The Whole Truth?

A watched pot never boils. In an ongoing show of consideration, most of my dears have checked on in me during the writing process but have abstained from probing too deeply. I appreciate it because it’s afforded me the space to bask in the craft; memoirs have such cathartic potential and I have to say I’m feeling the love. As for the message, I could have copied the journals I’ve kept over the years but I’m not sure imparting every detail of each day would have made for a riveting read. From the changes brought on by the adoption of this or that Ayurvedic dietary precept to the ecstatic rediscovery during and after yoga that the body does indeed have its own pharmacological reservoir, I eschewed their inclusion for something less mundane. Those journal entries relay appointments, interactions, moodiness but the larger chronology, the purpose and byproduct of my current introspection, is the whole truth. I think… well, back to the (Himalayan pink) salt mines…


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Not Necessarily in (This or) That Order...

As I toil over my little tome and approach the home stretch—I think—I’m gaining renewed respect for life’s forks in the road. They lead me to, among other things, end my brief hiatus from the blogosphere by welcoming you to Part 2 of a rarefied approach to asset management. Part 1 suggested that you identify the portfolio’s precious metals—I’m showing my hand, so anyone uninterested in sparkles may favor the term “commodities”—and savor them. Inevitably, some of the aforementioned forks lead to rough patches and that’s where Part 2, the Gold Standard, comes in. You’ll have to set your own; and reset it, if need be. Today it could be a daydream of coasting through Tuscany on a Vespa and if tomorrow proves especially arduous—tax season, recession, writer's block; take your pick—then you may need to up the ante and replace that scooter with a Ducati. In short, I’m advocating flexibility and persistence (reset, reset, reset). Also, hedge your bets by keeping a ledger or journal of your assets should you require a reminder. You're reading one of mine (I absolutely adored Tuscany), as I hope that by putting this advice in print I've increased the likelihood of heeding it. See you next week.


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You: Richer and Richer

In times such as these, this post's title might seem curious but I want you to deeply inspect your portfolio. Instead of dollars and cents (or gold and silver), examine the intangibles that either elicit the feeling that you've hit a home run and even the ones that make you feel you've struck out. I started with the repeats: the neighbor with whom warm greetings are exchanged several times weekly or hearing the latest from an ardent wildlife conservationist at the nearby market. Such interactions--and I'd wager that you have a slew of your own--are crown jewels to be polished but can be so easily undervalued. Another asset is the magic, the medicine that is comedy. When coffee shop banter fails to produce laughter, there are books and electronic media to deliver the goods. And if you're anything like me you require different types at different times, so like any investment perusal, patience is in order to find your personal blue chip. Having begun with what serves a purpose you advance to that which no longer does: the underperforming stock all gussied up as a stagnating relationship or the enduring bad habit. If it can be salvaged/revamped, go for it. If not, there's always the recycling bin so the energy can be invested elsewhere. Clearly these assets--interactions, comedy, and the stock destined to be edited out--are anything but intangible and bear real time fruit, so take stock, rather take heart that you're richer than you think.


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Read This Blog and Live to 100!

Let me begin with my apologies if you happened to get a cavity reading the previous entry. Love is clearly having its way with me but longevity is my current watchword. While recently running errands, I found it dizzying how often terms like antioxidants and younger were emboldened and capitalized. It seems the anti-aging craze gripping the world of retail could be hobbled, or rather coupled with one phrase: location, location, location. I'm referring to the Blue Zones (a designation coined by writer Dan Buettner), areas renown for playing host to large numbers of centenarians due to various environmental advantages and lifestyles. From the tropical Nicoya Peninsula of Costa Rica to the islands of Okinawa, Japan and Sardinia, Italy, a passport could be your ticket to staving off the ravages of time. And if the mention of any of these regions whets your whistle for travel or life abroad--and blue's not exactly your color--consider the "green zones." Touted as relatively affordable hubs for expatriates, Boquete (Panama), Le Marche (Italy), Puerto Vallarta (Mexico), Cascais (Portugal), and the Languedoc-Rousillon region of southern France collectively boast thousands of Americans as renters and homeowners.
So many of us have lives that will not allow for such a relocation or even extended stays at any of the aforementioned but I have a few ideas to slow the sands the time. Combine the travel suggestions--or just start by making a list of places you'd love to visit--then add the age-defying cosmetic of your choice, stir, eat something green, and most importantly, bookmark this hotspot; your "blue URL"... after all, location is key!


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A Cobweb Conspiracy

For anyone wondering about my brief hiatus, please blame it on my nascent meditation practice. It led me to reconsider my approach to a great many things and I actually "beat the heat" this year, or rather embraced it--sort of. Instead of withering in what still strikes me as a caldera carved by this clime's summer, I decided to get in on some of the smoldering. In other words, I snared a beau and he's quickly bypassing every firewall I've erected. And that's fine by me because those firewalls now appear to be more like cobwebs collecting dust and obscuring the loveliness of life. His seeming guilelessness initially set off alarm bells as though I was being goaded to eventual slaughter. The guillotine eventually met its fodder and it turned out to be the imagination I usually invest turning frogs into princes. Thus my internal software has undergone yet another upgrade and I find myself less and less taken aback to find that my prince is just a prince. Like so many things that go bump in the night, the conspiracy was of my making; walls and webs meant to protect me multiplied any time I met a suitor exhibiting the slightest hint of pretense. But they became an eyesore and when I happened upon a man that exudes forthrightness, I could see how the barriers fenced out trust as well. As gusts whisk them into obsolescence (and bring wondrous autumn within spitting distance), I wonder if change is in the air because Portugal is doing it too, blowing out its old energy policy with vast wind farms. Time will tell but for me, I bid a fond farewell to distrust and window dressing while I turn my attention to thoughts of apple-picking with my imperfectly perfect beau.


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Apples, Oranges and What's Good for the Goose

With a degree in fine arts and a string of corporate jobs that paid the bills while I nursed aspirations to one day return to drawing, I never saw this coming. Becoming a writer has been the Mother Goose of all career changes. Since its inception I planned to gauge the success of my stint on the publishing world's favor. But I'm not quite ready for that crucible and I happen to have a new measure.
After turning down--not all, but most--social invitations, I know I've arrived. With no designs on intentionally cultivating a hermitic persona, I must concede that, for me, reclusiveness yields literary results. I have other logs on the fire but not nearly as many as the uberdesigner Karl who quipped in his biographical documentary Lagerfeld Confidential: "for people like me, solitude is a victory."
Because the birdsong near my writing perch won't suffice, there is still the issue of sustenance and when I do come up for air, I require lots. Like the squirrel that will eat just about any throwaway but is primarily in the foraging game for seeds and nuts, my tastes vary. And when I say I've arrived, I simply mean that I finally understand--sans regret--I can't attend every engagement I'd like to. There are apples, there are oranges but there's also Mother Goose, spinning her yarns.


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A Campfire Debate

Imagine my surprise when This American Life (http://www.thisamericanlife.org/) plugged my former hot spots, Greenwoods and Lake of the Woods Camps. Listening to it, I didn't remember any adolescent angst. Instead I reminisced about the summer escape with friends and the omnipresent sounds of nature. Curtailing my stroll down memory lane, the podcast touched on something I'd overlooked in my relative youth: the controversial appropriation of Native American culture for the names of cabins and camp ceremonies. Consequently, the counselors voices were heard and the annual pow-wow went on hiatus only to return a year later by resoundingly popular demand. The adjoining camps, and many others, have concluded that their business models are predicated on the tradition.
With that debate on cultural sensitivity at its end (for now), I'm torn as I reconcile great memories with policies that ride roughshod over a people's heritage. I write, I make art, and I endeavor to do both with respect. And the feelings stirred by the podcast have made strange bedfellows of nostalgia and contention. Luckily, I'm developing some appreciation for paradox and looking a little deeper may well be worth the mixed feelings.



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