Let yourself receive

I visited my friend’s apartment this week for the first time, her first place on her own. I had accumulated these little gifts to give her, including an extra pair of shoes I’d been sent, for free, (Soul sisters and sole sisters; we’re the same size), and a Matisse cutout that had hung in my old apartment in Wiliamsburg, where we both lived prior, before she moved West and I realized, in a cold, hard NYC winter, that felt like a really good idea, too, to live in LA. I followed six months later.

When I saw the Matisse print in my closet it automatically felt like hers, and I remembered I hadn’t yet been to her place, so I invited myself over. She received the invite and was happy to have me and offered to cook dinner; it was salmon and Japanese sweet potatoes and salad and perfect, and I brought a bottle of wine to toast with because, while neither of us drink much (California sober. as they say), it felt right and special for that Tuesday night, like a ritual. She asked me about life and listened, and the way she listens feels like such a gift, to be received that way, she is always present and patient, sharing insight and responses in the right way at the right moments.). She shared that she’d received a raise, and she hadn’t even asked for it, and we celebrated that. Close friendship is like that, all of that.


When I was in Puerto Rico in December, I felt like I was grasping to try to understand what I was meant to do. Stay, and take more time off? Leave, as originally scheduled? I had an Akashic Records Reading + Healing with my incredible friend Roya Pourshalchi right before Christmas. I wanted big, clear answers; divine guidance. “It feels like you are meant to receive,” she shared. That was the overarching advice, the archangel message, of the session. Images of receiving at a feast, seated at the end of the table, abundant plates and joyous company.

The next morning, Elida, my aunt’s longtime house help, was there. When I walked into the kitchen she asked if I wanted coffee, and breakfast. Oatmeal? “Oh, it’s OK; I can do it…” and I stopped myself. Let yourself receive. I love the oatmeal and coffee she makes; she cooks the oatmeal slowly with the full cinnamon sticks, simmers the almond milk over the stove and then combines it with to the Puerto Rican coffee bubbled up to ready in the Moka Pot. I said yes, and it was a perfect breakfast. She beamed when I told her how much I liked it. In receiving, we also give. I stayed two more weeks.


My friend offered me tea after dinner, when we were watching Love Island. I paused initially, not wanting to create more work for her, to take more from her. That was silly, of course; she has a generous heart, and I know she was offering because she wanted to. “Oh, you’re going to like the message,” she said when she opened the teabag.

“Let the opportunities come to you,” the tab read.


Let yourself receive. A compliment, without feeling the need to return it right away. A new day for being there, predictably, and, also, differently. An opportunity, whether you take it or not. Giving and receiving, the same flow.


Later, when I pulled my bike out to leave, there was a spider weaving a web, against all odds, across the entryway. “She does this every night,” my friend said. Spinning a web; an existence of being through receiving.

For my LA Lolo: To giving and receiving in friendship, for forever!

Release the timeline

A couple months into living in Venice Beach I had this moment, biking home from a friend’s on a Sunday evening along boardwalk, then turning on Speedway and pulling to my alley (mine! this was now home!) when I realized, like really realized, that I lived at the beach.

I’d always wanted to live summers at the beach growing up, have a home there, a place to stay rather than day trips in and out to the Jersey Shore. I was, I am, grateful for that, yes, and still, I craved languid summer nights with melting ice cream cones and slow sunsets and friends from other school districts, could feel the little bliss of what it’d be like to wake up to walk in the sand. Now, all these years later, but not a moment too late or too early, I was here. I am here.

Release the timeline. Because, the time is always divine; the timing is always right. (And maybe, sometimes it’s a boomerang?)

I have compassion for my past self

A couple months ago, happily nested in my Venice Beach apartment, I kept finding myself being so critical, so hard on myself, for the life I lived in my Brooklyn apartment.

It was specifically about living in that apartment, too. I felt claustrophobic thinking about how I spent day in and day out cramped in a studio, how that whole wall of window bore sunlight into my soul every morning, how I was ungrounded on the 14th floor, on display for all of Brooklyn on that terrace. (Even in writing this, I feel a tightness start to form; I feel the need to shake it out.)

The truth is, I felt none of that when I was there. In a session with my healer and friend, Ryan Glassmoyer (whom I see for guided meditations and healings through her Abstract Therapie program biweekly, 10/10 recommend!), she reminded me of how special and important that home, that time, was for me. I moved, often dancing, through my days in the fluidity of a studio space that spilled into the outside that was licked by sunlight most days, welcoming to rain on others, collecting snow in winter. I spent evenings on the rooftop patio watching the sun set across the Williamsburg Bridge, Domino Park, Manhattan. I jumped rope and hula hooped on my terrace, gleeful at the amount of outdoor space—in NYC—that was all mine. I had friends over and re-thought my prior assumption of self that I didn’t like to host; instead it was about having a space that made it feel easy, inviting and comfortable. I could walk the water, bike up to Greenpoint, strut Berry Street every evening with a friend who lived just across the way. We had a gym. There were grills. I made friends in the building. I had an in-unit washer and dryer! (Re-writing my memories now from the more recent above, I’m rediscovering the joys, rest and rejuvenation that life, and apartment, gave me.)

It was a cocoon for me, and it gave me everything I needed. It was in that time that I moved that I started seeing butterflies, too. Monarchs. Far more than I ever had in Manhattan. (Out there in the wilds of Brooklyn..) Now, in LA, I feel like I see even more than I saw then; they lilt in the front yard of my building; they pause near the palm tree outside my balcony. And it makes me smile and remember, how big and special that all felt then, and how big and special this feels now.

I needed that then, and I loved that then. It took that for this, a West Coast move, and I deserve to give myself gratitude for that time, and to remember that time for how much I appreciated it, and how proud I was of myself for all of it.


I have compassion for my past self. Where she was got me to where I am now. Who she was informed who I am now.

And thank you, to 325 Kent. You really were a dream.