Today was the day I was supposed to be a finalist for a respectable, well paying job with a bank. I was supposed to wear a new suit, something black and designer. My hair neatly cut to a professional shoulder length, my nails trimmed and polished in some inoffensive off pink. My cheeks, a healthy rose color - the perfect balance of foundation, powder and blush. I’d look rested despite getting up before dawn, the magic of expensive concealer. I planned to carry my leather briefcase packed with my organized, well researched notes on banks and bankers and banking. I’d also have a lipstick and a hairbrush and a toothbrush, I’d probably carry a first aid kit, too. I’d leave my house before the sun was too high and I’d hop on a plane because people who have respectable jobs with banks are hoppers not shleppers. I’d go from my airport to their airport to a taxi to a big building. On a floor high above the city, in a big conference room, I’d hope my new suit isn’t too wrinkled and my lipstick isn’t on my teeth and my new hair is still neat. All of this to try to convince strangers that I’d be the best choice for the philanthropic executive position. The entire time I’d be hoping that no one pushed too hard on what a philanthropic executive is supposed to do because I’m still not sure - phrases like generate revenue, represent the brand, act with integrity flow like water finding the cracks in pavement. I’d do my best to secure a safe position that requires dark suits, polished nails, professional hair and just enough makeup. I might even meet the man of my dreams among the ranks of businessmen and bankers. Yes. That was the plan for February 12, 2008. The wait was to end today. I was going to charm my way into the end of the wait, to making myself and everyone else around me comfortable by getting a job, going back to work, the way I used to work. Going back to something. The prayer women would be free, the priest could stop buying lunch, the friends could stop biting their tongues. The whole ugly transition would be over. Finally, an organization who would take me despite my damaged reputation and failing body. But something happened on the way to the bank, my truth - ambivalence, resignation to expectation not passion or calling or vocation - emerged at critical juncture so Tuesday February 12th didn’t go as everyone hoped. No plane, no conference room, no pretty smile, no job offer. I started the morning with an awful yoga class. Back spasming, I ran off to meet a wise friend for coffee. I sat and unloaded the tragedy of the wait not being over and the gulit of spending several days depressed by the lack of a comfortable bank job. I purged my mind of the spinning inanity. He said the same thing he always says, wait. You have to stop and wait. Wait for it. Wait for God. Wait for the truth, wait because if you don’t wait, you’ll miss it and that’ll be a whole lot more painful than continuing to wait. I’ve heard it before but it never sounds the same when I repeat it to myself. When he says it, I recognize it’s fundamental truth, it’s resonance in this unknowable, unmanipulatible part of me. He says go to the place where you find peace and feel love, that’s what you need. I say I have two dogs to take care of and they are’t allowed on the beach. Go to Runyon Canyon then. Get outside, clear your head, be loved by God doing nothing. Stop. Just stop. The alternative is to spend the day looking at postings for more jobs I don’t want or watching daytime television. I decide to take my unpolished nails, unkempt hair and bare face with the big black dog and the little white dog off to the canyon on the other side of LA. The windy roads are all going up, way up in the hills, the kind of roads I loathe. My fear of heights is most acute in the car in high places where the world drops off with no warning. Runyon Canyon is one of those places. This is no cruise down PCH to Malibu. It’s stressful and scary. No sooner than I refocus for the last few turns do I hear the immediately recognizable sound of a vomiting puppy. As we summit Mulholland, I see my beloved Lucy is sitting in a large puddle of puppy spit and puke. She’s more green than white. Thankfully Kali (my yoga teacher’s dog who is staying with us for a few weeks) decided to stay away from the mess. We arrive, finally. I clean up as best I can while Lucy drags her vomit soaked leash through the dirt outside the car. Great. It’s her new leash, the expensive one with the fabric goldfish pattern, I bought at the fancy dog store in Bayhead, New Jersey. Finally wrangling the two dogs, we set out . Clearly Kali is a hiker, the nearly 100 pound lab literally drags little Lucy on her stubborn stomach up the hill. This is a new form of leash breaking. I let Kali off the leash in part of save my puppy and my right arm. Off she goes. Here we are just a day into caring for her and she’s gone off a cliff or maybe it was just down the hill. Emerging from the bushes, Kali went right back on the lead. Tethered to the tripping Lucy, held in check by a stumbling me, Kali pulled ahead. Struggling as I was with dogs and a leaking backpack, it was no surprise when I landed on the ground. My ankle turned in, my knee skinned, my dogs just standing around confused. This, this is not the soaking in love experience I was hoping for. This hot, dirty stressful walk in the hills isn’t what I imagined. Yet there I was standing on the side of this mountain covered in sweat and water and dirt with the faint smell of dog vomit still swirling around us. There, I was being dragged and dragging and looking ridiculous and I was still thankful I wasn’t wearing a suit sitting in a conference room trying to convince people of my absolute calling to be a philanthropic executive. I’m not sure it was that moment that I decided to stop looking for a job. I’m looking for a life, the kind of life that rewards the tenacity of someone who falls down and gets messy yet still gets up and keeps walking. No suits, no inoffensive nail color, no professional haircuts - no more trying to fit into an identity that requires a logo lapel pin - I’d rather be out on the trails covered in dog spit and sweat and sun.
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