“Good. So, I had a thought. I’m okay with Justin Timberlake as the new king of pop.”
My mom would most likely agree with me. She’d also grill me on how thorough of a listen I’ve given the new Radiohead songs and the virtues of attending Oldchella in October.
I miss those conversations. A fuckload.
While in Sweden, I worked – like full-time-everything-I’ve-got worked – on facing and harnessing my grief over her passing. I believed that after six years, I really should be over it; I didn’t understand why I wasn’t.
Then it dawned on me one day in AnnaKarin’s kitchen, pouring coffee, observing a murder of crows flying overhead:
Nanos gigantum humeris insidentes. Standing on the shoulders of giants.
My opportunities, my possibilities, the foundation of my being…it all came from her. She was my first and favorite goliath.
My grief had been rooted in profound thanks all along. Although I wasn’t blind to that, I was too distracted by making sure I was checking the appropriate issues boxes to embrace my sadness, to view my mother’s ascension as a celebration of her widely-felt positive impact.
My deepest appreciation for everyone who’s reached out over the years to share how my mom made a difference in his or her life. It’s how her gifts keep on giving; it’s been my foundation for change.
I liken the past two months to an episode of Sons of Anarchy: needless drama that predictably results in lack of communication, followed quickly by betrayal and senseless death. You know, Shakespeare.
However, my excerpt is absent of insanely delicious bikers covered in tats and the stench of cigarettes. Bummer.
And no one’s died. And it hasn’t been that dramatic. Just super fucking irritating.
Welcome to searching for and securing full-time employment at the age of 40 during 2016’s election season when you’re over-qualified but yet slightly out of the game for too long. (Starry-eyed “entrepreneurs” take note!) But let’s be real; welcome to me putting my life back together.
I’ve interviewed; interviewed a second time; waited; sent follow-up responses; waited some more; been told I’m over-qualified or that the offer letter is on its way (bullshit) or that they’re not going to hire for that position after all (discovered third-hand after waiting for three weeks for some kind of response) or I wasn’t the right fit. You get the idea.
In the meantime, I’ve worked retail, secured some spectacular writing projects, Marie Kondo’d the shit outta my life, and planned a trip to Maui in October. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
I say with certainty that this scenario would have put me in a bottle or on pills a year ago. Today? Go fuck yourself; I’ve got this.
I’m not an island; my friends and family have been my rocks and ass-savers BIG TIME. There’s no way I could’ve done this without them. And there’s a confidence to be appreciated in asking for help; get over yourself so that one day you may blissfully pay it forward.
And know that it’s absolutely acceptable to look out for number one as long as your feet are grounded and your heart’s loving.
Just don’t be an asshole. Show up. The rest will work itself out.
That’s what I’m telling myself. Pretty sure Jesus advised that.
I’m an only child by birth but that’s where my oneness ends.
For over 40 years, I’ve adopted siblings – some my blood relatives, most not – and created a family that is heart-focused, smart, formidable, diverse, and stunning. This tribe, consisting of approximately 60 people, has saved my life, taught me about commitment, proven that love is above all else, and gifted me the opportunity to share in their miracles and challenges.
The whole is the sum of its parts; my world is rich because each of these individuals is gold to me. I burst with pride daily because of their accomplishments. I thank God for them before I sleep and when I wake.
Happy Siblings Day to my sisters from other misters and brothers from other mothers. I love you with every molecule that makes up my bag ‘o bones. Please know that you make a difference, always.
My mother knew when I was bullshitting; her intensity kept me honest, at least with her. Today’s her birthday. She would’ve turned 66.
Since her passing, I take time on March 10 to run an authenticity evaluation in her honor and for my sanity. It ain’t fancy; it’s an opportunity to check in with brutal honesty. I moved to Sweden as a result of last year’s findings.
This year, I’m in the midst of my unconventional reinvention. I’ve decluttered, unplugged, and let go to a staggering degree. This really ain’t fancy, but starting from scratch never is. However, I’ve never felt more authentic, less mucked down with bullshit. And as I look in the mirror today, I see the resolve that was missing from my eyes; I’m confident my mother’s struggle to raise me right hasn’t been wasted.
I’m creating a new book, not just a new chapter. Pattie would be proud.
February marks four years of play on eatingatme. This fact didn’t register until generic congratulatory messages via LinkedIn forced my hand to pay it some mind.
“Happy anniversary, you hot mess.” This is what I read every time I received a new ping.
Prior to my stint in Sweden, I viewed eatingatme as yet another ill-defined project I created or participated in as an attempt to establish identity and foster self-worth. Translation: it gave me something to say I was up to because I must always be big and impressive and on par with all of the fancy people.
Truthfully, since the heyday of Red Letter Days Events, I’d been anything but big and impressive. eatingatme reflected that; it didn’t take a rocket tinkerer to recognize that the thread of this blog had often been challenging to follow. It’s served primarily as a mirror for my life’s consistent inconsistency and a mixing board for sounding off. eatingatme’s been valuable to me, and the handful of loving readers who’ve stuck with me, but it hasn’t attracted a large attentive audience. Why would it?
I was about to call curtain on the whole thing, but then Åstorp happened. In the cold calm, this hot mess found her identity, renewed strength, and a bit of lagom (Swedes don’t really have groove, unless they’re AnnaKarin). I had something engaging to express.
And now, this, partly unnerving, all exciting: I’m temporarily in San Diego, the place where I slowly lost my game, but this time the player’s a pro. I’m in the midst of an unconventional reinvention and I’m using every ounce of my energy to stay focused on my priorities determined in Sverige. The luxury of quasi anonymity and partial solitude solidified a new perspective on life by making critical distinctions apparent.
I’m a writer, regardless of what I do to earn an income, where I live, or how this rates among the cool kids. It’s my most authentic craft. It’s how I breathe.
eatingatme is all good, whether plain and simple or big and impressive. It’s where I share my curiosities and escapades. It’s where I wander and wonder. It’s where I’m me.
eatingatme is also a place to engage in generous conversation that provides positive impact for others. It’s a place to satiate the soul through communication on whatever is eating at all of us. The ways this can play out are infinite, just like life. The way it can grow in reach is limitless and I’m jazzed about this process.
Today, eatingatme is something I choose to celebrate. For better or worse, richer or poorer, clearly defined or abstractly chaotic, it’s been my online home for four years.
The United States of America. The heat of southern California, the blinding lights of Las Vegas, that particular hustle and bustle found from sea to shining sea…
I’m on the other side of stoic Sweden’s salvation. I’m absorbing what just happened.
I know three months anywhere isn’t a lifetime; I’m clear that immersing myself in another country doesn’t make me special. However, the impact from my experience is HUGE.
I’m proud of myself. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I could say that.
That feeling ignites intellectual curiosity. It creates a craving to fill every moment with progress, expansion, love, good. It’s food for the soul.
Since returning home, I haven’t known what I’ve been up to until I’ve been in the midst of it; I’ve been playing full out in the present, acknowledging my senses and appreciating the gifts I’ve been given. But the dust is settling and I’ve launched an exploration of what’s next, armed with some vital intelligence accumulated since November. My confidence in my ability to build my future is unshakeable; I’m kicking ass.
Sverige resoled my combat boots. And that’s just the beginning of the story…
(And yes, there’ll be a post about Swedish food soon.)