A strange joke from the technology Gods.

We have been in San Francisco for a month tomorrow.  It has been somewhat hard for me to settle into our new home, as I am finding that all the times I said: " When we left, we were ready to go, I don't think we should go back" I meant it. 
The city, although as beautiful, colorful and delicious as I remember it, is louder, dirtier, and more hectic than I remember it.
I was ready for lower rents and larger homes.  For a quiet yard and a place where I could see the stars.  I was ready for Sonoma, and I have been slow to let go of the fact that we, as a family, were not quite ready yet.
So while I worked on my inner peace and practiced acceptance, I focused on searching for jobs, as that is one of the advantages of being in the city: food establishments abound, and jobs are always available.
I kept my habit of searching craigslist everyday, and found that here, there were a lot more options than in wine country.
 I screened through the adds and decided which ones were worth my while, and then I carefully composed a different cover letter for each one, selling myself by listing the specific skills that would make me wonderful for every position.
 In spite of my husband's advise to not even interview, I decided to stage at a new restaurant in the Marina. It's a cupcake place that is also a full service restaurant, and let's just say they don't have a full grasp on things quite yet.  Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I worked in their kitchen without judging, and found that it wasn't as bad as I had expected.  I decided that if I was offered the position, I would accept.
The day after, I went out of town to beautiful Auburn to visit my great friends and their farm.
In the meantime I wondered why I hadn't heard back from all the other jobs I had applied to. Time had gone by, and no one had contacted me. I started wondering if the economy was as bad as they say after all. I have a decent resume, and was overqualified for some of the jobs I applied to. How come not even one had called back?
While in Auburn, the owner of the cupcake place called me, and for the two following days, we played phone tag with no luck.
The day after I returned to the city, I got a call from an old friend.  He just had a baby and was wondering if I would be interested in taking care of her for a few hours a week.  I gladly accepted his offer.  Although it wasn't in my field of choice, and it was only a few hours, it would be fun, stress free, and I would make more money than I was currently making (hum... $0).
Minutes after we hung up, I saw I had a missed call from my father in law.  No message came through.
As I waited for Dave's message (he always leaves messages) I started thinking about how I had a few missed calls in the last week that hadn't left messages either, particularly two from my friend Nichol, known for leaving ultra long messages.  So, while I had lunch, I decided to reboot my phone.  I had gotten it a few weeks ago, so I didn't see why anything would be wrong with it but you never know.
A couple of minutes later, my phone delivered 24 voice mails. 24 fucking voice mails!!!!!!!
There were countless numbers I didn't recognize, and none of these calls had come through at any point.
Some were from two weeks ago.
I decided to listen to the unknown numbers first.  My heart started racing.  I had just finished my yoga practice and instantly lost all my inner calm.  Message, after message, I heard unfamiliar voices calling back about jobs I had applied to. One of them had called more than once.
My lovely new iPhone 4 had eaten 24 messages.  How was it possible that only about 4 of those calls even came through? The calls were not made while I was out of town, so cross that one off the list.
There is absolutely no explanation.  I started running around my apartment.  My husband was at work, we were going out for cocktails and dinner that night with some friends.  I needed to vent, someone to talk to, someone to help me figure out what to do.  I called a few friends that I knew would understand my anxiety, none answered. I kept breathing, telling myself to calm down.
I sat down and wrote down the names and numbers.  I called one.  She was on the other line, could I call her back in ten minutes?  I called another one. He was in a meeting, could he call me back in ten minutes?
Are you fucking kidding me? Now I was going to have a double call in ten minutes?!
Over fifteen minutes had gone by.  I decided to call the first one, knowing that as soon as I did, the second would call me.  I dialed the first number, 8. Right then and there the second person called me.
I answered and apologized as much as I could for the insanity that had occurred.  He joked that they wondered if I had stopped loving their company, since I hadn't called back, and then told me that although they had hired everyone they thought they needed, he had just realized there were a few holes in the schedule and they would need one more person part time.
After a long pleasant chat, we scheduled an interview for the next morning.
I called the second one. We spoke for almost an hour and I felt she was a bit unorganized.  She gave me a bad feeling, which was confirmed when she asked if I could cancel my morning appointment to meet with her instead. No thanks! Regardless, I scheduled an afternoon interview with her.
I decided to not call anyone else back, as I already was meeting with these two potential employers.
I needed to let it all go and start getting ready for dinner.  I didn't want to be late.
The next day, I went to the first interview, which, had it not been for pure luck, would have been the second one. 
I have always loved this company and when I was younger, fresh out of culinary school, I had a bit of an infatuation with it, and hoped to someday work for them.  The interview went great, I loved both the chefs, and as it came to an end, I hoped I was offered the position.
I decided not to go to the second interview.  I would trust my instinct. Regardless of whether I was offered this job or not, I didn't want to work for miss frazzled.
I still kept thinking about how crazy it all was.  Had I not been out of town, I would have spoken to the cupcake lady and taken that job, even though I knew was not the best thing for my career, and by the time my phone decided to deliver the messages I would have been employed.
Or, by the time the phone delivered the messages, everyone could have filled all the positions, leaving me in the disappointment of knowing I could have had them, if only...
A few hours later, I got a call back from the first interview offering me the job.  I gladly accepted.
A few days after I started, I got offered a full time position.  A few days after that, a small raise.
 However, I still had to figure out what to do, as I had agreed to watch my friend's daughter.  Five days before my first day on that job, he called me to let me know they had found someone permanent who was going to be a better fit for them.  Just like that, it all worked itself out, on its own.
I can't help but wonder what kind of trick the phone Gods were playing on me. But looking back on it, I see the beauty in the irony.
When it comes to technology, I have always been a bit old fashioned.  This experience has only confirmed my beliefs.
The lesson I learned is to turn off our smart phones once in a while, because if we don't, they get tired, then angry at us for not giving them a break, and they decide to keep things to themselves, that they really should share with us.
 So, people: be good to your phones!

Are we getting old? Or do we just have too much on our to do lists?

Today is September first.  In the back of my mind I sense it's someones birthday, but I can't remember who.  There is nothing on the calendar.  Oh well.
It seems that this is happening more often, not just to me but to everyone I know as well. 
This year, on my birthday, I received the least calls I ever have, the least emails, the least letters in the mail.  My parents, grandparents, brothers and some aunts remembered, my in laws (although they sent my present a month too soon) a few local friends, my three best girlfriends from childhood, and maybe one or two others, and that was about it. Even though that is a lot more than many people usually get, calls and emails I am used to getting year after year never arrived.  The saddest part is that it didn't make me sad.  It didn't make a difference.  The fact that these people had forgotten a date that they once held close to their hearts, as the day someone they love was born, did not mean that they didn't love me as much anymore.  Or did it?
About three weeks after my birthday, I forgot my friend's birthday.  A few days before it I thought: Franklin's birthday is coming up.  Then the 27th came and went, and I didn't even know it was the 27th.  One could argue that because I am not currently working it's easier to forget the date.  However, the combination of everyone who forgot mine, and all the ones I have forgotten, makes me think there is something more to it.
I used to be so good about remembering every one's birthdays.  I can actually still rattle off the dates of birth of some people that have long left my life.  Yet somehow, one of my friends didn't get a call, or an email, on his day.  Just as I didn't get many calls on mine.
When I was a young girl, I used to make a list of everyone who would call me for my birthday.  It wasn't so that I could keep track of who didn't, but more so because it amazed me who would call year after year, and who called one year and never again, and who called some years and not others.  These lists represented my social circle throughout time. 
This year, I heard a friend made such a list, but unlike me, it was to keep track of who didn't call.  I was on it.
I can't help but think that age is to blame for all of this.  The older we get, the more we "have to do", the more likely we are to forget things and or dates that were once really important to us.  On any given day we have to look for a job or go to work, pay rent, pay bills, clean the house, feed the cat, cook dinner, stop by the bank, and countless other essential tasks.  If there are kids involved in the equation then there is also usually lack of sleep and feeding, bathing, and shuttling them to and from their day's activities.
How the hell are we supposed to remember someones birthday we haven't seen in a year?
The answer is by being present.  Although I wish to make excuses for forgetting my friend's birthday, and although I don't feel any sadness, anger or anything negative towards my loved ones who forgot mine, the truth of the matter is, the real reason for forgetting is lack of awareness.  We didn't take the time to realized what day it was, to maybe look at the calendar and see whose day it was, to pick up the phone, or write a line or two.
We are not old enough to blame it on "old age".  Most of the people who did remember mine were much older than me and than the ones who forgot.
We need to take control of our lives by being conscious in our actions.  We must practice the art of slowing down, and maybe even smelling the roses. Hopefully, if we do it every day, it will come natural, like taking a shower, or brushing our teeth, or going to work.
And hopefully, with our newly found presence, we will remember joyful dates in our loved ones lives.
Because the truth is, even if we don't resent the people who forgot about our special day, we are always so happy to hear the voices of the ones who remembered. We also need to realize that in our day to day, these little things that we don't feel are as important as they once were, are actually the essence of a joyful life.  After all, "it's the little things" right?
So on that note, I encourage you all to look at the calendar and see whose day it is.  Maybe pick up some flowers or cupcakes and go give them a hug.  Maybe they won't hold it against you if you forget, or maybe they will.  Regardless, they will appreciate it if you remember.  Trust me, we all do.
And last but not least I wish you all a very happy non birthday, and many more to come.

Home is where the little house is.

I bought this little key "holder" a very long time ago.  It was during my second semi-permanent stay in San Francisco.  At the time I was living in the Pacific Heights neighborhood, which although a bit snobby, specially for the city, is a great residential neighborhood, as it is quiet, safe, and beautiful.
There was a cool little store on Fillmore street, a stretch known for its great boutiques and cafes.  This particular one offered artisan artifacts from all over the world, and most everything was very decently priced, which allowed my fresh out of college wallet to acquire a few things there at the time.
This particular item was just precious to me.  The colorful little house reminded me so much of the traditional little wood cottages that you find all over the country back home.  The coconut or palm trees in the background, and the plantain or banana leaves on the side were a bonus bringing me even closer to the island.  Plus, it would help me place my keys at the same place everyday, so I could be a bit better organized (for those of you who know me well, rather important, if not indispensable). Sold.  The little house's first home was on Webster street, between Jackson and Pacific.  It went up on the wall by the door, without consulting my boyfriend at the time, with whom I lived.  When I moved to the Dominican for my kind of sabbatical year in 2003, the little house rested in a box. In late Spring of 2004, it was unpacked, and one of the first things to be hung up in my new home, at Bush and Leavenworth.  Two years later, back in a box.
 When my husband and I moved in to our first home together, the little house was once again on the wall, without consulting it's placement with my partner.  I remember him asking me: "Are you sure that's where that goes?".
As usual, I had some perfect argument at the tip of my tongue, probably consisting of too many words spoken way too fast, which just settled it without further discussion.  He always tells me that I should have been a lawyer.
  Two years later, back in a box.  At our next home,  our awesome grungy wood paneled sublet on Prince Street, in Boston, there was already a little key hanger thing on the wall.  The little house remained in storage in North Carolina until we found our second apartment there, on Moon street.  Once again, it was one of the first things to go up.
 A few days ago, as I spent the afternoon packing everything we own into our old boxes, I noticed how bright the little house looked being the only thing left on our walls.  I realized, it is not only one of the first items that finds a home in every one of our new homes, it is also, one of the last ones, if not the last one, to go into a box.  Something about it comforts me.  It might be the colors, as I am a colorful individual by nature.  It might be the feeling of walking in the door and seeing something ours, instead of just plain wall, any one's wall. 
It might -I must admit- have something to do with keeping something organized in the chaos that is"boxville" (as we call the last and first days of a move).  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's a lot more simple than that.  To me, home is where the little house is.
  In the midst of this particular move, even though we are technically returning home, as San Francisco, is to both my husband and I, our adopted, beloved home, I have felt an awful lot of turmoil inside my heart and mind.  We hadn't found a place to move into until last Saturday, and we need to be out of this place by next Friday.  The uncertainty of  "what the fuck are we going to do" was slowly eating me alive, and although I pretty much just went through another style of the same uncertainty with my job hunt, this time it was a bit more pressing.
 All of our stuff, my husband and I, and our cat, would have nowhere to go if we didn't find a new place.  Sure we have plenty of friends and loved ones where to crash, but with a thirteen year old grumpy cat, it's a little hard to stay on someones floor.  Feeling that we didn't really belong here anymore,  but we didn't have anywhere else where we belonged, was making me feel a little homeless.  The little house on the wall, as soon as I walked in the door, made me feel that I was still home.
I have been having a very hard time with this move.  As many of my loved ones have pointed out to me : it's our city, it's our baby, we're going home.  Yes, it's true.  However, I just wasn't ready for it.  I was, very ready, and very happy, to be back in California.  But I also was very ready, and very happy, to finally be in a small town.  To have space in our home, for everything to have a place, to have a yard, a peaceful haven to come home to every day, to garden, to sit under that majestic oak tree and just be.  City life is loud, and it's dirty, and it's sad, with countless homeless people roaming the streets and begging for money. You can't hear the crickets, you can't see the stars, the only birds around are pigeons.  I was ready for a break from all of that. Last night, as I heard the crickets singing outside our window, tears slowly felt out of my eyes.
 After going back and forth in my mind and my heart, I finally decided that our plants will stay here.  The tomato, pepper and herbs, will never survive in the city.  Not only do we not have any outside space other than the fire escape, and it will be breaking the lease to have plans on it, but the temperature and the lack of consistent sunlight will not be kind to my potted plants.  I decided I would rather give them away, with the time, love and money I spent on them, and know that they will live, be happy, and fulfill their purpose of feeding someone as well as bees and other creatures, than bring them with me, and potentially watch them die.
 Maybe this whole experience was a lesson in non attachment.  In impermanence.  Maybe, even though I think I am ready for this lifestyle, it's just not my time yet.  And perhaps all of it happened to shake my core again, and remind me that being present is not only about the present, but about the past and future as well.  It is about letting go as much as it is about being here now.
 In letting go of this wonderful place and the experiences I lived through here, I am once again practicing being present in the moment.  It was wonderful, but I shall not dwell on it. For now, it is over, and other beautiful experiences await on the other side of the Golden Gate.  On Friday, when all the boxes are in our new apartment, on Bush and Jones, I will carefully unpack the little house, and find it its new piece of wall, where it shall once again, be home.  My husband and I, are blessed enough to have each other. We will live there together, and we will be home as well, where the heart, and the little house are.

The case of the overcooked green beans.

I absolutely love vegetables.  As far as I am concerned, they are -next to fruit- the most delicious thing to eat.  They are wonderful! They are colorful and cheery, they are full of amazing nutrients, they grow from the earth, which in my mind makes them magical.  They are just so damn beautiful too. The sight of a good farmers market is as good as it gets for my well traveled eyes.
Unfortunately, millions of folks disagree on the delicious aspect of these wonder plants.
I believe there are a  couple of factors to blame for this, but if I had to name just one, I would have to go with the too often committed crime (for which by the way, there is somehow no sentence) of  overcooking these delicate creatures.
In lots of households, all over this great big world of us, busy moms and dads, nannys and housekeepers, the random child cook, are overcooking vegetables right this second.
Many times it is due to a lack of knowledge, others, just a hectic day and not enough mindfulness.  Things happen, priorities are set, and the damn beans end up acquiring that weird brownish hue, instead of their supernatural vibrant green that makes you smile no matter how sad, angry or tired you might be.
A couple of weeks ago, as my husband and I got the house ready for a few days of our absence, we realized that we had almost two pounds of green beans that we had just gotten from the farm, but were somehow starting to go bad already.  They were definitely not going to make it until we returned.
As I made sure the cat had everything he needed, my husband decided he would freeze the beans.  We are not ones to waste food, and this seemed like the fastest solution to our debacle due to our time constraints.
So into a little sandwich bag and into the freezer they went,  as out the door we went, our worries about being wasteful put to rest.
A few days ago, as I searched the kitchen for dinner inspiration, I found said beans.  Perfect! I thought we were all out of vegetables (unheard of in our household, but, priorities are set, and right now revolve around finding a home).
  I placed them in the sink as I chopped some onions and garlic, cooked some brown rice, sipped on some wine. They defrosted rather quickly, and unfortunately, their texture was already not so great... It was almost slimy, and rather unpleasant.
 In reading "What to Eat" by renowned nutritionist Marion Nestle, I learned that when a bounty of fresh, local, fruits and vegetables is not available, frozen ones are a good substitute.  Plants loose many of their nutrients as time goes by. At the time of picking (or harvesting) they are full of everything they supply, but every day that goes by, on every mile that they travel, these delicious health enhancers have less and less of their magic properties.  Frozen ones are picked at their prime, and usually undergo a process of flash freezing, which preserves their texture a little better than our home method did, and preserve their nutrients for as long as they remain frozen.
Well, we will make them into a casserole, and everything will be great, right? I questioned my husband about this traditional American dish that I have heard of but never seen or tasted.  He had no answers, so I made my own version. We had some creamy tomato soup in the fridge, some old bread for croutons, well season it all , and it will be awesome. Right? WRONG! Horrible! They looked and tasted like the infamous, overcooked green beans. Wrinkly and sad, olive brown, begging for their former grandness.
I tried to make it better with some fresh goat cheese, but was not very successful. So we sat down at the table, and I ate all my beans before even tasting anything else.  It is a method I had developed as a little girl: eat what you like less first, and save your favorite for last.  It wasn't always a smart thing to do, as Dominicans are prone to snagging a bite of your plate without you knowing it or agreeing to it, and I ended up without my cherished last bite on more than one occasion.
However, in this case, it was the only way to go.  As I downed my beans, I couldn't help but think of the many folks who don't enjoy eating vegetables.  This is what they must think vegetables taste like! This is the texture they believe green beans are supposed to have! No wonder they hate them! I could barely finish these myself! But I did. Again, I always try to not waste food. My husband, on the other hand, could not do it.  He ate a decent amount of them, and then gave up.
It made me realize how blessed we are. Not only do we get three meals a day, but they are more often than not delicious, nutritious and plentiful.
However, I still feel that overcooking vegetables is a crime! Not only does it rob these magic entities of their beauty, texture, flavor and nutrients,  it is also disrespectful to the hands and hearts that grew them and harvested them in the first place. And it makes children hate one of the most important sources of nutrients there are.
So, to those of you who think vegetables are not delicious (or maybe even one particular vegetable) I challenge you to cook yourself or your family and friends a meal, using as many local, seasonal vegetables as you can find wherever you are, and cook everyone "just right".
If you are not sure how to, pick up a book, shoot me a line, or ask someone you know who cooks well. Not only will your senses be enlightened, but you will also learn something new.
When you sit down to enjoy your meal, raise your glass to all the kids out there eating overcooked vegetables (or hiding them in random areas of the house). May they discover, as soon as possible, that this is not how veggies should taste.
Buen Provecho!

The most important Birthday Cake of my life.

 Today is my 29th birthday. Although we definitely have done some celebratory activities, it has been a rather strange weekend of house hunting and running around.  We decided we would spend the night in San Francisco last night, crash at our friends place, go to a nice little restaurant for dinner, and relax from the hectic day of searching for our new home.
  However, there was the small detail of the birthday cake. In the Island (meaning back home in the Dominican), birthday cakes are of order for any one's big day. They are usually the same type of cake, with the same type of frosting (fabulous meringue that stays moist and silky close to the cake itself, yet dries a little forming an almost crunchy crust on top), and the filling varies from prune jam, to guava jam, to almond cream and a few others. Some traditions remain an intricate part of our lives regardless of how much time has passed or how much distance separates us from the place of their origin.  To me, the birthday cake is one of them.
 Usually, if we are home for my birthday (meaning wherever we might be living at the time) I will make my own cake, enjoy the process, and wait until the candles are lit, Happy Birthday has been sung and everyone is ready for cake, before I cut it.
 However, we were going to be tired and at someone else's home for this one, so I decided to stop by the renowned Tartine Bakery, stand in line for a bit of an unreasonable time, and buy myself a cake.  I chose a passion fruit lime genoise, covered in coconut flakes. If I couldn't get the real Dominican cake, then I could at least have some island flavours.
Our friends were at another friend's birthday, and my husband went to get a haircut while I got ready for dinner, so I ended up by myself at their Russian Hill flat. We were to meet at a fabulous new spot for cocktails. As I perused the web for possible rentals (my main occupation these days) the monster awoke.     For those of you who don't know me that well, I am almost always hungry. There is actually a book with that title, and every time I see it I feel robbed. My husband named the phenomenon "the monster", because we will eat the same meals, at the same time, on any given day, yet I will be so hungry my stomach will growl and I will start to feel lightheaded, just a few hours (sometimes less), after one of our common meals. As a matter of fact, I am pretty hungry right now.
Once the monster is awake, it has to be fed.  Waiting is not an option, as it will take over my body and soul and a new persona will emerge. A much angrier, edgy, not so nice persona.
 So I searched our friend's kitchen for some food. There were ingredients to prepare a meal (eggs, vegetables, grains, beans....) but no snack items at all. Not a piece of fruit that would be filling enough, no chips, no cheese, no nuts... I gave up and continued to get ready. It started getting upset with me for ignoring it, and I started to get a headache. Fuck! Well, there was the birthday cake...
As I debated cutting my own birthday cake, a day early, by myself, I realized that if I didn't, because of some romantic idea of the birthday celebration and the meaning of the cake, I would be going against my core belief, that we should view food, first and foremost as nourishment, then as pleasure. Not that genoise with passion fruit mousse is that nourishing, but it would put the monster to rest until dinner time, it would make the headache go away, and it would prevent me from getting drunk from cocktails on an empty stomach. It would also prevent me being a bitch to my husband for no apparent reason. So I sliced myself a small piece, sat down on our friend's comfortable suede couch, and savoured every bite of my birthday cake.
Some people don't like their birthdays. They claim that it is stupid to celebrate them as it is just another day. Other people feel that birthdays are for the friends and families of the individual, it is their day to celebrate and honor the person. My husband once got yelled at by a loved one for deciding to throw his own birthday party instead of going to some other party that was being held the same day (even though said party was not in his honor!).
 I believe that birthdays are important, as it is a day to celebrate someone and their past, present and future, but I strongly believe that you should do whatever the fuck YOU want on your birthday, whether that involves your friends, family, significant other or not.
So as I sat by myself in someone else's home, in my beloved city that is somehow still my home, I felt blessed to have a birthday cake, to have thought about taking care of it when I did instead of waiting for it to magically take care of itself, to have a few minutes to myself during my birthday/house hunting weekend, and to be wise enough to feed the monster, even if it meant cutting the cake a day early.
Later at dinner, my husband asked me if it had been sad to have to cut into it to prevent the strike of the over hungry monster. It really wasn't, instead it was grounding, in making me realize how much more flexible of a person I am now, at 29, than I was before.
 When it left the case at the bakery, my birthday cake had no idea what was in store for it. It turned out to be more of a hero than a clown. It wasn't just going to perform an entertaining, pleasurable luxury at someone's party, it had actually saved me (and my husband) from a very unpleasant night. So, Happy Birthday to me, and kudos to my delicious cake!
P.S: As I proof read this, I am having a snack.

Here We Go!

" We're gonna take it on down the track (...) pack the boxes, load the truck, just another place for us to try our luck. Where the weather is fine and the folks are nice (...) if you never try it you never know, you gotta stretch if you wanna grow, keep a lookout for our letters from the road, yeah here we go (...) we ain't afraid of facing the what ifs and I don't knows, so let's do it, let's raise our glasses high and toast to west coast searching that we do, because you never know until you try.
So here we go. Called everyone and said goodbye and how we gave this old town a try (...) so I guess it's time for the big 180 me and my boy and my foxy lady, she looked at me and I looked at her and I said I know, so here we go. Ain't no worries what's a little back and forth (...) ain't no hurry for us to settle down, before we die we want to try it all and have ourselves a little look around, from town to town. So here we go..."
The above words are on quotation because believe it or not I did not write them. They are actually the lyrics to a song, that by now, has become the closest my husband and I have ever had to "our song".
We moved to this beautiful small town less than two months ago.
We have since decided to move closer to San Francisco for my lovely husband to take the job that was offered to him a few weeks ago.
 Today, I will start packing the boxes, and Monday and Tuesday we are driving down to the East Bay to look for a new home.  Again.
  I am having a hard time being as mindful through this move as I was through our previous. We had decided to leave Boston two weeks before we left, and I spent everyday of those two weeks, and of the week that followed while we drove the truck west, meditating on what we wanted from this town for our lives. 
What kind of house we were hoping to find, what type of jobs I was hoping to find, and what kind of life we wanted to create for ourselves in this community.
 It seems as if I worked so hard on it, that I actually made it happen.  "Putting it out there" is one thing. But taking the time and the energy to actively search for it, to think about it with enough presence to manifest it, and taking the appropriate steps that will lead you in that direction, are another.
 I was grateful to my practice for providing me with the tools I needed to accomplish this task.  I was grateful to my husband for always being supportive and grateful himself.  I was grateful to myself for utilizing those tools and for staying calm, trusting and present.
Now I find myself taking on this second move (second this year, in my adult life, this will actually be my twelfth) in some sort of auto-pilot mode.
 Spend a couple of hours a day on craigslist. Save the possible homes to our favorites. Email the agents showing to schedule a viewing...
It's almost as if because I have done it so many times , and because I just did it, this whole "moving" thing is embedded in my cells.  It's a natural response, like walking, or opening my eyes when I wake up.  I just do it.
However, I realized today, that it won't work out as well unless I get off auto and start thinking of what I am doing.
  I should take the time to realize that this time around, we got exactly what we wanted from the components that we searched for ourselves (meaning our home, its location, my jobs) because we were mindful in our path. 
We were accepting instead of resistant. We were trusting and patient, even if, as you all very well know, I had to work very hard on those two.  We were tranquil, and we didn't let it get to us.
So I think today, instead of starting to pack, I'm gonna reset my mind, body and spirit.
This is a separate move.  It is just the fact of the matter.  This is not something to be done in auto pilot, this is something to live through.
So let me start actively putting it out there again.  What do we want from this new adventure? And what do we need to do to get it?
What do we want in a home? What would the dream home be?  Look for it, with trust, patience, and courage.
Have some fun with it.  Sit outside under our beautiful tree that we will be leaving behind soon and use the laptop to search there instead of on the couch.  Have a glass of wine, after all, we still live in wine country.
If we made it happen this time around, we can surely do it again.  But we have to trust, we have to believe, and we have to relax.  We have to wake up every day and find the energy within us to put it out there again, with the same active determination as we did before.
So I'm gonna make myself a "Caliente Sunrise", one of my husband's cocktails, and put on some music and  meditate on everything that we want from this new town, and this new page on our book.
 A friend once told me, that maybe the reason why I was destined to move around so much (and this was in the middle of my 3rd move I think!) was to make friends all over the world, and influence their lives as I always let them influence mine. It sounded so romantic, yet so exhausting. Twelve and counting, but don't have enough fingers (not even counting the "foot fingers") to count all of those friends I've made.  Maybe she was right, and this is my path.
Or maybe Patrick and Paul were right, and I'm just a fucking gypsy.

When it rains, it pours!

 About three weeks ago, the gentleman who was doing most of the remodeling in our home, and then our neighbor's unit, used the expression "When it rains it pours" to describe the fact that after days of no work in our house, all of a sudden there were three different people here at the same time, working on three different projects.
  He is a very nice man, quiet and hardworking, yet pleasant and smiley.  It was always nice to see him around here (although uncle Mark felt I really did need to get a job when I told him how nice it was to chat with my friend Pat, the handyman). 
  In my quest to patience and waiting to find the right job(s) I started thinking a lot about that expression.  On several occasions, I actually thought " I hope that it will pour.  I hope that right now I can't find any employment because eventually I will have so many options I won't know what to do."
''Careful what you wish for" my grandma always used to say to me.
Here I find myself today, a storm of possibilities ravaging my thoughts.  When I wished for this, I had no idea how much it was actually going to rain...
  Last Saturday I went in for a second interview at a busy local restaurant.  I had a great time, the people who worked there seemed very nice, and it is an institution here in Sonoma, so getting a job there ensures some security.  Later that day, my former  Yoga teachers (the ones that ran the teacher training program I completeded) invited me to their Yoga retreat house here in town, and offered me a job with them.  It is rather ideal, except for the fact that my hours depend entirely on their trainings.  If they have an ongoing training, I will be working a good amount of hours.  If they don't, I will be working just a few.  The pay per hour is generous, and the work environment is beautiful and peaceful.
 Yesterday,  I started training at a local yoga studio to work the desk.  As in most studios, you trade your time at work for classes, workshops and other goods.  The manager is a wonderful woman, and just being around her for a few hours made me realize this was going to be a great thing for me.  Get my foot in the door, meet like minded people in our new community,  gain my confidence in teaching, perfect.
 After that, I went for an interview at the local Whole Foods.  For those of you who don't know, I have been wanting to work at Whole Foods for quite a while now.  I love food, I love alternatives when it comes to food, and I really want to learn how the retail side of food works.  What does it take to run a market like that?
 I interviewed with two different people, the store manager and the Produce team leader, and both went well.  They will contact me at the end of the week with an answer, and I left feeling hopeful and grateful.
 As I was leaving, I checked my phone and noticed I had a message from a local number I wasn't familiar with. It was the manager at the restaurant I interviewed on Saturday, asking me to call her back to figure out a schedule for me to start working with them.
 I rode my bike home rather fast.   I was hungry, and my mind was going a million miles an hour.  Should I turn down the position at the busy restaurant because it's not what I want? It seems like I have a pattern of responsability that makes me always take the jobs at the "best restaurant in town" and then I find mysef miserable in them.
 Should I risk it with the part time at the Yoga retreat house and hope that I get the part time position at Whole Foods?  When we decided to move here I put it out in the universe that I wanted to work part time in food and part time in Yoga. Hello?! Kinda' seems as if that is what I would be getting out of this deal!
 After getting home and having lunch with my husband while we discussed these options, I found myself a little overwhelmed and unsettled.  I went for a walk, I spoke to my parents, but still felt rattled.  So I went to our spare room, lit a candle, lit some incense, and practiced yoga and meditation for a while.  I found my peace, and was ready to sit in our yard and hang out with my man.
 I checked my phone  (it doesn't ring, so I check it on a semi regular basis to see if anyone has called) and found a message from my former boss. He never leaves me messages. I played it and heard his serious voice telling me that he had a "work related question for me".  I called him back, he didn't answer.  He called me back, and luckily the phone was still in my hand so I saw it coming in and picked up.
 Somehow that man has the strange power to change my life with just a few words.  He cares a lot about us, and he is generous in showing it, but this was way more rain than I had asked for.
 The work related question was more directed towards my husband than it was towards me.  One of the bartenders  at a very busy dowtown restaurant in San Francisco (where my husband has wanted to work for a while) is leaving, and before he set out to look for a replacement, he wanted to know if we were interested. No pressure.
Mind you, we moved here with the job my husband now has because it allowed us to have a job as soon as we got here, but he took a severe pay cut to do that, and the job itself has turned out to be less than ideal.
  Now on top of all my options, we actually have to consider the option of moving closer to the city, for him to change jobs.  This job would bring us really good  financial stability.  We are not really money people, which is exactly why we don't have any money.  And although money doesn't make happiness, it sure does help.  And if we don't jump at the opportunity to make money, then how the hell will we ever have money?
 But really? The same exact day I get an offer, an interview where I have always wanted to work, and start training at a Yoga studio? The same day!!!!???? I had actually been planning on calling this man's wife, to get some advice from her in my job decision making!
 This morning my husband said to me: " Do you know what sucks?" What? " When you try to sleep on something and instead you can't sleep because of it!"
  We are finally starting to fell at home in our new house.  We love it.  We love having a yard.  We love being in the country.  We love having so much space.  However, this town is seasonal.  And this is the season. 
So if we are not really making a lot of money during the season, chances are we will not be making a lot during the off seaon.  But we just moved!!!!!!! When do we get to stay somewhere???????
So here we are, in indecision land, weighing our options, lots of options, thinking of how many times, while we lived in Boston, my husband wished to get that phone call from my former boss. We think at least seven. 
 This is one of the times in life, where the line is very blurry, and you wish it was clearer.  The pros and the cons are both high on either end, and you feel that whichever decision you make, regret will surely ensue.
Today is my first day working at Nauliland, the retreat house.  So I will try to be present, and take it one minute at a time, as I go to my first "work" day since we moved here. I will bring with me an imaginary giant colorful umbrella, and hope that at least for today, it covers me from the rain, that I actually, somehow, wished for.