New Mantra: I Can't Believe I Get To Do This

I had a daily ritual that wasn't serving me very well. So I changed it.

... 

Every night, I would touch the box the holds Porter's ashes. I would picture him in my mind and tell him that I loved him.

My intention was to keep him close, and to keep his face sharp in my memory. I was so scared it would fade.

But too often when I pictured him, my brain would reach into the shadows and return the scene of Porter's death.

I meant to keep a happy ritual, but instead, it kept me locked in grief. It kept me tethered to death.

Every single night.

...

One day, I realized this was happening. And I realized that my ritual wasn't serving me well. So I don't say goodnight to his ashes anymore. Instead, I hung a picture next to my desk, and I look at it.

This picture.

This is Porter, enjoying his walk, at the very moment he realized that I was taking him to his favorite place: Frick Park. His eyes are brimming with excitement. I can just imagine that he's thinking, "I can't believe I get to do this!"

That's how Porter, who survived a lifetime of violent abuse, seemed to approach our life together: "I can't believe I get to do this."

He couldn't believe he got to sleep on such a comfy couch, or enjoy so many delicious foods. As my little rescue dog grew plumper and happier, he seemed to be grateful and eager for every moment.

That's the feeling that I want to keep close to me. So I don't say goodnight to ashes anymore. Now, I make myself say,

"I can't believe I get to do this!"

And I really can't. I can't believe I get to come home to the man of my dreams, and the delicious salad he prepared for me tonight. I can't believe we get to sleep in on weekends, and take naps if we want, and stay up late watching old TV shows together with our devoted dog. I can't believe we have as much as we do.

I can't believe my family survived so much, and loves me so steadfastly.

I can't believe this summer is so sweet.

I'm grateful and eager for every moment.

❤️

Right this very moment...

At this moment, I am sitting in my gorgeous hotel room in a new city while the love of my life and his band prepare to play downstairs. 

Soon, I'll go downstairs and dance while they play my favorite songs in the world, and afterwards, I'll race back upstairs to sink into our bed and his arms. And even though I'll have spent the whole night watching and adoring him, he will make me feel like I am the amazing one. 

I am aware -- and appreciative -- of the fact that I am present in a rare window of time. Right now, everything is perfect. I love my boyfriend, and he loves me too. I love my family, and best of all,  they are healthy and happy. I have the cutest dog and cat in the world, the sweetest and funniest friends, a nice place to live, a brand new car, and a job that pays me well to write for non-profits. 

It's as though every box is checked off. 

"Are you happy right now?"

"Strongly agree."

I've been through just enough to understand how how rare and fleeting these moments are. 

And I am so grateful to be right here, right now. For however long this lasts, I will be forever grateful. 

"They're just jealous" and other mom-isms

My Mom: [listing reasons why I'm a great catch] ...you're successful, you're funny...
Me: Some people think I'm not funny, Mom.
My Mom: Yeah? Some people are assholes.

My mom is the kind of mom I can never solicit advice from, unless I'm actually fishing for the answer "They're just jealous." As in, "Someone was mean to you? They're just jealous." My mom has a hearty bias--one in which I am adorable, clever and always perfectly lovable. It's sweet of her.

My mom is the best kind of mom. For one, she's super competent. When I was little, I felt bad for the kids whose moms seemed scatterbrained. My mom was always on top of everything--sewing the best Halloween costume in my class, delivering me to classmates' birthday parties with a meticulously wrapped present in hand, or even showing up at my school with the lunch I didn't even realize I had forgotten on the kitchen counter. My mom could cut my hair, fix my toys and find the things I lost.

I still count on her competence, like when we went to Montreal together and my mom figured out how to ride the indecipherable metro system even though it was all in French. My mom doesn't speak French. She's just good to have around.

My mom is a personal chef, which is the perfect job for someone who's skilled as well as warm and loving. She loves to feed people, which is wonderful when you're 32 and survive on Trader Joe's. Whenever I go to her house, she puts a plate of food in my hand, brings me a sweater and asks me all about my day.

She's also so much fun to be around.

My mom in Calgary, ready to pounce on 7th row seats for Pearl Jam.
We followed Pearl Jam's 2011 Canadian tour together because she is my favorite.

My mom lost her mom to cancer when she was very young. I think that awful fact granted me a very early understanding that moms are impermanent.

I can't imagine what my life would be like without my mom--so generous with her food and affection, so eager to accompany me on adventures, so tirelessly willing to hear about my every irritation, and so subtly funny.

I appreciate her every damn day.

I love Eddie Vedder with all my heart

I love Eddie Vedder with all my freaking heart.

Eddie first rocked my world in 1992, when I was 12. Up to that point, I'd been pretty much flailing along in a pubescent world, desperately trying to define myself, attempting to write hard-hitting articles for my school newspaper and hopelessly crushing on boys who would eventually prove to be dull and dissappointing.

But most of all, I was exhausted by my own clumsy attempts to play it cool all the time. By "play it cool" I mean, specifically, that I felt compelled by the laws of teenagerdom to act like I just didn't give a crap-- about anything. But bored apathy WAS NOT ME, and never would be.

No way. This world routinely leaves me dazzled and breathless. I was, even as a teen, curious, enthusiastic, easily impressed, and I had a bleeding heart. I wanted to patch the ozone layer, rescue dolphins from fishing nets, let gay people get married, and I could hardly wait to vote. And why couldn't people spay and neuter their pets?!? What was wrong with the world? In the mean time, I fell in love with writers, movie stars, teachers, classmates and other males who were no match for my loyal adoration. I cared so much and loved so large, it actually hurt. 

And then came Eddie Vedder...this beautiful human being who sang like his heart was breaking. The first time I played "Ten," Pearl Jam's debut album, I felt like the ground gave way beneath my feet. This, as the media would lambast him for, was a man who gave a crap. Eddie Vedder was talented, popular, jaw-droppingly handsome, and he wore his heart on his sleeve. 

The masses grew tired of Eddie's incessant caring, but I had been somehow validated. Even then, I was sure that I loved in the same tortured way that Eddie did in the song "Black." I knew the grief and loss in his voice in "Release." I ached for the underdog the way he did in "Jeremy" and "Why Go." And Pearl Jam played in my ears and my heart when I started to attend protests and turn my high school newspaper column into a painfully earnest soapbox.

Eddie and Pearl Jam went on to fight Ticketmaster to keep ticket prices low. They minded their carbon footprint, they collected cell phones for abused women, they created ways for their fans to get involved with worthwhile causes. And when Eddie sang, I knew he freaking meant it. 


I distinctly remember long nights as a teen in which I lay awake, genuinely panicked over the possibility that I might never get to meet or even see Eddie Vedder in person. I loved his music so much, I felt like I would never, ever be able to get close enough to it to curb my insatiable longing. 

But over the years, my love for Eddie Vedder led me to new music and authors, best friends, benefit concerts and rallies. His influence would also steer me towards non-profit work. Now, my career is nearing its first decade milestone, and I'm proud to serve as a voice for abused and abandoned animals at a fantastic and progressive animal welfare organization.

And all those wonderful things, I was surprised to find, both quenched and continued to fuel that feeling of large longing. 

Even as Eddie has mellowed, and started to write more songs about the love he has for his family, my heart swells and soars when he sings. In fact, it's his recent solo album that helped me figure out what I'm still searching for in this wide, wonderful world. Apparently, Eddie has found a love that's big enough for his enormous and hopeful heart.

I hope I will, too. 

Today--after 18 years!--my crush on Eddie Vedder is as big and all-consuming as ever. I've followed Pearl Jam around the country and even sat by Eddie Vedder at a hotel bar. (He just didn't know it. Or care.) But I also got to shake his hand after a 3-hour wait outside a concert venue in Santa Barbara. Eddie Vedder held my hand, looked me in the eye, and gave me a few sincere moments of his time. And I knew then that I hadn't been wrong about him. Eddie Vedder's kindness glows. 

He really is perfect.

Cleveland, Mother's Day, 2010