Solomon

King Solomon.

When he inherited the throne from King David, God came to him in a dream and said, "Ask for whatever you want me to give you."

Solomon asked for an understanding heart to help govern the people and discernment to know right from wrong. He didn't ask for riches. Or for a long life. He didn't ask for the death of his enemies.

God was so pleased with Solomon's request, that God gave him a wise and understanding heart. And riches. And honor. And, if Solomon continued to walk in God's ways, a long life.

I wonder what our presidential candidates are praying for?

On Her Way

The first road leads west. It’s lined with fertility pills, hormone shots, and artificial technology. Cold metal instruments, long thin tubes, and “You-have-to-squeeze-me-in-TODAY” type of appointments.

I hate what I see. But the crowds urge me on. They say, “Isn’t it worth it?”

Is that what I’m supposed to think? Anything for a baby? Anything? Everything? Peace of mind? Sanctity of body? All those hard earned dollars we’ve saved?

There’s another way. I can help myself – heal my body and emotions and spirit. The hurdles are big, but not insurmountable. The path is slow. Dark. I take one step and look for the next. The doctor scoffs. The relatives sigh. My husband says, “If this is the path you want to take, count me in.” And he’s along for the journey.

I know my body is capable of conceiving naturally.
I know the drugs will do nothing but mess with my system and prolong the process.

So I spin on my heels and turn my back on the well-beaten path. I make my way through the tall, thick reeds. I piece together my own map of instinct and wisdom and faith.

Mama’s on her way, my love.

Goodbye

A thick marine layer rolled in and spread over the coast, so I haven’t seen the sun in two days (in Los Angeles that's an eternity). I doubt I’ll see the sun tomorrow before hopping on the plane to fly back east. But that’s okay. I’m waking early and heading to the beach anyway.

I need one last rollerblade.
I need to touch the sand and breathe the sticky sea air.
I need to admire SoCal’s architecture again.
And the Pacific. The magnificent Pacific.
There’s no way I’d leave without saying goodbye.

**UPDATE: The sun came out after all. Can't believe I underestimated LA weather. I should know better.

One

Can you believe I've been blogging for Wasa for a year? (Me neither.)

If you haven't visited in awhile, come tell me whether I should start drinking wheatgrass and help me figure out if a mushroom is a vegetable.

In other news, I'm back "home" in LA and gosh, it feels good to be here. Like slipping into a worn pair of jeans. Even though I'm in a hotel working my bootie off, I love that I can run out to my favorite lunch spot or attend my old yoga class . . . which I'll be blogging about for WASA later this week. Which reminds me, you're supposed to be visiting me there, so go on . . . . Scoot.

Warmth

Legs stretched on a lounge chair
Book in hand
The lap of pool water

Two friends arrive
We’re celebrating a birthday at the spa
Lemonade cocktails and soothing rays of California sunshine

Later, under a blanket on a soft table,
Steam massaging the skin of my face, so gentle
Hands melting into a wax treatment

Dinner brings champagne bubbles
Sushi and braised ribs
Under the bed covers, I sleep

Wake to a happy Sunday
Say hello to the university, a place I adore, where I write
Write and write and write – then walk the mountain – and write some more

Symphony

17 hours in the car in two and a half days.

We’re driving all over North Carolina – partly for a writing assignment, partly to celebrate a relative’s 70th birthday.

In between conversation we listen to CDs:

His: Saint Germain
Mine: City of Angels
His: Royksopp
Mine: Meet Joe Black

We pop in a sermon. We’ve been through all the radio stations.

“Do you want to listen to Beethoven’s Ninth?” I ask.

He does.

It’s an old CD. I’ve had it forever and got it from who knows where. Mostly it just sits in the case, but lately I've had the urge to get to know classical music.

I took a classical music class in college. Don’t remember learning much (probably cuz I didn’t study very hard), but I do remember there was a guy in class who wanted to write a symphony. It was the first day and the teacher asked each student why we were there. I’d heard it was an easy A (it wasn’t), which is the same reason most of the students had signed up – but this guy appreciated music. And he had his heart set on writing a symphony (one day).

The teacher tried to keep a straight face. Asked the guy if he understood what an undertaking writing a symphony would be. The guy seemed have a grasp of the enormity of his dream. The teacher didn’t - he kept talking, discouraging the guy’s idea.

I’ve thought about that guy from time to time.

I hope he wrote his symphony.

Buggy

Anyone have a pet frog?

Can we borrow it?

Our place is being attacked by flies. Gross. Big. Female ones.

We have no idea where they're coming from. We’ve only lived here since November. It’s been pouring outside and the windows aren’t sealed tight – is the rain driving them in? I set up an herb garden a few weeks ago – was there a nest buried within the soil? We generate about one small bag of garbage each week, so I’m pretty sure it’s not that. We are clueless.

I’m in the middle of reading 2nd Samuel right now, but this morning I opted to flip back through the Old Testament and read "The Plague of the Flies" in Exodus, just for kicks. I sort of got caught up in the whole Passover story and was reminded that there was a plague of the frogs too. So on second thought, don’t send us your pet amphibian.

~~~

In other news, I’m buckling down big time this month with lots o’ deadlines, so I need to say bye-bye to the blog until May. See you then. Um, then again, I cannot let a “fly” post sit on this site for two weeks (eww), so I’ll post again in a few days.

The Dream

Oh, Harry.

I’ve been waiting all year for your book, The Dream. (Actually, I’ve been waiting since I read the last page of The Invisible Wall.)

Walked a mile to the independent bookstore yesterday and all copies were gone.

Walked another half mile to the not-so-independent bookstore and they just sold their last copy.

Walked home. Book-less.

I suppose it is okay because I wasn’t even going to read it. Not at first. I was going to place it on my nightstand like a gift. And look at it a lot. Pick it up and hold it and set it back down. Pick it up again and flip through the pages and maybe glimpse at a few sentences, but not too many because I don’t want to spoil the surprises.

Then when the week was over and my own writing work was finished, I was going to dive in.

I have one more shot – a third store, about two miles away. This time I called in advance. They’re holding it for me.