My Own Light

I used to think that streetlights would only go out around me. That I had some sort of uncanny depressive ability where things would dim in my presence. That I had some sort of weird magical negative power where things would just sort of "not happen" around and to only me. That lights going out meant that I didn't have a light within myself. Of course, now I know that's simply not the case. That streetlights dim around everyone, and that sometimes we just notice because we are us.

My dad has continued to say that we all have a "horrible case of uniqueness." Everyone bemoans from one time or another "why me?!" "Why am I different?" "Why does everyone else have what I want for myself?" Really, is the grass always greener, brighter, better, cooler, more fun, more awesome, than what we have? That our uniqueness of being ourselves is somehow this shitty burden that each of us have to bear.

Now, two days after the horrible apocalypse of the end of the Mayan Calendar (ha!) and 2013 staring us full on in the face, maybe some hope can peer through the cracks in the clouds that are clearing that was 2012? What a fucked up year I thought this was. I really did. I lost my job, I gained some weight I had fought so hard to lose, I thought shit had really hit the fan. But, when peering back over my shoulder of this year, I really did get everything I had wanted. Both of my big New Year's Resolutions for 2012 had come true. Magic did happen.

As I'm aging I'm learning who it is that I am and what I truly want. I never knew in my 20's that I'd love a good surprise in my 30's. That being shocked to my core would be something that I'd just live for. That I'd learn to just trust. Trust that things are going to be okay. That I'm okay. That I'm me! And really even though we are all the same, we are are all different. We all get to have yearnings that are uniquely ours. Desires that no one can take away from us. And hopes and dreams that eventually do come true. That it's okay to want write myself a love letter from my own typewriter.

Magic may not happen when or how we want it to. And wishes are never granted in the way we have them pictured in our minds. And what I do know to be true, that nothing ever happens the way I want it to. It is usually better.

So my wish for myself for 2013? Just continuing to be the me-ist me I can be. And that when a streetlight goes out around me, to be grateful that I notice its presence and grateful for when I get to see it again.

Fall Into Me

Something weird happens to me with the first flash of fall. I can sense it coming. Even weeks before when Indian Summer is in full force, I can feel the whir of autumn looming expectantly off in the distance. It’s as if I can almost smell it. The chill hasn’t even arrived, yet I know that magic is about to happen.

It’s no secret that fall is absolutely-hands-down-without-question my favorite season. Spring is a very, very far off second. However, fall isn’t just a season for me – it’s a way of life! An I Ching of existence, if you will. It really is the sum of all my being and wisdom. I know you’re thinking this is pretty extreme – I don’t care. I unfalteringly love everything that has to do with autumn and all it can bring, and I won’t apologize for it.

There’s something so beautiful and profound about the colors changing on the trees, with leaves floating to the ground in a delicate fashion. It’s one of the main reasons I wish I lived in New England (well that, and penchant for preppy boys with glasses in peacoats, but that's a story for another time). Leaves do change here in Northern California, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not as dramatic, and seems to mean less. For me, when those branches shed their now amber-colored layers to begin anew, it’s like a life shift. That’s what happens for me at the beginning of this season – a belief that I turn the page to a new chapter of my life and that anything can happen.

I’m not a religious person. Yes, I would shout from the rooftops that I’m Jewish, and often use it as a qualifier to identify myself… but I can solemnly attest that I’m a really horrible Jew. Yet, whenever September rolls around I do believe that I am capable of so much change come the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It’s as if I use the Jewish New Year and Day of Atonement as an excuse all year long to wait to make that leap of change. But it’s not really an excuse; it’s a force that pushes me towards not being able to help it but change.

When the time comes to bounce out of bed and scrounge for that extra blanket, it’s as if I feel a click in the air that I’m about to become something different. That I’m allowed to become what I’ve always wanted to be. It’s a weird phenomenon that I simply cannot explain. Some people believe that they have some sort of cosmic connection to snow, or the sun, or the ocean… I have that with autumn and all that it encompasses.

Everyone is well aware that I love me a cardigan. It didn’t come as a shock when I finally learned to knit. I usually have a hankering for a hot beverage on a cool day. And yes, one of my favorite activities is to curl up inside with said beverage, a blanket I most likely will knit for myself, and a good book (okay fine probably a “How I Met Your Mother” episode). I don’t know if it’s the romanticism of snuggling up inside (with or without somebody else) or if it’s that I love this season so much that I can’t help but revel in it.

Whatever it is about this season, I wholeheartedly know it presents magic to me. I know that it will bring forth the change I so desperately crave. I know that I will get everything I can out of fall. It might not be the season, but it is how I feel. And for that I can’t wait to have my own personal leaves fall to reveal something so beautiful that I can’t help but curl up and embrace it.

Fault Lines

Here in California, the San Andreas Fault runs through the state like a lifeline. It’s almost as if it’s a varicose vein that punctuates our geography. California, in and of itself, cannot be defined without any of the earthquake faults that stab our country side. It wouldn’t be the same landscape, or lifestyle, without them. I think personality faults are a lot like earthquake faults. They reside within us, sometimes at the surface and sometimes far below. Something can trip each fault, causing something to rupture. Little quakes are forgivable, many times not felt, and fun if you really think about it. Giant quakes can be catastrophic. Arguments, confrontations, and telling someone their fault to their face can be like the 7.6 1989 Loma Preita Earthquake and its effect on the Bay Bridge. The damage is still being repaired, and things will never be the same.

No one likes to admit that they really know their own faults. It takes years of therapy, insight and determination to get to a place being comfortable with what’s “wrong” with you. I am not exempt from this. After spending more than a decade looking so directly at each of my underlying traits, both good and bad, I feel as if I know myself better than anyone. I feign, that yes I’m still searching, but in reality I know EXACTLY who I am and what I want. I, of course, blame my staunch inner critic for this. Yet, I find some sort of solace in the fact that I am who I am, and I really don’t want to change that. Obviously, there are things on a superficial level that I can’t wait to alter: Weight, hair, tangible things… but in all honesty, I don’t want to change who I intrinsically am. I refuse to apologize for any of my short-comings, and feel I shouldn’t have to. That is why it is so hard to hear from someone else what my faults are to my face.

It’s weird when people assume that they really know someone else. That they think they know exactly why someone did something or what they were really thinking. This happens to me more than I’d like it to. Sometimes the motivation for my actions is taken so greatly out of proportion, that the intention of whatever it is I did, is altered to another level. It’s often perceived to be some sort of motivation that I didn’t even think of, or am capable of doing. It’s irksome, annoying and most of all… hurtful. These little stabs at what is not real hurt and cause the little cracks in my personality to unravel, leaving some sort of scar that can never be repaired. It’s much like a tiny earthquake’s damage, that even with some sort of retrofitting, will never be the same way it was before the tiny tremor that caused it to change in the first place. I can gloss over things, and take the attack and pretend that “everything will be okay.” Yet, I know myself, and everything is different never to be fixed.

I’m sure many of you can see through my very thinly veiled metaphors that someone confronted me recently, and told me some of my faults. Instead of ruminating on this, and being sorry for my actions, I have decided to take a different approach. I have decided to grow from this scuffle and become the better person. Do I think I was in the wrong? A little bit. Do I feel bad that I did what I did? Not really. Am I going to apologize for who I am? Never. Now, disagreements are subjective. I know on the other side my actions are perceived as horrible, but I also know that deep down I don’t care. What’s most damaging are the assumptions that were made about me, that I was attacked with my guard down, and that some sort of “win” was formed. That is not the case… We all know that what doesn’t hurt you, makes you stronger. I thank this person for telling me all my faults to my face and claiming that “everyone thinks this.” I thank this person for assuming that I didn’t know the truth about myself (believe me I KNOW). And what I really want to be known is, that when someone thinks that they can attack me, and that I’m weak… they should really think again.

I guess part of the retrofitting process is to be prepared for future movement along the fault lines. I know that with this recent jolt to my being, whenever I’m emotionally shoved again, I’ll be ready to withstand the quake… even though I know that some sort of mark will be left there forever. And I’m okay with that.

Lucky Library Tresaure

Unfortunately, all of us are feeling the strain of this horrible economy.  My dad keeps repeating that, "these are times we've never seen before." I know that his almost-sixty-year-old sage wisdom is hauntingly true.  I can feel the tugs at my very empty purse strings, and still believe that it really might get worse before it gets better.  So, since we are doomed to the doldrums of not being able to pay for anything, I have tried to find ways to entertain myself with anything that is, well, free.  That is how I stumbled upon my adoration for the public library.

I used to love the library as a kid.  I remember the pride I felt the day I was issued my very own library card.  In Sonoma County, where I live, the cards are extra-special-seeming because they have the all important title of being "The Card."  The shiny, light green card holds an importance in knowing that I have the power... to borrow books for free.  

I know, I know...  The library is completely dorky and weird.  Which is totally true.  But it's also seriously fun!  Yes, getting books for free is a great thing - especially in this era.  What's even more fun, however, is the manner in which I check out books.  Since I can't really afford to buy anything new (nor should I since I own practically every thing I could ever want), the hunt of getting new books to check out at the library is like a treasure hunt.  Albeit a weird, nerd treasure hunt.  But still a treasure hunt nonetheless.  I have a new way in which I dig for my next read.  

Sometimes, I like to wander around my local Borders bookstore.  After I've read the hard news from US Weekly, I like the peruse some of my favorite sections.  I saunter into the cooking section to see if there's any new recipe I can fantasize about never making.  Or I turn the corner into the health/beauty section, to see if I can find any inspiring tips so I can continue my ill-fated trek of attempting to look like Natalie Portman.  Or I'll see what chick lit book is worth reading during my lunch hour at work.  While I wander through these sections, instead of yearning to buy a book I don't need, I simply whip out my trusty iPod Touch and use its Notepad feature, and I write down which book I may want to read.  I now have lists and lists... but that's only the beginning of the hunt.

After I have left the bookstore and find my self in front of the computer, with my semblance of a book wish list in front of me, I log into my local library's website.  This is where the magic happens.  I begin searching for the books on my list.  Once I've found them, I add them to my request list, making my "wish list" become a "reality list."  The "reality list" is where the fun starts.

Part of the treasure hunt is checking to see where the next book is on the list.  Often times I pick a popular book, so I am stuck in line waiting for it.  I know this sounds like it is annoying (and it is), but it's also fun to check which number I am, and which book I'll receive next.  I am cool seeing that I'm number 117 waiting for Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers."  I was stoked to see that I was first in line for "Courage to Start," a book that's going to teach me how to become a runner (it will, I know it!).  Part of the beauty of the library is jumping into the limitations it offers, and make the most out of it.

I guess the game I'm playing with myself with the library could actually be a metaphor of how we're all really attempting to play with the limitations that this economy has thrust upon us.  It is a harshening reality.  But, I think, with the proper tools, or lack there of, we can make the most of it.  I know that I'll be riding out this tidal wave of nothingness with book in hand eagerly awaiting my next treasure.

To market, to market

A couple weeks ago I started taking classes in the Integrated Marketing program through San Francisco State's fantastic extended learning program. Having always been interested in marketing as a profession, I was exuberant about the prospect of finally looking into the profession that I've wanted to become my ultimate career. I had always known that I had some sort of passion about, well, anything... yet it took me forever to finally see that I knew that market research was, in fact, my passion all along.

In my early teens I saw a special on PBS entitled "Merchants of Cool."  This documentary led me on a life long quest to find out that I wanted to be one of these merchants.  I wanted to know why these teens are doing what they're doing, why they're buying what they're buying...  I needed to know what was behind all of these behaviors.  Unfortunately, I didn't know how to get there.

Through my slithering, tumultuous college career I took different paths, hoping I would stumble upon what would  get me to the profession I had so long desired.  I had mistakenly though that Public Relations was the right way.  I was wrong.  I knew that I'd eventually have to take a business route, but I didn't have the gumption.  I had to find another way that didn't have me taking Business Administration and Accounting classes.

Eventually, I found that I actually flourished in a liberal arts environment.  So, after switching schools, I ended up majoring in Sociology at Sonoma State.  This was perhaps the best fit in allowing me to find out why people do what they do.  I knew it wasn't market research, but I did know that I had the excuse to study and learn what makes people tick. 

With my Sociology degree, I got to concoct surveys and interviews and delve into human behavior in no other way I thought possible, and I knew I was finally on my way.  However, hiccups inevitably occurred.  I graduated with my Sociology degree with an emphasis in quantitative research, and set out onto the business world - with no luck in landing any job that was market research oriented.

Finally, at my last company I voiced to someone that I had wanted to get into marketing.  This person took me under their wing, in a sense, and I learned a little about Product Management (which does include market research).  Ultimately though a position for me never arose and I was discouraged, laid off, and the passion disappeared.

I didn't think that I'd ever have a passion about my career's direction again.  Being laid off took a bigger blow emotionally than I ever thought it would.  Although I have had a new job for a while, I still feel stings of rejection from my last job.  Almost as if any progress I've made on my dreams have been derailed - that is until I started this program.

I hate to admit this, but mom's really do know best.  When my mom suggested to take the Integrated Marketing Program at SFSU, I knew it was the right choice.  Although I thoroughly enjoyed the first class, I knew that once I stepped foot in the Market Research class that my life was about to be made.  I drove home that night knowing, that without a doubt, I was meant to be a market researcher.  It also dawned on me that I knew and had my passion all along.  I needed to find out how I could finally trudge through the art and science of something so interesting, and enjoyable to me.

I'm glad that I can sort of see through the fog that was covering my path to me.  As I traverse the trail, I'm glad that there is finally a goal in sight, and that with this program, I have some sort of compass to get me there.  Here's hoping....

Dear Diary? Or Is It Music To My Ears?

I never used to think I was a "dear diary" type girl. I used to attempt it a lot when I was stumbling through my youth, but never quite found it satisfying enough. I wanted my diary to be a sort of best friend/support system that I could divulge all my dark secrets to. Really, I don't think I had any secrets to tell, and if I did, I probably told them to everyone I knew. I'm not sure how juicy finding out that I had a crush on some hottie in my Advanced Biology class really was. I guess in 1997 it was a big deal to me. Even though I do have some journals strewn about with two or three pages that are covered in my illegible scribble, I have found a medium that has provided a much deeper insight into my thinly veiled soul... the mix tapes and CDs I had concocted over the years.

I used to be in love with making music mixes. I was so into them in fact, that I wrote a speech for a class about mix tapes and scored extremely high on it. After the advent of the CD-burner I graduated to the mix CD, but the process for creating both lit a fire in me that to this day, I can't seem to duplicate with another form of creativity. Today, of course, if I make a mix (and I haven't in some time) it will inevitably take form of the glorious iTunes playlist.

I have a method to these mixes that I feel as if it comes from somewhere intrenched inside of me. Usually the mixes are created about the emotion I happen to be feeling at the time. I tend to begin each mix with something dramatic, that off the top any listener can figure out the theme of the entire mix. I usually don't intend my mixes to have a theme per se, but the end result always illustrates exactly what I had been feeling. A message definitely comes across - well to me anyway. There was something so magical and pure about dreaming up a linear musical illustration sewn together by similar cadences or tone. When a good mix is complete the end result almost feels like a well rounded orchestra.

As each note of the orchestral concoction unfolds, my being tumbles out before me like an acrobat jumping alive in a Cirque du Soleil show. I have insight into myself that I never thought that I would before. Sometimes, these mix CDs are so juicy in their content in relation to what I was feeling, that I'm transported right back to where I was. It's exhausting, exhilirating and enthralling all at once. It's the epitome of a good read - a tombe in essense of myself.

I'm glad I thought to delve into the trenches of myself through music, and can't wait to turn on my iTunes to bust out a playlist (not CD anymore, unfortunately). Yet, somehow, I think it helped me find me again. Hopefully I'll even find some new tunes will get to become the part of my own personal soundtrack. I can't wait to discover them now - and when I revist them in the future.

I solemnly swear

I have never really been big on swearing... until now.  In my adult life I have finally been counted among the ranks that use "fuck" to punctuate their every day vernacular.  I honestly, don't know what has come over me.   I used to have this theory that you never really learn to swear, until you learn to drive.  Part of me still believes that this is true.  Yet, I have always had some sort of weird relationship with swearing - it's almost as if I'm getting away with something.  Maybe I am?

It's not that I came from a family that doesn't allow you to swear.  In fact, my grandfather quite possibly swears more than anyone I know.  I do know that I learned the word "shit" from him at a considerably young age.  To this day it is probably my favorite swear word to use, and comes out of my mouth more than I'd like to admit.  If James Lipton asked me my favorite swear word, I'd definitely answer with "shit." However, "shit" is not my issue of late.  I'm fine saying this word.  To me the "sh-word" isn't really swearing anymore.  It's quite useful, and to me, not at all offensive.  I have a very different take on the word "fuck."

There is something so powerful with The F-word.  It connotates a type of whirring of feeling and energy that no other word in our language implies.  You know someone thinks they're a bad-ass if they say "fuck" a lot (they aren't).  Still whenever I say it, I feel like something all mighty is looking down upon me, shaking their finger and saying "no, no, no."  And now, I think that my saying that word too often has become a problem.

I should probably tell the story of how I came to know the elusive "f-word."  My parents were never really big on not using the word.  I knew an "f-word" existed, but it remained this untapped, sparkly, pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-a-rainbow mystery to me. Until my first day of kindergarten... or so I thought. 

I galloped off to school with anxious combustible excitement as any precocious five-year-old would.  I was gearing up to take on the world, and proud of it.  Having already learned to read a few years before, I was ready for anything.  Yet, I don't think my mom expected to hear what I had learned when I came home from school.  After my first day, I remember running up the stairs to my front porch filled with glee like I had eaten 15 jellybeans and couldn't wait to tell everyone I knew about it (I probably did eat 15 jellybeans that day, knowing me).  I had had found the knowledge of something I had been wanting to learn for as long as I knew it existed... The F-word.   

So, I ran up to the front door, flung it open with gusto, and proclaimed "I know the F-word!"  I don't know of any mother who wants to hear from their child that the very first thing they learned on their very first day of Kindergarten is "The f-word."  My mom, the proper calm person that she is, leaned down and asked me incredulously, "well what is it?"  I looked up at her beaming... "It's fart!"  My mom chuckled to herself and said, "yes, Elana, the f-word is 'fart.'"

I know what many of you are probably thinking... How has a five-year-old never heard the word "fart" before? Well, I hadn't.  I knew this wonderful and mature word as "tooting" or "dropping cookies," or something random in Yiddish that I can't remember.  "Fart" was completely new jargon for me.  Yet, I only thought this was "The F-word" for only a little while longer.  After the second day of school, I stomped into my house, with my hands on my hips and looked at my mom as said, "Now, I really know The F-word."  My mother groaned to herself.  The damage had been done.

Today, many people think that I still don't swear.  I know that I put up the image of a goodie-goodie preppy, who tries to do what's right.  And to some extent people are correct on that assumption.  I am "a Jackie" after all.  Yet, I'll drop an f-bomb when I think it's necessary.  Which, these days is too much.

Unfortunately, I also have this bizarre uncanny ability to swear at my worst in front of children.  Without fail, I'll say the worst shit in front people who I subconsciously know it will offend.  I see a stroller, and "mother f-er" will fly out of my mouth.  I see a cute pre-schooler with ringlets, I'll drop 4 or 5 f-bombs in one sentence.  There's a class of kids walking through the park, I probably will say someone is being a "C U Next Tuesday" or something (I still detest that word).  I have a sickness, and it has to be remedied. 

So, today I proclaim that I am now getting onto the no swearing wagon.  I'm going to quit.  Or at least attempt to.  Perhaps, all I really need is to drop the word "fart" instead.

Until next time,

Elana