grateful

I went to yoga with my BFF Melissa on Saturday.  I've read about the studio in Yoga Journal and heard about the teacher from my girlfriend for years.  When Melissa asked the teacher how she was, she responded, "I am just really, really grateful."

It's a quote I want to remember for a number of reasons.  But that is certainly how I feel in this moment, as I look back on my splendid weekend.  Grateful.

Working backwards, I don't even think I knew how grateful I was until I got home.  The kids were so happy to see me, but just generally so happy.  So gorgeous and silly and honest and real.  Eliana looked huge and confident.  She went down the big water slides all by herself at the party!  Even the dark tunnel one!  Her eyes were red from chlorine, her voice extra raspy and tuckered.   How was your trip, mama?  So pure.

Soli and I just kept touching each other.  We're more primal like that.  I read them the new books I found in the funky SF bookstore, Sol and I snuggled in close, hand in hand.  His curls looked longer and thicker, his skin felt extra soft.  And then, just like that, they were asleep.

They did so very fine without me.  Jeffy took care of all the house business and Nana helped with weekend loving and after-school pick up.  So there.  Mama can go away for the weekend.

And what a weekend it was.  We arrived in the city to be greeted by the goddess of love and airports herself, ready to take us wherever our hearts desired.  The stars aligned and I soon found myself walking towards one of my favorite, old college buddies and his fantabulous lady friend.  It was one of those energy bursting moments that set the tone for the night.  We rocked it pretty hard after that.

I am such a true fan of sparkle.  Dave and Liz are total sparkle.  Melis is sparkle too.  And us three homies from Montana weren't too shabby either.  It was rad.

Perhaps one of the raddest bits was the first margarita....wait,  the energy charged reunion...wait, the fabulous Senegalese dinner...wait, when our hot mama server suddenly cleared our table, pushed it aside, and smooth as silk, a sultry DJ in the corner began spinning beats.  And everyone moved from clay pots to loose hips.  As it should be.  Always and always.  I think I'll start clearing the table at home, dimming the lights, and busting Soul II Soul.

Back to life, back to reality.

We rocked that pretty dang hard.  And the evening continued to flow with absolute, meant-to-be, sparkle like perfection.

The next morning I was a bit rough around the edges, but so appreciative of the sunshine, the aforementioned "grateful" greeting at yoga.  The lovely practice had me back in my body in new ways.  I was so dang thankful to just be a student of yoga.  No need to hold everything in my mind, to think of ways to channel that practice into what I teach.  I was just there.  Hoping I wouldn't hurl all over the beautiful floors, the morning's latte a sloshy, lactose-laden poor choice.  But I'm that kinda girl.

One of my favorite life packages are called burritos.  They make them really, really awesome in San Francisco.  And that was next on the list.  Burritos and boutiques, meandering and sunshine, beautiful people, energy charge, little details to soak up everywhere.  Like the security guard who stood outside the burrito joint.  Or the three person mariachi band that wandered in halfway through my carnitas.  Or the joy of watching two of my best girls, one such a huge piece of my past life, one such a huge piece of now, chatting and laughing over beans and salsa together.  As Melissa said, "You know how to pick 'em."  I'll take it.

The weekend continued to move with ease and serendipity.  Our Saturday evening was mellow, tom kha soup and salmon panang, hysterical travel stories and sweet girl time.

I woke up early on Sunday feeling refreshed and ready to make the most of our last day.  I found myself walking down Clement Street, watching as the Chinese shopkeepers stocked their stands with lychee and persimmons, oranges and bok choy.  A man pounded out long strands of noodles, rolled them in sesame seeds and fried them in huge vats of oil.  It was early, but I was ready.  I found myself in line for the early morning treats, cha su bao and shu mai and adzuki bean mochi.  I was in Gillie food heaven.  I loved sharing stories of Japanese school carnivals with Donna Uchimura or dim sum blowouts with Joe Tung.  Coming full circle with the food.

And with the place.  I have a whole bank of formative memories of the Bay area.  The Boho Revolution was meant to be set in San Francisco, as that is where my story began, twenty years ago.  The first time I lived away from home.  Weekends spent driving into adventures set in dusty bookstores, steep, foggy streets, damp woods.  Baggy jeans and corduroy jackets, cruising with such purpose.  We cruised with that sort of purpose on Sunday. On and on through the green wonderland of Golden Gate Park we cruised.  Past roller boogie rockers and baby strollers.   Through every kind of tree, every texture of bark and leaf.

 It's such a magical spot.  Almost other-worldly, this ginormous park that is set in the middle of a huge city.

We walked on.  Past ducks and geese and Barbie's cruising around on remote control toy boats.  We walked towards the sea.


And there she was.  My heart.  Waiting.


The sun was perfect, the sand asking to be lay in, moved on, fully and wholly loved and appreciated.  I felt a lightness on that beach.  Like I really was twenty again.  Fifteen.  Five.  A whole lifetime of memories poured from me.  My seventeen year old birthday when me and my four best buddies went to Santa Barbara for the weekend.  Lay around on the sand and chatted.  Ate burgers and stayed up late being goofballs.  I had that same exact weekend.  There I was, messing around on the sand with my girlfriends.  Talking about where we'd eat next.  Simple, shared delights.
 

Our adventures continued over hill, over dale.  More ethnic food consumed.  More miles covered.  Another urban bus ride to get us going a bit faster, help us cover ground.  No real plan, no real needs, just moving, appreciating from place to place.

Our final evening was upon us.  How much would we motivate?  How much could we rally?  The fates were on our side again and, when after a series of taxi mishaps we were about to throw in our taco towel, Joellen said something like, "Unless a cab comes by right now, we are going home."  And there was the cab.  And we hopped in.  As it should be.

There is much to trust in the universe.  Trust that your children will thrive when left without you.  Trust that the ocean will be at the end of the line.  Trust that your feet, when put one in front of the other, will lead you to something triumphant and gorgeous and wholly unique.  

So thank you.  I am feeling really, really grateful.  Grateful for history.  For fabulous friends.  For a kind and good husband.  Soft skin and little fingers.  For this huge, wide world filled with people from everywhere.  For colors and smells.  For difference.  For risk.  For trust.  For adventure.