if i could have married liz ...

it's been a few months since your wedding, but there isn't a day that goes by that i don't wish i could have been there. even as it would have been impossible for me to stand before you, seeing you both all dressed up in your love and your finery, and not get all mushy … it would not only have been an honor, it would have been a great, grand pleasure to marry you, my friend.

if i could have married you, i'd have said that anyone who knows you, knows that together you and tony are the best versions of yourselves. you can be brave and silly and sincere all at once. you try when you don't feel like it … and you say what you mean and you almost always mean something that's all about being true and right and good.

if i could have married you, i'd have said that anyone who knows you also knows that you found each other in the best way … in that delicious, heady mix of friendship and flirting and dancing around the edges until it finally all falls into place … and you have built a relationship befitting such a beginning ... a relationship that encourages creativity and irreverence and an enthusiasm for life

if i could have married you, i'd have told you that i remember the day tony first told me he had a crush on you. i can remember it as clear as i remember all the words to 'copacabana.' tony and i were rehearsing a play, in shannon's slanting kitchen, and i was sitting at the table as he leaned against the counter and shannon took something out of the refrigerator and i remember thinking, 'he is perfect for her! … and his timing couldn't be worse.'

see, that was the winter of your discontent ... the summer you spent hurtling yourself through space; living your life like a fireball … burning and fast.

if i could have married you, i'd have reminded you how difficult it was to be near you, then - even as it remained incredibly easy to love you and to wish you the greatest of happiness … and as certain as i was that tony was the perfect match for you, i knew … and you knew, too … that you needed to fall in love with yourself, long, long before you could fall for anyone else.

if i could have married you, i would have gladly admitted that now, all these years later, as we've finally passed through the silly youngness of us, i am thrilled that you have finally discovered a love that has transformed you. two of them, in fact: the love you have for tony and the love you've finally allowed for yourself.

if i could have married you, i 'd have had to confess that it's such a strange thing for me, now … marrying people … because i know so well how things can unfold. having had such a public relationship dissolve backstage so spectacularly, i might be better suited to stand up and lecture on politics or nascar ... although, i'm not a fan ...

all the running around in circles, bumping and rubbing up against one another and pretending not to notice the damage … jockeying for position and sponsors and pandering to the idiots in motor homes camped out in the middle of it all. it makes me wonder if it's possible to persuade people to embrace a sense of urgency that is not circumscribed by self-interest. it makes me wonder if there is anything that can move us to take stock of the present moment – this moment, here and now – and consider how our power to make things anew can be shared with others. it makes me wonder if i have what it takes to undertake a new beginning. do i even know what that is?

(i hope i do. i think i must, or i wouldn't be writing tonight.)

how does it all begin? and why? is it something primal? something whispering deep in the bones or genes, 'that one.' the old darwinian shuffle showing us a few steps we haven't heard about before ... a mindless certainty humming blithely along beneath our ignorance that ensures we would come together.

whatever the reason, i am impossibly grateful for that particular brand of evolutionary magic that brings us together - in a work place … in friendship … in love.

if i could have married you, i'd have been forced to admit that marrying people does not make me an expert on love; it does not make me a fortune teller. if i could have married you, i wouldn't have been able to stand before you and tell you that you won't feel rain or cold … that you won't know pain or loneliness … that things will always (or ever) be easy, because i don't know that that's true - it's not been my experience. but i do know that happiness in marriage is not something that just happens. it must be created.

and if i could have married you, i'd have let you in on a little secret … i'd have told you that as beautiful as it feels right now, being married sucks sometimes. and other times, it's spectacularly lovely. and in between, well, it's groceries and laundry and struggles for the remote control and kisses goodnight and passing in the hallway on your way to separate rehearsals.

it's matter of fact and magic all at once.

and, no matter what anyone tells you, the little things are the big things.

it is standing together facing the world. it is doing things for each other, not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy. it is speaking words of appreciation and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways. it is not looking for perfection in each other. it is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding and a sense of humor. it is having the capacity to forgive and to forget. it is giving each other an atmosphere in which each of you can grow. it is finding room for the things of the spirit and a common search for the good and the beautiful. it is creating a relationship in which the independence is equal, dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.

but this, i know, is not news to you - or you wouldn't be where you are right now. and i wouldn't be where i am, either.

nope. i'll never pretend to be an expert - on love or marriage, but there are things that i do know:

i know that when you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. that is impossible. it is a disservice to pretend it might even be an option. yet, that is what most of us demand.

we have such little faith in the ebb and flow of life and of love and of relationships. we leap forward at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb ... afraid it will never return. we insist on permanence, on duration, on continuity. but the only continuity possible in love, as in life, is in growth, in fluidity and in freedom, as partners in creating the same pattern.

it is a choice you'll make every day.

and if i could have married you, i'd have told you that my great hope for you is that the love that you have for each other continue to grow and hold you close and that i hope every one of your dreams come true. but when they don't … i hope new dreams rise up to take their place, so that long, long years from now, you will be able to look at one another, just as you did that night, and be able to say, 'because of you, i lived the life i always wanted to live. because of you, i became the person i always wanted to be.'

i love you, liz. and if i could have married you, i'd have had to thank you over and over and over again for reminding me that while i am no expert, i am still a fan … of love, of marriage and of all the stuff that comes of and from and between the two sometimes.

and that i hope upon hope that someday, you'll be able to marry me.

yes, virginia. there is a santa claus.

was there ever something you knew for sure would someday be yours ... to have ... to experience ... to be?

was there ever a day you admitted to yourself that it wouldn't materialize? and were you lucky enough to find peace in that admission?

and were you luckier, still, to find one day that it might finally come to pass?

today was such a day for me and i am impossibly grateful for even the possibility of it.

and so i go to sleep tonight, knowing morning will come far too soon ... work will be hard and long ... but with this 'hello kitty' stamp on my hand and these braids knotted by tiny five.year.old hands ... i couldn't be happier if i tried.

... until then ...

hello, dear friends. happy ten days before christmas.

i trust that you're rushing about, enjoying home and friends and the warm texas sun.

it's cold and rainy where i am today. i love the rain here. the clouds, like everyone else in southern california, are polite, bringing themselves as close to the ground as they can so that the drops, plump and newborn, won't have far to fall. everything gets all shimmery and fresh-smelling and i get lost in the green and beauty of it all.

it's strange, still, to think of you, half a day and what feels like half a world and another season away. but still, from opposite ends of the earth, we get to meet here.

there is much to say ... tales of retail anthropology, my injur-wiis and my blinking reindeer nose ... of parking woes and new favorite things and giant leaps of faith.

but, the new day has already arrived and i should stock up on sleep before the real rush begins. (aside from holiday madness, i am in sale prep again, flipping our floor and racing headlong into 'spring.' and in the midst, days off will be few and far between. still, it will help me appreciate the rest when it finally comes down, no?)

but do tell ... where are you headed today?

i imagine you're immersed somewhere in sunshine and shopping and (hopefully) the relaxation of home and the holiday there. and i wish i could be nearer somehow.

and yes. i know i owe you a letter.

until then ...

a kiss. and another. i miss you.

... la

right, right away

over and over there has been this question for me ... what does it mean when you meet someone and you feel something - this shininess coming from them, some kind of glimmer of recognition about them you can feel all the way down to your stomach? is it desperately important? a missed opportunity if you don't catch it?

i've missed many. they came at me when i wasn't looking; when i wasn't remotely ready; when i just wanted to be left alone. and they never looked the way they were supposed to look or the way i thought they would.

and so i stood there, immovable in my fear and my embarrassment ... blinded by supposition and intimidation ... made mute by uncertainty or history ... and always by my own decision.

i let them go by. one after another. until i couldn't feel them anymore ...

... until the day a half-smile and a lopsided-gait threw me to the ground and knocked the wind out of me.

and in these days that follow, i've made the choice not to let the things i don't do define me. i've stopped being embarrassed of myself, hiding bits of me away, being 'hard to know,' playing 'hard to get.' and i've never been so happy.

though, it's harder than i thought it would be. and what makes it hard is that it comes so easily. and everyone knows (and are only too happy to remind me) that it isn't supposed to be this easy. or this soon. or this right. at least not right away.

and, sometimes, against my better judgement, i listen to 'everyone.' i measure my experience against the 'should be's' and the 'supposed to's.' and knowing my luck the way i do, i wonder if there will come a day when the other shoe will drop ... if fate will step in and tell me it was only kidding. i wonder if the next time will be the last time and if, in the surrender, i'll be the thing that has to give.

but i wonder, more, if i haven't finally lived long enough, hard enough, sweetly enough, that this is my reward. i wonder if this is what i've been waiting for. or rather, if this has been waiting for me ... to catch up, to figure it out, to finally deserve my happiness ... and not just deserve it, but finally reach out and take it.

maybe that's what everyone's supposed to do. maybe it's just that easy after all.

here comes the bride

darling liz ... dear, sweet, blushing bride.to.be liz;

it's been too long since we've talked. of course, we're good enough friends that you understand this is just the way i am ... and so, from opposite ends of the earth, we get to meet here.

i am over the moon for you! for both of you, yes, but mostly for you.

i was there, in the winter of your broken heart. i watched you hurtle yourself through space, living your life like a fireball, burning and fast. it was difficult to be near you, then - even as it remained incredibly easy to love you and to wish you the greatest of happiness.

and now, all these years later, as we've finally passed through the silly youngness of us, i am thrilled that you have finally discovered a love that has transformed you. (and i'm sorry, tony, but it is not you.)

more than atticus, more than tony, i can see you've finally fallen in love with liz (they way we all eventually do) and i am so excited for your happy ending/happier beginning. truly, i am.

as beautiful as it feels right now, i'll let you in on a little secret no one tells you when you're first engaged ... being married sucks sometimes. and other times, it's spectacularly lovely. and in between, well, it's groceries and laundry and struggles for the remote control and passing in the hallway on your way to separate rehearsals and kisses goodnight. it's matter of fact and magic all at once.

and i can't wait to see you in the middle of it all, shining and happy and on your way toward 'forever.'

and do me a favor, will you? wear your 'ass-kicking' boots under your wedding gown ... so you'll always remember that in the middle of your joy, it's possible - necessary, even - to hold on to a piece of the person you were before the 'two' became 'one.' you'll both be the better for it. i promise you that.

fear of flying

fear of flying

i am home from my latest trip. this time, i was in dallas for a few days to see the new fall merchandise for the store. i think it takes longer to get to and through the airport than it does to actually fly there and back, but still, i enjoy the process. the airport is ripe with possibility. the entire world is, literally, at my feet and i adore the idea that at any minute, i could step through another gate and be on my way to some new and wonderful adventure.

as much as i love the airport, i do not love flying. well, that's not exactly true. i like flying. i do not like the 'taking off.' i do not like the 'landing.' i know people who can read, listen to their ipods, talk with their seat mate during these crucial flight times, but i am not one of them. nope. can't do it.

i quietly grip the armrest, close my eyes and hold my breath. in my head, i picture the people and pets i adore and say silent 'i love yous' to them all. i am convinced that it is these 'i love yous' and not physics or aerodynamics that allow the planes i'm aboard to ascend and alight safely.

ridiculous? perhaps. irrational? indeed. but still. it's what i do. and to date, i have a perfect record. yeah, me!

once in a blue moon

tonight is the blue moon.

and, as the song says, i am 'standing alone.' (i take direction well.)

'alone' has never held the fear or discomfort for me that it does for most. maybe it's because i have more practice or because my imagination keeps me company when company is hard to find. i almost crave the sensation, sometimes, of being accountable for entertaining only myself. i am a good friend. an excellent host. and i enjoy my company immensely.

and here, on the night when we can do the things we normally only dream of doing, that which is unusual for us, uncharacteristic, rare...

i am sitting still. quietly. wishing for company.

really, i am.

knees up, in my chair, waiting for you to come through the door, smiling and telling me of your latest adventure. and if you do, i'll smile and ask you to sit and stay awhile and share yourself with me. and for once, i won't talk over you or around you or at you. we will just sit and creep toward closeness. you, holding my hand, me - holding my tongue.

come here anytime, you'll be welcomed with open arms.