Earth, Wind and Fire

A loved one recently loaned me a book called The Path: Creating Your Mission Statement for Work and for Life.

He is now deeply regretting that decision, as one of those silly "exercises," one designed to make you think about yourself in a slightly different way for approximately thirty seconds, has had me pondering the four elements--essentially, take the 70's soul/funk band and add some water--for 24 hours straight, literally causing me to lose sleep, as if I should really expect my entire unique identity to fit into some neat little box some ancient Greeks conjured up over 2,000 years ago.

Think about the Four Elements: Earth, Water, Wind and Fire. Which one are you most like?

To me, it felt a bit like the Sorting Hat scene in Harry Potter. Admit it--you know if you had on that hat, you'd want to be in Gryffindor, to be brave and loyal and daring and save the wizarding world from the evils of Voldemort, when more than likely, you'd be hopping on your broom and getting the hell out of Hogwarts the first time anyone mentioned You Know Who's name.

I like to think of myself as "fire." I am a Sagittarius, after all, a wonderful fire sign known for being passionate, adventurous, independent, ambitious and idealistic. Not unlike the typical Gryffindor in J.K. Rowling's fictional world.

And yet, I asked my closest friends and family, and with the exception of my mother (who must know me well enough to know how I would answer), the overwhelming consensus was that I am water.

Water? Water seems dull. Boring. Kind of like being a Hufflepuff. Kind, gregarious, hardworking. Yawn. I'd rather be a Slytherin. Better bad--known for cunning and success--than boring.

What is my fear of boring? Of being commonplace, dull or unexceptional? Maybe because I've always been called "cute" and "nice," words without substance. Maybe it's because for the first 32 years of my life, I always did exactly what expected of me. I studied hard, I worked hard, I married the first guy I slept with, I didn't drink until I was 20--I followed the rules and still wound up unhappy and unfulfilled. Clearly, ordinary and normal didn't work for me.

And even now, as I'm in the trenches trying to figure out who I am and what I really want out of life, I know that the answer most certainly is not typical, average or expected--or at least what I have up until this point in my life considered normal, average or expected of myself.

That dream of perfect children, the Volvo wagon and the Morningside bungalow is morphing into a Midtown condo, a used Honda Accord and a home full of love, intimacy and excitement--not necessarily babies. Things that may be the norm for others, but up until this point in my life, I would not consider normal for me. Or even paths that I would consider at all.

But my identity is evolving, unfolding each and every day, and what I'm learning is that I can create and follow my own unique path without necessarily being "fire" or perceived as such. And in the end, my astrological sign, my earth element, my Myers-Briggs type (INFJ, if you must know) or my Hogwarts House (Ravenclaw, if I had to guess) mean nothing. It's what I do with my unique qualities and talents--passion, commitment and a sincere desire to connect with others transcend any type of classification.

And in the end, I have determined that water brings up really powerful words that resonate with me. Emotional, intuitive, nurturing, kind, empathetic, sensitive, fluid, dreamy, visionary, creative, loving, imaginative and slightly mysterious. Water is less predictable than the steady, reliable earth and not as combustible or fickle as fire. It's much more grounded in feeling than air. And they're the kind of qualities I'd love to cultivate--along with a bit of fiery passion, earthly resoluteness and lofty dreaming.

Unhappy Anniversary

Today is my third wedding anniversary. Which, under normal circumstances, would be something to be celebrated, but given the fact that I had my divorce papers signed and notarized today, it was not a happy occasion. Nor was it an entirely sad one. I felt relief that the end is in sight, grief for what I've lost, sad for what might of been and hope that I can start life anew.

I live in a world of big, shiny diamonds, $30,000 weddings and designer gowns. I used to buy into the myth--I believe I was more invested in the wedding itself than I was in the marriage. A poor investment with a $70,000 loss, not counting attorneys' fees. And I am sad for both of us. Sad that I couldn't be what he wanted or expected, sad that I have outgrown what I thought I needed and expected. Sad that I thought years of togetherness and companionship and fun would equal a happy marriage and was too scared or stubborn to jump off the wedding merry-go-round.

I now know better and am surprisingly optimistic about the second time around. Because it's not about the day, it's about the lifetime. Of intimacy, of understanding, of shared vision and passion and learning and growth and maturity and the infinite possibilities life has to offer if you dare to live authentically.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Like most women, I have a love/hate relationship with my body. These days, I am in awe of what my body can do for me--propel me up hills; drag me along kicking and screaming for miles upon miles; fold, if not pretzel-like, respectable enough in my yoga classes and lift gracefully into Teaser in some of Penelope's toughest Pilates sessions. And yet, in spite of all those things, in spite of the fact that the largest size you'll find in my closet is a 2, I continue to heap abuse on myself day after day, week after week, year after year, until it becomes tiresome even to myself.

Where is the feminism in that? Where is the love and respect for all that I have accomplished, thanks to my strong core, muscular legs and flexible lower back? Ten years ago, I couldn't run for ten consecutive minutes--yesterday, I rolled out of bed and ran for over two hours, heat, humidity and all.

I like to tell people I'm small, but strong. And yet in my eyes, it's never small enough.

I struggled with my weight in my teens and early 20's, yo-yoing back and forth--five pounds here, fifteen pounds there, but never really approaching my health in an integrated manner. This all-consuming obsession with food, calories and exercise helped me to loose nearly thirty pounds, but also led me down the dangerous road to anorexia, and quite honestly, I've never quite recovered.

I try to conceive of food as fuel, of running as strengthening, of yoga as purifying, of Pilates as balancing. And yet, I always find myself comparing my body to others--wishing by feet were bunion-free, my boobs were just a bit perkier or my stomach were just a bit tinier.

I've thrown out the scale, and try to use my clothes as a barometer, but my body is changing rapidly as I present it with new challenges, and I certainly can't trust what I see in the mirror, because most days, I still see a chubby, depressed and insecure teen. And yet, every now and again--sometimes, it's when I first wake up in the morning, and others, it's just a passing glance at the muscle in my thighs or the curve of my belly--and I think "wow, I'm beautiful."

I wish I had more of those days.

We are Family

Last Sunday, I was confirmed as a member of the Episcopal Church. A lifelong member of the United Methodist Church, I had grown weary not only of that denomination's inconsistent theology, but of doctrine that I continually found contrary to my understanding of the Social Gospel.

And nothing could have confirmed that more than a scene I witnessed the Sunday morning of my confirmation. It was something that is probably seen in churches throughout the world--a five week-old boy in the arms of his father and openly doted on by members of the congregation. Except that this particular family would probably not be as openly welcomed in other congregations as it is in mine. For what is extremely ordinary in my particular parish--a family that includes two loving parents that both happen to be male--would not seem quite so ordinary in others.

In 2008, it makes me sad that we cannot appreciate loving families in whatever form they take. And yet, this joyful scene in my little part of the world, coupled with the California Supreme Court's decision this week, gave me hope that one day, we will cease to make distinctions based on sexuality, race, gender, ethnicity or economic status and will simply accept one another as members of the worldwide family called humanity.

Newsworthy?

Confession: I love my People magazine as much as the next girl. The pictures, the gossip, the fashion, and yes, of course, the "Sexiest Man Alive." Perfect mindless reading for a long flight, indulging in a mani/pedi or sitting on the beach with a piña colada.

But I prefer entertainment in its place--in People and US Weekly, on E! and Entertainment Tonight--NOT in the arts section of my local paper, on CNN or heaven forbid, in The New York Times.

So, imagine my shock when I logged onto msn.com a few days ago and watched my computer crash from what almost certainly had to be "breaking news." And what was this earthshattering event? The final determination of a Democrat presidential nominee or finding survivors of the devastating earthquake in China or cyclone in Burma? Of course not.

Apparently, Brad Pritt and Angelina Jolie are having twins. I mean, I could find it slighty newsworthy if they were adopting another orphan from an impoverished country, building eco-friendly homes in New Orleans or lobbying on behalf of refugees in Darfur, but for procreating? For being just another couple to use pregnancy as publicity?

I'm tired of sub-par journalistic standards. A search for "breaking news" on CNN results in stories about forthcoming plotlines on Desperate Housewives, Paris Hilton's escapades in London and American Idol host Ryan Seacrest's interiew on Larry King Live. What happened to poverty, hunger, famine, war, disease? Aside from the gold standards like The New York Times, The Washington Post and NPR, you almost have to search for real news amongst Britney's latest meltdown and Lindsay Lohan's incessant partying.

No wonder the average American isn't "smarter" than a 3rd grader...

Prozac Nation

I'll admit it--I'm on anti-depressants. And in this day and age, who isn't? I'm surprised they don't dispense them in vending machines along with Coke and M&M's. Or, as my friend T used to say, "they should just put them in the drinking water, and the world would be a happier place."

Yet in spite of how helpful I've found them, I still feel conflicted about their prevalence in our society. Yes, there are millions of people suffering from clinical depression--myself included--that truly need the drugs to regain some sense of control and normalcy. Depression is scary, isolating, sneaky and debilitating. No matter how many times I think I've beaten it, it comes roaring back, stronger than ever and ready to beat me down for another ten rounds.

And yet, the oft-used misnomer, "happy pill," belies both the seriousness of the disease as well as the treatment. Prozac, or your drug of choice, is not 40 mg (or 50 or 100, whatever the dosage may be) of pure bliss, nor is it a panacea for the sadness, loneliness and frustration that are a part of every day living. The fact that these pills are prescribed at an alarming rate--often to those whose woes are temporary and surmountable--also negates the seriousness of real clinical depression and the toll it takes on those it affects.

So, yes, I take my little pill every night, but I'm also doing everything I can--exercise, meditation, writing, therapy--to ensure that I am as healthy and strong as I can be to deal with whatever life throws at me. But one day, I hope that my evening ritual will not include those little pink pills.

Puppy Love

My soon-to-be ex--let's call him B--would probably tell you that our two dogs caused the breakup of our marriage. And I would disagree with him wholeheartedly. Those dogs--Bismarck, a happy-go-lucky golden retriever/border collie mix, and Buster, the fierce-looking pit bull/boxer mix with more bark than bite--were the loves of my life. My world revolved around those two puppies. Jogs around the neighborhood, snuggles at night, expeditions to summer activities in Piedmont Park--those were the things that grounded me, that made me feel safe and loved. I fell asleep many a night clinging to one or both of them, shedding tears for a sadness, a longing I had yet to name.

And much like many couples in a troubled marriage, the kids kept us together. When we stopped talking about the important things--money, dreams, fears, our deepest thoughts--we had the dogs. They were the tenuous glue that held our marriage together, especially when it became clear that the dogs--along with a shared bank account--were all that we had left in common.

It took me nearly a year to find the courage not only to leave my husband, but to leave my "children." I still feel like a horrible mother for abandoning them. I've spent many nights crying myself to sleep, missing their hugs, their kisses, their silly little faces and mannerisms. No matter how many times I've told them that their mommy loves them, it still breaks my heart to know that I can't see them every day, and even when I do, it will never be the same, and I will be reminded of the life I left behind.

But they are together and happy and well-loved. If only I could find utter contentment with a yard to play in, a roof over my head and an endless supply of kibble.

Steer

Sometimes I wonder why I write, as some genius songwriter has already thought the same thoughts and felt the same feelings and put them to music much more eloquently than I ever could.

One of my favorite songwriters is Missy Higgins, a brilliant Australian musician whom I was lucky enough to see tonight at the Variety Playhouse. Nothing beats a good live show, and Missy was no exception.

Her concert was like a songbook for the past several months of my life. "Steer," which is about finding an inner strength you had all along, has been my personal anthem...

But the search ends here
Where the night is totally clear
And your heart is fierce
So now you finally know
That you control where you go...you can steer

From the first time I heard it, the song resonated with me. I certainly felt confined and limited--by my career, by my relationships, by my finances, by my previous choices, by my own expectations and those others had for me--but when I searched deep enough and was willing to face the fear, I found that I wanted more and had the courage to leave everything behind in search of the happiness that had been eluding me.

And I said good-bye to all that was familiar. The safety and security of a "comfortable" yet unfulfulling marriage, the stability of a 9 to 5 job, the carefully crafted persona I had created for myself--I shed it all, not knowing what was to come. But I was certain of this:

I don't know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cause she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood
("Where I Stood")

This lack of self-identity without the careful life you've crafted for yourself, the feeling that you're not good enough or right enough for the person you pledged to spend your life with--recognizing my flaws and my culpability in my unhappiness--it was not easy nor pleasant. And it was downright terrifying. But I knew that if my identity was attached solely to the expectations of others, it was not authentic. And without authenticity, I couldn't grow. I couldn't learn. I couldn't be me, and all that I was created to be. I couldn't experience the fullness of life without daring to live with integrity, courage and fear of the unknown.

And that old life didn't fit me. It was Lena's life, not Laura Beth's.

A triangle trying to squeeze through a circle
He tried to cut me so I'd fit
And doesn't that sound familiar?
Doesn't that hit too close to home?
Doesn't that make you shiver, the way things could've gone?
And doesn't it feel peculiar that everyone wants a little more?
So that I do remember to never go that far
Could you leave me with a scar?
("Scar")

And my life is not without those scars. The pain of losing a good friend. Missing my two puppies. The recalibration of dreams. But it's living.

Retail Therapy

As much as I am trying to embrace a simpler, debt-free lifestyle, I have to confess: nothing feels better than a new pair of shoes. New shoes are a panacea for bad days, among them Bad Hair Day, I Hate Everything in My Closet and Have Nothing to Wear Day, I Have an Enormous Recurring Zit in the Center of my Forehead Day, I Have Period Bloat and My Jeans Don't Fit Day and I am Overwhelmed by Life in General Day. And when all the above coincide with I Had a Meeting with My Soon-to-Be Ex-Husband about Our Divorce Settlement Day, well, nothing but a pair of shoes will do. And so, a pair of shoes I purchased. Specifically, a pair of bronze Banana Republic peep-toe ballet flats, completely justified by their comfort, versatility and $34.99 price tag--which, with tax, comes $2.21 UNDER my budget for "miscellaneous" spending in the month of May. And the benefit to my mental health? Priceless.