Winning Lottery Ticket

Tucked away in my wallet was a lottery ticket I'd purchased earlier in the week. It was a Wednesday, I'd left work thinking the quickest way to get out of my job (other than quitting) would be winning the lottery. It's a bit silly and wishful thinking, but I'm a dreamer. It was a dollar I could afford to invest. I walked up to the street vendor's window on Wall Street and asked for a lottery ticket, he handed me the ticket and wished me luck. I took a stroll along Broadway daydreaming of how I would spend $60 million dollars. Of course, I wanted my payout in one lump sum. First, I would pay off all my debt. Then I would pay off my immediate family's debt, as well as, give them each a share of my winnings. Oh, I should back up a bit...I would hire a financial advisor (banker from back home) to help me properly invest the funds, distribute the funds accordingly, and to help me set up a solid financial plan. Once I got all of the business out of the way, I would bestow financials blessings on a few friends and close family members who could really use the cash. I would spend quality time with my family and then set off for travels around the world. I can picture myself now on a lounge chair in Hawaii and then having a glass of wine at a cafe in Paris. There are so many places I want to see right now but can't afford to make the trips. However, it doesn't stop me from dreaming. With the great adventure, comes new discovery, wisdom, peace, and reflection. I would write about my journey, and take the time to develop a plan to start a non-profit organization. I would take each day as it comes and live in the moment. I would relish in hedonism, live like the natives, and let the day take me on a whim. Most of my time I would spend with my family. And I would plan a big trip with my closest friends. I would write, linger, stay up to the wee hours, watch the sun rise and sit on the front porch and watch the sun set.

I forgot about the ticket until now. I slowly unfolded it and logged on to the NY lottery website. I scanned the past winning numbers and only had two numbers.

Ignorance

The N word was peppered throughout their conversation. In between recapping what their boys were up to, they commented on their bitches. "Yo, my cousin has an older bitch. She's gotta job, money, she's all educated and shit." "Man, my bitch be on me about stupid shit. Sometimes, I just can't deal with all that in my ear, she just coming at me with bullshit. I take care of my son. But she always got something to say." Two young black men discussing their lives. I sat across the aisle from them on the train. I made eye contact and looked at them as only a disappointed "sistah" could. What happened? Why were they so comfortable with disrespecting themselves and others out loud? "Yo! My boy was at the strip joint, he had mad bitches all over him. You know he was hanging out with ____ from the Nets. He was making it rain!" They both laughed and nodded in unison - something they could picture and be proud of, I guess. I couldn't help but study them. With their football gear in tow, I assumed they were still in high school. They were oblivious to the fact that everyone around them was in tune to their conversation. Some women rolled their eyes. Some passengers buried their heads in their newspapers. Barely men themselves, how could they be raising kids? What would they teach their sons? At 72nd Street, a couple of women and their two young sons (maybe five years old) got on the train. The little boys were into their Game Boy, they were playing some kind of Sponge Bob game. Their attention was focused on the game. I watched them as they coached each other, and added extra emphasis here and there. When their game was over they diverted their attention back to their moms and the activity on the train. The two young men, were wrapping up their conversation on what they would be doing this weekend and were about to part ways. One guy stood up and gave the other one dap. I think the football gear caught the attention of the two little boys and they looked up at the young man. "Alright my N____. I'll text you later. I'm headed to my bitch's crib." I'm not sure if the little boys heard everything they were saying but I watched them. I thought about how these little boys would be looking up to the young men in front of them. Kids look up to other kids. No, all young men are not like these two young men. I'm sad to see even two young men behaving this way. What happened along the way, to make it cool to be ignorant?

Obama

There was a distinct vibe on November 4th. The air filled with possibility and hope. Something was brewing. Everyone (I knew) was out voting or had voted. I voted absentee for Florida. I felt that it should have been a national holiday. National Voting Day! I watched the moment unfold from the comfort of my living room. Didn't want to miss any of the results. I flipped back-and-forth between CNN and ABC. The campaign trails were woven into a short tale. This is the first time I'd ever been this involved from the beginning: countless newscasts, online stories , debates (both parties), conventions, and the now - the big night. Red states lit up and then blue, more polls closed, electoral votes counted. People gathered. Crowds of supporters in every great state. New York City's Time Square resembled New Years Eve. It happened so quickly...I had gotten up to pour a glass of wine and then I heard Charles Gibson say, "It's official, Barack Obama is our 44th president." I turned the volume up on the TV, I smiled big, I heard him say it again - Barack Obama is our new president. I heard people cheering from the street and car horns blowing. I jumped in place! I cheered! Obama! I smiled bigger. I text my family and friends. I called my mother. It felt surreal. It felt good. It was happy, proud, relieved and historic all rolled into one moment.

FOOTBALL

Athleticism. Clad in shoulder padding, helmets, nylon, spandex, and breathable polyester mesh. The survival of the fittest, the strongest and the fastest. Egos bruised, broken bones and concussions. Rivalry, bragging rights and home-field advantage. It's mildly-mannered, rough and in the south, some call it a religion. Protracted angst, adrenaline rush, and holding your breath with 20 seconds on the clock - anything is possible. Hail Mary! The fans go wild in unison, the cheers get louder, the ritualistic chanting drowns out even the play on the field. Hard-hitting, double coverage, third and long, move the chains! Stadiums built to hold the masses, to tailgate, to root for your team. Team colors displayed proudly, faces painted, and banners stating the facts. It's stats, polls, bowl games and being in the top ten. In your face, noise, and fans spilling on to the field after a one-point win. It's September through January, prime time and cable. Victory! Defeat! Football is sport, amplified.

A Walk

My mission is to go for a long walk. The destination in mind, is Central Park. I'll have to walk many blocks to get there but the long walk will do me some good - help me clear my head and get some exercise. It's a warm and sunny day, excellent weather for a long walk. My feet hit the pavement and my walk begins. There's a group of European tourists on the main street huddled together reading a fold-out map. They sound German as they point to the map, to the street, back to the map and then look at each other for assurance on where they need to be. I cross the street and head south. The big church on the corner is in session and I can hear the gospel choir praise the Lord's name through song. Their voices mesh so powerfully together that I tempted to open the tall wooden doors and take a peek inside. My favorite part of church when I was little, was when the choir stood up in unison and belted out a song of trials and tribulations. Matching choir robes, movement, song...gospel music has a way of touching the soul deeply. I even slow my stride, so I can hang on to the song a little longer. A couple of young boys whiz by on skateboards. They're yelling back and forth to one another in a thick Jamaican accent. Jeans belted way below their waist, they move swiftly on their graffiti-patterned skateboards. Around 125th street one man turns a complete circle and asks me, "Can I talk to the beautiful lady?" My simple head gesture of nodding no, is all I can muster. Permeating through a first-story window is the trace of chicken frying in grease. Occasionally, I hear the sound of a television. It's Sunday. Some stores are closed and some are open. On such a warm afternoon in the middle of Fall, there's a guy selling flavored ice from his cart. Sweet smells of cherries and mango fill the air around his cart. The vendors still line the street with their tables filled with inscents, oils, Obama t-shirts, and handmade jewelry. I study the facades of buildings as I stroll along towards the park. I notice new construction going up on the avenue, as well as, paint peeling from the sides of old apartment buildings. The sun feels warm on my face. I'm less tense, I have a steady pace. The energy around me elicits a gospel song in my heart, I hum to myself. I see the park ahead but decide to walk further.

Gray

Gray. The sky has no cumulus clouds, no traces of pale blue, no orange sun. The grayness stills the morning and hides the plane that I hear jetting through the sky overhead. Gray is soulful. An emotional interlude. It only appears nebulous. Gray is transition. The curtain, if you will, slowly opening up to a brighter day.

Power of Words

I was talking to my older sister one day. Or let me rephrase that, I was venting, complaining and having my own little pity party about how much I need a new job and need to discover a huge pot of money at the end of the rainbow tomorrow. For the most part, she agreed with most of my rants and provided me with encouragement and sisterly love. Before we ended our phone conversation, she asked me this: Are you living or existing?

I couldn't really respond, I don't think I needed to. I simply gave her a "hmmm?". And assured her that was a very deep question - powerful. I've been thinking about that statement every day since.

Mood

Low lighting. Red wine. Conversation is light. We sit close. My mind drifts with anticipation. Waiting. The build-up. Foreplay. My body reacts to the touch of his fingers and to the way he looks at me assured. Eyes open, engaged- eyes closed. The kiss. He pulls me closer. It's gentle, soft lips, a nibble. His hands move slowly up my thigh. The kiss intensifies - long and deep. Each breath a little louder, quicker. His hands inch between my legs. Low moans. He helps me take off my dress, my bra, my underwear. Naked. He cups my breast in his hands, he kisses me - licks my breast. The short gaze. The pace quickens. His fingers caress me between my legs. Slight pressure applied, easing away just enough to tease me. Hot. Wet. The stroke of his tongue is stimulating. Moans. Sounds. Noises. The tip of his tongue makes circles, it runs vertical and horizontal along every inch of me. Throbbing. Wanting. Needing. I am somewhere between anticipation and ecstasy. The mood is set.

A Woman's Tragedy

There are certain incidents that occur in a woman's life that make for a Greek tragedy, the Shakespearean version would be titled "Oh the Unfortunate". Getting stuck in a torrential downpour on a humid summer day wearing white with no umbrella. In the bathroom stall at the hottest club, no one else around, no toilet paper and you're on your period. Or around 11PM you find a good movie on cable, discover the double-fudge brownie mix with walnuts in the cabinet but have no eggs in the fridge, you just painted your toenails and put on your PJs. This morning I dropped my jar of Vaseline in the toilet. I had just poured a generous portion of Pine-Sol in the toilet so I could give it a good scrub. Vaseline is one of those staples in a woman's life - it's for the lips, for the hands, dry feet, and I've even used it to take off eye make-up when I ran out of the good stuff. It seem to happen in slow motion. I was dipping my finger into the jar and lost my grip, it teetered on the edge of the shelf in the medicine cabinet, then bounced down and hit the bathroom sink. I fumbled for it, it was too complex to handle so early in the morning. I may have even given the jar the extra gravity it needed to make it over into the toilet. Plop. The expression on my face changed, it's like being out to dinner with a group of coworkers and the waitress tells the entire table decibels above the noise around you that your card has been declined. "Oh no! What will I do without my Vaseline?" Life as I knew it changed at that moment. My mind raced. I thought of ways to improvise until I could make it to the drugstore. How long could I go with unmoisturized lips or dry heels? The jar of Vaseline had been in my life for months, maybe even a year. The things we hold onto, the little things that make our lives better. Scream! I scooped the jar out of the toilet and accepted the fact that it was not reusable. Bubbles smelling of Pine-Sol filled the jar. I placed the lid on and threw it into the trash. I looked around the bathroom, maybe the MacGyver or Martha Stewart in me wanted to concoct something else to tie me over until I could replace the only jar of Vaseline I had in the house. Hmm? Olive oil and that lotion I never use from Bath & Body Works. Heavy cream, butter and baby oil?

It was gone, I had to move on - and for that moment it was tragic.

A Quote for Today

"You have to go the way your blood beats. If you don't live the only life you have, you won't live some other life, you won't live any life at all." -James Baldwin

Passion

For the past few weeks at work, I've had to attend a series of workshops on being an account manager in advertising. By the second session it was clear (like I needed a reminder) that my career path is not account management. The leader of the workshops mentioned that the first thing about being an account manager, is that you need to be passionate about advertising. Passionate about advertising...um, no - not even. I wanted to get up and walk out then. Later that night when I was home watching a documentary on television, a woman in the segment mentioned - you need to do what you know. She explained how it wasn't until she was 42 that she started following her dreams and passion for cooking, and now she's a successful restaurant owner and food network personality. And recently, in the middle of napping on Saturday, I awoke to a commercial with the words: Are you passionate about what you do? The letters, big and red, were spaced cross the screen, and seem to be screaming for my attention. I got it! I am writer. Writing is what I'm passionate about. Maybe, I did need the reminder(s). It's not a good feeling to spend most of the day doing something that doesn't bring joy to my life. One of the first entries in my blog was about the dread of returning to work on Monday. I don't want to live my life that way - it's cliche but life is what you make it. If this Sunday is about anything, it's about living my life as I see fit. The amalgamation of passion, experience, desire and following my dreams. Doing what I know - what a perfect idea.

Date Night

I watched Predator last night. Earlier in the week, I thought my Saturday night would entail a date with the guy I've been seeing for the past month. Instead, I lounged on the couch and waited for the intense special-ops team lead by Arnold Schwarzenegger to get taken out one-by-one, with only fearless Arnold in the end to save man-kind from further alien destruction. I love that movie! Simple plot, action, and a Hollywood ending. Why can't I expect the same from dating? Maybe men are from Mars or is that Pluto? A month ago I was certain this man was into me, we were laughing it up, having a good time, talking almost every day. And now, this week, today - I'm just not sure he's about me anymore. It's gone from meeting the friends, to him not being sure when we can get together again. Yes, he's busy working and has extra things to juggle. We're all busy. I'm a firm believer that you make time for the people (or things) you enjoy. And the calls and text messages have even dwindled down to here today, not tomorrow or maybe the next day. I'm not "that" woman that envisions the whole marriage thing on the first date and has picked out my China pattern by the second date. However, I am that woman that just goes with the flow, and trust my instinct. My instinct says - this guy is a good person, makes me laugh, and he's genuine. Now, I'm not getting that vibe. Why can't men articulate what they're feeling? If he's too busy, just not interested or has recently discovered he has scurvy - he should tell me. There's a scene in Predator when the only woman in the movie is trying to explain to all the men what might be tracking them: she says it's like the jungle came alive and killed the other men. One of the men quickly disrupts her and says that doesn't make any sense...he thinks it's two or three hoodlum bandits causing all the destruction. What doesn't make any sense is that a guy tells you he likes you and wants to know what you think about him and then - the jungle just comes alive and takes his brain away. I don't believe life is a Hollywood ending necessarily, but where's the simple plot, the action? When does I like you mean something different? Or should I automatically think, you not calling me back is the signal that you don't like me anymore? Yes, I need a clearer signal. I need direct answers when I ask direction questions. Or just yell "cut" - let's do that scene over.

Does height matter?

In college I coined it the Jolly-Green Giant Syndrome. I was suspicious of men shorter than me that pursued me as a romantic interest. I thought back to slow-dancing at the high school dance and the guy who only came to my breast. He mumbled the Luther Vandross song as he rested his head on my left breast. Or the mere fact that I was taller than everyone (girls and guys) throughout most of my high school life. I didn't date much in high school. Not only because of the height issue but there just weren't a lot of eligible boys. And at that age, guys liked having girlfriends that were shorter or smaller than them. I was always on the back row for school pictures, or any event that included lining up from shortest to tallest. I waved to my girlfriends up front...I was in back with all the boys. Thankfully enough, my family instilled great values in me and I never slouched. I held my chin up and shoulders back. But I also secretly dreamed of the boyfriend that I could look up to and that would make me feel dainty. However, college proved to be an ideal situation for dating because most of the men had reached their height potential. No situation is perfect, I still got called names like - Big Bird, 6'5 (I'm 5'11), or Stretch. I remember once being asked to dance, and when I stood up it was glaringly obvious I was taller than him. His expression appeared a bit uncomfortable. We made it out to the dance floor and then he abandoned me. I think after that moment, I subconsciously swore off dating shorter men. It wasn't until 11 years later that I fell for my first short man. I noticed him when he walked in the restaurant, I thought he was cute and short. He happened to know the friend I was with, so we all engaged in conversation. I ended up talking to him most of the evening, I found him interesting. He mentioned later that he couldn't help but stare at my breast at points during the conversation. From his vantage point of 5'7 (still think he might have been shorter) I guess it was inevitable, right? We became fast friends and even faster lovers. He told me, he'd dated a couple women taller before. It was a little different for me at first: being the taller one, looking down at him, or my legs dragging the floor when he carried me to the bedroom. Still, I maintained an open mind and decided I would put that feeling behind me to truly get to know this person - this man shorter than me. It was an intense relationship for about seven months. The sex was amazing. And it is true what they say - it doesn't make a difference when you're lying in bed. Although, there are a couple positions that didn't work well with the height difference: standing up or doggy-style. Nonetheless, I have told my girlfriends that he's in the top two for best sex I've ever had. No, I don't think it was because he was short...we were more sexually compatible versus being a good match romantically. Physically, my preference is to date someone taller than me but I can truly say I'm open to dating men shorter than me.

A line or two

Here are some pick-up lines or just lines I have heard directly or indirectly:

1. My therapist said I would meet the woman of my dreams today.
2. So, the tall guy is going to be buying drinks at the bar. (the tall guy being him)
3. Can I talk to you for a minute...3o seconds?
4. Whoa! I like 'em tall. Can I holla at ya?
5. Hi. You dropped this - he hands me his business card.
6. Do you believe in lust at first sight?
7. If I only I were ten years younger and not married.
8. Baby I can take care of you! If you go out with me, I'll buy you a Louis Vuitton.
9. I'm just going to skip the lines...you, me. Can you picture it?
10. While sitting at a bar...

Him: We're headed to a jazz club a couple blocks away, would you like to join us?

Me: No thanks.

Him: I would like to give you my number, maybe we can go out sometime. Friday night?

Me: Oh...no thanks, I have plans.

Him: Saturday?

Me: Um...I have company coming to town.

Him: Monday?

Love

My grandparents were married for 70 years. That's a life span for some. My grandfather once said to me: "Grandbaby I hope you meet someone and have the joy of what I've had in my marriage." They were married at 19 and 15, and by the time we had our conversation I was extending my college career well into my mid twenties. I respected what they shared. I saw that they respected one another. They had ten kids and moved eight times before calling a small town in northern Florida home. They were unselfish, loving, hard-working and faithful. He called her "sister" and she called him by his first name, Tommie. When I see older couples holding hands, sitting closely in the park, or helping each other onto the train - I'm reminded of how beautiful love is. I don't think love has to fade when you get older, like most things it adapts with time and situation. Love doesn't have to be defined on certainty, I think true love is measured on how you weather the uncertainty. My grandparents were friends. And I have always believed that a strong relationship is based on a good friendship...you really do have to like each other. Love is not enough. I ask this question of people often: Is marriage unrealistic or are people unrealistic? The overwhelming majority has answered - people are unrealistic. And marriage doesn't equal love, plenty of people live together in bliss without going through an official ceremony. After all, it's all about the years in between. What my grandparents shared brought joy to those around them. Love has a way of doing that.

The 2 Train

I had two unique experiences on the 2 train in two days.

One: I was relieved to feel the breeze of the 2 train at Fulton street. The few minutes I waited felt like an hour, as dreams of my bed danced in my head. I was tired. The train arrived, I jumped on and Uptown was our destination. The train was fairly packed, so I hadn't noticed the man in the zoot suit when I stepped in and took a seat. He was tall, dark and unusual. His bald head perspired and was adorned with an old-school headset which was attached to a small tape recorder. The zoot suit was an odd shade of deep blue that looked like purple. Thin white pinstripes dashed up and down the long jacket and baggy pants. A white shirt peeped out of the top of the jacket which was conservatively buttoned up to only reveal the collar of the shirt. Although there appeared to be nothing conservative about this man. His voice rose decibels above any train noise, passenger conservations, or conductor announcements. He was having his very own reggae concert and we were the audience. This gravely thick Jamaican accent echoed through the train car. His eyes remained closed as he concentrated on the lyrics accompanying him from the mini tape recorder. He held on to a pole and shifted back and forth, once and while he bounced down to the floor and rocked back up. I wasn't always certain that his song was matching what was being played on the recorder. His lyrics rolled heavy...'she say she wanta good man...she no love me no more...me no care.' He barked loudly a few times to add emphasis to his actions and song. The crowd on the train was mixed. Some people tried desperately not to look (who couldn't help but look he was so loud). A couple of people ran out of the train car to another section when we stopped. Several people laughed so hard their faces turned red and their shoulders shook uncontrollably. Most of us looked, rolled our eyes, or just accepted this was another ride on the 2 train. He exited the train at 42nd Street. Enter, the men with the African drums. Just when we thought we would get some rest from all the noise, another reggae fest quickly unfolded. They recited Bob Marley, even threw in some James Brown and Aretha Franklin...'r-e-s-p-e-c-t, take care of tcb.' The two men sported dreads and after their show, gave a speech about being nice, having positive attitudes and living each day with a smile. Music, insight, and please-make-a-donation all in one moment. And when I thought I couldn't get to my stop quick enough, another man joined the festivity at 96th Street. He squeezed in while the Rastas where still collecting and imparting knowledge on the crowd. He quickly unfolded his chair and plugged in his electric guitar. His look was young Stevie Wonder-ish with dark glasses and a suit and bow tie. Unfortunately his show was a cross between wanna-be James Brown and a comedy club routine gone bad. He chimed into the crowd with jingles about Mexicans selling tacos and a crack on R. Kelly's love for the young girls. And it turned out that the guitar player knew the drummers, so they all joined in for a tribute to Motown with a reggae feel. 'Living in America...jump back, I wanna kiss myself.' Or at least it went something like that. Alas, my stop. I couldn't get out of the train quick enough. I stumbled over the feet of other passengers, bumped into one of the drums, and edged out before the doors shut tightly behind me.

Two:
I figured he was a teenager en route to private school. With a backpack in tow, he wore a navy blazer, gray slacks and a trendy pair of kicks. I didn't think much about the fact he was a holding a tube of clear lip gloss when I plopped down next to him on the crowded morning train. It started slowly. At first I thought he was talking to someone next to him that he knew. Then I thought maybe he had an iPod. None of the above. He was indeed talking to someone but it was no one that I could see. He laughed. He got a little animated. He recounted a story of how the cops should have handled the situation better. He even got a bit agitated. I wasn't afraid sitting next to him, but did feel a little uncomfortable. I thought maybe he was high, mentally unstable or for a moment I thought he was doing it for jokes. I really didn't want to make eye contact since we were sitting so close but my curiosity got the best of me. I took a sip of my coffee and looked over at him and caught his attention for a second. His eyes seemed happy, I couldn't tell he was bewildered. He continued his conversation. He laughed out loud at what must have been really funny in his mind, because his chuckle continued a little longer than the last time. He swirled the lip gloss tube between his fingers, told his (playmate) that their stop would be next. He got up, adjusted his jacket, let the ladies exit first. And he was on his way.

Borders

Interrupted from my reading, I looked up to see a woman in a wheelchair creating quite the ruckus in Borders bookstore. I was borrowing a free read of The Power of Now and she was harassing the bookstore employees. She ranted about the aisles being too small...not sure why she chose to take the tightest route in the store, and she claimed she couldn't find anything. She screamed no one was helping her look for the Blue Dog book. Although the guy following patiently behind her with an armful of books and a walkie-talkie appeared to be appeasing her every need. She vented loudly to anyone near her (and across the store) and used colorful adjectives to describe her every move, and called the guy she bumped into with her wheelchair a pig. Clearly he should have seen her coming, and could have been out of her way. I was nestled into one of the comfortable leather chairs positioned between the cards section and a main aisle. There were four similar chairs all in a row. A couple of men were seated to my left and a woman on her cell phone whispering in French, sat next to me on my right. Our chairs were closer to the display shelves of cards and decorative boxes than the main aisle. However, the obnoxious woman in the wheelchair decided to barrel down the tight fit between the chairs and the card displays. She had to maneuver her chair over magazines that had been left behind, and our feet. She swore into the air at us and Borders for being there, as well as, making it too difficult for her to move along at a prosperous pace. She feigned interest in the boxes as she lightly tossed them around, and complained that the store was poorly organized. By now, I had my feet in the chair to ensure she would move along quickly. The woman on her cell phone rolled her eyes but didn't skip a beat in her conversation. I looked at the guys next to me and mouthed - "Who is she talking to?" The mean woman in the wheelchair was pushing past us with great force, bitterness and a need to complain that we were not helping her. We looked at each other bewildered. "Just sit there. Don't do anything!" She yelled at us or maybe the Borders employee who still followed behind her, picking up stuff she knocked off the shelves. She seemed miserable. I felt that she had only come to Borders to project her bitterness on others. I wasn't quite sure how to take her. I looked around the store wondering if it hadn't been laid out to accommodate handicap-challenged individuals...and was the lanky young guy following closely behind not meeting her needs? The guy next to me sighed loudly and mumbled - fucking rude. He was right.

New York City

I moved to New York City without ever having visited. Call it intuition, spontaneity or even crazy. I knew that New York City would speak to my soul...I just knew we would hit it off. I tried denying the feeling for awhile. Was in the middle of transitioning and instead of setting out for NYC at that time from Maryland, decided to move back to Florida to be near my family, even got back together with an ex boyfriend. One more time, I convinced myself, I can make this work. The best part about being back in Florida was the beautiful time I spent with my family. I was restless though. And it's hard to deny what's really in our soul. Working, living, socializing - making Florida home again was my mission. But it didn't feel like my purpose. It didn't speak to my soul. I was sitting at a red traffic light one hot and humid summer day in northern Florida contemplating my future. I'm a spiritual person so my thought went something like this: God I'm just not sure anymore about being in Florida, maybe I never was to begin with. I keep thinking about New York...not sure how it will all come together but I need your help. I need a sign. Should I stay in Florida or move to New York? God just give me a sign. I need to see it clearly. I sat there in my Ford Explorer nearly in tears praying and wondering what I should do. The cars turning off the subway made the left turn in front of me...before my light turned green, an old 80's-style Bronco passed in front of me and on the back window in white shoe polish were the words: Florida 2 New York. I smiled wide and big. Seeing those words provided me with a sense of relief. The mere fact of questioning what was in my heart, revealed the truth. Now, I've asked for signs before and didn't feel like I've gotten nearly the response. Maybe, I wasn't open to the possibilities or looking too hard. As soon as I could see the skyline of New York City, I knew I had arrived. I felt it deep in my soul - I'm home.

Courage

What is it that moves a guy from across the room to walk over to the woman he's just made eye contact with? Courage. What is it that propels one to climb to the top of the highest mountain? Courage. The cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz growled it best - you gotta have courage. In the midst of all that is seemingly too difficult, the breaking point, or even frightful, courage steers us clear from any harm. The crossroads in life may appear cliche on the horizon, but it's inevitable - no doubt. I pride myself with following my heart, my passion, and my gut feeling. Getting there isn't easy, it takes a whole lot of courage. I'm somewhere between the frozen dessert aisle and the produce section. Teetering between what I desire and what I've always known. Complacency, fear, and doubt overshadow reason...knowing when to deviate from the norm is, well, is not "normal". Or whatever we consider the usual. Responsibility, bills, obligations - sifting through all the day-to-day and drilling down to what moves me is the excitement I crave. I've always said if I could sum up my life on a bumper sticker it would read: taking the scenic route. Courage resembles the swimmer diving into the deep end of the pool - you take a deep breath and take the plunge. My regret would be not having the courage to take the plunge. It's unfamiliar, scary and exciting all rolled into one. I'm at a crossroads and I'm relying on courage.

Spirituality

The question was: What's a moment that defined spirituality for you?

I think it's several moments...my favorite quote is - we're all just spiritual beings having a human experience. Spirituality evokes a feeling of being connected. When I write, my heart, soul and mind are immersed in that moment - feeling the energy and completeness of who I am. Defining in it doesn't do it justice, it's really about the feeling - the connection. Outside, surrounded by nature and at that moment being totally aware of the beauty that surrounds us to a connection of energy that is greater. Spirituality is on-going, it's growth, it is the journey. Spirituality happens when you can just "be" and connect to those around you, to your environment, to the task at hand or to your soul purpose in that moment. Allowing yourself to believe in the possibilities and feel vulnerable at the same...not knowing is okay, not having all the answers, not doing anything but sitting still. Spirituality is prayer. Spirituality is love. Spirituality is truth. Questioning. Reflecting. Searching. Believing. Spirituality touches my soul. It makes me stronger. I notice the little things. I feel compassion. I'm understanding. Spirituality is taking a little bit of everything on your journey.

Today

I pull back the curtains to welcome the sunshine into my apartment. A homeless man is sleeping on the steps outside - bulging belly, scruffy beard, stuffed in his winter coat. Above him hangs a red sign that reads: Luxury Condos for Sale. A young man underneath a hoodie on his cell, steps over him as he heads onto the street. The garden outside my window, displays thinly planted trees with naked branches...however, one tree is proudly decorated in leaves of grasshopper green. There's a hint of spring in the air. Bags of fertilizer are strategically placed in the far corners of the Magrichantie Garden. Garbage bags full of leaves and trash are stacked at the gate's entrance. There's a stillness about the garden in the middle of a city block - the past converging on new construction. Still there's a hint of green. People busying themselves with the day's activities, pass by zipped-up in comfort. Cars are doubled-parked on the street. A few old men gather on the corner, hands stuffed in their pockets and long on conversation. They are animated, shifting, leaning and trying to out-talk one another. Nodding a hello here and there, a couple of women stroll by pushing carts full of laundry. The firetrucks barreling down the street towards an emergency, interrupt the dialogue between the older woman and the young girl heading into the church next door. Both dressed in brightly-colored dresses, the older woman adorned in a fantastic wide-brimmed hat. Not only am I taking in the brightness of the sun but the energy of my street.

Sunday

A friend of mine mentioned that her husband gets depressed on Sundays, because it's the day before he returns to work. Sigh. I nodded in agreement. I don't want Sundays to symbolize dread and anxiety, as well as, the end to what was a short time away from work. But more and more, I feel the same way. I don't like my job. The funny thing is, I start contemplating reasons that I should call-in...go in late or just quit all together. I know a job is a job...and if you're doing what you enjoy it doesn't feel like work. OK. I got to get to that point. Increasingly, I talk to many more people that dread Sundays and the onset of the work week versus greeting it all with a big smile, waiting for Monday. My car ran out of gas...I over-slept...my pet died...forgot it was Monday...had food poisoning. I know there are all kinds of excuses. I just want to say: I don't like my job and simply don't feel like being there today. Or I'm burnt out (true) and need a couple days to not do shit. Just be. I want Sundays to feel like more than just the day before Monday. I want Sunday to still feel like one more day of the weekend. No dread, no anxiety. This Sunday, I need to start looking for a new job.