Simplicity by Sunny

I consider pumpkins one of the earth’s greatest accomplishments.  Pumpkin spice lattes.  Pumpkin pie.  Pumpkin muffins, preferably with cream cheese frosting.  Pumpkin bread.  Pumpkin bars.   Despite my passion for all pumpkin-related edibles (scented candles, too), I’d never before carved a pumpkin.  Until recently. 

A few months ago I met my friend Coco for lunch.  Coco is a fellow Midwesterner, but she could easily claim Brooklyn as her ‘hood.  She’s sassy, New York style.  She never hesitates in saying what she wants.  She exudes authority.  When she tells me I shouldn’t do something, then I do it anyway – knowing that she’ll discover my disobedience  because, well, she knows everything - I’m afraid of her.  But, afraid or not, I love her.  Her laugh is infectious.  I’ve tried not to laugh when she laughs, just to see if I could do it….and I can’t.  She makes life fun, even when she’s yelling at me for being a fool.  And if she ever reads this post, I hope she knows how much I admire and appreciate her .

I arrived before Coco at our lunch date and took the nearest available table.  I gazed, with an expression somewhere between dreamy and zombie-like, out the window.  To keep my head from crashing into the table, I propped my chin onto my hand. 

Coco arrived, the dimple in her right cheek glowing as it always does when she’s smiling.  She took a look at me.  The dimple crashed.  She slid into the opposite chair, staring intently at my face.  “What the hell happened to you?”

“Do I really look that bad?”

“Uh, yeah.”  She’s not one to mince words.  “Your eyes are bloodshot.  I’m pretty sure you’re about five minutes from passing out, and – hate to break this to ya – but your shirt’s inside out.”

I looked down, unconcerned.  “Oh.” 

“Are you hung over?  Did you spend the night in jail?  I mean…,” she paused to gesture at my disasterous appearance.  “What happened…?” 

I grinned.  “I met a man.”

Then I told her my story.

Several weeks ago I was strolling downtown when my stomach itched for pizza.  As luck would have it, half a block up was Poor Richard’s, where they serve pizza by the slice.  Not the Chicago-style that my Midwestern heart beats for, but good nonetheless.

I entered the small bistro, basil and oregano dusting the air.  Chefs threw dough up, way up, dangerously close to the ceiling, before letting it land back onto their dancing fingers.  I didn’t need to peruse the menu.  I have a favorite pizza combination and consider deviating from it Pizza Adultery.  Anxious, then, I went to the counter … reached out to ring the silver bell on the counter to signal a chef.  Wrist about to snap, someone grabbed my forearm.  Startled, arm dangling in mid-air, I swung around.

I don’t know what I expected to find – so quickly it happened – but a handsome, six-foot cowboy wouldn’t have been on my list of guesses.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked down at his hand around my arm.  My treacherous arm, tingling under the heat of his grasp.

He pulled away, but not quickly.

“Lookin’ to get your nose broken, cowboy?” I asked, brow still raised.

He stepped toward me, audacity in every inch of that movement.  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”  He grinned.  “And I wouldn’t mind if you did it.”

I did my best to scowl at him, but some things are uncontrollable.  Like blushing. 

He leaned across me, not touching, yet I could feel the vibration of him.  All my will power struggled against leaning into him.   

“I’ll forgive you, though,” he said, dinging the bell while steal leaning dangerously close.  ”If you let me buy you pizza.”

I stepped back.  “I’d rather we just punch each other and go our separate ways.” 

A white hat rushed over, ready to take an order.  “Two slices,” Cowboy said.  “Pineapple and ham.”

Clearly Cowboy suffered a listening problem.

Then it registered and I shook my head.  “What did you order?”

“Pineapple and ham.  I took a guess.  It’s my favorite.”

My jaw dropped. 

“Ah-ha!”  His triumph wasn’t subtle.  “I guessed right.”

I put both fists on my hips, refusing to acknowledge that he was, indeed, completely accurate.  “I don’t know where this nerve of yours comes from, but you’re creeping me out.”

His bravado instantly faded.  “Really?” He asked, boyish uncertainty making his face even more handsome.  “If you only knew how much my palms are sweating right now.”

I gave a satisfied nod at his humility.  “That’s better.”  I stuck out my hand.  “I’m Sunny.  Your nose, for now, is safe.”

We ate our pineapple pizza on the patio, laughing and talking.  He was like an old friend.  Well, except that every time he smiled, my heart thumped a little faster.  And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  When we decided to go to an Irish pub another block up, I was so intent on staring at him that I actually stepped in front of a moving vehicle. 

Cowboy pulled me back onto the curb.  “Careful, Sunny, geesh.  I don’t want you to die on our first date.”

“We’re on a first date?”  I asked.  “Who authorized that, hm?”

“I did.”  Cowboy doesn’t lack confience.  “And I saved your life on this first date, so now you gotta kiss me.”

And after three whiskeys, a Black & Tan, and a leisurely walk back to my car - I did.

Our second date was mini-golf.  At the end of the night, he gave me Belgian chocolate, decorated with a sateen bow.  On our third date we strolled a neighborhood with big, old houses.  Fingers linked.  Dodging sprinklers.  We pointed at attics that were surely haunted.  When the street lamps were far away and dim, he’d pull me close, hands supporting the small of my back, curving my spine until it was almost parallel to the sidewalk, and then – finding myself bent and blanketed by him – he’d claim my lips for a kiss that, if not for his arms, would’ve left me falling into the concrete.

It was this third date that he presented me with a gift utterly sweet.

“I didn’t have the chance to wrap it,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I said with a laugh.  “Just gimmie!”  (I may be a minimalist, but I also possess the occasional greedy tendency.)

And, there in my eager hands, he placed a pumpkin carving kit.

“Oh, Cowboy,” I said with happiness.  “This is the best gift ever.”

Our fourth date, then, was carving pumpkins.  With his-n-hers pumpkins, he also brought me peach tulips, their edges carved in yellow.

There, in my empty kitchen, we stood side-by-side carving the pumpkins we’d affectionately named Harold & Kumar.  We scooped out seeds and pumpkin guts, the smell of fall – fresh and spicy – made my kichen the epitome of what the season is about.  Namely socks, chilly air, and warm kissing.

The beauty of the fall season enveloped me like he enveloped me. 

Thanksgiving came and went – uneventful and that was okay.  Christmas, though is the season.  When the world – streets, living rooms, hearts – are lit with excitement.  Excitement for gifts wrapped imperfectly.  For a kiss under the mistletoe – not just any kiss, but the meeting of lips, lips that tell you you’re loved, lips that know every inch of your skin.  Christmas is the season of love, family, and hope for the New Year so close ahead. 

For some of us, Christmas can be a lonely experience.  No kiss, no family. 

This past Christmas, I rolled over and awoke with a heavy chest.  I pulled the quilt over my head and cried noisy, embarrassing tears.  The kind where, if someone overheard you, they’d think you’re either being tortured or simply five years old.

I felt a little of both.  Like a self-centered grade schooler and a torture victim.  Alone and lonely.  Cowboy and I weren’t dating anymore.  I missed him.  My empty apartment housed no Christmas tree.  Or cookies.  No mistletoes.  No wreathes.  Definitely no lips to kiss. 

While blowing my nose, the view of my puffy face stared at me from the bathroom mirror.  “Wow, I haven’t looked this pathetic in a long time,” I said to myself, smiling at my absurdity and my selfishness.  I straightened my shoulders.  I scrubbed the sticky, salty dried tears from my cheeks. 

“Deep breath, Sunny,” I told myself, curling my hair and applying my mascara ever so carefully.  “Deep, deep breaths.”

I had somewhere to go this past Christmas, and for this I was very happy.  I’ve been to holiday parties over the past many years, but Christmas Day isn’t an actual day I get to celebrate often.  This year I did have that chance and I wasn’t going to allow my mascara to run beforehand.

I drove to my friend AW’s house, parking in the midst of the other cars meant for their gathering.  AW’s house is Christmas all year, actually.  Cookies and warmth.  Love inside its walls.  Ironically I usually housesit for them during Christmas, but now I was at their house – with them in it – on this particular 25^th of December.

This year they were home because they’d just had their baby in September.  The most gorgeous baby I’ve ever met.  I’d felt him kicking inside of AW’s extended stomach months earlier.  I’d seen him in his first ultrasound.  I got to meet him when he was days old in the hospital, where I saw the love of a brand new mother as AW – my beautiful, exhausted friend – kissed her newborn son on his forehead, and whispered to him, “I love you.”

That was one of  the coolest gifts 2011 presented me :)  .

I walked into AW’s warm house this Christmas and, like magic, no longer felt like crying.  First off, there were homemade cinnamon buns at the ready.  If AW’s cinnamon buns don’t make a person immediately happy, that person is simply not human.

I was the only single person there.  And, I can’t lie, it hurt at first.  It hurt because I was surrounded by amazing couples – best friends who happen to married, who elbow each other in the ribs, tease each other mercilessly, who love each other unconditionally – and I wanted so badly for myself what they had.

Then there were the babies everywhere!  That, too, hurt at first.  When you’re 30, your friends start having babies and no one warms you how hard that’s going to be when you’ve always wanted babies, too.  When you didn’t grow up with a family, but always told yourself that was okay, because you’d grow your own one day. 

Being in AW’s living room on Christmas day, though, made me realize that being me – alone, yet suddenly not lonely – was absolutely wonderful.  That your happiness can be defined, not by whether you are who you thought you’d be, but rather by how much you appreciate what you do have.  Seeing the beauty, recognizing the beauty, that’s around you.  And this Christmas I appreciated every moment of beauty.  AW icing cinnamon buns in her kitchen while wearing her husband’s slippers.  Mrs. B’s baby girl, who sat next to me while we played Catch Phrase, who smiled at me with abandon, and grasped my index finger when I couldn’t resist touching her translucent skin.  Of course, I got to hold AW’s son, too, who, in his baby exhaustion, dropped easily into my arms and molded to my chest.  Who sighed every couple of moments in his sleep.  Whose cheeks curve just like AW’s, but whose brow is exactly like Mr. W’s.

Yeah, being me means sitting on the sidelines.  I can tell you that I’ve got an amazing front row seat.  I get to contribute in my own way, too, by basking in their happiness.  Happiness is always compounded by sharing.  I get to provide awe and excitement.  That’s significant in its own unique way.

I must also admit, too, that after spending Christmas day surrounded by babies, I’m not meant to ever have them.  Love them?  Oh, yes.  But care for them without dropping them accidentally on their heads?  Um, no.  I’m too klutzy for that kind of responsibility!  My wilting philodendron would agree . 

Driving home later that night, smelling like babies and sugar and peppermint coffee, I felt Christmas for the first time.  I thought back to October, and of Cowboy, and pumpkin carving and remembered feeling Halloween for the first time.  The year had provided me with a true celebration of its seasons.

Celebrating seasons isn’t about following a cultural recipe.  It’s about simply feeling good as the year unfolds from summer barbeques to turkey dinners. 

So, for Valentine’s Day this year, single or not, tip toe into a red dress or knot a red tie, and go dancing.  For your birthday, get your favorite cake – party or not – and celebrate this brand new year.  Celebrate each season.  Celebrate your every season.  No matter who you are, where you’re at, or where you want to be.  Celebrate regardless.  Celebrate always.  Celebrate with abandon.

I’m a really lucky person.  I’m particularly lucky to have friends who appreciate hot chocolate spiked with booze.  So my friend Becky and I, in search of such a drink, settled ourselves into a table at Rico’s.  Here they serve the Colorado Aztec.  It’s hot chocolate with a hint of chili pepper, followed by a generous pour of whiskey.  Decorated – of course – with a mountain of whipped cream.

What more, I ask, is needed for a Friday night?

If you answered banjos, you’d be correct.

A band played for us whiskey-loving patrons.  Two banjos and a smooth alto reminded us that - yes, oh yes - life’s good.  Chocolate and whiskey supported this mindset.

Knees tucked beneath my chin, foot tapping on the wooden seat, I took everything in.  Wine bottles lounged promiscuously on the bar, the warm light kissing their curves.  Floor boards creaked under quick feet, servers moving in rhythm with the band.  Heat drifted from the kitchen, the aroma of sourdough and marinara forcing hungry breaths. 

There, in the corner, a young couple relished a first date – smiles shaking, hands trembling.  He leaned in and whispered something, lips grazing the top of her ear.  She blushed.  His fingertips trailed her cheekbone, tucked her hair behind an ear.  Life here, at this table, was fresh.  Nerve-wracking.

Eight grey-haired ladies sat front and center, their belly laughs contagious.  They dug into creme brulee with greedy spoons.  Carelessly interrupting each other, wild hand gestures flying.  They were luminous in their enthusiasm.  Life at this table was unrestrained. 

Then, over to the right, I noticed a man and a woman.  Her hand rested in the crook of his arm.  His head nodded to the music, an easy smile strolling along the curve of his lips.  She watched him, smiling too.  How long they’d been married – five years, perhaps, or twenty - I don’t know, but it was a timeless love.  They unconsciously leaned into one other.  Human magnets.

A retractable walking stick leaned against the side of his chair.  He was blind.

I took a moment to wonder about him.  Had he always been blind?  Had he ever seen his wife?  Did he know that her hair was the color of honey?  Did he know about her freckles and bright eyes?

Drifting back to the banjos and my imagination, I closed my eyes, relaxed from the whiskey.  In the middle of my daydream (involving a hammock, wool quilt, and three dozen books, if you must know), I heard the blind man ask his wife, “Dance with me, baby?”

Opening my eyes, I saw that he’d brought his face close to hers, noses almost touching.  Rico’s isn’t a dancing kinda place.  She darted a look around, looking suddenly uncomfortable.  But then she returned his smile and rubbed her nose against his.  “Of course,” she answered, grabbing his hand.

There, to the left, they claimed 9 square feet of dance floor.  She maneuvered their steps around the tables and servers, letting him lead as much as possible.  His face became enthralled.  Thrilled.  He pulled her closer, buried his nose into her honey-colored hair, slid his lips across the base of her neck.  Gave her a twirl.  He was - very simply – happy to be dancing with his wife to the strumming of banjos – in a place he knew only as warm and aromatic. 

He didn’t see the curious glances.  He didn’t know that they were the only two dancing. 

Despite his lack of sight – no, because of it - I’d say he was the luckiest person there.

What would be different if I, too, were blind?  If I could rely only on my feelings, with absolutely no regard to how it looks?  What if I were blind, but felt my urge to dance, my itch to sing, my pull toward love?  Well, I’d dance a helluva lot more.  I’d sing a lot louder.  I’d dig into love with a greedy spoon.

Soon they stopped dancing, breathless and pink-cheeked, and settled back into their chairs.  Life at this table was… blinded by sensation.

I’ve been receiving some lovely emails from SBS readers.  While my ego does enlarge after hearing that my posts are appreciated (I’m human, after all), I’m also humbled.  I’m reminded that what brings me happiness, and what brings me pain, are the same things that bring you happiness and pain, too.  I’m made aware that the world doesn’t revolve around me, it revolves around us.  We’re in this crazy ride together and I’m glad to be riding the crazy bus with all of you.

I’ve also been reading many complaints about technology.  The Internet. Texts.  Facebook.  The ways we’re manipulated by Smartphones and e-mail is an often discussed topic.  Digital sabbaticals abound.  We supposedly suffer at the mercy of technology by losing our connection to real life.

I recognize the benefits I, myself, receive when I disconnect.  Time I spend in nature (or in the bathtub) rejuvenates me.  Dinners I share with in-the-flesh friends nourishes my spirit and my tummy.  On the very same hand, though, I give thanks to technology.

I’ve always known that I’m odd.  There are a plethora of things about me that make me weird.  After discovering the world of blogs, I realize there are many of us eccentric folks who scatter the world.  I’ve found peace in this discovery.  I’ve found a sense of connection that would never exist if not for technology.  Online forums.  YouTube.  If not for miss minimalist, RowdyKittens, becoming minimalist, zen habits…  If not for my own blog.

I’ve been blogging for almost two years and during this time of revealing myself freely through the online written word (albeit anonymously) I’ve learned how to be more open and honest with those I meet in person, too.  Being part of my online community, surrounded by like-minded friends, has given me a ridiculous amount of courage to enter the real world, unafraid of what makes me different.

When I sold my stereo on Craigslist, which I wrote about at the beginning of my blog here, I found myself uncomfortable with the buyer’s strange glances at my empty apartment.  I told him that I was moving to Uganda to become a missionary.  (I don’t know why I didn’t say something more believable.  What pops out of my mouth can never be predicted ).  That was me then.  In contrast, I recently had a coffee date with a new co-worker, and five minutes into our lattes I said, “It’s only fair to tell you upfront that I’m a crazy person who, among other strange things, lives without furniture.”

“Well,” she said, giving it thought for a moment.  “It’s better than living without clothes, right?”

As the evening progressed, she shared herself easily with me, after I’d shared easily with her.  We had four lattes that night before heading home, having solidified a friendship. 

This new friendship is one example of how I must thank you, dear reader, because you – your support, your kind words, your friendship – have given me more than I can ever give you.  You let me be myself here, which allows me to be myself out there, too.  Which means that life’s pretty great, thanks to you.  There’s nothing better than getting to be who you are… all the time.

My blog, and the use of technology, has given me friends, revelations, and self-confidence.  I’m thankful to technology and the way it brings us all together.

My blog has brought me into contact with a young woman from Portugal, whose English is written elegantly and warmly.  She’s sent me photographs of Lisbon.  How wonderful it is to learn about life across the ocean!  Glimpsing something that can’t be seen at Wikipedia.  Reading her emails is a treat. 

There’s Amy, the sweetest redhead I’ve ever met.  She contacted me through my blog shortly before spending last summer interning in Denver.  A year later I’m blessed to have her as my friend.  A friend I admire for her spunk.  She relocated to Washington state a few months ago and, during her road trip west, she went camping in the middle of desolate Wyoming, surrounded by gorgeous foliage.  I’d worry about bears and mountain men, but not her.  I’m pretty sure that girl can do anything.  Each time she accomplishes something, I think, “Wow, she did the seemingly impossible, so I bet I can, too.”

And there’s Kel, who mentioned his love for the Kindle in a comment a few posts back.  “No electronic books for me!”  I proclaimed.  But my curiosity was piqued and, in the space of one day, I’d uploaded the Kindle for PC app and read an entire e-book in one sitting.  Now I’m convinced.  I need a Kindle.

Of course, there’s Bradon, too, who moved to Denver a few weeks ago from Texas.  On a hot Saturday in Boulder he kept me company, reminding me how important bare feet and chilly creeks are.

Without technology, I’d not have Amy’s adventures to hear about – and take great pleasure in.  I’d not have pictures from Portugal.  Or Kindle lust.  Or your comments to learn from and respond to.  Most important, without technology, I wouldn’t be this person I am today.

It’s with great sincerity that I offer you all my greatest thanks.

This blog wasn’t created of my own volition.  The most fabulous things in my life rarely are.  My friend A.W. suggested it.   Because of her, I’ve found an outlet that’s made me appreciate myself exactly as I am.  A hobby that’s given me friends, a sense of community, and countless happy hours of typing away.  A.W., I don’t think I’ve ever told you properly, so here goes – “Thank you!”   

This isn’t my blog as much as it is our blog.  I reserve the right, of course, to share my stories because it’s in my nature to monopolize a conversation.  But that’s how I like to think of SBS – a conversation.  A little corner of the Internet that’s our home, albeit minimally decorated.  A place to explore living simply, living minimally, and (best of all) living eccentrically.  So, I ask for your help.  If there’s anything you want me to write about, please leave a comment or send me an email at ColoradoSunny@live.com.  I don’t have all the answers, but together we might figure a little something out.

I lost my job last week. 

Every list that I’ve made, budget I’ve designed, plan I’ve looked forward to, is now obsolete.

With the economy unwilling to forgive since 2008, and me working in commercial real estate, I’d been prepared for a job loss.  But not prepared for it last week.  I’ve fantasized about quitting my job at least once every day.  Once before lunch.  Once after lunch.  But imagining a voluntary runaway is different from being told your job is no longer needed.

Before it’s assumed that I set fire to something or mooned the CFO (things I’ve imagined, but refrained from), my job – along with everyone else’s job in my department – is being erased because the large company I work for is cutting off its real estate arm.  Our portfolio of buildings is up for grabs.  With great luck, if it can be called that, I’ve been given a four-month notice because selling commercial properties is a complicated process and I’ll be needed to see it through.  So, I have four months to prepare whatever path is ahead of me.  I’ll be given a small severance and letters of recommendation.  Well, only if I don’t set fire to anything in the meanwhile. 

I was given the afternoon off to absorb the news.

The sun was bright.  The sky blue.  The temperature 95 degrees.  I crawled into Eddie, shivering despite the summer heat.  I slipped on my sunglasses.  I backed out of the parking spot that I’ve occupied for the past four years.  I rolled down the windows, breathing in hot dry Colorado air, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.  I reached the stop light and grabbed my phone.  But there was no one to call.

For the first time in four years, I yearned for my dad.  We haven’t spoken since the day I left Florida, for mutual reasons.  I couldn’t call him and ask for his advice.  All of my friends were either working, or not the kind of person you call and say, “How ya doin’?  Just lost my job, wanna get loaded?” 

There was no one to go home to.  No one to call. 

I’ve never felt so lonely.

Eddie and I drove without a destination except away.  With the windows down, air whipping in and out, hands shaky on the wheel, I didn’t head to the mountains like I usually do when I need a drive.  Instead I found myself on Hwy 83 where the two lane road is surrounded by red barns and dairy cows.  Where there’s flat pasture and cranky old pick-ups.  Tractors mowing lawns.  It’s a landscape reminiscent of my hometown in Wisconsin.  I sought the familiarity of it.

I parked on the side of the road, next to the black-and-white cows, and cut the engine.  I climbed onto the hood of my car so I could see the countryside clearly.  Grass shuffled against the breeze and it sounded sweet.

Then I cried.  Quiet, polite tears. 

I didn’t cry because I’d miss my job.  I’d been wanting to leave it anyway.  I didn’t cry because there weren’t options ahead.  But I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how this will affect my expensive apartment.  Or my plans for the nursing program.  Or my wine habit.  All of the progress I’ve made since moving to Denver  – would it all disappear?

Looking across to one of the peeling barns in the distance, I thought back to when I was a Midwestern kid.  The whole world a land of opportunity, to be bent and shaped as I saw fit.  I remembered all the trouble I was back then.  Being escorted home by the sheriff for trespassing.  Cheating on my calculus exams.  Skipping school.  Smoking in the bathroom.  Racing stolen four-wheelers through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin (we returned them eventually).  Sneaking into bars at seventeen by flirting with the bartenders.   

There were, of course, consequences to these things.  I was a bad kid, a troubled kid, and paid the price for it.  Detention, being shunned by the “good” kids, treated unfairly by teachers, and my dad avoided me at all costs. 

There are some good memories, too.  Fishing on the Peshtigo River.  Swimming at the YMCA every morning before school, ears submerged in chlorinated water, the vibrating silence and movement of my limbs providing peace when it existed nowhere else.  Sledding in Meadowbrook Park.  Camping every weekend at Potawatomi State Park in Door County, lounging barefooted in canvas chairs next to a campfire.  

The good.  The bad.  Back in the Midwest, when I was a rebel child, life wasn’t divided by these things.  Because every time I got knocked down, deservedly or not, I always popped right back up.  There was endless energy within.  Invincibility.  And naiveté, of course, which isn’t always a terrible thing.

That’s why I cried on the side of Hwy 83.  I wanted to pop back up, but after so much heart break and struggle - some of which I’ve created enthusiastically and stupidly on my own, some of which a result of circumstance, some of which have brought hidden gifts, but have hurt just the same  - I no longer possessed endless energy.  I’d never felt so tired as I did that afternoon, sitting on top of my car in the middle of nowhere.

I held up well through the rest of that week.  Until Friday afternoon.

While driving along a deserted country road, this time Hwy 105, a police officer pulled me over for doing 62 mph in a 50 mph zone.  I sat, completely dejected, waiting while he wrote my $162 speeding ticket.  Was this really happening to me?  Getting laid off and being slapped with a ticket… within the space of three days?

He ripped off my copy from his little metal clipboard and said, “Now drive safe, you hear?”  Implying that  I wasn’t a safe driver, despite never having been in an accident and never having been pulled over for speeding.  (Okay, once before in Florida I was caught speeding, but it’s required to speed on I-95.)

I seriously considered backing him over with my car, but despite the sense of satisfaction it would’ve given, I’m too sensitive to be thrown in the slammer.  I allowed him, then, to drive away in a dust cloud of self-righteousness.

When he was gone, I stumbled out of my car, steadying myself against Eddie’s strong outline… and threw up in the ditch.  Exhaustion and stress had taken me over.

I slid to the gravel road, slumped against the car tire, hung my head between my knees. 

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, but when the roaring of a motorcycle slowed, sputtered, and stopped a dozen feet from me, reality came back.

The driver kicked the stand and dismounted.  He had the look of a serial killer.  Or a joyrider.  Who could predict?

His booted feet thudded toward me.  If he pulled a Smith & Wesson from beneath his untucked tee-shirt, which looked possible, it was of little concern.  Just kill me and get it over with, I thought. 

He eased close enough to talk, but allowed a comfortable distance to remain.  He scratched the heavy whiskers darkening his chin.  He looked left to the mountains, then right to the open field.

“Well, now,” he drew out, words dripping out like honey, his tone very unlike his dangerous appearance.  “Seems like you’re lost or in some kinda trouble.”

He was obviously Texan.  His accent belonged from nowhere else.

“Trouble,” I told him.

“Mm hm,” he murmured, hooking thumbs into back pockets and rocking on his heels.  “Trouble’s a damn unfortunate circumstance.”

“You betcha,” I said, obviously a relocated Midwesterner.  No one says “you betcha” unless you’re from smack dab in the middle of the U.S.A. 

He pushed back his red bandana, giving me a thorough look-over from atop his Aviator sunglasses.  I took him in fully, too.  Mid-thirties.  Sunburned.  Barb wire tattoos circling very large biceps.  Wranglers a bit too tight, but he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“What kinda trouble?”  He asked.

I scrunched up my nose.  Should I tell him the truth?  “I just got a $162 speeding ticket.”

He whistled through his teeth with what could’ve been appreciation.  “Those pigs,” he said, referring to policemen.  “Sonsa bitches, all of ‘em.”

The left side of my mouth lifted, understanding the sentiment.  “And I got laid-off on Tuesday.”

“Damn, lil’ mama.”  He gave a kick to the dusty road to show sympathy.  “Luck ain’t on your side.”

I sighed heavily.  “I thought about vehicular homicide.  For the cop, I mean.”

“I woulda helped burn the body.”

He said it so seriously, but I knew he was joking.  I laughed.

He laughed, too, muscled shoulders moving up and down.  “You know what I do when I’m down and out?”

I was afraid to know the answer, but he supplied it anyway.

“I take a long ride on Miss Harley over there,” he gestured to his bike.  It was a Super Glide.  My mouth watered slightly.  “And all my worries go’on an’ disappear.”

He stepped forward, right in front of me, and held out a hand.  “Take a ride with me, darlin’?” 

I hesitated.  Really, though, what did I have to lose?  And it was a Super Glide.  You can’t simply say “no” to it.  “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle.”

He grinned, suddenly looking quite sexy.  “The only thing you gotta remember,” he said, words like honey again.  “Is hold on tight.”

I lifted a brow.

“Real tight.”

I smiled.  And I took his hand.

I climbed onto the back of his Harley, feeling a tinge of excitement.  Feeling, just a little bit, like a kid again.  I scooted close so that my thighs hugged his and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Tighter,” he said.

I obliged.

We blazed forward.  He took the corners fast and we dipped low into the road.  My stomach lurched and I buried my forehead between his shoulder blades.  Connected to this mysterious man, the heat and steel of him dangerous yet comforting, I wasn’t lonely anymore.  My troubles flew away, as promised.  There was nothing except hanging on tight and leaning into the curves.  The scenery zipped by, colors flashing, and I saw, once again, that the world is a beautiful place.  Soon I tilted my head back, way back, until the fire of afternoon burned my face. 

On the back of that rumbling beast of a bike, I became a rebel again.

When the ride was over and he idled next to my car, where we’d left it, I hopped off.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling light and breathless.  And happy.

He winked at me.  “Pleasure’s mine.”  He revved the engine and nodded to my car.  “Drive it like it’s stolen, baby.”

“Shiny side up,” I returned.

Back behind my own (four) wheels, I shook out my knotted hair and examined my sunburn in the rear view mirror.  The face that looked back, lobster-like as it was, had strength and resilience once again.  I refused to let any “sonsa bitches” ruin my day.  Or any lay-off ruin my life.  At any moment, after all, you can fly away on a Harley and escape your troubles long enough to get some perspective.

I’m renewing the Midwestern rebel kid inside of me.  Not be the girl who always got detention, but be the girl who always pops back up.

Go ‘head, do your worst to bring me down.  Throw every obstacle in my way.  Throw me heartbreak.  Throw me uncertainty.  Throw me pain.  And disappointment.  Loneliness.  Hunger.  Fear.

I’ll catch it all willingly.  And keep it close to my hopes.  My dreams.  My desires.  My fantasies of vacationing in Bali .

Nothing will fuel my run toward succeeding faster than being told success is impossible.  Or having everything taken away.  Or being told “no” too many times.

Because, after all, a rebel loves a challenge.

If you were to meet me in person, you’d quickly discover that I’m a chatty sort who adores conversation.  If you think I’m long-winded while writing, you ain’t seen (or heard) nuttin’.  I love to discuss everything!

I’m the kind of person you avoid at the water cooler because you’ve got better things to do than suffer my inability to shut-up, but I’m undeniably valuable at the corporate Christmas party because I prevent awkward silences.  When a new co-worker stops by my cubicle for the first time, I introduce myself as a verbal Venus Flytrap, but assure them that they’re allowed to escape me whenever they like.  (Since I sit alone at the end of the hall, my only company a cranky boss and a Philodendron, I get pretty lonely down there .  So, when a wonderful person visits me, I want to keep them prisoner for as long as possible.)

Such is the case with MM, one my favorite prisoners – I mean, co-workers.  Poor MM.  But she visits my cubicle even without a work related purpose, which makes me think she sorta likes me.  She and I talk about lots of things.  My colorful dating life, her children’s shenanigans, movies, and the meaning of life.  Work, after all, isn’t so much about work.  It’s about dissecting our life’s happenings in extreme detail thirty-five out of forty hours per week.  When I decided to enter the nursing program, then, she was one of the first people I told.   

I was taken aback when she got super excited on my behalf and said that she, too, had always wanted to be a nurse and had started the nursing program years earlier.

“What happened?” I asked.  “Why didn’t you finish?”

She shrugged.  “After I finished my prerequisites, we moved for my husband’s job.  The timing was awful, that’s all.”

Every day thereafter MM and I shared thoughts on the health care field – how vast it is, how interesting… how gross, but in the good way.  Sharing our thoughts was fun, especially for me.  MM’s eyes light up as she talks about nursing.  The only thing I love more than wine and chocolate is seeing my prisoners – I mean, my friends – happy.  

One day I said, “Why don’t you go back and finish?  Obviously nursing is something that still interests you, and I’d take you for my nurse any ol’ day.”

She pursed her lips and thought for a moment.  “I dunno.” 

Grabbing one of my purple Post-its, I scribbled down my academic advisor’s name.  “Give this guy a call to see what it’d take to finish.  What would it hurt?”

And she did.  As I write this, her credits are being transferred and she starts the nursing program this fall.  My enthusiasm for school rubbed off positively!  How exciting to know I can influence people in ways that don’t require bail money.  (Just kidding, that rarely happens anymore .)

Speaking of work, I recently dealt with a broken circuit breaker in our building and I hired an electrician to come save us.  Mr. Electric’s handsome smile, a welcome surprise, made me wish I’d prepared accordingly with fresh lip gloss.  

After showing him the electrical panel, I rushed into the bathroom armed with my toothbrush.  As I’d eaten Italian for lunch, I brushed with gusto, hoping to transform my breath from garlicky to minty.  In case Mr. Electric, once I’d dutifully signed his work order, decided to haul off and kiss me.  Stranger things have happened.  I’m sure of it.

A new co-worker of mine entered the bathroom in the middle of my scrubbing and joined me at the sink.  “Wow,” she said.  “Your dentist would be really proud of you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I answered, toothpaste mumbling my words.  “This is my vain attempt to scrub the garlic off my breath because there’s a good-looking electrician down the hall.” 

She raised a brow.  “Where down the hall exactly?”

I grinned with co-conspiracy.  “Accounting’s conference room, left of the projector.” 

Minutes later, after I’d returned to my desk and was fluffing my hair, she rushed to my cubicle, breathless and pink-cheeked.  “I think he’s related to Bradley Cooper.”

“I was leaning toward Wentworth Miller, but I can see it your way.”

As we continued chatting, utilizing the female talent of bouncing from one topic to another one that’s completely unrelated, we discovered a mutual love of coconut.  Before our conversation ended, we made a coconut coffee date for next week.  A new friend!  One I made because I’d shared a slice of girly behavior with a stranger.

Last week I had dinner with my friend Becky.  We were burning our tongues off with inferno-rated buffalo wings while swigging 90 Shilling Ale.  After our second beer, I told her about the stories I’m writing.  I shared my dilemma of Manuscript #1 versus Manuscript #2, mainly the troublesome plot issues of the former.   Normally, I don’t talk about writing.  Before a few months ago, I’d never told anyone about my dream of finishing a book.  Lately, though, I’ve been sharing this part of myself more easily.  It’s proven beneficial.

“I can’t describe how excited I am about finishing a novel,” I told her.  “And I really want to finish the first manuscript, but the problem with the plot is ruining everything.  Oh, Becky, I don’t know what to do!”

“How ’bout flag the waiter?”  She fanned her tongue.  “I need more sour cream before my mouth bursts into flames.” 

“I meant about my manuscript.”

“I know, but I can’t problem solve if my entire head is sweating!”

So, I did as instructed.  After licking sour cream from our forks, she knitted her brow and suddenly said, “How about if you …..”

And, within the space of one sentence, she solved my manuscript’s plot.  Thank goodness I shared my enthusiasm for Manuscript #1 with her, otherwise I’d still be wallowing

I can’t write about enthusiasm without mentioning my friend A.W., who’s having a baby.  A baby!  I’ve seen his little baby bottom in an ultrasound.  I’ve felt the flutter in her stomach as he kicked, my hand experiencing life at its very beginning.  I’ve been able to pick out baby clothes with her, an event that requires long-term smiling.  As I watch A.W. become even more beautiful in pregnancy, her belly growing daily, and hearing all of the prep work she and her husband are doing (and, boy, is there a lot of it), I’m infected by her enthusiasm.  I’m reminded of how awesome life is.   

The power of enthusiasm should never be underestimated.  Get excited and share your excitement.  Whether it’s about a project you’re working on, a dream you have, or a blue-eyed electrician.  Enthusiasm is contagious.  When you share it, you shine more brightly and the people around you shine, too.  

Speak up, dear shy friends!  And tell me – and everyone else – what you’re excited about.  Who knows what problems it’ll solve?  What friends it’ll bring?  What happiness it’ll give someone?  Or how simply sharing your enthusiasm will keep it alive.

As a minimalist, die-hard such as I am, I firmly believe in the beauty of focus.  A focus on one thing, squeezing every delicious moment from the experience.  Or if it’s a dreaded work task, focusing hard so that it’s over and done with as quickly as possible.

It was with great gusto, then, that I laser beamed all effort into the manuscript I intend to finish this summer.

I set my stage perfectly.

“Laptop?” Check.  “Lucky earrings?”  Check.  ”Booze?”  Of course!  Since it was before noon during this particular checklist, at my side was coffee… smothered in Bailey’s.

What more could an aspiring writer require?  Exactly!  So I rectified my lack of music by popping in ear buds.  How can you drink Bailey’s and not listen to Ella Fitzgerald?

I often write at a bohemian cafe downtown, a cozy little spot where everyone sports dreadlocks and calls you “dear sister” or “fellow brother”.  It’s really not as creepy as it sounds, but it does require an open mind .  The first 50 pages of my manuscript were constructed on its sidewalk patio.  And it was there, too, that my fingers stopped their ratta-tat-tatting on my keyboard.

“Uh oh,” I whispered to myself, leaning slowly away from my laptop.  “I’m stuck.”

The story’s details weren’t matching up, its plot becoming less and less plausible with each page.  Because I was in public during this revelation, I couldn’t cry about it.  Tears or not, my heart ached with overwhelm.  How could my manuscript be so disrespectful?

A week passed that I didn’t touch my story.  It had spurned me and I’m stubborn about such behavior.  Especially from stories and characters I’ve extended such excellent good will towards.  After being spurned, or feeling in any other way morose, I yearn for the mountains.  So last week Eddie (my car) and I drove ourselves into the Rockies.  During the drive, mind wandering, hair tangling up with the wind, a miraculous event occurred. 

The entire plot of my manuscript fell from the sky and dropped, like magic, into my brain. 

With a gasp, I yanked the wheel and pulled Eddie off the road.  His tires screeched.  Dust blew up.  “Pen! Pen!”  I chanted with excitement.  “Need pen!”  As the dust settled, my foot still heavy on the brake pedal, I scribbled words and names and places.  I drew arrows here and there.  I chewed my lower lip as it spread wide into a grin.  And when I was done, I shifted into park.  I twisted the stereo dial and sent Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” pouring out the windows.  I hopped out and danced around my car.  “Yippee!”  I shouted.  And when Steppenwolf was done, and my dance was over, I slumped against the bumper.

“Now,” I said to myself.  “If I could figure out the plot to the manuscript I’m actually writing, that’d be great.”

See, the plot that had dropped magically from the sky pertained to a story I’d started, but never finished, a year ago.  Though I should’ve been focusing on Manuscript #1, I became obsessed by Manuscript #2.  That afternoon, instead of heading further into the mountains, I swung around and raced to the nearest cafe.  I scribbled for hours, consuming enough cappuccino that I switched to Type C blood.  My scribbling produced the best outline of my entire life.  I still can’t believe how marvelous it is.  (This isn’t to say that it’ll wind up being marvelous once finished, but it’s marvelous in its present state.)

I’m guilty of cheating on Manuscript #1, having found solace in the arms of my new story.  I did miss my characters from M#1, though, and yearned for them as if they were flesh-and-blood.

An interesting thing has happened in the midst of rolling around with M#2.  Solutions for the plot of M#1 have started coming around.

As the theory goes, when you stop thinking so hard, or stop thinking altogether, answers will reveal themselves.  On their own timeline, unfortunately, which is never as fast as I’d like it.  I know this theory to be true, and I’ve also come to believe that working on two (or more) of the same kind of projects helps them both flow.  There’s less pressure with two related projects, but the same skills and thought patterns are being practiced and mastered.

Writing, for example, becomes less intimidating to me when I’m constantly crafting words in a variety of different ways.  Emails, blog posts, poetry, Manuscript #1, Manuscript #2.  My pen becomes my cohort and playmate.

Working on two pieces of music, almost simultaneously, has helped me while playing the flute.  I’ve played since the age of seven.  While mastering a solo piece, a challenge worthy of excitement and fear, I constantly switched from my seemingly impossible solo to silly show tunes that I’d known for years.  Listening to me play back then, I sounded like a crazy musician who couldn’t make up her mind between Bach or Webber.  Keeping the flute to my lips was all that mattered.  While forcing my fingers to squeeze and release the open-holed keys, switching from the familiar to the foreign every couple of minutes, I eased my hesitancy and awkwardness.

Rather than abandon a pursuit completely, halting mental and physical momentum, just switch pieces for a while.  Set up a new canvas.  Sing a different song.  Bake a tried-and-true cake.  Hike an easier trail.  Switch to something easier, finding confidence in the familiar.  Or start something new, allowing your brain to air out.

This isn’t an invitation to start projects and never finish them.  This is a way to circumvent an obstacle (usually a tired brain!) and move forward.  Even my two manuscripts will require a choice.  Which comes first?  The light-hearted adventure?  Or the heavy character-driven dramedy?  Whichever one I choose, and it’s proving to be a hard choice, they’ll both be part of my writing journey this summer.

Another way I’ve been multi-tasking, in a good way, is by visiting new cafes throughout Denver, Boulder, and Colorado Springs.  I drew up an extensive list of cafes and bistros to try over the next several months.  My purpose of cafe hopping is to have something to look forward to every week.  It also gets me out of my comfort zone, has saved me money (sitting in a cafe is remarkably cheap), and encourages my writing habit.  By securing one bistro table and an overflowing mug of caffeine, I’m accomplishing four things at once.  Now that’s multi-tasking at its finest.

Something about spring fuels this little productive monster within me.  I’m not sure which I prefer – my inner productive monster in the spring, or my inner lazy slug in the winter – but whichever one happens to be alive and kickin’, well, I’m at its mercy.

This particular spring my inner monster decided it’s time to redecorate.  My apartment is almost empty, so perhaps “re”-decorate isn’t the most accurate description, but I’m unconcerned about semantics.  Who can think of semantics, or anything else, when picking out new furniture?  It’s ridiculously fun.  (No worries, I’d never give up minimalism, and my inner monster is a crazy minimalist, too.)

The bathroom was my first victim.  Mostly because I couldn’t make up my mind about the furniture.  Choosing fabric colors is like choosing shoes.  There’s so many…and they’re so beautiful…but I can’t have them all.   

Shower curtains, then, seemed much easier.    

“Oh my!” I sighed, standing in the midst of Shower Curtain Land, my mouth suddenly dry.  Hands sweaty.  “Am I really looking at twelve different shower curtain designs in sage green, my favorite color of all time?”

“Yuppers,” the saleslady said.  “And they’re on sale!”

Head dizzy.

Another dozen shower curtains, these red, captured my adoration next.  Then I found a collection of creamy white ones with gorgeous stitching, and they were tempting, too.  When I thought I couldn’t possibly take any more shower curtain euphoria, a fabulous print with trees and flowers jumped out - hints of green, red, creamy white, and yellow!  

“Hm,” I thought, trying to make an impossible decision.  “If I had eight showers, this would be much easier.”

Eventually, I committed myself to a brown and cream modern graphic print.  We’ll have a long-term relationship, I’m fairly sure, because brown shower curtains compliment red toothbrush holders.  Despite not having a red toothbrush holder, I’ve always wanted one, and one exists somewhere in the world patiently waiting for me.  I also liked its matching shower hooks.  Each hook has either “hot” or “cold” scripted across a white background, resembling antique bathroom faucets.  (They look a bit like this.)

I arrived home, excitement making me run up all three flights of stairs to my apartment.  I poured a generous glass of Shiraz and flipped on John Lee Hooker.  I was ready to hang me some curtain.

“I have the blues before sunrise,” I sang along with Hooker, taking a gulp of Shiraz before attaching the first hook to the shower rod.  “Tears standing in my eyes.”  Second hook.  ”It was a miserable feeling, now babe.”  Third hook.  “A feeling I doo despise.”  Fourth hook.  “I have to leaave, leave you baby.”  Fifth hook.  ”Because you knooow you done me wrong.” 

And so it continued, much to the dismay of my neighbors, I’m sure, until hook twelve.

Hook twelve slipped from my grasp and plopped unceremoniously into my wine glass.  “No, no, no!”  I dipped my fingers into the glass, pulling it out quickly, but the damage had been done.  Hook twelve was permanently stained by red wine, the white background now a bright purple.  I couldn’t really blame it for plummeting into Shiraz, it is hard to resist, but now my hooks no longer matched.  My brand new purchase was already marred. 

For a moment, I was angry at myself.  Why had I placed my wine glass on the edge of the tub?  Why hadn’t I paid closer attention to what I was doing? 

Have I mentioned that I’m a recovering Type A?  The “recovering” part sometimes is going well, sometimes not.  I’d do anything to be a Type B.  So, I slid hook twelve onto the rod, and said, “Type B, baby.”  Every morning since, before stepping into the shower, I tap the hook.  And I remember that life is infinitely sweeter when I don’t worry about what matches or doesn’t match.  That life is best when I’m not afraid of breaking things.  When I’m not afraid of getting dirty.  Or saying things just right.  Or thinking that perfection even should exist.

My favorite home accessory is now that stained shower hook.  That daily reminder of how important it is to accept imperfection.

Find something of your own, something you see every day.  Bend it.  Stain it.  Rip it.  Scratch it.  Make it imperfect intentionally.  And keep it as a reminder that things don’t have to be perfect to be useful.  Or beautiful.  Or your favorite thing.  Remember, too, that you don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful, either.

As an enthusiastic reader, I once lived happily with books scattered everywhere.  I do mean everywhere.  An almost permanent pile rode in the backseat of my car, waiting for a return to the library.  A tower of books teetered next to my favorite spot on the sofa.  One was usually forgotten in the kitchen, discarded while refilling my wine glass.  Another next to the bathtub, waterlogged and slightly stained with pink bubble bath.  If there weren’t at least twenty books overflowing from my living spaces - well, something felt wrong.

With my decision to focus on writing this summer, I also decided to curb the number of books I check out from the library because those piles (and piles) were distracting.  Wonderfully distracting, mind you, but distracting nonetheless. 

Surprisingly, I’ve found a lovely side effect of reading only one book at a time.  When I had twenty books, I found myself anxiously skimming through the pages of whichever one I held, hurrying to finish it.  I was like the paper version of the Nascar 500.  Because, after all, I had nineteen others that needed to be read, too.  With one single book, though, I relish each page.  I’m in no rush.  Now I find myself reading meaningful paragraphs over again several times, letting the words sink in and unwind into my head.  I find myself closing the book occasionally, taking time to ponder and daydream.  Because I choose only one book from the library, I choose it carefully, and am rarely disappointed with my choice.  I go through fewer books, but I’m actually reading more. 

When I uncluttered and minimized, I believed the empty space needed to be filled, at least partially, with my favorite things.  But my favorite things, too, are best when deliberately chosen and thoughtfully pursued.  I’ve found this to be true about more than books.  Picking out one bottle of wine is more satisfying than picking out three.  With only one bottle, I must read each label, think of my impending dinner, consider my mood.  I love this process!  Capturing one excellent photograph is better than a dozen half-hearted snapshots.  With taking only one photograph, I must see the landscape.  A bouquet of roses may be stunning, but a single rose seduces my gaze to the curve of each petal.  

One flavor of Jelly Belly stuffed into my mouth is better than ten flavors, no matter how much I love sugar :) .

One is a powerful number.

All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players; / They have their exits and their entrances; / And one man in his time plays many parts… William Shakespeare

As an obsessive-compulsive neat freak who requires everything to be “just so”, I can experience a panic attack when my apartment is messy.  By messy, I mean there’s one MIA coffee cup lounging outside of the dishwasher and one pair of on-the-run socks who’ve escaped the laundry basket.  I realize this isn’t healthy, but my neurotic tendencies could be worse.  I think.

When I decided to spend my summer writing I knew my neuroticism would need to be toned down.  Otherwise I’d never get anything accomplished.  Without school to keep me in check, I’d run wild with organizing and minimizing to the exclusion of every other thing.  And I do mean EVERY other thing.  And, truth be told, I’m actually most comfortable in a space that isn’t perfect.  Not cluttered, but free-flowing.  I’m happiest in places where life is evident.  Where things are both practical and beautiful and sometimes out-of-place.

Last week I looked around my apartment, clearly set up by a neurotic Type A, and decided to change things.  But I didn’t know how… until I started thinking about my life as a stage.  Myself as a character.

My Neurotic Apartment was organized in a series of banker boxes that were stacked carefully in my walk-in closet, nicknamed “Super Closet”.  Nothing is more inconvenient than having a Super Closet.  Nothing makes less sense than hauling out - daily – my external DVD drive from the bottom of a banker’s box when I want to watch 30 Rock.  Nothing makes less sense than storing anything in a banker’s box (and in the back of a closet, no less) when you use it every day.  Do you know how much time I’ve wasted going back and forth from my walk-in Super Closet to “unpack” something that’s stored away when it shouldn’t be stored at all?  Well, I’m not going to tell you.  It’s darn right embarrassing.

Our homes don’t need to look perfect.  Or be perfect.  Or impress anyone.  The best design for your home is one that sets the stage of your life in a practical and personally pleasing way.

I always appreciate a flair for the dramatic, so I really like the idea of setting a stage for my life.  The idea of it motivates me.  It gives me a new perspective by thinking of myself as a character.  Not pretending to be someone else.  I mean visualizing myself as a character starring in Her Fabulous Existence.  I mean thinking outside of my mental box and wondering how someone (much smarter and more stylish than me) would design my life if I were a character in a movie.   

One of my favorite aspects of watching movies is taking note of the sets.  Nancy Meyers is a particular favorite.  Her designs are more cluttered than I’d want for myself, but I adore her style all the same.  (Take a look what she did for the movie It’s Complicated.  I also drool over Dr. Brennan’s loft and Seeley’s apartment in the show Bones.  Oh, and I can’t forget to mention Millie’s loft in Because I Said So.)  I find myself falling head-over-heels over sets that truly reflect the character who lives there.

How can you design your stage?  How would you, as a brilliant character, live?  And if what you imagine is feasible, go for it.  And if it’s not at all realistic, get as close as possible.  Life’s simpler when you design your perfect backdrop.  

For myself, I wanted to set my apartment up as a writing cave (minus the darkness and bugs).  A little hideaway designed for writing, reading, watching movies, and munching Spanish olives.  All the while, of course, remaining a die-hard minimalist.

“I got lots of work to do!” I said while rolling up my sleeves.  I was ready to tackle My Neurotic Apartment.

Since my apartment is practically naked as-is, I focused not on the furniture arrangement, but on letting go of The Perfectly Organized Minimal Apartment.  I wanted to give up my need to control the items in my home, a losing battle anyway.

I took my Netbook from its shelf in the Super Closet and set it up on my dining room table, where it shall stay.  Now it’s ready for action at the simple push of a button.  I’ve given up the perfect stack of books on my mantle and now keep them nonchalantly next to my Netbook.  I’ve converted my fruit bowl into an electronic gizmo holder (for my headphones and external DVD drive) so they’re within easy reach.  I’ve evicted my bananas from the fruit bowl and thrown them onto my kitchen counter.  

When I read, I like to bury myself under my thick quilt and pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.  As you could guess, I stored my quilt in the Super Closet, next to my electronics.  Now it’s neatly folded when not in use, but it stays slung over the back cushions.  How lovely – and simple – it is to come home, grab a book, and snuggle into my couch. 

I have two pairs of shoes that I wear 99% of the time.  Their home is now at the front door because, really, does it make sense to drag them back to the closet when I know I’ll need them the next morning? 

Like setting the stage of a play, we must set the stage of our lives. 

I converted my table into a writing spot.  I made my couch a fluffy reading nook.  I put my shoes at the door.  I made these changes because I want my life to be about writing, reading, and being able to run out the door at a moment’s notice. 

In the process of narrowing in on these activities, I further minimized my drawers and closets of stuff that no longer provides happiness or purpose.  Setting the stage gives way to purging useless props.  Some items I got rid of:

• My Bluetooth headset because I rarely talk on the phone. 
• Memory sticks for my laptop because I save docs to “the cloud”. 
• Library books.  I often check too many library books out at one time (a seemingly impossible thing to do, I once thought) and reduced my stack to four.  I returned those books that were just “time wasters”, though a good time waster, if you ask me.  As I set my stage for writing this summer, though, they’re superfluous.   

If you’re looking to simplify your own home, ask yourself first, what do you want to do there?  How can your home support who you are and what you love?  If you paint, are your brushes placed somewhere they can anxiously await your hand?   If you cook, are your spices arranged so that grabbing one is convenient?  Also be honest about what you don’t want to do in your home.  If you aren’t into cooking, be honest about it, and donate your bread maker.  If you don’t like reading, donate your Louis L’Amour collection.  You may have a nicely set stage (gorgeous kitchen, full bookshelf), but if it’s for the wrong play (wrong life), it doesn’t make sense.  Setting up what IS important energizes you, just by seeing your home as a reflection of who you REALLY are.

The older I get (not that I’m old, mind you), the more interesting life becomes.  I notice unexpected connections in almost everything.  Sometimes I see patterns, see how things in my life – and in the lives of others – become linked.  Other times I experience absolute chaos that eventually (and amazingly) makes sense.  I’m continually seeing, too, how wrong I was about this, or how wrong I surely remain about that. 

Yeah, getting “older and wiser” is quite a humbling experience.

Knowing that life is unpredictable, I wasn’t surprised when Ms. Pearl moved to Rural SW, Colorado.  Ms. Pearl was one of my co-workers back in Florida.  She moved out here a year after I did.  I, however, was very surprised that we kept in touch after her move.  An email once in a while, a picture now and again.  We’d never been close while working together and, actually, I thought she kinda disliked me.  Surprising, I know, because – quite frankly – I’m darn right loveable. 

When she wound up in Denver this past weekend, she invited me to dinner.  Not one to turn down dinner invitations, I accepted and was taken aback by her enthusiasm.  “I can’t wait to see you!” She exclaimed. 

Really?  Hm.  I began to worry.  My cynical side wondered if she was buttering me up for an Amway proposal.

When we settled into our patio table at Pasquini’s, I felt a smidge of nervousness.  But we soon found ourselves laughing and talking, big bites of calzone the only break in our excited conversation.  That night I had dinner with someone I’d not known very well, but someone I realize was willing to be my friend years ago.  And is a friend now.  I never saw it before, but it was always there.

I’ve met a lot of people in my life.  I’ve had lunches and dinners with them, seen movies with them, met for happy hour with them.  But until I moved to Colorado, I didn’t have friends.  When I didn’t know who I was and pretended to be someone else, someone ”cooler”, I hid behind a mask.  I’ve learned that if you can’t be open and honest about yourself, it’s hard to find people who even can be your friend.  Once I dropped the mask, I found friends.  And my friends have taught me things I could never have learned from a book.  How to get excited about life and appreciate life.  If it weren’t for my friends, I wouldn’t be Sunny.

If I had to give a one-word answer to what has simplified my life the most, I’d not hesitate.  Friends. 

Tell me, what’s simpler than being with a friend?  Talking about books and shoes over coffee, that’s the simplest – and most wonderful – afternoon I can imagine.  A friend doesn’t care about the labels of your clothes, whether your lipstick has smudged, or what your social status is.  When you’re with a friend, you don’t worry about what you look like or whether you’ve said something stupid.  A friend makes you feel good about yourself, so that you don’t seek approval in other unhealthy ways.  Bad romantic relationships, addictions to drugs/alcohol, buying things that create debt.  How many of these circumstances could be avoided… because of a friend?  A person who encourages you, listens to you, brings out the good in you, and makes you want to be a better person.  A person who requires your commitment and authenticity because they need your support, too.  It’s a give-’n-take kinda thing.

A friend is the most valuable accessory you can have, but it’s not easy finding a true one.  It takes a lotta searching.  If you act like a friend, though, you’ll find friends.  So, treat everyone you know as if they’re already your friend.  Give them your respect and compassion.  Because you never know where your new friend will come from.  Invite people out for coffee and lunch.  Interact with as many people as possible until you build a circle of friends who love you.  Friends who will simplify your life by filling you with the things you need – hope, excitement, conversations over coffee, shared burdens, shared joys – and steering you away from the things you don’t.  

Oh, and of course, friends are an excellent source for borrowing such things as dining room tables, lawn mowers, earrings, books….  And if you’re REALLY lucky, they’ll even feed you occasionally.