You Heard It Here First!

Hello, Friends. I am announcing it here first, to my three loyal readers. I am going to start a community paper. I am modeling it on my friend's great product, and I think I can do it. I have been shadowing, thinking, procrastinating and learning for months. Now it is time to out myself and make myself accountable.

Much easier to say I am doing the marathon, than this.

Why?

Fear. Excitement. Desire. Caring too much.

I wish someone would write up a schedule for me, just like Hal Higby did for the marathon. Week one, do this Hilary. You may be feeling this, but move on. Week two, Up the Ante. You can skip one little task, but you have to do the big one. Week three, pull back. You are right on track, give yourself a little rest. Congratulations.

I am realizing. I always think it is the doing that matters. But I am realizing, it is the plan that matters even more. And planning is not my forte. OK, this is a procrastination effort in and of itself.

I am determined to do this.

Send me power, and wishes of success.

I want to write great stories, cover my forgotten neighborhood, train new young journalists, and advocate for what needs to be done. I also want to make some money, and I think I can.

Yes, you heard it here first!

Idyllwild

Do you remember your dreams when you were in college of what adulthood would be? Do you remember the things you thought would make you happy?

I remember. I remember sitting in Harvard Square eating a chocolate croissant and sipping coffee and reading the New York Times, and feeling so extravagant and grown up, and thinking, if I could have this, just this, every day, I would be happy.

Then, I remember how I loved hiking with some of my best friends: Natalie, Athena, Jill. We hiked all over California. We backpacked and got lost and had grand and crazy adventures. I did not live here then, nor had I ever gotten to see National Parks. Those trips made me insanely happy. And then, I thought, if I can always return to these beautiful places with people I love, I will be happy. If I can sing and tramp along a trail and talk about life, that would be enough.

But life goes on, and it starts to get confusing.

Well, this past weekend, I was in Idyllwild. Due to circumstances too mundane to go into here, I was driving up alone. I sat through traffic and incredible heat, but finally I was off the 60 and driving across huge plains and up into the mountains. I had the windows rolled down and the hot, piney wind was ripping through my car. I was driving fast and listening to the Michael Franti station on Pandora, and every curve brought a new spectacular view of mountains that look like the Sierras but are only two hours from L.A.. My heart was soaring. And I remember that period, when I said, if one day I can have a car, with a great stereo system, and I can roll down the windows and listen to my favorite music and sing along at the top of my lungs, then I will be happy.

And you know what was weird. I am 43 years old, life is so much more complicated, but those moments climbing the mountains listening to that great music, knowing that the next day I would take my water bottle and hike up to the highest peak and see forever, I was happy. I was so extraordinarily happy.

And I wondered: Did we know better, more clearly, what made us happy when we were 20 than we do now? Do our dreams and our happiness barometers get scrambled by life in the city, worries about bills, status, our shifting notions of success, our kids? I always think "No." I know myself and I am true to that.

But driving along, feeling the purest joy, I thought, I have forgotten. I have forgotten that of course I care about meaningful work, and a nice house, and social activisim and the rest of my grown up life. But beyond all of that, those simple pleasures of life that thrilled me when I was 21 still do make my heart sing. I still love an espresso, a perfect chocolate croissant and a few great newspaper articles for breakfast. I still love the parks and feel like the wild places in California never, ever let me down. I love these parks and mountains like John Muir. They inspire me and leave me in awe. And I still love that feeling of freedom that comes from blowing down a highway on a hot day with the windows rolled down, blasting your favorite tunes, singing at the top of your lungs, and breathing in the mountain air.

It's just good to know.

Dreams

Far too many nights, Benji climbs in bed with us. Usually he is just a big cuddly heat-seeking baby--as he has been from the minute he arrived on this earth.

The other night it rained and rained--so loud it woke us up, over and over again. Not gentle rain that puts you to sleep, but violent rain that sounds like your house has sprung a million leaks.

He climbed in and said:

"Mommy, I have been dreaming. Bad dreams."

"It's OK," I mumbled.

"What are dreams, Mommy? Are they just pretend? Are they real?

"Dreams are stories that happen in your mind when you sleep," I said. "They are not real."

"Oh."

Dreams

My dream--the one that returns time and time again--is that someone comes to me and tells me I have to go. I have ten minutes to pack, and a tiny suitcase. In that time I must decide what I will leave behind, and what I will take with me for the rest of my life.

The suitcase is the size of a carry-on, sometimes a large rolling suitcase, and in that I have to fit everything. My favorite clothes, my art, pictures of my family, my adventures, my life, practical things--hairbrushes, pans, a bathing suit, clothes for cold weather. It all has to fit, and I know it won't, and so I am packing, and each decision is so difficult I cannot move forward.

It is, in part, the legacy of being a Navy brat. I was always moving. Everything physical went with us, but a lot was always left behind. And, the truth was, I had no control over what. I didn't even know most of the time.

My favorite therapist tried to help me by telling me I could have trunk after trunk for my things. I no longer had to fit in a suitcase--especially now that I had a family. The scene was an Indian train, and the trunks were huge colonialist things. Impossible to move. I tried to visualize--but in my dreams there was always not only the fear and pain of moving, I also knew I had to move fast and travel light. Which I did for many many years. Well into my Thirties.

Even when I am awake I play this game a lot. I wander around my house and wonder what I would take with me if I had to flee my house, my city, my life--with my family. They get to go. And truly, they are the only thing that matters of all of this.

And now, as the economy teeters, and everything is uncertain, there are days we know we may have to sell our house. Sometimes I am OK with that. We are healthy. We have each other. We will not starve. A new house could bring a new adventure. You have to embrace change, and see what it brings, not cling blindly to the old. I believe all these things.

But somewhere deep deep inside me, I find it profoundly unsettling. Probably not as unsettling as people who have never moved, never started over, never left. I have done that all a million times. Perhaps I am best at that. Staying still is hard for me. But slowly this house has won me over. It has burrowed into my heart. I love the light, and the big old trees. I love the wavy 1920s glass that casts ripply shadows on our wall, like water. I love the smells of our garden, and the secret terraces, and the giant leaves around my outside dining room. I love that it floats above the city like a treehouse. I love the huge Hearst Castle Fireplace, our bright blue nook in the kitchen, and our giant pink designer lamp. I love the tiled floor that makes you dizzy, and the ghosts of old silent film stars you can feel wandering around, looking for a good party. I love that this house, and this neighborhood, with its fruit trees, its crumbling staircases, and its memories of better times, reminds me of my childhood in Naples--a gritty, crumbling city that still, to me, is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

I love our memories here. I never got to have that as a child. A place that was mine, that I could always go back to.

So, as we face departure, or at least the possibility of it, I feel myself stirred deep deep down. Is it childhood fears? Childhood longings? Tomorrow, when the rain clears and the sun comes out perhaps I will feel hope. I know so many people are facing this right now. But this truly is a magical house. I don't want to lose it.

Theo's Dream

(revealed over dinner of tortilla espanola, manchego, spinach and lemon, by candlelight)

"I had a dream, Mommy. I dreamed that Jennifer (his kindergarten teacher) took us all up in a hot air balloon. We went two at a time. First Zazi and Omeed. Then Forrest and Ondine. I was next. But then I woke up."

This following the (mostly) true story of the first hot air balloon flight in 1783 from Versailles, with a sheep, a duck, and a rooster. (that part is true!)