Acceptance

Fortune

I wanted this.

I worked for it.

I achieved it.

Simple right?

Last Friday I was offered an internship as the librarian for my University’s Study Center in Florence. As in Italy.

After quite literally falling on the floor when I got the email I thought about it for oh about 20 seconds… Um they are supporting me living a year in effing Tuscany? Not only a “hell yeah” I think this qualifies as a hell-damn-your-sweet-skippy-arse YES!

I penned my (more eloquent) “yes” with great, wild, crazy, joy and trembling hands… before they could change their minds. Then I was literally running around chasing my niece and smiling like an idiot in laughing, gleeful, abandon.

Relief. Release. Disbelief.   

I don’t know how many times I can express pure dumbfoundedness at where my life is and where it is going without sounding completely rudderless. I promise I’m in control. I might not plan things through A-B-C but I worked for this with intention and purpose.

[Read more…]

Paulo Coelho in “The Alchemist”

When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.

All you need: Strength and Health

sunrise over oto

Running on adrenaline and 3 hours of sleep, I slide into the black SUV to head to the airport. With every cell of my uncaffinated system I am willing the first sips of hotel coffee to give up the goods into my bloodstream. I am fixated on making it through TSA so I can purchase some decent coffee and zone-out before my 6:30am flight.

This is not usually a moment where I am at all desirous of conversation. I am, however, more uncomfortable being driven around places in the back of car as if I’m somebody who is important enough to do such things.

In a cab (which is what I wanted but the hotel called the service instead) I can almost make my peace with riding in silence. But using a car service and not even attempting to chat with the driver goes against my genes. The length and depth of the conversation is up to them.

Like so many times before I’m so very glad I have such a visceral (and yes, classist) reaction. All it takes is a rather wan smile and a few pleasantries and Andrew and I are in a rich conversation. He is happy and it is infectious even at 5am.

Jolting Talk

Forget coffee, give me a chat with a content soul any day to start the morning off right — Ok, maybe I was a touch hasty there. Caffeine and good conversation. Luckily it is rarely an either-or proposition.

This morning, my jolt comes from Barbados with beautiful dark skin and a breezy, warm accent. Andrew freely admits to doing what he loves. “Give me the road” he says.

He has a plan. He owns property in a few places but is happiest in the Sunshine State. Although it is still a little cold at times in Florida (which I ribbed him about) so eventually he will go back to the islands.

He tells stories about driving all over southern FL, down the Keys to the opposite coast, and that “one time I picked up a guy at the Atlanta Airport because all the flights were delayed.” Yes, he drove to GA and back for one stranded client. “Not all fares are that good,” he says with a sheepish grin.

He also likes to shuttle snowbirds’ cars down and back from points North. He drives a high-class clientele who obviously trust him, and I would to.

He thought about going to school for a while to “better himself” but decided that wasn’t a wise decision. “Especially with the economy. I just surround myself with the right kind of people instead.”

Plan for the future but live happily today,” he says and he is obviously doing both. I am completely awed by him, an average working dude, who has found his place in the world — in a job most of us probably don’t think of as a “career” — and he is content and happy.

And then, starting the circuit around the airport, sliding into the “departures” lane my new yogi Andrew lays the most priceless gem at my feet: “strength and health are all I wish for every day.”

He went on to chuckle “The Money Ball always looks nice but having the strength to work towards my goals and good health to be able… those are better.”

Damn. Dude really does have it figure out.

Strength and Health.

I murmured some agreement but what else is there really to say to that? in my heart I was sending a little-big thank you out to the universe, for that day I had those two things. I’ve had those two things for most of my life.

What more is needed?

Upon later reflection the best part about the gut-check reminder was realizing how self-determinative those two things are. Sure you can be dealt a crappy genetic code but if you chose to find-create-give yourself health and strength, everything else will find its way.

Contented happiness is right there, you just need those two things.

Thanks Andrew for making it so simple.

Wishing you all health and strength this day.

(Oh, and if you need a driver in the Palm Beach area reach out, I know a great guy.)

Image: “sunrise over oto” by By Michal Hrabovec via Flickr CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Tales from My Local #1

Southern Tier Pumking

I’m that girl that you are not paying any of kind attention to in the corner.

Quietly sipping my beer, nose buried in a screen or maybe even a book at 12:31 on a Friday night.

You might not even glance in my direction but I see you.

With a soft smirk I hear your awkward, rambling, chauvinistic, bombastic, lewd, self effacing conversations.

Oh I know I have been there, so forgive me my judgement.

I might be on the other side even now — you might have really seen me and similarly smirked my snifter of dark brew with hoodie and jeans.

So there, we are even.

I must say, however, you are quite splendid.

Although probably not the way that you intended, you are captivating.

You with your black T bible verse in star wars title theme shirt.

You expounding on the wonderful intricacies of a black pencil skirt by way of flirtation.

You with cowboy boots and miniskirt in a martini bar.

You with Reading Rainbow shirt, getting carded at the bar (sorry you are too young for that to be “retro cool”)

You four who discuss jeans— skinny jeans — for 10 minutes.

You who woo with talk of ultra-marathons being— not to brag or be like whatever or whatever — but it really is god-like.

You, who win the eve, with your Pabst hood up in summer with khaki shorts and black socks pulled up to your shins.

Please keep it up you magnificent specimen of bar culture.

This barfly is amused to no end.

I like beer… an intro to Tales from My Local

I love the idea of having a pub. My “local.”

A casual, comfortable, decent-brew serving place where maybe even a few people, yes, know your name.

The German tradition. The Irish tradition. Where people gather, drink (but not to too excess) and enjoy each other.

Just so we are clear: I’m not a girl who just likes boys who like beer…

I like beer.

Terrapin Side Project #14: Tomfoolery Fall 2011.

I like boys too but that it is a different blog post.

I can tell countless stories of the Ex ordering a gin and tonic, me a stout, and 9 times out of 10 they would be delivered reversed. Even by the waitress that took our orders.

I wish it wasn’t so very eye-brow raising for a gal (me) to say “I was down at the pub the other night taking to this guy…” Which maybe I do say a mite too often.

But my pint companion could be pushing 70 (usually is actually) or 50 or 21. He’s an interesting person to talk to. A kind face with a ready laugh through which I can see a different life and perspective for a while.

He could easily be a she. But I don’t find a whole lot of solo women in bars. Or, if I do, they often aren’t interested in just chatting with me.

So I talk to Dave the bartender down the street about his family back in Ireland while he sips a (no lie) bud and says that the Guinness over here tastes terrible.

I hear about a couple’s recent trip to Europe, their desire to escape the south even though it means leaving their chickens.

The environmentalist tells me about his agriculture research and his daughter’s love woes.

“Get Down” Brown and I share jibes and life advice in equal measure.

That is what I love about a local and beer: it is a communal experience. A pint is poured to be toasted and shared. Kinda like wine but (for me at least) not headache inducing.

My Local

In New York I had my place where I could sit and watch and taste and just be. Surrounded by people yet alone if I wanted. The game(s) would be on and I could read or talk or just take some time to think.

Comfortable and confident. Sipping something yummy.

I’m still searching for my local in Athens. I’ve found some good prospects including a fantastic coffeeshop that has some decent brews on tap regularly and Rasputin by the bottle where I camp out for the weekend to work. But I haven’t found the right place yet.

I’ll keep looking. I hope you find your place. A place. Be it coffeeshop, bar, or bench outside of a store.

A place to enjoy the scenery. Reflect. Laugh, smile or frown at things you see and hear. And, most importantly, to be able to chat with strangers who part as friends.

To me a good local — a good beer — means finding new friends whose names I might never know but whose stories I never forget.

This is all by way of introducing a new passing fancy: Tales from the Local Corner.

The @write_practice the other day was to write about your surroundings. I was sitting staring at my wall at the time and not inspired so instead of writing something fresh I found the first one in my notes and polished it up a bit. So here is the first in a series.