Passion Play

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I consider myself lucky.

I’ve been in love five times in my life. Punched in the gut, sweet Jesus is-this-for-real, gasping for air agape-eros-philia heaven. Vastly different journeys. Thankful for each.

I’ve experienced intense professional satisfaction. Goals achieved that prompted my inner outside voice to yell “I DID THIS!” Work that served others while filling me up. Bold action that made me proud and changed me for the better.

And then there have been the moments that rendered me standing still at attention. The drill sergeant of opportunity screaming “TAKE THIS IN! Not everyone gets this chance, you hear me?” My favorite in recent history is from this past Christmas Eve eve. I floated on ancient hallowed snowy ground in Fengersfors, Sweden, observing the silent flicker of lantern light among the gravestones of the church’s adjoining cemetery. While tears rolled down my cheeks, I praised God, my mother, and each person who made it possible for me to be in that hour.

It’s now the eve of my 41st birthday, and I’m sitting exactly opposite of where I was precisely six months ago. Sweating in hot urban Vista, California, drinking bourbon, and crying hallelujah that my MacBook’s made it another day. Lots of uncertainty rubbing my shoulders but I still feel exaltation akin to what bubbled up in all the aforementioned scenarios.

This is what unconventional reinvention yields. Common vernacular might define this as “adulting” but I find that term ridiculous. It discredits the thought and labor behind getting it done; everyone inevitably becomes an adult with the passing of time. Reinvention – responsibility – takes dedication and sweat.

Tonight I’m present to what it means to walk, run, twerk in my shoes. I get the value of the almighty dollar and the freedom it provides; I’m also clear that it’s the last thing that should define you. I give a one-finger salute to the common, safe, and mundane; I’m striking balance between that which I love and what brings home the pasture raised organic pork. I’m in love with my life; find whatever work I do fulfilling; bloom from amazing opportunities.

As a result, eatingatme has also matured, and in the coming months I look forward to sharing my passion play with you. Collaborations with writers that inspire. Conversations with intriguing individuals who’ve run wild with renaissance and created magic. The launch of a legacy project that’s been 12+ years in the making.

THIS is the eatingatme 2.0 that’s providing satiation. Thank you, thank you, thank you to Regina O’Callaghan, Kimberly Jones, and Lori Krause for the partnership, vision, and fearlessness it’ll take to make our projects happen.

THIS is the outcome of declaring better for myself one year ago. This is what it means to learn from your history in order to live, not just exist.

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My Goliath

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Photograph: Lori Krause

“Hey, Mamacita. It’s me.”

“Oh, my lineage. How are you?”

“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.

My love to each of you this Mother’s Day.

Skål!

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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.

That’s pretty fucking fancy to me.

From A Starbucks In Orange County As I Plan My Week

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I write to give authenticity, kindness, and fairness a fighting chance in my snarky, opinionated, judgmental world.

I keep starring and asking questions because I want to understand as opposed to make cavalier assumptions that don’t promote progress.

I’ve let go of those who show no interest in me and/or don’t have the guts to have a conversation. I don’t travel one-way streets.

I continue to see the value of not overwatering reality in alcohol, food, whatever. The buoyancy that comes from that is temporary and messy.

Get to the ocean as much as possible.

I Love Sverige (Reporting From Sin City And Sun Diego)

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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.)

I Love Sverige (Upon Leaving)

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I’m just about to head to Helsingborg to take a train to Copenhagen. I leave for the U.S. today.

My thoughts and emotions are flying chaotically but now isn’t the time to craft a lengthy post about that. However, I don’t want to leave Sweden without saying the following:

Thank you for saving me. I’m obsessively grateful.

#swedensavesmysoul #apapeerosphilia #eatingatme

 

This Satiating Sunday (Blog Edition)

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This Satiating Sunday…

Sweden has saved my soul and my time spent in country is coming to a close for now. I’M TAKING ACTION ON WHAT I’VE LEARNED.

Tomorrow I begin Write Yourself Alive. I identified during the past three months in inspiring Sverige that I need tutelage with my writing; I’m craving mentorship and training. I miss the classroom and the breakthroughs that happen within that environment. Write Yourself Alive is a perfect way for me to launch that process while I’m in geographic transition.

My most important goal for 2016 is give more, take less; this requires financial stability. I’m in the process of a hunt for employment with multi-faceted rewards, location anywhere. Thanks, Sweden, for teaching me that I can create home internally and that a major missing in my world is providing for others generously, ways infinite.

I love again but more to the point, I care again. Like, down deep, ugly-embarrassing-cry-because-I’m-so-moved give-a-shit. I have several friends and family (is there really a difference?) to thank for this breakthrough; the warming of my heart was the most important outcome from my time in chilly Sweden. TO THOSE WHO, STARTING IN APRIL 2015, MADE THIS POSSIBLE, GRACIAS AND BESOS. Y’ALL KNOW WHO YOU ARE; I OWE YOU EVERYTHING. (And, yes, I’m crying while I write this.)

Thank you, Sweden. See you again in late summer.

February, get ready. You’re going to be filled with #agapeerosphilia.