No Place Like Home….(or your Grandmother’s)

Safety First…

waiting…

pretty…

Drops offs this morning were fun and ran very smoothly. Two things played a huge role in deciding where to leave said bouquets; was there shade and did it look like anyone was home to take in these little waiting orphans? Yes, yes and yes. Although the third drop off actually had a different criteria.

Since the first bouquet, that went out yesterday, went to a house that reminds me of my grandfather on my father’s side, it seemed right for the last bouquet to go to a house that reminds of my grandmother on my mother’s side. And so it was.

Dropping off to houses is fun. As I drive away, I’m like someone wrapped up in a horror film where they’re going down in the basement alone, or about to take a shower unaware and you’re like “No, no, no!!”. Only in this case I’m like “Open the door! Open the door! Open the door!”

Grandmother from Michigan vs. Grandfather from Pennsylvania can best be summed up as polar opposites. Stories about my dad’s side of the family included farm life, quilting, little or no formal education, working in the coal mines, walking to school with holes in your shoes and eatting lard sandwiches (the poor man’s version of a BLT?). Stories from my mom’s side of the family included houses in Nantucket, knowing where the Ford family lived, multiple memberships to country clubs and debutante parties. Alcoholism ran through both sides. And as a child, both sides were my absolute favorite places to be.

Memories from being in rural Pennsylvania included; picking fresh corn on the nearby farm, passing out Hershey’s candy after dinner to adults from a wheelbarrow after touring the factory, and going to see the dog tied up at the dog house out back (which I would offer to adopt today, if he was still there). Memories from being in wealthy area of Michigan included; getting lost in my grandmother’s house, riding with my grandmother in her Cadillac to get her nails done, taking cookies from the ceramic lamb cookie jar in the huge kitchen and listening to the sound of ships honking their horns as they passed one another on the lake during the night. To this day, some of the happiest moments of my life.

Suffice it to say, the house that reminds me of my grandmother’s house is huge. Every day, when I pass it on my way to work I always notice it and I always think of my grandmother. There are never any cars in the driveway or out in front and I always wonder if anyone actually lives there. Well, upon closer inspection, people do live there. In fact, people work there, it’s just that all of the activity is happening behind big, iron gates.

Perhaps this was a bad idea. I push the button to the intercom system, hear the phone ring and hope for a voice. “Hello?” asks the voice. My best response becomes “Do you live here?” which is immediately followed with a somewhat deadpan and slightly illuminating “I work here?” I reply in a way with which he can’t argue “I have a delivery.”  The deadpan voice replies “I’ll be right down.”

Despite the deadpan nature in his voice, this man is very nice. I explain what I’m doing, that I chose this house because it reminds me of my grandmother and does he think the people who live there might enjoy that gesture or roll their eyes after glancing his way and nod to the trash? He shrugs, says he’ll tell them, agrees it’s a nice gesture and admits that flowers do get delivered there on a weekly basis. He then walks away.

I’m left wanting more. I should have gotten his name. Maybe I should go back and get a photo of him for this site? I should have told him to please take the flowers if they don’t want them. I wanted more time with him and I wanted to have more moments with him. But then again, that’s how I feel about both of my grandparents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ready to Bloom…

While I’ve been leaving the bouquets on cars, this week, they’re going to houses. Home. Cozy. Cocoon. Cuddling. Therapy. Safe. Being under the covers. Thinking about the $10,000 that lures Naomi Campbell out of bed and then reflecting on the job that pulls me out of mine. That’s my free association of houses. I love my home. It’s sacred. Although based on the free association I just did, you wouldn’t think anything actually got done at my house except maybe hiding out under the covers between therapy sessions. And I’m not even in therapy. Anymore that is…

I was in therapy but my therapist changed from psychotherapy to hair. She now owns a salon and does hair extensions. It was an odd time a couple of years ago when I was phasing out my therapy and she was starting up her hair business. We had my sessions at the salon. I sat in the chair. Not the wide, sinking couch I had sat on in her living room, but the chair where she could have come over, pumped several times with her foot, and it would have raised or lowered three inches. That chair.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor chair in describing this morning’s drop off. There was only one because that’s all I had time for but it was perfect and sweet and left me, once again, smiling all the way to work.

There are a cluster of houses right by our home that have always intrigued me. They intrigue me because a) they look like they belong in the country and b) because of that, they remind me of my grandfather’s house in rural Pennsylvania. My grandfather passed away many years ago but the house remains and my father actually owns a house close to the one my grandfather had owned. When Southern writers like Faulkner or Flannery O’Conner talk about a character’s connection to the land I always think “I understand that”, because that’s how I feel with the house and land in Pennsylvania. I go there once a year. And for the past two years my father and I have gone there together. We didn’t really plan it that way, it just somehow happened.

I will tell you two things about my father. One, he doesn’t fly and two, he’s kind of a hero/rock star to seven children. Children who are married and have children. One on one time in our big family is a rare bird. So trust me, when I reaassure you how incredible this time together in Pennsylvania has become. And we’re planning on going there again in June. Anyway, this little cluster of houses in Los Angeles reminds me of this favorite place. I knew that’s where I wanted to leave the bouquet.

The only way to get to these cluster of houses it to enter a collective driveway. Once I turned off the main road and entered their property, I felt very conspicuous. I wanted to leave the flowers at the first house but there were some DWP looking workers in front and I didn’t want it to be confusing. So I kept driving. It’s a fairly small space so driving forward felt like I was doing donuts on their front lawn. Again, very conspicuous. While there were cars at the first house where the work was being done, there didn’t seem to be anyone home at the other houses. That was, until the black Prius rolled up. I stopped the donuts, rolled down my window and casually asked “Do you live here?”

A brunette woman with a Juliette Binoche, elegance about her said “yes”. I should have mentioned that one of these houses had a gorgeous garden. Stunning. It was hers. She loved the gesture, told me her name and invited me to come back and visit sometime. When I explained what I was doing she got very excited about leaving them on her neighbor’s back door (the first house with the workers). Apparently, as she was on her way home, her husband called her to say that the woman’s husband had just gone in the hospital. So she lead me to her neighbor’s back door. I got another flashback to Pennsylvania and left the flowers there.

By about two o’clock with deadlines, crises, and nonstop work, the drop off seemed further and further away. But when I thought about it the feeling of the experience was always there. And the feeling I liked most was that by turning left into that driveway this morning, I felt my world expand.

Flower Gap Post…

  Well, It’s Friday, and eventhough the next drop off isn’t until next week, I’m itching to get back on here. And will the person driving the white, Yukon with the Nevada plates, who was parked at Fryman Canyon last Friday morning around 9am please check in???

Does anyone else feel like they could go home from work at around 2pm in the afternoon? I’m still convinced we would be more productive on a 4 day work week. I also think it should be a widely accepted practice to stay home when it’s raining. You’d have your sick days, vacation days and ample rain days to enjoy the sound of the rain while reading a book, taking a bath or doing a number of cozy, home activities.

Of course, my real vision of the work week is ala Timothy Ferriss, current hero and superstar. His vision of personal freedom, streams of income and enjoying a life that gives you time to enjoy things now as opposed to waiting for retirement with a big fat 401k at age 65 seems ideal. Which means that at 2pm you’re not feeling like you’re slipping into a coma in the office but potentially following a passion such as firedancing, playing with your niece (who loves the color green and her blue cookie monster shirt), or walking -slash -running with your dog at Runyan Park. 

Alright, well, I’m back from the coma and ready to light out for the territories. Be well, be free and we’ll be back at it again on Monday.

 

Blue Skies…

There’s this phrase that keeps running in my head “Leading with my spirit.” It’s a feeling that came to me the first day I started randomblooms. And the past couple weeks, I feel like I’m leading with my spirit rather than being buried by the minutiae of the weekday. Which is amazing. Not to be too dramatic, but just like Kevin Spacey’s character in LA Confidential when he’s asked why he became a detective (I think that’s what he’s being asked but I know that he’s this jaded, corrupt character who’s lost his way) and all he can answer in a dazed, out of focus candor is “I can’t remember.”, if someone were to come up to me most weekdays and say “Hey! Where’s your true spirit!” I might give that distant, out of focus look and in a faint whisper, answer “I can’t remember.”

So, forgive me if this sounds in any way like an oscar speech (they’re all so sterile now anyway) but thank you to anyone who’s gotten a bouquet and taken the time to share their experience. Tom, I have no idea what your new project was but I love that your flowers felt like a symbol of good luck for it. And Lauren, that the flowers were so delightful to receive makes me smile. Not only do I love that you felt so uplifted by them but more importantly that the words on the card resonated with you. They’re written for you, me and anyone else who’s caught in the riptide of the work week.

It’s a funny thing with flowers. Sometimes you don’t hear from people until about a week later, like Virginia from Marie et Cei in Studio City. They were in the very first round of drop offs. I followed through on this whisper of an idea, did my first drop off on a Thursday, and was so fed that day and the next, that my weekend was kind of a creative let down. In fact, I remember that Saturday morning I was all set to go walking with my dog, when without thinking, I drove right to Marie et Cei for a cup of coffee. I didn’t need the coffee but I wanted to check on my flowers and that was the only place where one of the bouquets might still be there. And they were. Sitting right on the piano near the window. Holding my coffee and feeling like a complete street urchin, I got a huge cup of water and discreetly dumped it in the bucket.

I remember a couple of years ago I had gone to the downtown flower mart, I think to give my dad some flowers for his birthday. I always end up with extra bouquets and I gave one of them to my friend, Isaac. I was joking with him that in delivering his flowers I felt like Meryl Streep in some movie where her life is perfect for the first twenty minutes and then you realize that some evil is lurking beneath the surface of that seemingly perfect life. My sides ached I thought that was so funny, but I distinctly remember thinking that making flowers for people looks from the outside like this gesture of a perfect life.

Why am I remembering this now and what does it have to do with today’s post? I’m not sure exactly but I know I love laughing until my sides hurt. When I was putting this site together and I saw Flower Power of Another Kind, I thought that was funny. It just tickled me and my laughter reminded me of when I was 5 years old and my family and I went to this dude ranch where my horse’s name was Maude. And I just laughed and laughed because I knew that they had given me the slowest, oldest, horse because I was so young. Everyone else had horses like Rocket, Popcorn or Joker but I was to be with Maude. And sure enough, Maude was this sweet old thing who was trailing about a mile behind everyone else.

I haven’t seen Isaac in a couple of years since he moved to New York and interestingly, I had a dream about him a couple of days ago. There’s a lot in my life that’s uncertain right now and I remember being in a mild panic about all of it as I woke to the dim blue of the early morning. I couldn’t remember what I had just dreamt but I knew Isaac was in it and I sat there in my anxiety thinking “What would Isaac do?” Isaac is someone who goes fiercely after his dreams. He once said to me “You put me in the ocean and I’ll see how far I can swim.”

Last Friday as I was dropping off my 3 bouquets I remember thinking to myself, “I don’t want this gesture to feel like candy and marshmallows to people – like there’s no edge or depth to it.” And maybe that’s why my mind lead me to Isaac and that moment of Meryl Streep with her perfect life in the thriller we all go to see. The funny thing is, to many of my family and friends there’s really nothing to fuss about in my life. Even my friend, K, at a dinner party said after a glass of wine “Believe me, she’s got a job that a lot of people would love to have.” But it’s not about how great or not our lives seem to others. And there’s something deeper I’m looking for in all of this. I want to see how far I can swim. I want to see how high my spirit can soar in the world. So I’m leading with my spirit.

can I please slow down and smell the flowers…

Today’s drop offs

   Post to follow…

whirling dervish…

Dahlia Dervish and Camry Landing

   The morning rush to work. So much so that a blue, Toyota Camry got the first bouquet, not a human face. There just wasn’t time. I had to drop these flowers off en route to work with no extra time. Winding along Mulholland Drive, Runyan park emerges on my left and I know that this is where the first of two drop offs will take place.

It’s not as easy to decide which automobile should have fresh flowers as you might think. The black Prius? My first impulse, but that futuristic design gives me the image of the bucket continually and slowly sliding to its demise on the dirt ground. Perhaps the beat up Jeep Cherokee with Minnesota plates? But then I think of some happy-go-lucky Minnesotan who’s visiting a friend and taking in a hike at Runyan on their day of leisure.

I want these flowers to go to someone that’s in the LA weekday grind. Someone who could really use a pick-me-up. Suddenly the luxury cars seem off limits and I catch myself thinking what I don’t believe; that one person is more deserving of upliftment during the day than someone else or that I want to give flowers to someone based on what? Flower need?

When I told friends this idea, a lot of them would automatically say things like “Oh, you should go to the barrio.” And I thought, yea, the Barrio, Beverly Hills, and everything in between. I want to share this with everyone. And yet here I am pre-determining who should get these flowers based on metal. And, I’m wasting time.

Yet the truth is, once I started making associations with certain cars, it was hard to shake. And at this point I just needed to pick a car. I went for the powder blue Camry. It had a nice, square flat hood and let’s face it, in the back of my mind I was hoping that the person who drove that Camry would appreciate getting these flowers on their car.

Because that’s really what my friends are getting at when they suggest a certain neighborhood. They’re wanting appreciation for my efforts as much as I do. And the truth is, the person belonging to that blue Camry could have come back to their car in a morning rush of their own, annoyed that there’s this object on their car that makes no sense to them. They might have thrown it off their hood with no time to be bothered. When in fact that rested Minnesotan might have really loved that surprise, taking the time to appreciate what he or she found. And to go a level further in honesty (which I love doing) the person I’m doing this for is me. I’m the one caught in the weekly grind. I’m the one who needs the pick-me-up.

And it works. I drive off smiling - excited about what that person’s going to find on their parked car and filled with anticipation for the person who will get the next one.

The serpentine of cars make their way through the Coldwater traffic light. I’m looking at the other bouquet on my seat. The red dahlia makes me incredibly happy and as I’m looking, the cars in front of me go forward and the man in the black Mercedes behind me honks. And I’m thinking “Maybe this one’s for him.”