Tag: gratitude (page 2 of 4)

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December 30, 2018 / 0 Comments

Made for Now

“If you’re livin’ for the moment, don’t stop, and celebrate the feelin’.”

— Janet Jackson

This morning’s yoga practice was a meditation. Adriene asked us to honor the endings. In 2018, my version of “honor” has been to say, “thank you.” To cut through the persistent drumbeat of hard and sad and depressing news and find gratitude. Most Sundays this year, I sat in this chair by this window, the sun shining through, music in my ears, and acknowledged all the many things that are wonderful in my life.

And so, on this last Sunday of the year, let us continue the practice.

Thank you, 2018. Thank you for the new people that entered my life and how they enriched it. Thank you for new traditions and commitments. Thank you for the opportunities: especially those chances to be kind, to be honest, to stand up for what I believe in, to be excellent, and to learn.

Thank you, 2018, for my friends and family and the incredible lives they live and invite me to participate in on occasion. Thank you to my spouse, my partner, who challenges me to be a better and more present person while pushing me to think of our future in more concrete ways than just my faith that we gonna be alright.

Thank you, 2018, for time. While I and many others sometimes complained that this year felt like a decade, it provided me more time for books and workouts and cooking and fellowship. I’ve found time for getting better at Spanish and adding new skills to my professional repertoire. There was time for a few great shows, lots of basketball, and a little travel. There was time for movies and the occasional binge watch. There was time for podcasts. There was time for journaling. There was time to make more biscuits.

Thank you, 2018. The times are no less precarious, but I’m no less hopeful. There are too many things and people in my life who are legit changing my world and the world in small and significant ways that I have no other option but to be grateful, joyful, and to have a little realistic optimism about what is yet to come.

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December 2, 2018 / 0 Comments

Just Begun

“Hold your applause until the ceremony end. Yours truly, truly blessed, yet again a noble planted, Super magic, abracadabra kid.”

— Mos Def

The week was filled with reminders of the age of this body. It began with a diagnosis of gout and ended at the Teen Vogue Summit surrounded by people twenty years or more my junior. I confess to feeling a type of way about the new frailties exposed in this frame, no matter how minor they may be, and for looking more like someone’s dad than an interesting person to the bright-eyed and hopeful young folks that had taken over 72andSunny on Saturday but, ultimately, I come out of these past seven days with gratitude.

There was a point on Saturday when I stood in a circle with people closer to my age than not, good friends and familiar faces, and we talked and laughed. We caught up and reminisced a bit, not with nostalgia but to acknowledge accomplishment and to recognize who we’ve become at this moment in time.

As I walked away from that group to find my seat and listen to Serena Williams and Naomi Wadler discuss how they navigate being badasses, I looked out on the sea of young women no longer thinking about my own mortality or relevance and, instead, appreciating their enthusiasm and the ways in which they were preparing to enter adulthood.

I’m grateful for that collective sense that it’s a great time to change the world whether you’re an 11-year-old who already has a strong sense of purpose or a 40-something like me who needs to get comfortable with a lower sodium diet while embracing the increasing amount of “salt” in his beard.

I’ve been here awhile, but we’ve only just begun.

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November 22, 2018 / 0 Comments

When the World was One


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Sunlight peeks through the blinds. It’s 8:27 in the morning and 35 degrees outside. I awoke with my arms wrapped around my partner in life. We whispered “I love yous” in the bed that is just a little too small for us under a comforter made of some noisy synthetic.

My left big toe is stiff and tender but hurts far less than it did when we first got here. I slept in my “Make More Biscuits” tee. The remnants of yesterday’s Thanksgiving prep are visible. A smear of the vanilla pudding here, a dusting of flour there. As if they were battle scars, I’m unreasonably proud of the detritus.

There was laughter in this house last night. There was rhythm. There was wine (though none for me). There was basketball. I wasn’t sure we’d get to this feeling. It had been a tense few days. Family is complicated, but we made it. The map to here might have included escapes to museums and hipster taco joints and edibles and hard conversations and the arrival of cousins with smiles and stories and corny jokes but I’ll take it as it comes.

There will be turkey today. And ham. Macaroni & cheese. Collard greens (two ways) and green beans. Cranberry from a can. Stuffing, of course. Soon, I’ll attempt to make Parker House rolls for the second time this year and only the second time in my life. The first time was a success, but there was a Thanksgiving from my youth in New York where a classic family saying was created.

“If the rolls rise, we alright.”

They didn’t.

So, I’ll be crossing my fingers and checking my recipe twice. I’ll give proper respect to the yeast and remember the lessons of The Great British Bake-off and the Family Cooking Showdown and give my best effort. Even if I fail, though, it’s alright. I’ve got a backup plan.

The shirt says: Make More Biscuits.

I did. The dough is in the back of the fridge waiting to shine.

Just like the sun that rose with me this morning. With us.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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November 11, 2018 / 0 Comments

Reason in Disguise

“Never know why we go through it all”

— Jorja Smith, featuring with Ezra Collective

It’s easy these days to find things to be grateful for in my personal life. So much so, that it’s been a struggle to share my gratitude publicly over the last month or two as the daily onslaught of breaking news seems to ratchet up the level of terribleness with every sunrise. What right do I have to celebrate in the face of this?

It smells like a campfire outside. The sun is shining, but I don’t know that I will see it as the haze of the Woolsey Fire envelops Los Angeles. It’s Veteran’s Day weekend, and this nation’s president is derelict in his duties as commander-in-chief failing to honor properly those who serve or have served in our military. There was a mass shooting 41 miles from my house just a few short days ago. There have been so many mass shootings across this country this year that I’ve forgotten some.

After Tuesday night’s midterm election results were revealed, I began Wednesday morning with a meditation. I’ve been journaling more—once in the morning to set my intention for the day and at the end of the night to take an accounting—and in that process on that day, I committed to tapping out a bit from breaking news at least for the rest of the year. The world immediately pushed against this notion with crazy, but I’ve mostly held to it. Even if I haven’t yet replaced all that attention-seeking with books and maybe learning some new things,—my Candy Crush skills though are getting damn good—I have been more intentional with how I spend my time. I’m less informed, perhaps, minute-by-minute but not uninformed. I get my news in the morning from my favorite podcasts and then in the evening on the way home from my news curating apps and newsletters, and then I’m trying my best to go about my life.

And, this week, that’s what I’m grateful for: reclaiming my time.

And for being alive.

With a roof over my head.

Fewer people can say that today than last Sunday.

I don’t know what it’s all for, but I’m here.

Might as well dance.

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September 23, 2018 / 0 Comments

A Rollercoaster Jam Called Love

“I really miss my boo-boo hoping [s]he don’t stay away.”

— Rapsody

By Wednesday of last week, I had taken to telling people outright that I was cranky. I was frustrated with usual work stuff. I was annoyed with having to move desks and floors. I was uncharacteristically curt with folks for whom I usually have more patience. My emotions were at the surface, an occurrence so rare that others were commenting on it. By Friday, though, my story had changed. I was cranky and annoyed and frustrated but the cause was, I was lonely.

This week I’m grateful for longing. Tiffany spent the week visiting a friend in Vancouver, leaving me on my own at home. It’s not common for me to be home alone. In the last few years, I’ve been the one prone to solo travel multiple times a year for work. Work travel is so busy; I don’t get that sense of being alone. All my time is filled with meetings and movement and managing time zones. Over the last seven days, though, I sat in this house listening to its creaky floors and cupboards, forgetting to eat dinner at a reasonable hour, working too much, off my routine, and missing my wife.

My schedule never filled with appointments and events with other people. The few I made were canceled or postponed. So, I was left to spend my time thinking about how much I appreciate her presence in my life. How much I enjoy caring for her and being cared for in return. One morning, I nearly made coffee despite knowing she wasn’t here to drink it because the feeling of not doing it felt so… wrong. I joked with her about enjoying not having every television tuned to MSNBC whenever I chose to turn one on while she was away but I would’ve gladly traded Maddow for our nightly discussions of dinner plans that were sorely missing from my every day.

We’ve been together over a decade now. Diana Evans, in an interview with NPR about her novel, Ordinary People, talks about what we face when we are coupled-up for the long haul:

I think the real challenge of marriage or a long-term relationship is trying to appreciate the wonderful things about it. That sense of human understanding and sort of compassion and home — a sense of home that is always there and is always accessible to you.

I’m thankful for getting the chance to appreciate the beautiful things about my partner, the home we’ve made, and the life we share. When we came back together last night, our faces lit up, again on this rollercoaster jam called love.

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August 12, 2018 / 0 Comments

Smile (Living My Best Life)

“If you’re breathing, you’re achieving.”

— Snoop Dogg

An accounting of good things from the last three weeks:

  • Ridiculous slack conversations at work about Chantel Jeffries, why she’s famous, why she is able to put out music, and who Vory is, exactly
  • We got a new stove, and it’s the fanciest kitchen appliance I’ve ever used
  • Surviving a Lyft ride that included unexpected debris on the freeway and getting a check-in from the company, a rebate, and credit for some free trips in the future // I didn’t even complain, the driver did a good thing and informed Lyft of what happened
  • Watching my intern flourish during presentations this past week
  • Having a pretty exceptional work dinner at Norah turn into an endurance challenge as the food just. Kept. Coming.
  • Making it home from NYC despite 7 hours of delays due to weather
  • The Bibimbap lunch special at Epicé Cafe
  • Finally making my way to the Tenement Museum for a tour and getting to eavesdrop on white folks (domestic and from abroad) reckon with the realities of immigration and poverty throughout history
  • Spending a few brief minutes with Catherine in a different city
  • If a random restaurant name generator were to spit out three words that would definitely pique my interest, they would be Turntable Chicken Jazz

WNBA All-Star 2018 was so spectacular it deserves its own section

Loews Minneapolis is a lovely hotel, and while the WNBA players didn’t stay there, AC Milan did. It shares space with the Minnesota Timberwolves and Minnesota Lynx practice facility, so we saw many a basketball player throughout our stay. The lobby bar was great for people watching and drinking and eating throughout the day.

In the newly renovated Target Center, there is a gym. It is the most beautiful gym I have ever been in, and I suspect nicer than 99% of the gyms in Southern California. They have a juice bar and a real bar. At the gym. Their standard locker rooms are more luxurious than the executive locker rooms at most LA gyms I’ve been in. I loved that place. The only thing they didn’t have was the kind of elliptical machine I like but, seriously, if they had hotel beds, I’d just stay there my next visit to Minny.

We found the official hotel of WNBA All-Star a couple blocks away from us and spent way too much time in their lobby restaurant gawking at and interacting with players, coaches, officials, and other fans. Tiffany got pictures with nearly every player in town at one point. We had a brief interaction with Sparks All-Star and current fave, Chelsea Gray, and she found us during the open practice the next day and gave us a tee. During the same event, we also got called out by Coach Cheryl Reeve for being the lone Sparks fans in the building (we weren’t, but we were definitely the loudest), got a pair of free tix from the Sparks for making the trip, and got accosted with an abundance of Minnesota Nice from county fair award-winning jam maker. She gave us a sample of her jam and her hand-picked wild rice. It was so weird and so delightful.

We had excellent seats at both the open practice and the actual game courtesy of Erica Mauter. It is always a delight to see her. My only other time in Minnesota was for her wedding 8 years prior. She, her wife, and her sister are some of the best people we know, and it was exceptional to spend some quality time with them. Beyond Tiffany and Erica making NBA security a little nervous when they ran up on some players in the lobby of the hotel, I most enjoyed our dinner at Hai Hai. The food was excellent, and the drinks were five bucks cheaper than any fancy cocktail here at home. We’ll just ignore the dude in the MAGA hat who walked past us as we were waiting to be seated.

That he was such an anomaly during these last few weeks in which I spent most of my time with people and in experiences that represent the world I believe is the most ideal and optimal is a reminder that despite the onslaught of terrible news and uncertainty and anxiety and the on-going reminders that we live in a society that has throughout its history rewarded awful men, that is not the only reality.

This, all of this, is real too. And we’ve been living our best life.

I’ve got my grin on.

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July 22, 2018 / 0 Comments

Love is the Message

“I can’t tell you how much I love Los Angeles.”

— Jonathan Gold

We were standing in the non-fiction, cultural studies aisle of Book Star on Ventura Boulevard when a woman came around the corner and sternly said, “No laughing!” We blushed and then, she smiled.

“Sometimes when I do that, it’s to teenage couples that are smooching in the stacks,” she explained. I revealed that just before we had been looking at “adult books” like 101 Sex Positions and, yes, laughing like school children that were getting away with something.

“Oh, I work in the children’s section so I can’t help you if you want more of those kinds of books but remember, ‘No Laughing!”

It was the first of a few random conversations with Angelenos on our Saturday roaming the Valley. We chatted with an older real estate agent who took advantage of us slowly perusing the listings on her agency window to give us a card and inform us of the merits of buying in Burbank.

A homeless man interrupted our conversation on his way to Starbucks—probably for some complimentary AC, water, and electricity—to tell her that her expressive hands meant she was probably brilliant, just like him. It wasn’t lost on me the irony of us discussing nearly million dollar listings while so many of our fellow citizens are living on the streets.

But, this is Los Angeles.

We got back in our car and drove around debating where to eat. Cascabel or Sushi Yuzu? Was the Hungry Crowd open? Did Take a Bao still exist (no)? We settled on Forman’s Tavern after surveying our options in Toluca Lake, and I was pleasantly surprised by the quality and care of the bar food and cocktails at this spot not likely on anyone’s “Best of LA” lists. But, Forman’s reflects the city’s food culture sensibilities: if you’re going to make it, make it well, and make it your own.

Back at home, we learned of Jonathan Gold’s unexpected death while an unrelated car chase—the California staple—was happening at the same time. The chase ended with a hostage situation in a grocery store frequented by friends and acquaintances and three women injured or dead at the hands of a young man with a gun. The chase and violence make no sense. The death of Mr. Gold, a man whose entire purpose seemed to be in explaining and translating LA through its food and the people who make and consume it, is a bitter pill to swallow at such a moment in time.

We decided right then to watch City of Gold, the award-winning documentary about the Pulitzer-prize winning restaurant critic and this beautiful city that made him. Released in 2015, in some ways it feels like a loving eulogy to him three years before his passing. It’s filled with people we know: ambassadors and emissaries of this place we call home, and it feels like how I think of LA and that Gold sought to convey with everything he wrote.

LA is physically enormous, spread out across miles and miles of land, but we’re mostly just a bunch of neighborhoods stitched together, ethnically diverse and often moving to the same rhythm. It feels frictionless to know many of the people that make the city go but hard to feel like you ever truly know the city at all. Know and love your neighborhood and then leave it.  There are so many cultures, so many hopes and dreams, so many transplants, and so much change that you’ll never even get close to wrapping your hands around this city unless you go out and explore.

Today, I don’t want to wrap my hands around Los Angeles; I want to hug it.

I’m grateful for this place and the people in it.

And you.

Yes, you.

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July 8, 2018 / 0 Comments

Better Days

“Wondering what lies ahead, we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

— Incognito

I scrolled across this Linda Holmes at some point on my last day of work before vacation this week:

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By that evening, I had left my computer turned off at work and put my company issued cell phone out of sight to hasten it being out of mind.

And then there were lots of crazy sounding NBA signings and trades, and my first thought was to talk about it in the office Slack channel where we discuss such things. I posted a few messages and then remembered that tweet. I logged out of work slack on my iPad and my PC and proceeded rapidly to the forgetting.

Instead, I read (finishing Medium Raw and a Supergirl graphic novel and clearing many of the stories that had accumulated in my Pocket queue). I binged Nailed It on an incredibly lazy Friday while nursing a little hangover and avoided the intense heat that swept into Los Angeles and most of the country.

I watched hours of video on YouTube, going down TIny Desk rabbit holes (hi, Tank and the Bangas) and watching the three-part documentary from Top Dawg Entertainment about Jay Rock.

I had breakfast with a friend and a spectacular dinner at Somni with my wife.

I exercised. I did some chores.

I relaxed.

I allowed for time to be my own.

I don’t know the last time I took vacation time where I wasn’t checking in.

So, this week while I’m grateful for many things, what I want to acknowledge is that little nudge.

“Go forget us.”

I did.

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July 1, 2018 / 0 Comments

Caught Me a Rhythm


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At the end of a no-good, awful, terrible week of news, I was in an art museum doused in sweat. Jean Grae was preaching at the pulpit of her makeshift Church of the Infinite You in the lobby of The Broad. Ann Friedman happened upon us, and we shared hugs and hellos. I warned her I was a wet mess of perspiration. I then sat down on a bench next to the best people I know exhausted and blissed out, the tensions of the previous seven days rinsed out into my tee shirt and through to my arty button down.

I was grateful.

Early in Stretch Armstrong‘s DJ set on the EastWest Bank Plaza, he played Do Your Thing by Isaac Hayes. It’s the primary sample for the hook in Big Daddy Kane’s Smooth Operator. I turned to Tiffany and said, “Time for some Scoob and Scrap Lover moves.” She knew what to do. I assumed Stretch was going to move directly into the BDK classic, but he didn’t. Later though, he played almost the entirety of Ain’t No Half-Steppin’. Anna and I did the Kid n Play, and while we tapped feet, I felt a memory in my body.

My shoulders had released. My heart was beating vigorously in my chest. I was back in sketchy warehouses or under a freeway overpass. There was no air conditioning. Military operations in Iraq and Afghanistan had been in the news, or Dick Cheney had shot someone in the face, or California politics seemed crazy, or I had spent too much of my time arguing with racists in my blog comments and yet, here we were. Music blasting, shoulder-to-shoulder with the best-looking people in Los Angeles, and dancing through it.

I have not danced enough during the bizarro-land of the last two years. I have not shocked and delighted others with how much water can come from my pores and how well I can move. Last night, though, I remembered and I felt reborn. It wasn’t a path to forgetfulness; it was a release. We walked through the collections and found art that inevitably connected us to the news of the world at this moment but on that patch of grass, catching a rhythm to hey soul classics and iconic rap records, it was us against the world. We are still here. And we are dancing.

Let the church say, “Fuck yeah.”

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June 24, 2018 / 0 Comments

WIN

“You either with me or against me.”

— Jay Rock

I woke up one morning this past week after a rough night of sleep. My dreams were filled with visions of America’s southern border. My dreams were filled with the sounds of children’s cries. My dreams were filled with the stone faces of people in expensive suits and dresses and uniforms explaining how this was somehow preferable to treating those migrating from Central America with humanity and care.

I listened to a meditation called “Let it be” to try and make enough peace in my head to get out the door and go to work a functioning human being. By the end of those 14 minutes, though, only one thought was blaring in big block letters at the front of my mind:

“Don’t Let it Be!”

So, this week, I’m grateful for those of us who won’t let it be. Thank you to those who protest loudly in our border towns and our capital cities. Thank you to the journalists telling the stories that our government agencies don’t want to be told. Thank you to those who refuse to make oppression easy or comfortable for those that wish it so.

I’ve thought about this excerpt from The Holocaust, the French, and the Jews that a French Historian friend of Shana‘s tweeted

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Don’t let anyone tell you that being nice is more important than being moral. Don’t let anyone tell you that how you stand up must be in the streets. The point is to not roll over in any way you can.

For all those not letting it be, I’m grateful.

And I’m with you.

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