Nothing shows procrastination more in my life then when I begin moving the sparse furniture around in my tiny studio apartment.
Tiny.
Studio.
Apartment.
Think NY, but in Santa Monica.
Costs the same and worth it for the view…from the roof…at the north corner…leaning over the edge….looking over the trees to the south…craning your neck to the west a smidge…there you go, SUNSET View…perfect, breeze coming off the ocean and at 3AM, you can actually hear the waves in the ocean as there is no traffic at that time…unless it’s a Saturday night and people are filling the incline and filtering themselves into this, that and the other freeway…home.

Thus…

I’m like a little rat in a cage here, at 4PM on a Saturday. Farmer’s market is picked over. It’s hot, even here…and I am home.

There is no one waiting with dry cleaning or ‘how was your day’ or what do you want to do tonight…no one. Not even a cat…with liter to clean or hot hair to warm your sweaty shin. Nope…just me.

And it’s not like I don’t have plenty to do.

I’ve just been gone for a month and the need to catch up with work, reading, e-mails, calls and the vile facebook are begging my attention. People I’ve never met want to be my friend and they have no idea what this last year has been like for me. Would you want to be my friend if I told you?

Good friends say; if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.

Ok, then, can you do my laundry? Can you go grocery shopping for me? Can you pay my electric, gas, cable? Can you play with my hair in the middle of the night when I’m sweating and lonely and staring at the ceiling fan focusing on one blade as it spins my gaze into dizziness? I’m not saying I need that at this moment, I’m just asking, in case said needs arise.

No, I don’t need any of the aforementioned. My friends are gems and the last thing I want to do is….
I like being back home…listening to my neighbor above me have mediocre sex in the middle of the afternoon. Why mediocre? Well, one uh, hem, ohhh and it’s over after two minutes? The click of heels on the hallway floor above three minutes after…not great, I think?

What else am I going to focus on?

I desperately need to move this plant three inches from where it already stands and this mirror across the room to bounce the light. Doing this, I’m convinced, will make everything more conducive and appealing to get my ‘real’ work done so I can live a fruitful and balanced life.

Feng shui. Sweet!

Today…I was treated to a blissful massage at my favorite place in Hollywood on the hottest day of the year and I can almost feel all of the tension from the last month unravel itself from my muscles and tissues till my mind reminds me, I’m still mourning.

Furniture. Moving the furniture is imperative!

All other things can wait. Even friends.

Besides, there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge that’s calling my name.

And a fresh iTunes gift card courtesy of Juniper Visa. They give me an iTunes card every time I accrue a certain balance on my card. I’ve been debt free for several months and this month has put me in a debt and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Now I can load ten new songs on my iTunes playlists and remember.

I finished the painful yet tellingly honest ‘fictional’ rendition of Hollywood in ‘Beverly Hills Adjacent’ by Jennifer Steinhauer and Jessica Hendra. I would friend these girls on facebook. They are brilliant. It hurt to read this book and I laughed out loud so many times in public, it was embarrassing. Well, not really. There are stranger people in LA doing weirder things than laughing out loud in public. In fact, I’m sure it was refreshing to witness had I not been me, me…laughing out loud in Starbucks at the absurdity of living and loving in Hollywood.

I miss my mother and sisters. I miss the damn dog and cat.

I miss New York and the soupy August air.

I miss the idea of familiar even though nothing will be the same. All new memories will now be without my dad in them.

I am the lucky one of the bunch. I’m the first one with a birthday without my dad. Next week. Sweet. Even in the midst of all this procrastination, I am getting older and I can’t f-ing stop it.

I can break the ice…or the soup.

I woke up early the other day for a session with a client. She had cancelled short notice. Not a big deal. Just quick re-thinking of my schedule. What to do now that even Kelly Rippa is not up on this coast. I could work out? Who’s up now? I could call my dad. Really? When do I have that thought? I never really did before.

I remember the days… college through just last year that it didn’t matter that there was a three-hour time difference between NY and LA, my dad would always call at the butt crack of dawn…just to say hi. What the fu-k? Really? I have nothing to say. But he would say…always…I just want to hear your voice. Damn you dad. ‘Cause I remember, even when I was young, that I would miss this someday. And here I am, up at 6 every morning and the phone doesn’t ring. Ok, sometimes it rings, but usually it’s the LA Times and you were so much cooler, even if all you talked about was the weather or the traffic on the f-ing FDR. I hated those banal conversations that I clipped shortly with my tone, enough for you to know it was enough even though it never was and I was always waiting for something more, even if it was what Daisy (the dog) did that morning or mom said last night.

It’s funny. I write everyday. I remember at the kitchen table at our house on Quaker Ridge Road, a house now condemned by mold and burned to the ground by the city of New Rochelle (another blog altogether) and you told me, a then unpublished writer and artist, that I should always find a place for me to write and draw. I hated you for that because I always wanted to be an actor and at that time, my looks didn’t afford me the opportunity one would have to be a successful actor…I was heavy and awkward. But you always knew, what I loved. No matter what, no matter how much I loved anything, home would be here…in the written word and ironically, you. Every time I sit down to write, even if I am inspired by something else, it comes back to you. I’m still here in LA, pursuin’ the dream of being a beautiful and successful and accomplished actor…but you know…knew, what home was.
Hmmmmm.
Writing is home.
Writing is you and mom and my sisters and the damn dog and cat.
It’s the purest form of expression that I know and celebrate and even when I have a feature film audition on Monday that I need to prepare for…here I am alone at the computer, banishing friends, obligations and the like to find my place on blank screen and paint a picture of words that I find beautiful and entertaining.

Even when I sat down to write this I had no intention of going to you, but here I am and I can only say, it’s part of my healing, or mourning, or whatever the heck you wanna call it.

I sit here and I write.

Because, I can only move the three pieces of furniture I have in a certain combination to satisfy myself long enough to change it again and I’m sure I’ll change it again.
Later.
I have an audition to focus on.
I have clients that have hired me and fan blades that need staring at.

And I sit here and write and hope someone reads and hope someone likes and hope that I teach well and act well and write well and love well enough to those who want my loving.

I hope and I dream and I stare at the blades and wait for your call at 6AM and when you don’t, I still move, like you did…and move the plant again, just two more inches. Perfect, water, coffee, breathe, yoga, words, love and it’s ok again.

Hmmm....

It’s been a month.

I see the signs.

Let's see.

My psychic told me that my 'guardian angels' would be with me when lights in the house went off and on unexpectedly.

Ok, that's never happened. At all. Ever. In my life. But, it's happening, like all the time.

Then, I took one of my dad's caps from home. He wore baseball caps. He went to UConn, the University of Connecticut. Who goes there? No one. No one goes there. It's small. I was running on the beach, wearing my dad's UConn cap and spotted a woman walking her dog. She was wearing a UCONN tee shirt. I pointed to my cap then her. We stopped and chatted. She thought my 'intervals' were unique and crazy and 'how did I learn to do it?' I made it up myself, but her daughter was a senior at UConn and in a sister sorority of my dads. That was way cooler to talk about then my intervals. Are you looking for a trainer?

I had a wonderful day today, taught, went to my favorite teacher's class in Santa Monica, then hit the movies, with my home made 100 calorie delicious popcorn to see Julie and Julia. Blogs and cooking. More about that later.
Then I took a spin class, after purchasing a mildly expensive but worth it pair of trendy on sale shoes on the Promenade...no ones looking...

The teacher says, I hope you don't mind 60's rock. Really? You are gonna play 60's rock in a spin class? Ok, bring it the f on. Then he asks if any of us are wearing heart monitors. Why did I volunteer? He doesn't know, but says he's gonna get me to 90%. I thought, you are gonna need to give me a thief chasing me after I've had two shots of espresso and hit a sale at Barney's to get me there. Good luck my friend. My heart is an overly well-oiled machine that can kick your heart's ass.
He never got me there but played all of my dad's favorite f-ing music in class.
I only burned 200 calories in an hour. Give me a bad dream and I'll burn more, but it was worth hearing my dad's favorites on his...ah, hem...anniversary.

Here it is friends, one month and one week and I'm no closer to not feeling the loss of my goddamn dad.
A man that, all I can think of as being the greatest gift since 70% cacao and skinny lattes.
I love the dang guy and know at this point that it's probably appropriate at this time to remember his faults. Nope. Still worship the man.

And maybe stop remembering all together and start writing like I used to.

I used to be funny. I used to talk about life and yoga and how the both were so important. And here I am, all I am doing is talking about my dang dad...who's not even here, except in my flickering lights apparently. I hope he wasn't watching me the other night while I was alone...watching re-runs of The Soup and doing GOD knows what...trying on the myriad of shoes I've purchased from Zappos with 100% intention of returning.

I do that. You may as well know. I buy things and pretend I'm Heidi Klum or some other Super, walking my wall to wall, quiet and stuck, in tragically expensive digs I've purchased from Chicboutique.com or Netaporter.com (with all intentions of returning.... ok not all of it), listening to unbelievable music I've purchased on iTunes or for free from Rcrdlbl.com and I prance around. I'm not a fat girl anymore. I'm skinny and fit and fabulous and fantastic.... even if I am by myself and the confidence dissipates upon key in lock.

Sometimes I will have a conversation with my mother or friend, in jewelry and clothes that cost more then my rent, just to know what it feels like. It feels f-ing fantastic. Better than I feel after a yoga class. Ok, maybe comparable, but there is something...something about the mystery of it all. It's all here, and then it all goes away. That's life. I love that about life. I don't need much more than that. Sometimes it's the instant gratification. It's better than drugs. Well, I wouldn't know, but if I did.... I would think.... well its all the same thing...instant. And in life, instant doesn't last...ever. But ellipses.... they last a long...................f-ing time!

The UPS people know me by name. If the on-line stores ever knew...well, I do keep a lot of it, but if they knew that sometimes I just buy to FEEEEEL, something.... something...anything then other than what I am feeling....................
They would feel good.
Like charity.
I've just lost my dad.
I lost my boyfriend.
I lost myself somewhere in there, but I know she's there.
I know she's there in the middle of the online orders and the facebook and twitter, and the e-mail updates.
Between overindulgence in chocolate, carbs, wine, she's there. So's my dad. Damn him. He never came to California to visit. Now he has an all access pass wherever, whenever.
Was he there that night I ate the Betty Crocker Warm Delights Minis whilst eating baked kettle chips and watching 'I Love You Man' while it was 100 degrees in Santa Monica and I was almost naked in my apartment? I hope you were watchin' over mom then!! Good movie. Good treats. 'Hope not.
I know I am right here. And so is he.
When it's quiet...
And there are no clothes to try on.
I am not hungry.
I don't need anything outside of myself.
I have seen all the movies I want to see on demand and in the theatres.
I have talked or sighed or uh, huhed with all of my friends checking in with me to make sure I'm ok.
I'm here.
I cut my hair after the break up. How cliché.
I joined a choir.
I did stand up comedy.
I signed up for every class imaginable.
Nothing is as real as just being.
I want this.
I want that.
I need to.
I need.
And here I am.........
One year and two months after I lost the two greatest men in my life.

I haven't lost a thing.

The men are gone.

I returned the clothes.

I threw away a lot.

I write.

I wear a ring on my middle finger, left hand, gold, my dad's full name, Richard Bentley Searle and the words, Leave Room...his motto and I am okay. It's a symbol. He loved symbols. I represent and I don't forget.

I watch the sunset.

I still have the best clients and students I can ever hope for.

I love my life.

Of course, you can still keep calling me. Keep reading me. And keep coming to my classes.

I will keep ordering couture and dancing around in my 9x9 box, fake smoking cigarettes while I drink organic wine and eat 70% cacao, stimulating my immediate senses, then coming to my deep senses when I realize.............................................................................................................................................................................................
Everything is yoga.

Everything is time and space and room to breathe and be.

Simple as that.

I wonder sometimes, if I've strayed from the point of my blog.

I initially started this blog as an extension of my classes. Hey, I only have an hour and a half to speak my truth and sometimes, the girl talks a lot, I can't get it all in when I'm givin' students a workout and meditation. Sooooooo, I started this blog to expound on those lessons.

My message has always been, life as you live it and on the mat. You'll often find me chatting about traffic or life circumstances that you can use as fuel in a practice, to help you find the direction you need to make the best life out of your life.

This is definitely something I practice and preach.

But, I ain't no guru.

My life has thrown me some serious, Beyonce curve balls. And it scares the Ganesh out of me.

But without yoga...I don't know.

It's the one thing that anchors me the way no THING can.

Any stimulus that has been and can be and will be sufficient as I mourn, is all well and good, but nothing fills me and makes me happier then knowing I can go to class or arrive at my mat at home and practice what the sages and gurus have practiced for thousands of years.

Be here. Be present. With breath...and you...and move.... and be still...and see...what comes up...what you need to do.... what you need to question.... what you need to work on.... what’s next.

It started as a 'work out' for me. And exercise is my religion. But yoga is my church.

My mom...didn't mean to give me a hard time, but she said to me daily, while I was home, stop running so far.
I ran to the cemetery every day to see my dad. His cemetery was on California Road.
We're both California babies now.

It's always been hard for me to be still, hence yoga, Ashtanga to be precise to force me to be still.

So I ran like hell, every day, to his plot.

10 miles.

In NY.

In August.

I sweat like a mo fo.

But when I got there, I turned the music up...Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd or my favorites.... and I'd stop, and be still and talk to him.

Or not.

And that was my yoga.

And I took Advil every day.

My muscles ached.

I was overworking.

But I didn't care.

I was 'doing' my yoga.

It's what I needed.

Yoga doesn't have to be what we traditionally call 'YOGA'. Whatever yoga is to you is the thing that moves you to a place of stillness. It's the place you find where no outside stimulus can interfere.

However you need to get there, wine, cigarettes, running, yoga postures, chatting, ordering clothes online with every intention of returning them and not getting yourself into debt.... find it. Find what you need to do to move you into a place where peace is within and nothing else is necessary.

I know I don't need to run 10 miles to feel my dad.

I don't need eat, drink or order clothes. Ok, well maybe a little bit.

But what I have is what I need.

I'm not with my family to mourn, but they are a phone call away.

My computer is just a click away and life is happening right now.

Yoga.

I thought I strayed, but it's always been here.

When I need it.

Now, more than ever.

Yoga, whatever it is for you, is always there.

If you are in the midst of a strange time, transition, tragedy, happiness, find the yoga that works for you.

I watched the movie, Julie and Julia today.

The passion for cooking and writing, it was infectious. I was scared. I lost my vision! I never lost that passion. Same path, different story.

I love blogging. It's come so far in so many years.

I have no idea who's reading. Whoever you are. I hope you love life like I do, despite whatever fucked up things come your way and despite the fact that I talk YOGA all the time, I hope you know that yoga is what's in your heart. You can find it in class, but you can find in making a meal, talking to a loved one or reading a book.

Yoga is anything where you feel connected and grounded to peace and the world around you.

That's my message. I was scared I strayed because of what's been going on with me.

But it's never left me.

Verbose as usual,

Om shanti,

Lokah Samastha Sukinoh, bhavantu,

Jai mai,

Leave room,

Yours,

Laur

Disclaimer...
Only read if you are in a bad mood.
Seriously…
don’t read if you are feelin’ good.
Ok, now really,
this might bring you down.
Maybe you can find a nugget of inspiration. I certainly laughed out loud after I read this, but that's just me.
The nuggets are there like Waldo, but I just needed to get this out. No diving or driving off bridges, just venting…

I drive quietly at night, making unique speed I never find in daylight. I remember. I forget. I forget to remember. I remember to forget.

Turn the music up and roll the window down. Of course my favorite dance radio station as evaporated into the ether while I was gone and I’m left to elitist pop and hip hop. White guys singing about pain. Black guys singing about money. Androgynous girls filled with hope and I can’t identify.

I feel the air, only familiar in Los Angeles. Hot and dry as I zoom through the zip codes. I near my own and let the cool salt air spin my hair into a beautiful mess. No one’s lookin’. Sing! No one’s listening.

I close my eyes for one count, two count, three and hope my memory can follow the curves of Sunset Boulevard without a peek. It’s not as scary as I think. Nothing is as scary as I think… thought.

I light a fake cigarette in my hand and breathe deeply. I exhale sea circles, turn right, then left, red, then green, stop, go, speed, slow.

What can I say? I’m home.

Today. It was a good day. I went through it, like nothing happened and yet, I feel like everyone can tell. I feel like I look different.

You know, like when you lost your virginity, except nowhere near as cool. Ok, bad comparison.

Starbucks is filled with beautiful people. Heck, CVS is filled with beautiful people…even in the Valley and I feel small.

I despise when people compare NY to LA. What for. Can you really.

And here I am…

At least in NY, you can wear your misery on your sleeve and people get it.

It’s raining. I have blisters on my blisters. I missed my train. It’s freezing out but hot as hell underground waiting with the hundreds of others that missed their train because the line at Starbucks was too long, but caffeine is imperative and the girl in front of you needed to clarify her medium to Grande, non-fat to skinny. It doesn’t matter LA or NY, at Starbucks you need to have your lines down. And you are late. And miserable and it’s ok. ‘Cause everyone else is and even if they aren’t, it’s ok, because the sky looks like it will open up soon, so everything around you is…miserable. There’s magic in misery. There’s company.

In LA, the sun is always shining, leaving you no permission to feel anything other than…sunny, happy, perfect.

Right now I feel like the day after New Years in New York….the city is hung over and hurting. Naked Christmas trees with dried pine needles and sparse tinsel pathetically line every curbside. Tourists have gone home and the bright twinkles that bounced off white snow turn to dark, dull, invisible slush that you can feel on every toe even when wearing your trendy Burberry boots. It’s so cold you can feel it in your arteries.

I feel like the trees. I feel like the slush. I feel like the boots. The arteries.

And I sit at Starbucks drinking my properly rehearsed latte and I ache.

I ache for the home that I know is right here inside my heart, but I can’t feel. I’ve got no bars, disconnected, dead zone, breaking up, can’t hear you. Can’t.

I wanna feel…something.

I know it doesn’t lie in where I am. But I can play the death card for a little while longer, can’t I. Pity me. Poor me. Poor orphan. Ok, well, not quite. Fatherless child in her mid 30’s. When are you done mourning? Seriously, is there an alarm that will alert me on my Blackberry? Is there an ap for that?

Misery loves company. I won’t be here to long. I promise. But I need to get it out.

I don’t want to talk to friends about it. What the heck does one say? I wouldn’t know what to say. But blog, dear blog, you have always been here for me with unconditional love, like a puppy without the mess.

Perhaps, I shall post an ad on match.com asking if anyone would like to meet someone to bitch with. Bright and cute 30 something independent girl seeks to meet someone for coffee and bitch with for an hour over full-fat venti lattes and never see them again.

I wonder if there would be any takers.

I wonder if anyone would reply to misery in need of a little company.

I don’t care what you look like or how much money you make. I don’t care if you pay, you smell, if you are married or if you have a lazy eye.

Just listen. I’ll listen and we’ll be on our way.

Complain about anything you’d like. I won’t judge. I go first.

Everything sucks, absolutely and completely.

I wonder.

I don’t hate my life. Quite the opposite. I love what I do. I love where I am. I love the people in my life. I just don’t want the people I know to hear this from me. Read it, ok.

I get paid to inspire and lift up, but this shit has to go somewhere and there are only so many downward dogs and seated meditation with mantra I can do.

It’s gotta come out.

Death is a dark subject no one likes to talk about.

I wonder.

I don’t wanna talk about it. I wanna talk about it. I don’t want to see anyone. I need company. I want to run. I want to sleep.
I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to be mute and not talk for a full day or two or three. Why did I pick up the phone? You mean the world to me, but I feel like warmed over ass on a freezing day without a parka. I feel like how you feel like a bloomin’ onion without the sauce. I feel like how you feel after eating a bloomin’ onion but never actually taking a bite and enjoying it. I feel the way you feel after missing a great moment, a great shot with your camera, a green light when you are late, when you have to pee and there’s no bathroom or potential bathroom in site. I feel like when you hear a great song and it hasn’t hit iTunes or won’t because it will never be released. I feel like a great yoga class without a long sivasana…I worked f-ing hard to get here, don’t deprive me of sivasana!! I feel like when you lose your job, a role, a love, and a life. I feel like how you feel when you take off in a plane and you always feel like you are doing the leaving. I feel like I’m always leaving. I feel left. I feel like I’m on the tarmac for hours in the heat of recycled air and farts people don’t think I can smell. I feel like I’m at a really good play sitting next to someone wearing a ton of toxic perfume and I can’t focus on the story or the acting or the music because the perfume is taking over my experience. I feel like I’m stuck in traffic all the time. I feel constipated in body and mind. I feel like babies are screaming in my head all the time and they are not cute. I feel like I stepped in dog poop in my expensive shoes. I feel like I spilled coffee on my white top. I feel like a wet sandwich or cookie. I feel like a chocolate melted in the sun. I feel like a swollen finger with a ring wound tightly round. I feel like a yell with no sound. I feel like a lost tourist in Asia with no map or hope of and English speaking guide to turn me in the right direction. I feel like when you fall and scab your knee and there’s no one there to help you clean it up and bandage it. I feel like I’m out of time and I have no watch. I feel like my car is moving but the tires are flat. I feel like carbs. I feel like I look like carbs. I feel nauseated like sitting in the back of a cab in Paris or a boat in the sea. I feel like Detroit and I’ve never been. No, I feel like Elizabeth, NJ. I feel like pollution. I feel like tax day. I feel overdrawn, underpaid and hungry. I feel like curdled milk, laundry and a parking ticket. I feel like my name pronounced or spelled incorrectly. I feel like silverfish. I feel like unwashed hair. I feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I feel like burnt popcorn. I feel like sand in your crotch. I feel nothing. I feel so much. I feel better.

Misery loves company.

Thank you.