Dr. Paul Weston

I'm pretty sure it was him, sitting there at a little table with his head bent, reading. I walked past him, on my way out of a cafe where Oliver and I had grabbed some lunch. I had leftover meatballs and tomato sauce in a plastic container, he had a book. He looked up and smiled.

If I could or would or did, I'd have fainted.

I watched that show, In Treatment, religiously when it was on a few years ago. I got so involved in it that I'd drive around the city thinking that if only Dr. Paul Weston were my therapist, my life would be perfect. I imagined all sorts of scenarios, both ethical and unethical. Of course, my obsession was not with Gabriel Byrne but with the tortured, intelligent character that he played. I write all of this perfectly aware of my folly and of how ridiculous it sounds. I figure, though, that Ms. Moon writes rhapsodically of Keith Richards and Radish King of Tom Cruise, so humor me. I wonder what those two ladies would do if they nearly bumped into their own true celebreloves and made eye contact?

Ms. Moon?

Radish King?

Staggering Abundance

Irish Sea Cliffs - via intangibility.com

So, it "rained" yesterday in Los Angeles and today is glorious. The sky is impossibly blue and the sun is warm. When I traveled east along Venice Blvd, I knew the beach was behind me, only five miles away, and the mountains ahead were dappled with snow, crystal clear behind the glittery skyline.

That's why we pay the big bucks to live here, reader. Just in case you thought otherwise.

I woke this morning to a beautiful email from one of my oldest friends, a friend who lives by the Irish sea with her little children and Irish literature-loving professor husband. I'd copy the whole email here, but that seems weird. Instead, I'll tell you that her words were like bobbing buoys in the ocean at my back, turning my thrashing in cold to a calm and lazy, stationary float. Thank you, Missy, thank you.

Those buoys have been evident everywhere I turn these days, but Missy's email made me realize that I must recognize them -- and praise what appears to be staggering abundance in my life. I locked eyes with a green-eyed woman named Morningstar during a Tantric meditation in my yoga class on Monday and floated out of it restored. Thank you, Morningstar. A writer friend responded to my cabinporn post by offering me her own cabin near Yosemite whenever I'd like to get away. Thank you, F, thank you. Someone told me about a parenting book that addresses sibling squabbling. I immediately downloaded it and read the first few chapters last night. While I generally hate parenting books (don't get me started on the latest French people make better parents thing), those few chapters were like reading a script that someone had written for a reality show about my boys! Thank you, Anonymous, for this tip. Thank you. The mysterious Radish King, who's also a published poet -- an incredible one -- wrote me and Sophie a poem. I'm not sure whether to publish it on this here little blog, because it's so amazing and powerful and wild that I feel certain the whole blog would go up in a burst of flame and I'm not ready for that. Thank you, Radish King, thank you. Another friend emailed me about a possible job opportunity that would fit my schedule perfectly and seems almost an embarrassing answer to my prayers to the universe for prosperity. Thank you, M, thank you.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.

from David Whyte's poem Everthing is Waiting for You

To Radish King

Red Velvet Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

Ganache Drizzle and Marshmallow Fluff Ghosts