To Live and Die in L.A.
I moved to LA with one duffle bag back in 2006.
I put my car on an auto transport truck.
I put my things on a moving van.
I boarded a flight.
I hated it there.
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Bobby Kersee and to this day it makes my heart smile to listen to his stories and catch up.
But I was an outsider in that training group, the sole field event athlete in a group of world class hurdlers and sprinters, the midwestern country girl in the big city.
Los Angeles played on and toyed with every insecurity I ever had.
Which ultimately came down to one thing: enoughness
Not pretty enough,
Not light-skinned enough,
Hair not long enough,
List of accomplishments not long enough,
Contract not big enough,
Wardrobe not fly enough,
Enough.
Los Angeles made me feel like I could and would never be, have, or do: enough.
It made me feel like contentment was a sign of weakness, that ambition was the currency with which your value was determined.
Just like there are some places you can visit and it feels like home, there are some places that I visit that makes my skin crawl, my face blush with unease, and the hair on my arms stand on end.
So it shouldn’t surprise you that I was heading back to Southern California for the Inspiration Games with mixed emotions.
Happy, of course, to get an opportunity to compete. Elated, of course, to be returning to a city that represented such a dark time for me, in a much better place, as a much different person.
Curious as to whether or not my return would stir awake the demons that I know I haven’t fully vanquished.
Because we drove down from the Bay Area and baggage allowance isn’t a thing I concern myself with anyway, I packed nearly everything I wanted and needed to support my goal of returning to LA and back home unscathed and un-triggered.
I packed my yoga mat and yoga blocks so I could continue my daily practice.
I packed my “brain grain” cereal in containers with a measuring cup so I could keep my morning fuel plan the same.
I packed my milk frother, ghee, and MCT oil for my daily bulletproof coffee.
The coffee…
Figuring there’s a coffee shop everywhere I knew I wouldn’t have to actually pack the coffee.
So I didn’t.
And so Wednesday morning when I woke up…about thirty minutes before participating in a meditation and breathing workshop I had been in all week thus far I decided to drive to Starbucks.
Starbucks was 800 meters away. I would have walked, but walking would have made me late for the workshop and I’m not a person who handles being rushed well.
I would have walked because it was a beautiful day and I dreamed of basking in the sunlight, I wanted to soak in the anticipation of running on Mt. SAC’s new track, revel in how pleased I was with myself for being here and feeling good about it.
I ordered my coffee at the drive-thru.
Black, tall-in a grande cup.
I reached for my phone which was mounted on a windshield holder to pay with my app.
The barista says, “no need. The car in front paid for your drink!”
I said, “what!?” And I sat back heavily against the seat on my exhale as if to say, “well I’ll be damned.”
My smile, as wide as my face, grew larger still as I checked the rear view mirror.
“Well, guess I’ll get theirs then.”
I purchased the order of the car behind me and pulled away.
I felt…damn good. I was ready to slay the day.
Ready to whip up my bulletproof coffee, which was going to be even tastier because it was paid for by a generous stranger…
Even tastier due to generosity in a place where I rarely experience generosity in the past.
I was overwriting the trauma tape. And that felt ridiculously good.
I decelerate, and begin the right turn into the hotel’s parking lot.
My free coffee spills.
I react to the hot coffee.
I miss the turn into the parking lot.
I total the fucking car.
That split “oh shit” second of responding to the coffee, was enough time to run over all of the flowers and slam head on into what was previously a cute and welcoming “Welcome to Ayres Suites” concrete and decorative stone sign.
The despair flooded me instantaneously.
All the previously good things I was feeling gone.
My fucking coffee…gone.
My optimism about LA, gone.
My excitement and anticipation about the meet, gone.
Just like that.
How fragile is our sense of well-being?
Not our well-being…but the SENSE of it.
I was distraught making the call to Chuck to tell him I totaled his car. The car we drove down to LA, the car we needed to drive back to the Bay.
He tells me that that’s what insurance is for, that he’s most relieved I was safe, and ultimately we came down to have a good time and run at Mt. SAC as one of the first people to get to do so.
He forces me to take my pre-scheduled yoga class. Ask me to be extra mindful of how my body is feeling because the meet is in 24 hours.
While on the mat, in a moment of perfect stillness a thought bubbled to the surface of my consciousness:
Why am I so committed to being distraught about this if Chuck isn’t? If he’s encouraging me to move on, why am I so dedicated to wallowing?
Guess what the answer was?
I wanted to make sure he understood that I felt appropriately and thoroughly bad about it. By and large, although I did feel horrible about it- my behavior was performative.
Against my natural instincts I told him about this after my yoga class. He begged me again to let it go but that if I was deadset on moping about it to do so AFTER the race. 😅
And so I let it go.
I went to train.
Had my fastest acceleration training session to date.
Ran second/third leg like a boss.
Brought smiles to faces, and some much needed excitement to track fans.
And I still felt bad about the car.
But it didn’t grab me by the ankle and bury me.
Which is more than I can say about the time I actually lived in L.A.
This month’s trip to L.A. felt like 2020 personified.
I had been curious as to whether my demons would be awakened,
And the truth is they were.
But the larger truth is that I was too.
I was awake.
And because I was awake I was aware.
Not aware enough to not react to hot coffee to avoid slamming into a concrete sign...
But aware enough to feel my demons stirring and tugging on the spool of my tightly coiled sense of self
And not letting it unwind me.
Which leads me to this, L.A. and my time
there was one of my greatest teachers that taught me some of the most life-changing lessons.
and this visit was no different. This visit taught me that:
First you awaken, and then you can be aware.
But awareness without wakefulness will leave you with a lap of hot coffee and a totaled car.
Awareness without wakefulness means you react to one thing and are blind to the other.
Awareness has to be coupled with wakefulness.
2020 is demanding this of us all.
Wake TF up.
We can’t demand to start creating an anti-racist environment and be anti-Semitic.
We can’t demand that black lives matters, while explaining to the folks replying with ALL LIVES MATTER that WE KNOW ALL LIVES MATTER…
While saying well…not gay ones.
Not poor ones…
Not the democrat ones…
Not the republican ones…
Not the trans ones…
Not the professional athlete ones…
Not that religion…
Not you.
Not her.
Not him.
Not them…
We are driving the car. We are spilling the coffee. We have totaled the car.
Awareness without wakefulness means you react to one thing and remain blind to others.
Aware AND Awake.
That is the 2020 vision we need.