"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." -Old Rose, "Titanic"

"Titanic" has been running on cable incessantly for weeks, now, and it has been underscoring my New Year's Eve afternoon loft activities. Gloria Stuart's character spoke this line shortly before she secretly let the diamond slip from her fingers into the ocean. Hearing the line prompted me to think that one might wonder from reading this blog if I have spilled all the secrets from my heart.

Oh, no. Not by the longest of shots.

And now, Lulu and I will brave the deluge to pick up various provisions and assorted New Year's Eve treats...list of which I'll keep a secret.

"I am in the habit of looking not so much to the nature of a gift as to the spirit in which it was offered." -Robert Louis Stevenson

So, Lulu and I ventured out into the delicious drizzle this morning. Undeterred by precipitation, we left for the Not A Cornfield at around 9a, making our usual stop at the Little Toyko Starbucks. She understands completely that I must have my triple venti latte for the trek around the track.

As I waited for my fuel, I heard a familiar sound in the room: a most distinctive guitar, playing prominently in a 1940's orchestra. I didn't recognize the tune, but I knew the player -- it was my dad, kicking ass at about 17 with the NBC Orchestra in Chicago. Someone in Starbucks' long music arm has great taste; I hear Dad every year on the original versions of "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" -- but this was so random and cool. I leaned against the wall and listened, thinking that no one could possibly know it was my father providing a little soundtrack for their morning caffeine. A Japanese couple reading the paper. A teenaged boy with his face in a laptop. A couple of cops from the local precinct.

Then I saw a handsome Hispanic man, maybe in his late 20's, tapping his foot to the rhythm and fingering an invisible guitar neck. He was playing along with Dad! I couldn't resist; I walked over to him, smiled, and said quietly, "That's my father playing guitar." His eyes widened and sparkled. "Really? What's his name?" I told him. He said, "He's great!" I agreed, of course, and suggested he Google him. I asked if he played professionally. He said he did, in fact he was on his way to the studio to record. And that he couldn't wait to find out more about this incredible guitarist he'd first heard about in a Downtown Starbucks from the musician's daughter. But this stuff happens to me all the time. His art is immortal. I fucking love that.

"We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love...."

"...it is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person."
-William Somerset Maugham

Former lover A would scoff heartily and bitterly at Maugham. His bottom-line assertion was, "People don't change." Then he'd temper it with, "Not that much." I wish he and I could speak again. I'd like to find out if, after almost 4 years, he'd now subscribe to Maugham's above-quoted belief. Of course, that would mean he'd changed...at least a little. Especially tough for a Cuban Catholic boy. I always responded to A with my own observation, that there are things about themselves people can change...and there is the essence of the person that never changes. When two people are so similar at their respective cores, when there is true empathy for the gifts and flaws, the healthy and the wounded, that, I think, is where they experience true love.

He and I had these conversations in the midst of our tumultuous 2-year relationship, during which he was angry with himself for making the wrong choice of life partner. In which he beat himself to a pulp about keeping his feelings for me from me. Love too late. Timing is every fucking thing.

I believe it is the essence of each human being we are attracted to -- or that repels us. The trappings change, by choice or by chance. From the superficial (hairstyles, face and body appearance/weight/tone, taste in fashion, choice of environment) to the psychological (particularly habits: from benign nail-biting to profound drug addiction, and assorted other obsessions and compulsions).

I have never been so protective of my heart. Boundaries are healthy; I began to understand that in sobriety, but the practice takes -- well, practice.

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another..."

"...and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." -J.M. Barrie

For the next few days, I am going to make such comparisons and evaluations while in hibernation, in preparation for the next chapter of the continuing story...

“Things change. Things end.” –A.I., June 2002

I'm receiving support from the most unexpected places, attention and opportunity from strangers hundreds of miles away. I was not ready to accept these things two weeks ago; I'm only a little more open to it now. I feel I have to know before I can say yes. I haven't trusted my intuition for quite a while. Maybe because an intimate friend of mine keeps telling me it’s wrong – at least, about him. But, as undeniably smart as he is about many things, I think he's wrong about this. My instincts have been dead-on quite often in my life. When I am secure and grounded, I hear loud and clear. It's when I am emotionally off-kilter that I can misread the message. I'm regaining my balance these days. It feels a little strange.

My dog and I walked through Not A Cornfield one morning last week. Through the rustling stalks that whispered, “things change…things end.” I took cellphone pictures of her. I love her. I cannot let her go. She is my savior. Saint Lulu.

Things change. Things end. If I lose her, I will wear her tag around my neck like a medal.

Devotional singing from St. Peter’s Catholic Church across the Metrorail tracks: “Rejoice,” they sang in unison. And the bells pealed. And I wept. I do rejoice. In gratitude for the gifts. Even in gratitude for the challenges.

December 9. The little pink streak. If I had entered the intersection a quarter second later, the dent would have been in the front of my car. A little 5-year-old girl would have been injured or dead. I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life.

But she’s alive and well, and I’m free to move about the world. I haven’t gotten over the miracle of the moment; I shouldn't. I keep seeing the gifts of protection (in the middle of not believing I deserved it) and perspective (split second timing changes everything).

Things change. Things end. This was my wake-up call: fuck depression. It's a complete waste of life. Even if I live as long as my maternal grandmother Nellie, 100 years is a blink of an eye.

My ex-husband told me today that he’d been watching the features included in “The Great Escape” Special Edition DVD he’d gotten for Christmas. Ancient WWII soldiers relating their POW experiences. It prompted him to think about what it’s like to be that close to the end of your life – to know for sure you’re in the last 3, 4, 5 years, or less. But we don’t need to get to 90 to have that awareness. I’ve had it since my father had his first heart attack at 50 – I was with him in Manhattan, walking crosstown on 54th and 6th. He died in front of me 6 years later, in Northern California, where he and Mom had moved in an attempt to live a healthier life.

I swore he’d live into his 80’s, but he only had 56 years on his card. His mother was in her mid-90’s. Mom’s hanging in, true to her genes, and in spite of all the physical challenges she’s faced the past 25 years. I don’t know how any of this informs my longevity. I live in Downtown Los Angeles. I could pull out of the gated garage one evening and get plugged by a .45 in the hands of a crack dealer.

These apparently morbid ruminations come at the end of one of my toughest years. I’m ready for it to end. I’m eager for things to change.

I’d better get some sleep...'cause they're about to.

I am a *not* a free spirit. I'm worth more than that.

As I said last night to a friend via email: Life is one split second after another. We don't know what comes between them.

Pay attention. Choose with care. This is your life we're talking about. When you get to the end, there might be tears in your eyes, but they'll be punctuated with a smile.

When is the end? Any minute now.

one breath.

extraordinary day today...a little girl darted out into traffic and ran into my car while i was crossing at 5th & figueroa -- she's alright, i'm alright, but it was harrowing and shocking, it's a much longer, more complex, utimately amazing story, and i'm still recovering from the experience...so i'm going to get into a warm tub and curl up on the couch and reflect on the split seconds of life. and sleep.

Le plus sombre avant l'aube.

"The moment you come to trust chaos, you see God clearly. Chaos is divine order, versus human order. Change is divine order, versus human order. When the chaos becomes safety to you, then you know you're seeing God clearly."
—Caroline Myss, Spiritual Madness

Don’t tell my mom. She’ll just worry.

I like to take a morning walk from my loft building on 6th and Main to 1st Street, where Lulu can romp on the front lawn of City Hall (if we get a warning, I’ll refer them to Mayor Villaraigosa, who knows my dog from our countless walks past his house when we all resided on Mount Washington), we can take in the architectural splendor of the Caltrans Building (plaza of which Lulu and others of her canine ilk are sadly not welcome) and other surrounding Downtown LA edifices, and partake of a delightful morning beverage at the new New Otani Starbucks.

On weekdays and Saturdays, the streets are teeming with people walking or driving to work, overwriting the homeless crackheads who populate the streets of my ‘hood. Lulu and I engage in minimal circumnavigation on our way to and from our various morning destinations, and Lulu invariably receives an appreciative smile or comment from my fellow downtown citizens (one homeless guy recently marveled at Lulu's obviously conscious choice to deposit her solid waste off the curb, making me a very proud mama).

Today is Sunday. I didn't get more than 2 hours of sleep, owing to the luscious homemade sugar treats and caffeine I enjoyed at Hej & Doug’s Holiday Dessert Extravaganza, as well as the dozens of boisterous guests leaving my neighbor’s party between 2 and 3 this morning. I was looking forward to waking up during a refreshing dog walk before my 10am AA meeting in Silver Lake.

There are no mitigating commuters on Sunday morning in this particular stretch of the Historic Core > Old Bank District > Gallery Row. And today, not one member of the LAPD was in sight; nor were any of my loft neighbors out with their dogs. I was the only white girl giving her dog a chance to evacuate and exercise on the street this morning, passing one derelict after another, young boys and old men, all African-American, all with that dangerously vacant look in their eyes, a couple of them commenting on the “pretty woman with the pretty dog." When I walked past an old Beemer parked half a block down the street from my building and spotted the driver lighting a crack pipe in full view, I decided I’d had enough of the local color. Lulu and I made an abrupt about-face and ran across Main to the guarded entrance of my home. Safe in the fortress once again. But not unaffected by the exposure to real life in the big city.

Forgiveness is a dish best served reheated at 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

When it's broken and you think it can be fixed, but you don't know how, and you can't locate the manual because your chaos exceeds the legal limit, you have to go to experts for solutions.

I want to be perfect. I want to know it all. I'm still not sure why this is a prevalent aspect of the disease of alcoholism, and I am sure that it isn't exclusive to that condition. But I have been hitting various levels of bottom this past week, and I’ve been told it's a good thing. It doesn’t feel anything like a good thing…but okay. I’m listening.

Do we fuck up just so we can learn? Do those of us who have a certain intelligence and consciousness actually get to a point where we don’t make the same mistakes more than, say, a maximum of 10 or 20 times over the course of a lifetime? And why do we beat ourselves up so badly for being human? Or, sometimes, extrahuman? Hyperhuman? It isn't always "fucking up." It's just life, messy and imperfect. An educational process for which we must stay awake. A class through which we musn't sleep. If we do, we'll have to take the course again. Damn.

I made two especially good calls yesterday: healer extraordinaire Jeremiah, who promises me I have great things in store, and who lovingly gives me the best ingredients and most effective tools to take me there. And my beloved Hej friend, who unwittingly sent me to a meeting yesterday when I called her from deep in the abyss. She reminded me (confounding – after 12.7 years, I still have to be reminded) that I used to drink and smoke pot to get through what I’m going through now. Which prompted me to remember my first home meeting, Women-to-Women in West Hollywood, Wednesdays at 12:30. I jumped off the phone, got dressed and arrived 15 minutes late, but just in time to hear most of the speaker’s talk. The speaker was Lee, who had been in the room when dear friend Cool and I walked into our first meeting. Like two nervous little girls, hand-in-hand, on the first day of kindergarten. And Lee was there, with her years and years of sobriety and serious – intimidating – bearing. I thought of her on my way to WeHo yesterday, almost willed her to be there. Not just in the room, but sharing her experience (so much like mine), strength (so much like I’m told mine is) and hope (so much like I want mine to be).

I don’t have a sponsor, now, and I want to go through the steps again. Cheap, available, valuable, no bullshit therapy. It’s that last element that is the key to my emotional evolution. After Lee spoke, and all of us shared, I had the thought: she’s the one. I can tell her everything and she won’t blink. It’s what we all crave: understanding without judgment. When I asked her after the meeting, she hesitated – I know she’s terribly busy in her successful career, I know she must have a gazillion sponsees, I knew not to take it personally. I said, look, I’m going to be a low-maintenance case, I just want to go through the steps. She got it. We traded numbers. I’m looking forward to moving forward.

It’s hard to show up. But it’s the only thing we have to do. Even if we’re insincere, even if we’re terrified, even if they’re coming after us and we’re hiding in our rooms so we can’t be found. If we’re intelligent and conscious, we have no choice.

It's not so much about getting others' forgiveness. It's about forgiving ourselves. Myself.