stammer through some weak answer that sounds like this: "Um...well...I mean, I guess Portland just didn't seem to line up. And um...I end up back at The Beach every couple of months anyway. So...yeah...looks like all the signs keep pointing me south. I guess."

In person I'm a regular Poet Laureate.

I was thinking today about a friend of mine who is known for moving from city to city, country to country while simultaneously fulfilling her career and adventure desires, but without any set plans. Things always just seem to line up for her as she goes. Years ago when we all lived seemingly happy lives at The Beach, I and everyone else would always ask her why she felt the need to constantly live in different places and her response was always: "Why not?!" As if everyone else was crazy for wanting to stay settled in one place for years and years. I was so confused by her free spirited outlook on life. Now, however, I'm simpatico. I get it! The very idea of having a wonderful life in various exotic or exciting new cities sounds absolutely incredible. Why wait until you're old and grey to travel to new places when you can be living in them your whole life and really enjoying the food, the people, the sights?

Just in the last week, the upcoming move was beginning to look daunting to me. It was becoming a dark cloud looming in the distance. I was starting to get an icky feeling. Am I about to make a huge mistake? Am I going backwards? Ohdeargod, will this be as long-term as the last time?!

I was starting to get tunnel vision that this move was not only a step backwards, but that it could be forever. As if I would slip into a past version of myself and be signing my life away, like I would no longer be in control of my own decisions.

Yeah...that'll be the day!

So, when a friend called today to get the scoop on the rumor that's been floating amongst our friends of my impending return, I still didn't have the all-American, mature answer. I only thought of my free-spirited friend and said, with a sparkle in my eye and a knowing smile on my face, "Why not?!"

This picture has nothing to do with the current post. I just thought it was ridiculously cute! Another "why not?!" ;)

The linger.

It was like something out of a movie. Or so said my friend, with a twinkle in his eye, when I told him my latest tale of love and other things...

I visited the possibility last week. The one who sent cupcakes in honor of this year's Black Monday. The one I turned down not that long ago, because he wasn't right for me.

Or was it that I wasn't ready for him?

It was supposed to be a friendly visit. And it was. It was a friendly visit that ended with me lingering. You know...THE linger. The linger that says way more than it should. The linger that invites trouble and possibility.

The linger turned into a quick kiss. The quick kiss was followed by me walking out the door and driving away. And the drive lasted all of two minutes before I turned the car around, marched myself back to his front door and did something I never thought I would do. I was brave. I was gutsy. I was also in the perfect position to be shut down, turned away, told no.

Even thinking about it now...Eek!

I stood in front of his door for a few minutes before I got the nerve up to knock. And then I waited. Nothing. I realized right then that I had the chance to back out. Instead, I pep talked myself into ringing his doorbell. I waited again. And then I saw him. He saw me. There was no backing out at that moment. I knew that if I made up a flimsy excuse that I would hate myself forever. Or at least for the next few weeks. So, I took some old fashioned advice and just told the truth.

I missed him.

The next weekend was full of the usual dating things, and in this case. getting to know each other all over again. It was good. It was sweet. It was so...easy. And for this City Girl, easy isn't something I'm adept at. It's nothing I'm familiar with. Easy has never been in my dating vocabulary.

Sadly, my usual relationships appear to be this difficult.

And speaking of easy, it looks like my plans of moving to Portland have been slightly derailed by a new career possibility back at The Beach. Nothing is official, by any means. Nothing has been decided upon. Nothing has been written in stone or on any legal papers. But let's just say that the signs I thought would be pointing me north by now may not be showing up...

Color me fickle.

Okay. OKAY! I know. I said that was the last post and I meant it. But every time I visit these words, ready to send it to blog heaven, I can't. I miss this little blog. I love my biz blog, but I yearn for this blog. My little corner of the web where I can rant and rave without worry. Where I can type out anything my little heart desires and not fear that I just upset a lurking client.

That's me. Little Miss Fickle.

So, dear readers, I have decided NOT to shut this little bloggy down. I need it too much. 

Having said that, here's my latest blahblahblah: I am about to move to Portland*. A city that I like, but can't help but instantly see pictures of unwashed hippies every time I say its name. A place I said I would never live. Ironically, I'm about to write out the exact same post I wrote about a year ago.

I'm moving.
Again.

This time I'm moving with purpose. Sort of. At least, I know what I want to do when I get there. I have visions of what my life could look like up there and it's not bad. In fact, between the haziness it looks pretty fabulous. I know without a doubt that I am the kind of girl who is about a million times happier when she's within arm's length of a burgeoning city. That said, I have really come to love life here in The Country. It's been a sweet place to come heal, rest and otherwise find myself all over again. A part of me is a little sad to leave. And truth be told, a large part of me has been scared to death lately.

I've always been envious of those people who just pick up and move on without a second thought. Those people who look at life like one big adventure all the time and never seem to have moments of self-doubt or worry.

Who are these people? Are they on drugs?? Can I get some of these drugs?!

Portland will not be the first city I've ever lived in. And It probably won't be my last. I have no idea what has me so fearful. I had to fight my way through this last year and fight I did. It almost took every last bit of me to make it through, but darn it if I didn't make it out of 2010 still in tact! Knowing that I took on the most crazy and convoluted mess that 365 days can throw your way and lived to tell about it, I can probably handle anything 2011 will throw my way.

So. I am making this move. I will probably be scared. And hopefully, in the meantime, get my excited mojo back. In any case, I will survive this too. And I will live to tell about it!


*I really do like Portland. In fact, I love that city. And I am very much looking forward to living there, despite what I wrote. The hippie comment is just a weird stereotype that I've believed for far too long. And anyway, it's not like hippies are zombies...

iPhone love and other drugs

Disaster has struck this Urban Cowboy.

That's the cool new nickname I earned while I was in New Mexico! I love it!

My iphone took a dip in the waterfall on our ranch. Yes, I know how cool that sounds: waterfall. ranch. I get it, but seriously! Hear me out! My iphone, my baby, the love of my life almost met it's maker today! Well, not really it's maker, but it almost went to the sad sad place that all dead iphones go when they've been submerged in water. Where ever that is.

I was working from the ranch house today, sleepily clicking away until my head could no longer stand the smell of urethane paint that my dad's employee was using to coat the new wooden stairs. I felt queasy, tired and irritated by the headache that had formed. So, I debated on whether to make the 20 minute trek to town to get some "real work" done or just go for a walk around the property. The walk sounded better. I'm a known workaholic. So, breaks have begrudgingly somewhat become a part of my daily routine.

I sauntered down our road to the lower pond and was enjoying the fresh rain smell. As I walked around the pond I decided to hike up the canyon and through the small waterfall that forms into a creek that feeds our pond. It's always been one of my favorite spots on the ranch-especially this time of year! The canyon rocks are covered with green moss, baby ferns and leaves from a plethora of oak trees that grow up like crooked necked old men, bending and hovering their low-reaching branches like withered canes. I was so excited to take it all in. The fresh air had never been more crisp. The water was getting colder and I imagined what it would look like when the snow comes again. The rocks were perfectly green and slippery. I took a million photos with my iphone, my baby, careful not to slip or fall over and let go of my precious. I popped my iphone back into my sweatshirt pocket and started further up the waterfall. But one precarious step was all it took. That's when I heard it. It's an unmistakable sound, the sound of plastic casing tapping against rock. To this Mac disciple, it's the sound of horror.

I felt around the inside of my sweatshirt pocket and said out loud, "What? No. No, that can't be. Oh my gosh. Oh crap. Oh no. OH NOOOOOO!" I frantically searched the craggy, mossy rocks and shallow pools of water first. "This can't be!", my mind raced. "This only happens to other people!" And that's when I started frantically plunging my hands and arms into the deeper parts of the wintry currents. Luckily, my first plunge was my last. I had found it! I had rescued my love from the icy grips of rugged rain water! If it were an option I would have administered mouth-to-mouth just to be sure it would survive. Instead, I desperately, but lovingly touched the little circle button hoping I could will it back to life. Success! It's eyes opened, flickering while I pushed the little arrow left to right holding out hope that I would once again see my home screen. Spotted with drops of water, I could still make out the basic apps of my sweet baby. It was going to be alright.

This is right around the time that I realized I was so far up the canyon that it would make more sense to cut across the hill to my left, through another canyon and hike straight up the hill to the main road rather than go back the way I came in. I simultaneously remembered that I was in mountain lion country. I was so busy being enchanted by my iphone and the nature that was its background that I forgot to be on the lookout for wild animals. (Hence the name Urban Cowboy.) But when love is on your mind you'll do anything to rescue, save, nourish or otherwise tend to the object of your affection. So, I tramped through the muddy fields, around fallen trees and down the steep and slippery canyon walls just to get my treasured possession to a much needed bag of rice. It was treacherous and I looked like a rag flailing in the wind as I tripped, slipped and bumped my way to the top of the mountain. Muddy, sweating and out of breath I made it to the main road, raced to the house and saved my dear iphone.

I may not be the best at living in the country. In fact, I'll be the first to admit that life on the ranch has me perplexed most days. But when the chips are down, the proverbial sh*t has hit the fan, and you need someone to git 'er done, I'm your girl!

Right or Left? Up or Down?

I've never been more confused in my whole life.

A plethora of cities, a mish-mash of dates (some amazing, some not), and then trying to picture myself living in a new city with new friends and old. I'm baffled. There's no other way to say it. I don't know what to do next or where to go. Having all these options (really fun options) just makes my head spin.

I can have any adventure that I want. Which one do I choose?

Can I make that house payment in Euros?

I had an enlightening conversation today that made me wonder if I should rename this blog: City Girl Takes on Yet Another Adventure.

I miss my friends from The Beach. I miss them all the time. Almost every single day. I haven't been able to put my finger on it. Until today. I had been thinking this lately: Do I still miss them, because they're so much cooler than most other people? Or maybe it's because I just haven't found the perfect set of friends up here just yet. Or is it because I just simply miss them?

The answer is: not quite. I miss them, because they are the rowdiest bunch of adventure seekers I've ever met. There's no doubt in my mind that my motley crew of friends have an insatiable desire to constantly chase adventures the world over. That's our meeting point. The one thing everyone has in common. And everybody's adventure schemes always look different, but it's still the same underlying excitement of seeing new places, meeting new people and trying new things.

Jumping into bodies of water buck-naked? Check!


Anyway, the enlightening conversation went a little something like this:

E: "A friend of mine told me the other day, 'I can't wait for you to have your own house that you can decorate and settle down in.' Not one ounce of me has ever wanted to do that."
CG: "Me either! I had someone tell me the other day how I would stop traveling when I have kids. No I won't!"
E: "Yeah, I don't think I'll ever settle down like that."
CG: "I just always figured that when I finally do have kids I'll just buy another hammock. A baby hammock...for the treehouse we'll live in. Ha!"

The reason this conversation lit up my face and entire day was because while I want to buy a house, I've been sort of dragging my feet about the whole thing and feeling somewhat bummed about the idea. Almost like I was being pressured into living in a big house all alone. I couldn't figure out why. Why wouldn't I want to take the next grown up step? What's the big deal about buying a house? (A cheap house at that!) And it hit me....I never had plans to actually live in it. Everyone else around these parts buys a house to live in it. Raise a family in it. Have dogs running around the yard. I want to buy a house so I can rent it out to weekenders from The City. I have next to no plans of actually spending day after day in between those four walls, working from home and watching daytime TV. I want a house for completely different reasons than the average bear. I want something that pays me to go on adventures.

Can I get an amen!