Fragile. Seeking Forgiveness After Miscarriage

At two weeks we knew there was life. At nine weeks we knew there were two. At twelve weeks we knew something was wrong. At thirteen weeks, after a drive to Los Angeles for a long needle through my abdomen and meetings with specialists, there was hope. At almost sixteen weeks we knew it was too late. At what was supposed to be four months into our pregnancy I was sedated and emptied, and once again alone in my body.

Three. That's how many babies we've conceived and lost in one year. My new therapist offered to call them embryos if it would make me feel better, but it wouldn't. Embryos are what they would be if they were not intended, not loved, not cared and dreamed for. These were our babies and always will be. I consider myself a mom of four, even though three of them never made it past the second trimester. But I can't say that. When people ask me how many children I have the answer is, of course, one. One perfect 6-year-old daughter. And when other women who I know have had miscarriages and stillborns and infant losses are asked how many children they have, of course the answer is the number of living. But we all know the truth in our hearts.

I didn't name them. I probably would have if they'd made it to 20 weeks. For some inexplicable reason, that's the point where it made sense to me. Maybe because we were hoping to make it to 20 weeks, when fetal intervention surgery may have been an option to save at least one. But the mass growing in the chest of Baby A causing pressure on her developing heart and lungs grew too rapidly. With a shared placenta her sister couldn't handle the change in blood pressure, so within hours of each other we lost them both, much sooner than even our doctors expected. The routine visit showed not the squirmy twins I'd loved watching only two weeks prior, with beautiful profiles and feet that were kicking each other like I'd hoped they would do for years to come, but instead lifeless little bodies with still hearts. I felt my own heart stop for a moment with them, forever  just "the twins," our Baby A and Baby B.

Only weeks ago yet forever ago I was assembling hidden inspiration boards on Pinterest that I intended to make public as soon as we were confident enough to make our happy announcement. Clothes, registry items, products and advice we'd need in the coming months and years was being curated as I lay in bed or on the couch or on the bathroom floor, my body too tired and sore to do much else. I'd finally broken down and purchased a few maternity basics as there was no hope in buttoning any of my regular size jeans, and I often wondered if I would ever be able to again given my age and the multiple pregnancy.  Projects and trips had been cancelled, put on hold, or sped up to accommodate both the official due date and a more realistic expected one, and real estate in two different states was analyzed in the hopes of making some very big decisions quickly. I went to sleep at night with my hands on my belly trying to feel those first few flutters expected at any moment, and I woke every morning wondering how much they'd grown while I'd slept. Now I place my hand on my soft abdomen and miss them so much it's hard to get out of bed.

The last miscarriage was hard, this time was harder. Is harder. It will take longer to bounce back into the land of the living and although physically there is no permanent damage, emotionally that is not the case.  I am still getting promotional emails for formula and cord blood registries and car seats. Alerts pop up on my phone telling me that my baby is now the size of an onion and what nutrients I should make sure to be getting this week. I delete the apps and unsubscribe from the mailing lists but more keep coming. My body is late getting the message as well, ready to nurse infants that aren't here. There suddenly seem to be more babies around than ever before. And so many twins. And everyone I see seems to be pregnant. I resent the once forbidden wine, sushi and unpasteurized cheese that I'm now able to have after months of craving them.

I am heartbroken. I am angry. But mostly I am really really sorry. It doesn't matter how many doctors tell me that it wasn't my fault, that there was as a one in a million chance of the anomalies, or that neither my body nor our genes caused the problems. In my mind I failed these babies by not giving them the best chances for survival. I don't know how but somewhere something went wrong and it happened inside of me. I am sorry that my amazingly paternal husband still does not have his own child, one with features and gestures that he and his family can compare to their own. I am sorry that my daughter still does not have a half-sibling like we have now twice promised her she would have, and who instead has a mother who cries all the time.

I am also sorry that when a woman sat next to me at the cafe with her beautiful baby in her arms, I didn't smile and ask her questions like everyone else did. Instead I turned away and tried to work through the suffocating emotion without making a scene. And I'm sorry that I abruptly stopped and walked the other direction when I saw a couple on the beach with twin toddlers. Sorry that I didn't attend the PTA meetings, dinners, and trunk shows where I knew someone would be pregnant or showing off their new family addition. Sorry that I couldn't really go anywhere, worried that the tears would suddenly start streaming down my face and I would have to explain why. Sorry that I couldn't bring myself to comment on friends' sonogram images, pictures of their babies in Halloween costumes, or their beautiful new maternity photos. So so very sorry that I can't share in their joy. But they have friends, family and strangers smiling at them, approaching them, touching their bellies and asking about sleep training and onesies and siblings and strollers. I have a void. Literally a void in my body where new life is supposed to be growing. Figuratively a void in my life that baby showers, kicking, mock-tails, registries and birth classes were supposed to fill right now. In a few months I will feel the void that infant crying, midnight feedings and diaper changes were supposed to fill. But how do I tell them, these happy sleep-deprived people, how bitter I am? I can't, and I won't. But the ache is constant. I miss my babies and the dreams I had for them. I miss being exhausted and sick but knowing it was all for a good reason. I miss the anticipation of their arrival in our lives.

I know that I am still living, that my heart is not the one that stopped. I hope to one day forgive my body for these cruel betrayals. I hope to receive forgiveness from the friends and strangers who didn't get the happy version of me they were expecting, and who didn't know why. I hope that one day my husband and I either find the strength to try again, or find peace in not taking the chance of more heartbreak. I can't comprehend either at this point but I am grateful that we do have options, knowing that it could all be much worse and is for so many. If our life consists of only my daughter, our beautiful marriage and supportive family, then it certainly isn't something to complain about. I know.

I am sorry that in my fragile heart right now, it's not enough.

Feel.

寧為太平犬，不做亂世人

For my non- Mandarin- speaking friends, this supposedly translates to "It is better to be a peaceful dog than a chaotic man," which is considered the basis for what we call "The Chinese Curse": 

May you live in interesting times. 

Anyone who really knows me, meaning that they've taken the time to do so, knows it's been one hell of a year in the life of Jayne. I don't really have any boring years in my adult life past, but this one could certainly win the proverbial cake. 

I married the man of my dreams. I now live in a city that I not only love, but that has welcomed me in a way that has been quite frankly overwhelming. My daughter is at the perfect age of 5, when we can have brilliant conversations but she still wants to crawl into my lap with her blankie. I have been allowed to use my creative personality to support the causes that I love, and I feel more appreciated and intellectually stimulated than ever before. Most importantly, my husband and his family have been so supportive and loving that it scares me more often than I usually admit. But...

...there has been what I would call a tragedy trifecta over the last six months. People who know me personally are probably aware of one. Some know of two. A select few know of all three. Suffice it to say, each one was truly and without exaggeration traumatic. Each one knocked me down hard, without having fully stood up again from the last blow. I keep getting permission from loved ones, acquaintances, complete strangers, and professionals to grieve; to mourn the losses that are very real, the ones hoped for, and the ones felt so deep in the soul they feel real. 

I have. I have mourned. I have mourned more in the last six months of my life than I had in the entire thirty-five years prior. I am pushing through, but with every few steps forward there's another step back. Another reminder: a song, a memory, a speech, an email... which inevitably lead to a complete meltdown of my composure. I sob on my knees on the kitchen floor. I sob while sleeping, and only realize it when I awake to a wet pillow under my head. I sob in the car on the way to a meeting, and in the bathroom while brushing my teeth. And I am so fucking sick of being sad. 

I'm told it's good. I'm told it's healthy. I'm told it's necessary. My sweet husband, my angel, keeps telling me I need to face it and let it out and that it's ok to cry. He encourages it and holds me and gets the tissues when the tears start flowing. He makes me feel loved even through the ugly cries. There are a lot of ugly cries. But I feel guilty, because I know I have so much to be happy about, and despite my outward appearance I really am aware of how blessed I am. Which makes it worse! It does, because I know how happy I should be, and to waste my time crying feels incredibly selfish and self-absorbed, which of course makes me cry more.

But despite all of this, which I suppose was somewhat expected given what has happened, there has been an unforeseen side effect: I also break down at beauty. I break down at joy. I break down at anything that topples my already-at-capacity emotions and I feel. everything. to it's fullest, even the really great things. It's odd, because it is such a thin line between joy and sorrow that sometimes I can't tell the difference. Frustration and overwhelming emotion all feel the same; it just needs to burst out of me. But the part that makes me feel better is that I feel hope when I cry for beautiful reasons. 

I cried a few nights ago while cooking dinner, watching my husband carry my daughter around the living room as they played "Olympics" (it was the luge, you see).  I cried when I looked around the table at a benefit that hit really close to home yesterday, realizing that the people around me were the most beautiful human beings, inside and out, who contribute to their communities and to each other in a way that is unsurpassed, and who love me and each other like family. I wasn't exactly happy, in the traditional sense, but I was hopeful.  

I cried tonight, witnessing what I could only describe as "magic," as a brilliant author and a team of brilliant theater professionals described how they took a novel and turned it into a musical that is sure to bring so much to so many in the coming months and years. That creative energy, the possibilities, and the emotions that will come out of the work that they are doing is so much bigger than anyone realizes. My heart was bursting. How could it not? 

The world is full of so much beauty, and we have so much to be happy about and to appreciate. We are growing as a species; we are developing beautiful works of art every day. I wouldn't wish my tragedies on my enemies if I had them, but I will own what I do have like I own my short stature and my less-than-voluptuous backside. They are mine, and they make me me. 

My tragedies have shaped me, and based on the surge of emotions that consume me fairly often these days, they will continue to shape me. Would I let go of all of this beauty in order to lessen the pain of the awfulness? Probably. Because it really hurts. But while I work through it I will let that painful joy consume me as well, and hope that in the end, it will be victorious. 

Home.

As far back as I can remember, I dreamt of distant cities and countries, places where people talked in different languages and accents, where food and fashion were foreign and nothing was assumed or expected as normal. I dreamt of an adventurous life moving around like a gypsy with a bounty on my head. I dreamt of a string of international lovers, never settling down in one place or at one job or with one person for long. That life, that lack of connection to any place or person, was what I thought I was meant to live, and I sought out to fulfill that destiny.

The place that I was supposed to call home for so many years is a place that, regardless of rights or wrongs or truthfulness or memory, I never felt that connection to. Everyone's memories are clouded by their own experiences and perceptions, but as the Good Prophet Doctor Phil teaches us, the only thing that matters is how you felt, and how those feelings shaped you. And the simple matter is that this home was a place I never felt welcome or comfortable. It was useless to try to explain why, no matter how hard I tried. Obviously, I thought, the reason that I couldn't connect to any places that were supposed to be my home was the common denominator: me. I had to have been the problem so there was no escaping this destiny.

But something remarkable has happened in recent years. I stopped searching. I stopped running. I stopped trying to find where I was supposed to be, and instead I just was. Maybe I was simply ready. Maybe I'd gone through enough and was just too tired to keep trying to be something I wasn't. But I know that when I met the man who is now my husband, I let myself learn for the first time what it was like to not be judged on what I was or what I was supposed to be for other people, but instead to be appreciated for who I am. Instead of a life where nothing I did was right, no matter how hard I tried, I found myself in a life where everything was right because it was truth. It was me. I did what felt right and so it was.

And I found peace.

The life that I have found in the city that became mine exactly two years ago is a life full of amazing people doing incredible things. Supporting their friends, their families, and their community, and allowing themselves to be happy. It was hard to accept for a long time and I still find myself doubting it occasionally, but thankfully at increasingly longer intervals. I know that I have never felt so free to follow my passions and dreams, and I have found others who feel the same way. Maybe it's this specific place that was founded by crazy dreamers who wouldn't take no for an answer. Maybe it's just that I subconsciously choose to find people who are like me. Or maybe I just notice these things now and hadn't before.It doesn't matter why I feel this way, only that I do. And now that I know what it feels like, nobody can take it away from me no matter where I go.

I will always have wanderlust, but I no longer travel in search of that elusive connection or in search of other options. I have finally found what I was always looking for, what I thought I would never have. And although I found it here, it no longer matters where I am, whether it's Dallas or New York, Atlanta or Miami, California or Paris or Cape Town or Shanghai...

With this knowledge, with this peace, I've found my home. And for that, I am truly thankful.

Reflect.

Over the past twelve years, I've avoided the "where were you?" conversations and kept any thought or discussion of the event to a socially appropriate minimum. Perhaps because of the recent dramatic events- both very good and very bad- in my life, I was ready this morning to remember. I hadn't planned on doing anything to commemorate the anniversary of 9/11, but when I woke up today I had an urge to crawl into the attic, into a big blue bin of my past life, and find the scrapbook that I kept twelve years ago. 

I was living in New York, technically in Jersey (Hoboken), with three other would-be performers in a tiny railroad apartment with three windows and no A/C. Thankfully we had a good supply of wine. I slept in that morning and woke to a phone call from my mother making sure I was ok. She knew that I often took the PATH train downtown, like most of us did occasionally. I was 22 years old and worked in a bookstore in Chelsea, but wasn't scheduled to work that morning. 

It wasn't a close call for me, but it was dramatic. Scrapbooking was my way of coping in the weeks that followed, and this morning for the first time in twelve years, I looked through the scrapbook that I'd kept, and I remembered. And I was ok. 

 

 

  

Merely Players.

A long time ago, one could say several lifetimes in fact, I was a part of a rather unconventional family. 

The other members may not have even known it. But a series of traumatic experiences and news had left my soul battered beyond the point of recognition, even though not many people knew or noticed because I was so good at hiding it. I was an actor after all. And given that I spent most of my time around people who hadn't known me previously, nobody knew that I was different than my "old" self. I'm sure I didn't make much of an impression on anyone; I was just happy to be around a group of people so talented and unique, with no false pretenses of proper decorum, encouraging each other to be their true selves and to grow their gifts. 

I was part of an acting troupe that rehearsed throughout the summer and performed weekends through the fall. I was a part-timer, simultaneously working through my junior year of college, but I spent my weeks looking forward to the time I would spend with that fascinating group of individuals. Some were like me, brought up in suburban towns far from the glittering lights of New York and Chicago and working their way up to stardom bit part by bit part. Others were from distant lands, traveling gypsies working their way around the world experience by experience, and still others were simply running away from lives they knew they couldn't stay in. There were consummate professionals and there were philosophical drifters, and there was everything in between. And there was a lot of laughter and even more love, in many many ways. 

It was hot as hell in the summertime, and later in the season they were scraping ice off the stage. The costumes were often heavy and awkward, and yet never heavy enough when the winter air started to settle in. We got paid next to nothing. But every day after rehearsal or show we would all drop our characters and keep the local pubs in business while entertaining and learning about each other. What my "family" didn't realize that summer is how much I needed all of that. It may have been so simple and yet that camaraderie, that joy and those deep talks got me through one of the toughest periods of my life. I'm sure I was not the only one. Most of us were escaping something in our lives, which is often true of artists of any kind and especially true of most New Yorkers, as many of us were or turned out to be down the line. 

The season ended and I had many new experiences and perspectives under my belt, and I tried to go back to a nice normal college life. But between my season in the acting group and the personal dramas I'd been trying to manage, I was past being able to return to "normal." When the opportunity to move to New York with some other actor friends came along, I jumped at it, and continued to move down a path of escapism, to the ultimate Island of Misfit Toys. Quite a few of us stayed in touch for awhile. Some stayed friends, some dated, and some worked on projects together, either in the city or beyond. Some continued to perform and others moved on to successes in other areas of the entertainment world or out of it. I turned my focus to hospitality and later went corporate, realizing that my creative inclinations and experiences were useful in more right-brain-based industries where I seemed to be better suited once I worked through my head. 

But through it all: four cities, a failed marriage, a child, and a whirlwind of jobs and dreams and travels, that world and the people in it were never far out of my mind or heart, and I welcomed any and all interaction over the next decade. First it was just email or over drinks, then via myspace, then Facebook... each time the medium changed we would find each other all over again. It was so long ago and yet when I look over my social media streams, those people still are the ones I care about the most. We have all gone in so many directions both geographically and ideologically, but they have remained the most interesting and warmest people I've known in my lifetime. Which is why, when a piece of news showed up on my screen yesterday, I surprised even myself by reacting the way that I did. 

One of these beautiful people that had been a part of this family for really what amounted to only a few months of my life, passed away yesterday. I sobbed like I hadn't in years. I reached out for the others as they did, and we realized that we were all still there; the family was intact minus one. At first I felt so guilty; I don't even know if she would remember me and I hadn't spent as much time with her as so many others had... what right did I have to grieve this way? But then I saw others expressing the same concern and realized I wasn't alone. It was unbelievably heartbreaking yet beautiful the way that this group came back together even if only virtually and briefly. And I realized how much I missed them, and how grateful I was to know them all even for such a brief time.

I realized over the last few years how much I missed the arts and the theatre in particular. Although I've been a patron and a fan all during this time, and have done much to bring the arts into my new circles, I have missed really being a part of it. With each show that I saw, with each review or press release that I read, I have felt my heart being pulled further and further back. But the final kicker was this news that I received yesterday that made the path before me so crystal clear. This morning I had a conversation that will lead me back home, to my first passion, and to me being a productive contributor to the world that accepted me no matter what else happened in my life. 

I have never forgotten that beautiful sassy woman running over to me, someone she just met, sitting in my lap and wrapping her arms around me in the warmest and funniest embrace. She had no idea how much I needed that unconditional love at that moment. 

Today, at the end of my meeting, a similar spirit who I'd just met said goodbye with a hug, and although I smiled and maintained my professional demeanor as I've learned to do, I got into my car and cried. Thank you Ginny B.

Auld Lang Syne.

Last night I, along with my Texan, walked off of an American Airlines flight into Dallas Fort Worth International, returning from John Wayne in Orange County. He and I turned in different directions, he to get the car and me to retrieve the luggage. We kissed briefly and he reminded me that we'd said goodbye to each other in that exact same spot before, almost three years ago exactly. Only then I had walked away to my connecting flight home to New York instead.

Aware of our mutual affection but completely uncertain of what the future would hold, we parted ways that time after a blissful week eerily similar to the one we just had, filled with hikes in the canyons, dinners with friends and alone, sunset cocktails, walks on the beach and reading by the fire in his little Laguna beach cottage. But then, both of us were dealing with messy and complicated endings to our previous relationships, as well as professional and geographical hurdles to being together. Knowing all of this led to a tearful and painful goodbye, walking in different directions each filled with a confusing emotional mix of despair and hope.

And now, having removed the hurdles and worked with each other in a way that only the deep love that we have for one another allows, we are living here in Dallas together and planning our wedding. With professional, legal, financial, and familial obstacles recently lifted or at least managed to a point of little importance, we are finally free to celebrate fully what we knew in our hearts three years ago, that we are meant to spend our lives together and have chosen to do so. Now, for the first time in this process, I feel free to plan this celebration marking our legal and spiritual union, and I am entering this phase with pure joy.

As I waited outside the luggage claim with our bags from California last night, and watched his car turn around the corner and his lights flash at me in greeting, an uncontrollable smile spread across my face and my heart started beating rapidly. He pulled up and got out to help me, and I laughed. I had spent every minute of the last ten days with this man, and I was as excited to see him when he came around that corner as I was every time we'd met up at an airport over the two years we were dating long-distance. In three years so much has changed, but that feeling has only gotten stronger. How blessed we are.

Happy and Blessed 2013 to you all.

Company

Foodie is not a word that I enjoy or use to call myself. I do like food, a lot, and after years of working in hospitality and with a healthy dose of curiosity, I know quite a bit about it. I even cook it. But really I'm just a very passionate and sensual person, enjoying all senses with equal vigour. A great meal in my book satisfies all of them; it's beautifully presented, obviously it smells and tastes good, and it's enjoyed while surrounded with good company.

Who you dine with makes just as much of an impact on your experience as the person preparing the food, the decor, the music, the seat, the view, the service and the choice of wine. The balance has to be right. If any of these are not quite right, it will negatively affect the dining experience whether you realize it consciously or not. I recently enjoyed some great food at a beautiful restaurant with some incredible women. But the acoustics were off and I had to struggle to understand my friends, and because of this I have no desire to return. A few weeks ago I ate at one of the "Best New Restaurants" in New York City and although the food, decor, and wine were all as great as promised in the reviews, and my dining companions were expertly curated I must say, the server's attitude made us close out early and continue our evening elsewhere. I wanted great food but my limited time with my friends was more important.

Some of the best meals of my life come with really great stories. There is a Spanish tapas restaurant in Greenwich Village called Alta that I read about in a travel magazine years ago as a place where top chefs go when they go out, always a good sign. I chose it for my birthday celebration with my fabulous  group of friends, and I still smile when I think about that dinner and will recommend the restaurant without hesitation. I have no idea how many stars that place has, or what any of the critics had to say about it. I know that we had a Bacchanalian feast for the record books and laughed harder and left with bellies and hearts full. Everything was perfect. I remember running into Calvin Klein and John Leguizamo, and the cougar hitting on my friend at the bar. I remember friends from different parts of my life meeting each other for the first time and it makes me so happy to see that they are still friends. I remember the sounds of the kitchen and the music and the laughter, the taste of the bacon-wrapped dates and white anchovies and the Cava, the love I felt surrounded by so many wonderful friends and the man sitting next to me who would ask me to marry him a month later. 

I remember every beautiful moment of a dinner in Paris, laughing at the intimidation we felt looking at the triple-phonebook-sized wine list and welcoming course after course of food far more rich than we were used to eating, but enjoying the rare gluttonous indulgence with friends from around the world. I remember being with some of those same people in Cancun clinking the biggest margarita glasses I've ever seen. I remember Sex and the City-like conversations on sidewalk tables in New York with my girlfriends with mimosas, a business dinner on Central Park South with a table full of South Americans, and another one in East Berlin where we laughed so hard with a group of Austrians that beer came out our noses. And I remember everything being absolutely perfect at that first date dinner with my Texan at WD-50 in the Lower East Side when he came to visit me in New York one autumn evening three years ago.

The first "epic dinner" I experienced was on a beach sixteen years ago. I was in Greece as an exchange student, eating with my host family and their friends at tables under white lights and stars on the edge of the calm and warm Aegean Sea. On my plate was a whole grilled fish, something I'd never seen before, but I followed the lead of everyone around me and I can still taste and hear everything from that dinner if I close my eyes and think back. I have no idea what that restaurant was called, or what most of the people around me were talking about in Greek, but it's not important. What was important was what I sensed, what I experienced, and who I was with. That dinner started the evolution of this "foodie," shaping me to appreciate the beauty of these multi-sensory experiences around a table.

But this all works the other way, too. I have been fortunate to dine at some of the best and most critically-acclaimed  restaurants in the world, but sometimes, unfortunately, with people I didn't love or enjoy. Pained conversations, lack of any kind of intellectual or (in the case of a date) sexual chemistry, uncomfortable situations, and quite simply a bad day physically or emotionally have ruined their share of meals for me and I would imagine for most of you. Some of the restaurants I have no desire to return to because the memory is just too bad, boring, or even worse, so completely forgettable that I committed little to nothing to memory.

While on a run on the Katy Trail here in Dallas earlier this year, I spotted a restaurant that looked like my favorite little bistros in Manhattan and Paris. The doors were all opened up to the warm air, the wicker chairs were the French cafe standard issue; t was exactly what I missed since moving to Dallas. I wanted to call up some friends to grab a table, order a couple bottles of wine and S. Pellegrino, and eat and drink and talk for hours until we were kicked out.  How did I not know it was there? Why haven't I been there before? Until I realized... I had.

During one of my first visits to Dallas, I sat at one of those charming little tables for a brunch with some people I was meeting for the first time. Suffice it to say there is a reason I blocked it out. The food was fine, standard French-American bistro brunch fare, the service was sufficient, and as mentioned the decor was charming. But the conversation was so forced, unenlightening and uncomfortable that it dominated the entire experience for me. Usually I can find something to talk to anyone about; it's always been my strength. Whether with newly-immigrated busboys who barely speak English, with an international billionaire CEO, a shy spouse of a business colleague, or with a Prime Minister backstage before a big speech, I can always find something of interest for us to talk about and to make them comfortable and open. But this was beyond my reach. When a person can't talk about anything but Real Housewives, Twilight, or eyelash extensions, announces that "pretty girls don't have to work," refers to my hometown as "um... interesting" and has no idea who Malcolm Gladwell is... I honestly had no words. I couldn't rescue it and I didn't want to. I was powerless and passionless and couldn't wait for the meal to be over. The conversation may actually win the unofficial award of the most vapid of my life, and I do remember that part when I force myself to. But how in the world could I be expected to notice the food when I was concentrating on not jamming a fork into my temple to relieve the pain?

The point of this silly little story is that a good or bad restaurant experience depends on so much more than the food. I've returned to Toulouse since and I have loved it despite my miserable first experience. Thankfully it got that opportunity. I know it wasn't the restaurant's fault, but bad company will make or break an experience faster than anything else. It doesn't matter how it rates on every other factor. And that brings me back to why I am so grateful for those amazing epic dinners where the conversation flows as easily as the wine, and you leave knowing more and loving more than you did when you arrived. Sharing plates, sharing stories, opening yourself to new experiences and new senses... that's what a truly great dinner is all about.

Last night I had another one of these good experiences, and I woke up with a smile, knowing that I felt more at  home here in Dallas more than ever before because of it. A group of the most interesting, funny, talented, smart, and kind people that this city has to offer all sat around a table at Marquee Grille in Highland Park Village and toasted to Christmas and every other winter holiday we could think of. We laughed, we shared, we ate and we drank. The Chef dropped by a few times to say hello, and white twinkle lights glittered outside of the windows. I was in love, with my betrothed sitting next to me, with the ambiance, with my pork belly and tuna tartar, and with my friends.

Maybe I am a foodie, but I think I'm more of an experience junkie. Bring on the epic dinners of food, laughter and intellectual conversation, and let's not waste any more time with people who aren't lifting us higher and heightening our senses. Because in the end it's always about the company.

Choice: One Year of Deliberate Transformation.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our "stars" but in ourselves. 

~ Shakespeare's Cassius.

One year ago I, along with my young daughter, moved from New York, a city whose skyline adorned the walls of my childhood bedroom and whose scenes filled my dreams and veins for decades, for Dallas, a city I considered at best utterly foreign, and at worst nothing more than a collection of red state stereotypes best only considered at 30,000 feet when traveling between coasts. But it was the home of someone that I loved and his family and friends, and experience had finally taught me that this was so much more important than a city. And if I was going to live somewhere new, then I was going to find what made it wonderful and I was going to fall in love with it. I never would have guessed that this would happen so easily and so quickly. It was a combination of what Dallas actually had to offer and the place I was in my life that made this happen. 

Years before I would ever even consider living in Texas, shortly after my 30th birthday, I made the decision to live a more deliberate life in reaction to the realization that my life was on a counterproductive path of passivity. I had wasted too much time letting the proverbial chips fall where they may. On the theme of “excellence is not an act but a habit,” I knew I had to make some major life changes, and as I did my tastes and goals became clearer. With each new choice that I made, it became not only easier, but also more rewarding and more thrilling. What else could I do? What else could I learn? I started to realize for the first time the power within me, and that I had a responsibility to use it.

With a new long-distance relationship to a Texan becoming a larger factor, my determination to make positive conscious choices for us became stronger. And when the further development of that relationship eventually required a cross-country move, I knew I had to fully embrace my decision in order to avoid later misplaced resentment. Like everything else, I learned that starting over in a new city is what you decide to make of it. People loved Dallas, and I was determined to find out why and experience it myself.

Circumstances were not perfect. As I prepared for my move, life-threatening illnesses affected family on both sides. My first three months as a Texan were spent traveling for work and for family, including a week spent in Boston to donate stem cells. But with each struggle and deterrent that I encountered, I became even more determined to push past it and live a fuller life.

As a teenage exchange student in Greece, I learned to step outside of my own culture in order to understand and accept a new one, and I applied this practice to my new adventure as a Dallasite. I threw myself into the culture, pushing aside comforts of the familiar and trying as many new things as I could. Challenging myself at every venture, questioning old habits and tastes, I opened myself to new experiences, people, and ideas daily.

At first in the chaos I simply opened my heart to the people and activities that were automatically part of my new life. Some have stayed because I chose to keep them. Some I knew would never fit, and they dropped out organically as I expected they would. New people came into the picture, welcoming me with true southern hospitality and inviting me to join them in new experiences. It was a shock to my New Yorker sensibilities, but I grew to appreciate them exponentially.

Probably the biggest challenge of the past year has been learning how to drive for the first time. For various reasons that I won't get into now, I never had a drivers license, but I knew it was absolutely a requirement in my new state if I was going to have the life that I was trying to lead. This challenge required the encouragement and at times force by my fiance, I admit, but in the end it was the most important of my adventures and I ended up with my first driver's license 2 days before my 33rd birthday. 

Physically I have undoubtedly changed. Of course I am most definitely wearing brighter colors, more make-up, longer and, yes, bigger hair, and higher heels than I ever thought I would or could. At times a conscious choice in a "if you can't beat 'em…" mindset, and sometimes I even surprise myself. Occasionally I force myself to wear all black with my ponytail and glasses again, just feel like "myself." I was requested to gain weight for the transplant, and it wasn’t hard when adapting to the cuisine and car culture of Texas. The difficult part was losing it afterwards, so I made some new healthy choices, starting yoga and running my first and second 5K races. The results have been more strength, flexibility, and energy than ever before, despite not ever being able to shed those “Texan Ten.”

When my daughter wanted to take ballet, I signed up for whatever adult class was happening at the same time. When the studio later started offering Bollywood class, I couldn’t resist. I ice-skated for the first time, and that same evening walked to the middle of the rink and sang the National Anthem before a minor league hockey game. I was probably expected to back out from nerves, having not done it since high school. But I didn’t, and it was another successful attempt at something new.

I started seeking out more new opportunities. I did my first pub crawl, which included my first ride on a mechanical bull. I got my first pair of cowboy boots and actually wore them with a cocktail dress at a fundraising event with the cast of Dallas. I attended my first professional football games and fashion shows. I traveled to Orlando, Boston, New York, New Orleans, North Carolina, Berlin, Krakow, Frankfort, Shanghai, Beijing, Laguna Beach, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Cancun, Philadelphia, Phoenix, San Francisco, Chicago, and Austin. To facilitate these travels for a mix of work, family, and pleasure, I've tried to learn or re-learn Mandarin, German, Spanish, and Polish, spending hours in coffee shops and pubs with tutors.  I realized recently that I know exactly one perfect useful phrase in each now, and at least one in each to offend or amuse native speakers. 

Spicy food no longer scares me and football no longer bores me. My new circle of friends is beautifully varied, full of fascinating people that I chose to be there and feel honored to have in my life. People from my old life that once held me back are no longer prominent, a choice that was difficult but with the help of loved ones and professionals became all too clear.

Arriving in Texas one year ago, exhausted from moving and goodbye celebrations, I was greeted with a bouquet of yellow roses and treated to a classic barbeque lunch. I knew if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way and I welcomed the challenges ahead. I know now that the things I've learned, the experiences I've had, and the love I've felt since opening my heart and mind and purposely living outside of my comfort zone are irreplaceable. I am a better mother, a better partner, a better friend, a better professional, and a better person because of the events of the past year. I know that I never would have felt the joy that I do now had I not chosen to live this deliberate life, and I’m proud to have done it here in Dallas.

Closure.

Cape Town, South Africa, 2007

It was recently my last day as an employee of a NYC-based international trade association that I hadn't even heard of before I started working for them. But this company became my life, providing me with new knowledge, experiences, friendships, support, growth, and a real family, professionally and quite literally in the end. We should all be so lucky as to have had the opportunities I had with them.

In the past 5 and a half years, I worked in New York, Las Vegas, Baltimore, Princeton, South Africa, Dubai, Miami, Toronto, Mexico, Chicago, Los Angeles, Prague, Philadelphia, Puerto Rico, Paris, Vancouver, Orlando, Berlin, Phoenix, Beijing and Shanghai. I went around the world and around my country for that job. I went on safari, rode bikes through Montmartre, danced in Prague, hiked the Great Wall, went clubbing in LA, toured a chocolate factory in Vancouver, ran through Tienanmen Square, shook hands with two Prime Ministers and countless other politicians and celebrities, and celebrated Eid al-Fitr in Dubai. And every one of these stories is more complicated and more interesting than it even seems here. And there are more- just ask sometime.

With Top Chef Jen Carroll and Mayor Nutter in Philadelphia, 2010

But aside from the fun and adventure, personally it has been a half decade of tremendous change in my personal life, and in many cases the people that I worked for, their spouses, children, and support staff have become my best friends I have ever had, whether they knew it or not. Not having much time outside of work and in recent years taking care of my daughter as a single mom in New York, my colleagues and "my charges" were my only support system. They are the reason that I made it through the biggest challenges of my life and came out on the other side a stronger person with a better sense of who I was. I have laughed harder and more often with this group than any other in my life. I have cried with them and mourned with them and missed the ones that we have lost as if they were my own family. There were days when the brightest spot was a phone call or an email from someone needing information, a favor, some gossip, or a listening ear. I loved being able to help them. Helping them helped me.

I never lost sight of how lucky I was.

Biking through Paris, 2011

In this time I had 2 different last names, went from a pixie cut to long "Dallas hair," had a perfect pregnancy and gave birth to a beautiful daughter, went through a divorce, and then fell head over heels in love and got engaged to a man who was a part of this group. I moved from Upper East Side Manhattan to Astoria to a little apartment by La Guardia in East Elmurst to Uptown Dallas Texas. I had three different desks in that office on the 48th floor of 1221 Avenue of the Americas, but spent most of my time at one from which I could look down at Radio City Music Hall and 30 Rockefeller Center whenever I needed to remind myself how lucky I was, regardless of everything else that was going on in my crazy life.

But my job and the people I worked for- they were my constant. Whether they knew it or not, they were my life; my family. Even if our only interaction had been a mass email from me every few months, every one of them was on my mind and in my heart every day. They will always be there.

I was writing them all a good-bye letter and got so choked up I had to walk away from my desk. I wrote stream of consciousness style at first, but then went back and deleted anything that was too emotional with the intention of leaving on a more professional note. I saved some of the more emotional parts for this posting, still needing to get it out.

Orlando, 2012

It is thrilling to start a new chapter in my life but as I am still not quite sure what I will be doing, it is terrifying too. I have so many interests and my skills are so varied that I'm certain I won't be able to find a new position that fulfills me to the point that this last one did. But nothing is impossible. I am getting some freelance work here in Dallas as an event planner, a writer, and a publicist, and maybe I will just create something for myself in true Renaissance Woman fashion. It's all a big mystery but at least I know that for a very dramatic period of my life, from the ages of 28 to 33, I was a very lucky woman to have known the people that I have and to have had the experiences that I did. And I am so grateful.

Drive.

 

It is a long story as to why I didn't get my first driver's license until 2 weeks prior to my thirty-third birthday. While I did live in New York City for most of my adult life and certainly didn't need to drive during that time, I'm not actually from NY so that's not really an excuse. Mostly I was just too damn busy. I spent the summers of my teen years living in a small beach town where I could walk or bike everywhere, and during the rest of the year I was so involved in school and local theater that I couldn't be bothered to find the time to learn to drive. We weren't allowed to have cars on campus at my small university in Pennsylvania anyway, and then I high-tailed it up to the big bad Big Apple as soon as I could. I lived in walkable South Beach while in Miami, and while in west midtown in Atlanta for a few months I really never needed to drive as my jobs and social life were all in a small easy radius of my loft. The more time that went by, the more I learned to live without driving a car, and to be honest the more the idea of it frightened me. When you're older you have had the chance to see the damage that driving can cause, and you've probably lost a friend or two in accidents. I was in no hurry to take on that level of responsibility, thank you very much.

But it was always understood that when I moved here to Dallas I would need a car, and a license to drive it. It was usually one of the first remarks made when I brought up the subject of moving; "I guess you're going to have to learn how to drive then!" I accepted this reality and knew I would have to get over my fear. Friends in NYC graciously offered to watch my daughter while I took a few lessons from the local driving school, but driving in Queens is nothing like driving on Texas highways. Nothing. And my Texan's shiny black Audi A5 is a little different than the driving school Toyota Corollas. So taking "lessons" from him when I arrived here was like starting over completely. Not knowing my way around didn't help. I couldn't have found Dallas on a map before a year ago.

Luckily, living in West Village has been really wonderful, with multiple boutiques, salons, a Starbucks, yoga studio, grocery store, and restaurants within walking distance, as well as my daughter's school. It's been a lot like back home, only cleaner and quieter. The free Uptown Trolley takes us down to the Arts District and everywhere in between, and cabs, my Texan and his family have been sufficient for the rest until now. I'm sure I've been quite the sight around here, walking between Albertson's and the bank and our townhouse carrying groceries and drycleaning in my reusable canvas shopping bags, with the other hand holding a cup of coffee and phone, just like I did in New York. That aside, it has been nice to get out and learn my neighborhood and I like to think I may have inspired a few other people to leave their cars behind when running local errands.

But with the approaching summer and the beginning of my job search, we knew that it was only a matter of time before a car was a necessity. My Texan has been an incredibly patient instructor over the last eight months, whenever we had the time for him to teach me, which wasn't often. With every work trip I went weeks without getting behind the wheel, delaying my progress considerably. Still, he would insist that I drive during our weekend pilgrimages up to Allen, giving me the highway experience that I had lacked. I was scared to death, with you people in your big SUVs and trucks speeding down 75 and my daughter singing or sleeping in the back seat. But he coached me and encouraged me, teaching me everything I needed to learn for my test and also the more practical lessons about Texan drivers and roads.

Finally I felt somewhat ready and realized that I wanted to get this thing before my first birthday in Texas. I filled out the necessary paperwork, stood in multiple lines at the DL office in Cedar Hill, and made the soonest possible appointment for the driving test, 2 days before my birthday. If I didn't pass I wouldn't make my goal, making me even more determined. The day arrived and, with the loving encouragement from my fiance and little girl, I got in the car with the stoic man who would decide my fate. I bombed parallel parking (I'm blaming nerves) but aced the rest. I parked the car and he said "you passed," and a few tears came to my eyes and I couldn't wipe the grin from my face. I waited twice as long as most Americans for this milestone and that made it so much more thrilling. And a relief. My birthday was a celebratory occasion for so many reasons this year, but this was the biggest.

***

Bread Winners was one of the first places I went to in Dallas for brunch. I'd forgotten about that until returning the other evening. My Texan told me even before I moved here that it was a top brunch spot for Dallasites, and after experiencing it I understood why. There were (and are) always lines of people waiting for tables weekend mornings, and deservedly so. But last week, I was invited to a lovely event at the Inwood Village location highlighting their sexy new cocktail menu. As a new girl in town, I am so appreciative the invites that come my way and I was excited to see some of my favorite new people there, and of course any opportunity to sample new cocktails is always welcome. I mean, really.

But attending this event meant driving all by my lonesome for my first driving night out. I would need those cocktails when I arrived as it was. But the day before, while cramming into the back seat of the 2-door car to replace a freshly laundered car seat lining, I heard a thump in the front and turned around in horror to find my 4-year old daughter holding the rear-view mirror, the wires still attached to the windshield. My Texan handled it surprisingly well, and he and I spent the next half hour trying to re-affix the mirror, to no avail. It was clear that we needed professional help but there would be no opportunity for a few days. The more experienced driver of us was fine of course, but I was not happy about this at all. Not one bit.

Determined to make it to the event at Bread Winners out of appreciation for their hospitality and a need to get out of the house (working from home is not always ideal), I kissed my loves goodbye and set out for Inwood Village. With a brand new license, 5-inch heels, and a useless rear-view mirror dangling from the windshield, I made it to Bread Winners and was rewarded generously with good friends, new friends, and their mulitple new cocktails. I couldn't drink too many of those, being far too nervous about my ride home, but I sampled quite a few and they are not too shabby. This ain't just brunch-land anymore.

But all of the sampling aside, it was wonderful to catch up with some friends in the light and airy atmosphere and make some new friends too. I am sure most of the people there had no idea what a monumental evening that was for me. I delayed my exit for a bit because of my nerves, chatting up all of the other fabulous attendees as long as I could, but eventually is was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I did. I grabbed my bag of Bread Winners cookies and walked solo across the parking lot towards that beautiful shiny black car with the dangling rear-view mirror, opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and smiled.

***

I made it home sans incident that night, despite the availability of so many beautiful cocktails. The mirror was fixed the next day. This weekend I had my first opportunity to drive around a borrowed Cadillac Escalade monster to escort my visiting family around town and was reluctant with that too at first but didn't do too badly. My driver's license card came in the mail this week and although a few friends tried to bribe me to NOT drive in their neighborhoods for a few months, I am really looking forward to the next invitation and solo night out. And of course the next big step of buying my first car. I will still be walking around my neighborhood a lot regardless; it's convenient, it's healthy, and above all I like to do it and it reminds me of my old life. But I admit that it will be so nice, for the first time in my life, to have the option to get in my car and drive.