like, totally....

I was raised in the Valley - yes, that Valley; and, as I type these words, I'm clear that this is a story that's been holding me hostage, and so, I let it go...

Let's start fresh, from right here, right now.


I say like a lot.

Like, a lot.

It peppers a great, big bunch of my sentences--clear, cancel, delete.  It has - historically - peppered a great, big bunch of my sentences, while filling in plenty of spaces in between.

I've pondered my careless overuse of this insidious little like many times throughout our years together, analyzing its ubiquity in my expression from various angles and vantage points.

Like slipped into the collective Valley Girl consciousness, including my own, in the 80s as a way to maintain an air of non-committal whateverness, such that the speaker (moi) need not actually own the statement trailing its red patent leather heels. 

For example: "It was, like, the smallest elephant in the world."

In this instance, like frees the speaker from any actual responsibility from what she's purporting to be true, such that the subject of her sentence may actually be a perfectly average-sized elephant, or a moth, or a toenail.  

More recently, back when I was sprinkling careless likes between my otherwise deliberately-chosen words, it was a check-out - an unconscious tic of tongue, inadvertently disempowering my speech, dumbing me down to judgmental ears receiving me as vapid and shallow, because that's one of the unfortunate side effects of the overused like - it vibrates at the same energetic frequency as stupid.

Like is a tell - it means (meant) I'm not present.  I'm not hearing myself.  I'm not here.

I choose to be here.  Now.  I choose to experience every fractal morsel of every juicy moment of this blooming, booming life of mine.

I. Am. Here.

P.S.  As mastery of a language of empowerment and present moment triumph is a practice, and a practice well-served and exponentially accelerated by the reflections and support of a community of conscious communicators, I cordially invite you to call me in to the moment if* you hear me use like as a conversational check-out.

* if, in this exceptional instance, is deliberate.  this concludes our lengthy stream of afterthoughts. 


Since packing up the entirety of my hilltop bungalow last month, to move into this liminal question mark that is the as yet to be determined next nest, I've been pondering the word "home." While I'm officially without home - home-less, home-light, home-free - I'm realizing that home is neither structure, nor zip code; home is truly a moment to moment experience.

In this past week alone, I've moved from a treetop hideaway in Los Feliz, to a Sherman Oaks dream house, complete with Tempurpedic bed, 1000+ thread count sheets, and the World's greatest bathtub; dropped in on a gutted Malibu mansion, and ended up, last night, on a futon perched atop a Silverlake yoga studio, from which I currently type.

So, here are some thoughts on home:

Home is Yerba Mate and dance class.  Home is my book proposal, and on this end of its completion, my book.   Home is every friend who isn't worried about me, and who lets me forward my mail to their house, and who hands me a Powerbook without blinking an eye when my own laptop has an impromptu panic attack and I'm tempted to follow suit.  Home is an incoming text: "thinking of you," "how are you?," "i love you."  Home is a kitten cuddle on a Malibu couch.  Home is Dirty Chocolate.  Home is the key to my favorite Pilates studio, for midnight core connecting.  Home is Guru Singh in my headphones, imploring me to get cozy with my discomfort, to embrace this uncertainty and to "Wake the f--- up!"  Home is my iPhone charger in my purse, and a trunkful of shoes.  Home is my morning meditation, and my favorite blue sweatshirt, and Savasana and Sufi Bliss Ascension Oil.  

Home is right here, right now, ouchie hands, and all.