My apologies, Elizabeth Gilbert. I can’t touch you in the writing department, and nobody will be buying a ticket to see my life experiences on a big screen anytime soon, but I have reinvented your tagline and am claiming “Love, Write, Walk” as my own. Not so original, I know, but catchy just the same. Thank you for the great idea. No hard feelings.
Where would you live, if you could live anywhere in the world? Maybe you are perfectly content where you currently are. Three of my friends and a cousin weren’t. Recently they moved away from Los Angeles. I feel the holes they have left behind as they start anew in California’s Central Coast, Mexico, and Portland.
Freeze this moment, stop time. Stop thought. Just be. Being present to the moments of life to the point that time does not exist and the connection to spirit and life vibrates with intensity – electric and powerful. My soul lights up, serotonin courses through my bloodstream. Or did I have just one too many expressos? Haha.
Navigating Spain in 1976, a year after Generalisimo Franco’s death, was trepidatious as a twenty year old American female. Thank goodness I did not have to do that on my own.
If you are anything like me, you have been tapped on the shoulder more than a few times by this question that begs the answer to “Where do you go when you get to the end of your dreams”?
How do you deal with the idea of being alone, or being single if you are in fact single? I’d love to know what you think as I continue on my journey here in Spain.
My daughter Annie sat across the table from me in a pasteleria in Madrid’s charming Salamanca neighborhood.A cup of steaming Americano in front of her, she dipped a mini croissant coated in chocolate into the coffee, took a bite, and semi smiled almost enigmatically, bringing Da Vinci’s masterpiece to mind. Maybe that comparison is a stretch. But I like it.
A friend recently told me that “Relationships are like Swiss cheese, there needs to be more cheese than holes.”My God daughter’s husband of one and a half years, decided that the marriage lacked cheese and left her, two weeks before she was to give birth.
When my friend Henry and I met fourteen years ago, he referred to me as a soccer mom on LSD. Meaning I seemed pretty normal, but had an edge. Whether he could see or feel it, I like that he acknowledged that edge that was keenly sharpened by my life on the other side.
We were a few miles into our five-mile ascent up the steep slopes of the Pyrenees. I was half expecting to see Maria, spinning in song, or a dirndl clad Heidi running down the grassy, sheep dotted slopes. Wrong mountains.