l.a. story

you learned when to say when. And when to keep going. A geographic move was not necessary to embrace life, yet with 3000 miles between you and the Unicorn, you have successfully misdirected all carrier pigeons he might send your way. You stuck out your neck and by some strange twist of economics found a paid internship in the field you want to work in. While there were some ups and downs in your friendship with Sarah, you don’t regret turning the page and taking a chance. You went out to coffee dressed in a unitard and a sundress in cowboy boots. You went searching for the Bat Cave in the Hollywood Hills. You drove north to San Francisco, went hiking to the top of a mountain and listened to a man share his spiritual story while the wind tore his words away. You sought peace through free yoga classes in Santa Monica, and pondered why more people don’t fart in some of the poses. You laughed until you cried over waffles at brunch. You tripped over a fifty-pound bull-dog at a gansta-rap sushi joint in Thai Town wearing five- inch heels. You got so frustrated you almost threw a tantrum in the used book store in Glendale – all you wanted to read was the Three Musketeers, walked away with Confessions of a Yakuza instead. You spent an exorbitant amount of time in traffic. You ran through the sprinklers in Palm Springs… learned a lesson: “Desert in the Winter, Beach in the Summer.” You read and reread a plethora of trash novels (what your mother calls, “bodice rippers”). You ventured through a ghost-town in Arkansas on the way to LA, and had your picture taken with a twelve-foot-tall sculpture of Popeye the Sailorman. You got a tan. You quit smoking for ten days, went crazy, and started smoking again. You saw the morning mist burn off the cliffs of Malibu. You cried all the way to UCLA, missing your dad, wanting his hugs, realizing that maybe for the first time you didn’t want anything else to replace that pain of missing him. You practiced patience and acceptance when jobs you are qualified for did not come through. You practiced humility daily when you admit that maybe coming to California during the worst economy the US has seen since the Great Depression, was not a financially wise move. You watched a dragonfly skip around the pool drinking water for ten minutes one morning. You made friends with women in the area in meetings, even though you didn’t know if you were going to stay for long. You saw a friend from middle school who you haven’t hung out with in over a decade at her babyshower. Sarah’s baby has her own way of calling for you. You danced with her, swam, ran, and played hide-and-go-seek with her. You stopped taking the psychotropic medication prescribed to you, and just devoted more energy to countering depression with the cognitive tools you have learned over the years. You started a book-drive in your area to bring 12-step literature to hospitals and institutions that have been asking for some. You scooped a divot in the sand, lay down, and fell asleep. You woke up with first degree burns two hours later. You realized you are taken care of in every way.