Lost Words

This is a semi-complete pile of 20 years of journals, stashed in "my" closet--the last remnant of pure me in the house.

They contain stories, dreams, sadnesses, poems, pieces of art and inspirational quotes from Japan, Asia, Ventura, the Valley, Silverlake and Hollywood. They are nearly indecipherable--even to me--but a perfect record of my emotional state through adulthood. Sparked by "The Artist's Way," these record my life, they are a map to how I digest existence.

I guess the point is, it's not like I page through them very often--though I do occasionally--to see what remains of me, how I have changed and how I have stayed the same, how many of the things I dreamed did come true, even if now they seem ordinary and I take them for granted.

But having them there, hidden away, is a comfort. It is like a filing cabinet for my soul. (underneath is my wedding dress in a bag, still smeared with Baci from our wedding night, and a box of beloved photographs).

The record is complete. Except for one volume.

Yesterday, I lost a journal.

I don't know where. I take my journal du jour everywhere, to scribble down every thought, every great snippet of conversation, every writer's note and inspirational piece of life. It is always stuffed with little mementos that fall out everywhere like snow.

I think I left at the Armenian carwash in Silverlake, where I spent an hour getting my car shampooed after I left a 2 litre bottle of wine in the car, baking in the hot sun, until it got so hot the cork exploded out and the wine poured everywhere, making our car smell like a rolling frat house--the day after a big bash.

I will go by today, in search of my journal.

For a minute I panicked, thinking how every thought about sex, money and life will be bared to the Armenian owners. But they wouldn't care, even if they could read my handwriting.

The worse part is just feeling like I lost a part of my hard drive out there where I can never retrieve it. It is lost. And that is unsettling.

But like so much writing, perhaps it is the act of writing that is more important than the words themselves.

After all, this was not a book manuscript or an article. It was the scribblings of a mad and passionate mother searching for herself in L.A..

And maybe I will find it.

I will let you know.

In Search of Motherhood. And Myself.

This blog entry is dedicated to Jessica--who always encourages me to keep writing and blogging!

I miss my blog. And i miss myself. I feel like i am disappearing. I am just going to doctors, dentists, swimming lessons, errands, and supporting various amazing friends in their creative endeavors (where have MY creative endeavors gone?)

My hubbie tells me: Let's do a career day.

This is a tradition for us. We used to go every six months, to talk about our dreams, our goals, where we were going. We would talk in the car to good music on the way to Santa Barbara. Then we would hike for two hours on the Cold Springs Trail (it survived the Tea Fire!!!!!) following every tangent and mental detour and dead end with no interruption from children, phones or life. Then we would go and eat WAAAAAY too much at Superrica, the best Mexican food in California, accompanied by a cold bottle of Negro Modelo or Bohemia. Then, fat, happy and tired, we would drive down to the beach, walk in the waves, and decide on the goals. Both of us would focus 100% on the person of the day. The day would end with some scribbling in a journal, dated and down.

We didn't share days. We each had our own.

But in the last year I have dropped out. We talk about Jonathan's career, but not mine. It is not his fault. He always asks. Tells me he is available. He is even the one who drove to find out if my favorite trail with the cold, clear pools and natural water slides had survived the fire.

It is me. The longer I go without talking about my dreams, without writing on my blog, without writing in my journal, the further underground my dreams go. They don't die. They just go under my skin, my blood vessells, deep into the marrow of my bones. They become shy things, scared of the light, where I can't talk about them anymore.

So now, when Jonathan asks, I am not ready. I feel like I have to birth those ideas all over again.

I remember growing up how my mother used to say: "I have lost myself. I don't know who I am."

I was strong, willful and alive. I thought her words were ridiculous. I vowed to never be like her.

She didn't say them with self-pity, entitlement, or anger. It was simply a truth. I think perhaps she was startled by the fact.

But now I understand. It is not that you are less, or less important. Probably I am more vitally important to more people. It is that everything about yourself becomes submerged in caring for others. In the constant crush of daily life--
I fought to be here. To be on hand for my boys. To be here to pick them up, feed them, watch them. And for my husband, too. And I know I will regenerate. But I feel like myself, my real essential self, is just going into a cave. I am calling, but she is not answering. And I miss her.

I feel like I need a vision quest. Like I need to go into the woods alone. Like I need to walk and walk and walk, carrying only my journal, a pen, my oil pastels and a plastic jug of water. I would not prepare meals or get anyone ready for bed. I would not do errands, or put small people in and out of cars or protect them from giant SUVS bearing down on me driven by angry blond women on cell phones driving too fast.

I would just be still, and stare up at the stars. I would listen, and hear the earth. I would stop, and smell the flowers, the pine-needles in the sun, the air heating up the world for summer. I would feel my soul come back to life.

Hello, soul. Are you there?