Down By the Bay

One of the great parts of living in my neighborhood is that we’re close to the bay. It’s not like a bay that you’d think of boats and seagulls, but it’s more like an open wetland.

It’s one of my favorite places to go and walk, to run, or sometimes flight. My boyfriend and I go there and walk the trails when we have something to “discuss.” Maybe it’s the open air, or the open sky that make it easier to say what’s really on your mind.

Something about the bay is really relaxing. Maybe it’s because it feels so quiet. I think that we get used to the sound of cars and phones and planes, and the buzz of refrigerators in the background of life. And it’s not that those are bad things, it’s just that I’m always surprised when when those things aren’t there, life is noticeably more quiet.

When I was little, I used to hate going to bed. In fact, I used to sneak down and sit at the bottom the stairs and listen to my parents watch TV after they thought we went to bed. Going to bed made me feel left out when my parents got to stay up and watch things, talk about things, and do things. A lot of the time, I would end up falling asleep on the stairs, because I was really a little girl and I couldn’t make my eyes stay awake any longer.

I remember my mom used to always say to me, “Jenna (I was called Jenna until I started school), what are you doing here? Don’t you want to be in bed?”

It’s funny that twenty years have gone by and I’m still the same person. My roommates love watching Sixteen and Pregnant. I have to admit, I’m shamelessly addicted to that show. This morning, I couldn’t pull myself away from the TV to head out to the bay. I know that I always love walks around the bay, but for some reason I couldn’t shake that 6-year-old feeling, like I was going to miss something if I ducked out from roommate time to spend time in the quiet.

Wind.

One of the things that always gets me about the bay is that when there aren’t cars and neon lights buzzing, you can hear different noises. You can hear birds flitting and singing. And you can hear the wind in the tops of the plants.

There is this story in 2 Samuel that always reminded me of the wind. David is this guy in the bible who God really liked. And for some reason David was always running from armies that were trying to kill him. In this part, David and his army were about to attack some group that was trying to kill David. And as the David’s group lays waiting to attack, the story goes that God says, “As soon as you hear the sound of the wind in the top of the Baslam trees, you should attack because it means that I am with you and going forward for you.”

I always got this picture in my mind of all of these warriors crouching in the forest, with their hearts pounding, waiting for the quiet sound of wind in the trees. It always made me smile when the wind would whir through the trees. It made me feel less small or something.

The funny thing is,  now I don’t think so much about whether or not God is there. But I still like the feeling of letting life be that quiet. Quiet enough where you can hear the birds and the wind.

Waffles and the Artist.

I really love having a dog. I know most people roll their eyes and think I’m that crazy girl who thinks her dog is her child, but she’s really nice to have around. She has this way of being with me that makes me feel like I’m not alone. But it’s not like having to go anywhere, or do anything, or talk to anyone. She can just trot along side, and I can listen to the wind.  I can watch her sniff, and lick dirt, and smile to myself. And for someone who loves being with people, finding time to listen to the wind and watch my dog lick dirt can be a hard thing to make time for. Especially when Sixteen and Pregnant has marathons on Sunday.

Getting a dog also means that you are bound to meet interesting people. Most old people just walk right up to her and pick her up. I mean, she could be a ferocious little dog and just bite them, but old people don’t seem to think of that. They just pick her up and cradle her like she’s an infant or something.

Today, this old old gentleman with bad hair plugs stopped me on the trail. His mom had a Yorkie, and began asking me questions about Waffles. He was wearing chocolate brown pants, with a chocolate brown turtleneck, a faded black jean jacket, and some brand new black boots. He looked like he meant to wear all black but somehow missed.

He looked at me and asked, “Are you by chance an artist?”

“Well, kind of,” I replied. “I’m a writer, but well….” and then I trailed off. Do you tell total strangers about your struggles with life and art?

He smiled. “You look like an artist.”

I blushed.

Chi or Energy or  Feng Shui, or Whatever You Call It.

I told my boyfriend that when we get a house, I want to hire someone to come and check out our energy. He laughed at me.

I remember someone telling me that if a farmer plants carrots, and is angry when he plants them, then the carrot has angry energy. If that farmer takes the angry carrot and sells it, and it turns up in your salad that you buy for lunch, and you eat it, you now have angry energy. He was telling me that the whole world is connected through energy, that it’s everywhere all around us, and we have to tap into good energy.

This guy sounded crazy to me, but I sometimes get what he’s talking about. I told my boyfriend that when we lived in the Yorktown house, I remember feeling like the whole house was bright, and airy and something about it made me want to cook all the time. The kitchen was warm and inviting, and I loved having people sit down at the bar and chat with me while I concocted something delicious.

Our current house isn’t the same. We have brand new cabinets. Marble counter tops. Expensive tiled floors. But I don’t cook the way I used to. I don’t get the same feeling that I used to when I cooked in the old house. Something about this house is busier, louder, or more chaotic.

I don’t think you can hear the wind in the trees in this house.

I think when I buy a house, I want to make sure my chi is right. That when the wind blows in the trees, it comes through the windows. That the house makes you want to turn on some good music and cook. Or that I don’t get stuck watching TV shows, and I can leave and go to the bay to listen to silence and talk to artist with bad hair plugs.

I know I have been on a writing hiatus for the past six months or so, making it hard to be a big fan of “Jenni Brown Writes” because well, Jenni Brown Does Everything Else But Write.

Well, that’s not completely true, because I have been writing. It’s just that some of the writing has been personal, and I’m not quite ready to put it on the site.

See, I have actually been going through some changes, and to be candid, it’s been really rough. Simply put, my friend Tiffany said to me, “Jenni you’re the person who is tough in the face of the storm, but once it’s over you totally fall apart.”

She nailed it. Last year was a storm. And I wrote. I networked. I went to meetings. I job searched. I went to counseling. I cried. I dried my tears. I ran. I went to countless interviews. I learned pitches. I got denial calls. I didn’t give up. I grew. I grew a lot.

Suddenly one day in mid October, I got a phone call that changed my life. I got my dream job, and suddenly all of the other pieces of life fell into place. It was like I went from so terrible to wonderful in a matter of hours.

Things were great. For about three months. And just when the wonderful feelings of my wonderful life began to settle, it felt like a small crack started creeping through the concrete of my life. I started to crumble. Crumbles turned into shambles, and it was only a matter of weeks before I was completely falling apart. It was as if all of the pain of the last year suddenly became real, and I was feeling and processing an entire year’s worth at once.

It’s been tough to articulate exactly what that looked like. I suppose that’s why I haven’t been writing publicly. At first it felt like anger. Lots of it. Red and raging anger. And then after a while it settled into something softer than that. Maybe it looked like lots of questions. I began deconstructing lots of the foundations of my life, asking how I got there, and looking through things one at a time.

Hippies.

My boyfriend and I took my dog for a long walk yesterday. On our walk, I was telling him how I wanted a house with a garden. I can’t keep anything alive thought, so I told him he’d need to hire me a gardener. Someone would have to harvest those organic vegetables, and it couldn’t be me.  I want goats, and chickens, and a vineyard. I told him how I want to wear canvas pants, and be a hippie.

He laughed at me and asked, “What is your fascination with hippies? You’ve been talking about being a hippie for the past few months. You aren’t going to stop shaving or anything are you?”

“No” I told him, “I think I’ll keep shaving. But there’s something about hippies that I love. It’s like they get to wear flowing skirts, and not care about what they’re doing with their lives or anything. And me, I feel like I’m more of those corporate types who wears a suit and wants my life to all look a certain way. Some professional way, or the ‘right way’…whatever that is. ”

I told him that if I was really brave, I’d one day quit my job, move to a farm and write books. And I’d take up smoking. Maybe a pipe, maybe cigarettes. He hates smoking. I told him I didn’t care because when you’re a hippie, you do what you want and you don’t care.

Dirty Cars.

I just went downstairs to wipe down my car, because it’s filthy and it has been driving me crazy for the last several weeks. See, I grew up in a family where you never leave anything in your car. When the car is pulled into the garage, the only thing that stays in the car is some maps in the glove box. And cars are washed at least weekly. They oil is constantly changed, and I believe at one point our family owned custom made sponges to fit into the moldings of past cars that we owned, to ensure that detailing jobs were perfect.

Currently I haven’t washed my car in 6 months. It’s hideous. And when people get into my car I can’t help but apologize for my lack of commitment to clean my car.

My friend Shannon said to me one time when I climbed into her passenger seat, “My car is dirty, don’t judge me.”

I laughed because it was so honest. Somewhere along the lines it seems that having a clean car makes you a better person. Maybe it means that you have your life together, since you have time to make sure that your backseat isn’t filled with tennis rackets and weeks worth of old clothes.  Maybe this is why I want to be a hippie, because it means that I could have a messy car and not care if people judged me. Instead, I’d smoke my pipe. And try to convince my boyfriend not to be mad at me for doing it, because that’s just what hippies do.

The Divorce and the Massage Therapist.

Back in January, seeing that I was totally falling apart, I decided to make a drastic change. I completely chucked the rule book..whatever that is.

I don’t go to church anymore. I don’t pray. In fact, I told God to leave me alone. My close friends refer to it as “The Divorce.” I’m not trying to figure this one out. I don’t want to hash it out. I don’t want to process through it. I don’t want to write deep emotional things about it. And I’m determined not to feel bad about any of those things.

I just couldn’t help but feel like for the last several years, I’ve prayed, I’ve sought God, I’ve fought, I’ve processed, I’ve gone to counseling, I’ve found the silver lining, I’ve showed up, I’ve worked hard. And you know what? I’m ready to stop. I don’t want to follow God, and pray, and strive, and process, and seek, and find where God is in all situations. I’ve done that for years.

Instead, I want to sit in a yurt in the forest and do yoga. I want to blow bubbles. I want to smoke a pipe. I want to meditate. I want to be alone. I want to sleep.

I’m tired. I’m insanely tired.

So instead of going to church and seeking God, and singing songs that I were sometimes hard to sing, and pushing to follow God no matter what, I’ve decided to sleep.

To stop caring. And not in a flippant, angry angst filled way. But in a simple way. In a way that a hippie wouldn’t care. When I climbed in my car to wipe it down, I said out loud, “You know what? Who cares if my car is messy?” And I put away my towel and went back upstairs.

I’ve decided to be ok with not doing life perfectly. To meditate. To smoke a pipe. To tell God, “You know, you might be an ok guy, but I need some space.”

I  have been working with Andy my massage therapist for two years now. He came to give me a massage a few weeks ago, and he says to me “Jenni, this is the first time in years that your muscles feel great! They are normally so tense and you have issues all over you body, but now, they feel spongy and normal. What changed?”

He’s right. I feel great. I know telling God to take a flying leap is a really really big deal. And I’m sure that I’ve most likely offended someone somewhere. I’m sure some of you feel the compulsion to tell me that you are going to pray for me, and invite me back to church or something like that.

It’s not that I don’t think that God is God. And I don’t think that God’s not good. I’m just really tired. And I’m wearing canvas pants. And if you happen to ride in my car, don’t judge me because it’s messy.