Lux Lotus

On Parties

I'm co-hosting the launch party for PEN.org and the World Voices Festival next week in New York. If you're in town, please join us.

On Beginnings

2012 evolved me in immeasurable ways. Much to do in the next two weeks, and then I'm off to London and Paris until February. As for resolutions, I have just one in 2013: to thine own self be true.

On Advice

Change into the white dress when he suggests it. Say yes to Paris.

On Fates

A post for a long-time reader who requested one at lunch today.

I remember sitting in the library in elementary school thumbing through an old copy of classic Greek myths, always finding my way to the comfort of an origin story: destiny ordained as the three sisters unwound each mortal's thread at the moment of birth, snipping it where they may. Last year my decidedly non-mystical mother called to tell me that she'd had a premonition that the man I was meant to be with would find me, and that I wouldn't have to do anything to find him. She'd been so struck by the clarity of the notion that she'd stopped eating dinner to tell her companion, and then me. This was the most radical thing I'd ever heard. There is no element of my life that I have not managed or conjured into being through careful planning or unstoppable intent. So what to do? Relax. Let it happen. For my birthday, my best friend and I had intuitive readings. "You'll be alone all summer," she said, firmly, as my hopes dimmed. "But then, at the end of the year... there's someone. He's going to persist, he's going to pursue you." There were other little signifiers, glinting like mismatched tokens on a charm bracelet. I was amused, and optimistic and took it in stride. A few months later, a novelist known for his prowess with tarot cards brought them to a dinner party and did a reading after midnight, and dessert. My ears pricked up when I realized he had pulled the exact same card. "He's aware of you, but you're not yet aware of him." It's December, and every step has a little stardust in it, a secret smile, a fairy bell twinkling a distant song: is this it? is this it? is this it? I exhale, and relax.

On Gratitude, Always

The other night at the University Club, San Francisco (photographer: Whitney Lawson)

Almost three weeks ago, I rushed out of my apartment to catch an early morning flight to Chicago for an evening wedding. I had been out at a party the night before, and would be back again in less than 24 hours (I assumed, and so thought I knew this to be true), and took with me a red silk evening gown, a pair of gold evening shoes, and a fur coat. The next day, I barely made the last flight back to New York, but too late to return to my apartment before the evacuation order was issued. I plan to return this afternoon. At one point, I lost a set of borrowed housekeys and wept on a park bench until another woman in a fur coat stopped and tried to help me. I hadn't cried in three years. I realized that one never has any real sense of what another person is going through. I learned that words are not enough. I found out that more people cared about me, far more than I ever would have known in my life otherwise. My unshakeable faith in spiritual matters and astrology is gone, replaced by what I can't quite say. In some ways, I woke up from a kind of slumber that might have otherwise lasted forever; a beautiful dream but it was only that. My long-held hopes for a holiday will have to be deferred so that I can save up to move when my lease is up in the spring. This year, in truth, has been altogether bruising, and yet I have received so much. I saw my brother briefly and at one point, he observed that my sister interrupts herself when she expresses dismay and says, "But I'm so grateful for everything." I said, we live together. That's how we talk; and we are, beyond measure.

On the Art of Living, Cont.

I've been contemplating New Year's Eve in Paris, and am still very much on the fence. I did knock off work an hour early today to shop for lingerie and then stop by Maison du Chocolat for a truffle, so that does tell you where my head's at, at the moment. While I was peering into the cases at the latter, a friend wrote: There's an English man in the store, and I understand your attraction to them... how wonderfully bold, manly and attractive they are. I do like men of the British Isles, although my taste is not exactly that. My kind of man is well-dressed, reserved, and emboldened by a private fire that burns only for me. No specific accent required.

On Exchanges

I keep reminding myself that if the life that I want is so radically different than the life that I am now living, I will have to do something to spark its genesis. Except I don't have any money other than what I earn myself, on the wheel, and my time is not dedicated primarily to leisure. So I suppose I could learn to love the one I have. There's something so beautiful and human about not just embracing flaws, and imperfections, but seeing them as a source of wisdom and pleasure. I think often of the teacup with the fissure repaired with gold, and wabi-sabi. Earlier today I examined a nasty burn on my wrist from February, from sliding a roasting pan into the oven, where the hot rack seared me. At first, I wished I could fill it in with gold. Then I remembered the beautiful meal, and the beautiful night, among friends, and I realize that I did.

On Joining PEN

Today I had lunch with Paul Morris at India House, and on the heels of a couple of terrifically engaging and intellectually stimulating conversations, I've accepted his invitation to join the Membership Committee of PEN, a wonderful organization that I've long admired for its vital work in protecting the free expression of writers the world over as a human right, bearing witness for those whose lives are now in jeopardy as a result of exercising that freedom, and celebrating worthy literature. I'm grateful to be thought of so well, and happy to rise to the occasion. I hope you'll consider doing so, too.

On Disclosures

It always makes me smile when someone is telling me a story of dramatic romantic entanglement, and I sort of make a face and they say, What? And I say, "Oh, I'm so old-fashioned. Hopelessly out-of-step, even. I could never be involved in that way with more than one person. I'd rather be alone than make a mess of someone's heart." Soon after, they inevitably say, shyly, Me too. 

How to Impress Me

To the fellow who sent a c. 1912 Russian banknote by post today,

(I thought you'd like it -– nothing is quite as glamorous as a Romanov.)

well done.