Hi.

I know I haven't written many yogic 'lesson's' and 'yogic and fitness things to do' whilst at home or wandering around your neighborhood or at home in a while but, as I am in flux, I feel the need to post my flux on line as I attempt to find the yoga in it all.

I'm still rapidly trying to find a place to call home in Santa Monica. People told me it wouldn't be possible on my budget but I've found little gems, applied for them, imagined my life in them and been rejected from them time and time again.

I know it will happen.

I don't work for a corporation, so that's a big, bad thing. Working for yourself in this economy reeks of bad joo joo to most and I just don't understand it. My credit rating is fantastic, my tax returns and pay stubs support a really great independent business I've created in this city. My volunteer work and all around great personality would assure me a sweet abode for a looooong, loooong time. But alas, I might have been pre-approved for mortgages, home loans or overpriced apartments, but it's the ridiculously inexpensive but unbelievable apartments that I've been denied from. I've made cookies, brought soup, brought famous expensive la di da, Martha Stewart and Oprah mentioned cupcakes and wares to management companies throughout Santa Monica, have charmed them with my wit and spoke of my quiet and supreme lifestyle and how I can see myself in their apartments, being creative, contemplative and happy. I've even picked out furniture on line for some of these places. And then I call them and they tell me that I'm not making 6 figures or that my credit score is too low even when it's in the 'better than good' category with no debt but a school loan and a car loan. I've been paying my bills and acting as a fine member of society then rejected completely because someone else's dad is footing the bill. (At least that was the excuse for the last one.) I'm in my 30's and my dad isn't footing any bill but his own.

It saddens me to think about the lengths one goes to to find the place they want to call home.

I did the same journey in NYC so I know it's not just Los Angeles.

When I found out about this last one, I was so sad. I tore up all my on line furniture dreams and went for a run on the beach.

Today was a great day, because as soon as I got to the beach, all I could see was white. No sun, no sky, no sand even except for the few feet in front of me. I was looking at a blank canvas, a smeared gray where it looked like someone had taken an eraser to the dream in front of me, the thing that keeps me hoping, dreaming, breathing and loving life, my beach. My sun and sky was erased and I ran to the few feet in front of me, then the next few feet in front of me and imagined my life without the beauty. I stopped. I just walked. I breathed in the foggy, salty air.

Today, I stopped by my tailor. The guy that makes beautiful things out of things that don't fit just right. I love him and his wife. They have owned their business in Hancock Park for decades. They love each other. Every time I go there, they give me advice on how to make things work, clothes and love. They know it well. I love them both.
I go to them because I know they will make it work, even when the things around me don't. Sometimes, if I haven't seen them in a while, I will find things in the bowls of my closet that I once found fond and I take it to them to make fond in the present. They do the best work.

Harry, my tailor, he could tell I was down. I told him I was rejected from another apartment.

In this town, rejection is like breathing.

But I never get used to it.

And I'm from NY.

But, my skin is never thick enough to just take it.

He told me to look in other neighborhoods and I told him, NO. Santa Monica, the beach, is like religion to me.

Him, being a very religious person, asked what I meant.

I told him.

Going home, coming home, being home, spending time at home, means Santa Monica. It means the beach for me. It's church. It's communion. It's Thanksgiving. It's birth. It's death. It's all that's in between for me.

I might sound like a freekin' Hallmark card but it doesn't matter what time of the month it is, EVERY time I go to the beach, I feel like weeping from the mass beauty that surrounds me.

Living here, teaches me to be the best person I can be. It makes me a better person.

I am exhausted by the trials of trying to stay here.

I know people have it worse. Things, others are going through, could be worse.

But I have no place to live now and I live for here.

This is my home.

And even if the fog erases the memory of the beauty just behind it, I know it's there and I smile. I suck it in. I grab all I can of it's goodness and I go into the world and teach. I'm a better friend, lover, daughter, writer and person for living here and nothing will take that away from me.

So, I run into the white. My dream is not in front of me but it's there. It's hidden and this mo-fo apt. didn't work out but there will be another one waiting for me to inhabit so that I can create, enjoy, live, breathe, laugh, love and give more than I ever thought was possible.

I'm sad that in this city and country, sometimes, all you are is a number, a credit score or policy holder.

I'm sad that the essence of who you are isn't good enough and what you put into the universe, it just doesn't 'count'.

But I know better and it's ok if they don't.

Sometimes it doesn't work how you see it.

Sometimes how you see it, changes.

I know the sun and sky was there today and it didn't keep me from being happy.

I know I will find a place to live. I don't see it right now, but it's there. And because I don't see it now, it won't keep me from being happy.

A yogic lesson, perhaps.

In flux and still living yoga,
Laurie