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Abstract

ely ludicrous, is my laundry room. For some reason, we always seem to make a connection in the laundry room. Today, as I was navigating back down memory lane within my brain, one series of specific images kept popping into my head.Every Tuesday was “ $1 Burger &$ 3 Pitcher Day” (hey, it was the 90's…) at the bar a block down towards the beach. Who could turn that down? The local bar also happened to be directly next door to and adjoining the only laundromat within walking distance. While we never actually made official plans or discussed this in advance, we always…always ended up there on Tuesdays. And soon these Tuesdays became some of my most treasured memories.Now when I mention ‘local’ bar, what I mean exactly is ‘locals only’. On the rare occasion that someone who was in fact NOT a local stuck their head inside, they quickly realized it was not the place for them. The actual bar itself had roughly 6–8 stools, there were two pool tables, a jukebox, and one long, narrow wooden ledge with another few stools along the wall adjacent to the laundromat. The burgers were pretty damn good, beer always cold and the bartender perpetually amusing to observe.The only pre-requisites to hanging out there were that you actually lived in our little ghetto beach town, had tattoos, and the bartender tolerated you. There was an unspoken rule that if you played ANY song on the jukebox that annoyed him he would crush the override button under the bar, bypassing all of the songs you had paid for until he came across a song he approved of. Once he had reached the end of his rope with the drunken chaos of the night, he would simply play Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” over and over and over until everyone eventually trickled out. This was also the anthem that would abruptly begin playing on the rare occasion a stranger did somehow find their lost soul sauntering in, expecting to be served. This very minute as I am writing this I am suddenly realizing, or perhaps just remembering, why this particular song, and Johnny Cash himself, has always resonated with me. After all these years, another reason I find this writing stuff to be so healing.On Tuesdays, shortly after we returned home from the beach with the dogs, he would disappear into the bedroom and salvage a heap of quarters from the stash he kept in the hugest pocket I have ever seen, of a coat I had actually never observed him wear. We would then lug our mighty laundry bags around the corner to our favorite Tuesday spot. To say the laundromat/bar location was ‘epic’ would be an understatement.Each moment we spent together invariably had a playful, mischievous tone that seemed to intensify our already familiar connection, which left us both confused and overwhelmed. Even a mundane task such as laundry became a profound, heartwarming encount

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er. We were young, carefree, reckless, and magnetically united. This was undoubtedly evident from our very first encounter. It was like looking into the mirror of my soul the day our paths first crossed. But that’s a story for another day…stay tuned!So back to the drive home from the island under the full Harvest moon, and back to the whole ‘laundry’ situation. To say A LOT has happened since those most extraordinary Tuesdays back in California would be the most ridiculous of euphemisms. Fast-forward through multiple heartbreaks including a marriage, a tragic death, a birth, a divorce, a sociopath, a few Mediums and of course…lots of laundries…here I sit…alone.I cannot explain how many of those Tuesdays nights ultimately ended up down on the cliffs of the beach, laundry long forgotten. Wednesday mornings were the usual, “oh shit…we forgot about our laundry”! We had always managed to get all of the clothes into the washing machines, and most of the time they had even made it into the dryers! But it was rare that we actually came home with clean, dried and folded laundry…if in fact ever? Those Tuesdays always turned into a day of losing each other in the reflection of ourselves and abandoning all responsibility (except for the dogs of course).Some of my favorite memories are of our adventures back home on Tuesday nights. If any two people were ever meant to explore together it was us. We would stay at the bar for a few hours, a few burgers, a pitcher or two…or three…and then venture back down to the beach, where we belonged. We made stops along the way at random friend’s houses who were usually just returning from classic surf excursions. After those detours, we usually ended up at the beach down by the cliffs. This is where we always lost ourselves, some of my most treasured recollections.We were so young, so fresh, and we had no notion of what was in the cards for either of us. Had we known then…I can’t even imagine? Would we have made different choices? Would we have felt cheated of time we knew would be so short-lived?So here I sit, scribbling about the past, about the yesterdays with this person, my person…who is no longer on this earth. And all this time I had not given a second thought as to why the laundry room was so significant. Now I know. Now I understand why this is where I feel closest to him, as peculiar as that may sound. It’s finally all beginning to evolve in my head. Things are actually starting to make a fragment of sense. My life as it has unfolded…the ups and downs…the miracles and tragedies…and most impactfully…the tremendous loss my heart senses every day.Life is…well, life is what it is…but today, life feels slightly heavy. Today would have been his 45th Birthday. I miss him. And…I miss our Tuesdays…doing laundry.</article></body>

Laundry…a Bar…a Beach…a Harvest Moon…Beach Yoga…and a Twin Flame…

“The only pre-requisites to hanging out there were that you actually lived in our little ghetto beach town, had tattoos, and the bartender tolerated you.”

Driving down the dark, twisting, deer-ridden back roads home from the island was something I had done a thousand times, and could likely do in my sleep. This night, however, the path was seemingly more luminous due to the full Harvest Moon, beneath which I had just finished a beach yoga class.

The sand had felt damp and unsteady under my blanket but the air was salty and invigorating. To me, the sea air on this island was unique to any other and always seemed to heal my soul. The colors of the skyline ranged from hues of blue to rays of pink and red until the sun finally fell behind the dunes. It was truly the perfect night to sit by the ocean, evidently the only place I seem to find any solace.

While trying to ‘focus on the present’, as instructed by the teacher, my mind wandered back to another time, another place. While not a day goes by where my brain doesn’t drift like the specks of sand that were slowly starting to form a fine layer on my skin and blanket underneath me, to another time, to another beach.

I was feeling proud of myself for actually making it to the island on time for the last beach class of the season. I had left work just in time and had run home to let my dog out before heading down. Once my feet landed in the sand all of the tension in my body systematically departed.

About halfway through the class, as one of the instructors was reminding us all to ‘stay present’, I realized I had in fact NOT been ‘staying present’. My mind, as usual, had been roaming aimlessly. I could feel his presence. I could almost always feel it, but in particular in these moments, when I was at the beach…oh, and also…when I was doing laundry…? Toward the completion of the class, as the sun was setting and it was growing dark and brisker, my mind finally settled…but not without the company of a tear…or two.

On the way home I decided to cancel my own plan to stop and grab a bite to eat and decided to just head back. I wanted to concede to the calmness I felt and try to make it last. My mind started roaming again though, this time to flashbacks and memories of things we used to do together, places we explored, the laughter we shared, and the weightlessness of…well, all of it really.

I started to think about the ways we still connect and the locations I feel his presence clearly. Other than the beach, while it may sound completely ludicrous, is my laundry room. For some reason, we always seem to make a connection in the laundry room. Today, as I was navigating back down memory lane within my brain, one series of specific images kept popping into my head.

Every Tuesday was “$1 Burger & $3 Pitcher Day” (hey, it was the 90's…) at the bar a block down towards the beach. Who could turn that down? The local bar also happened to be directly next door to and adjoining the only laundromat within walking distance. While we never actually made official plans or discussed this in advance, we always…always ended up there on Tuesdays. And soon these Tuesdays became some of my most treasured memories.

Now when I mention ‘local’ bar, what I mean exactly is ‘locals only’. On the rare occasion that someone who was in fact NOT a local stuck their head inside, they quickly realized it was not the place for them. The actual bar itself had roughly 6–8 stools, there were two pool tables, a jukebox, and one long, narrow wooden ledge with another few stools along the wall adjacent to the laundromat. The burgers were pretty damn good, beer always cold and the bartender perpetually amusing to observe.

The only pre-requisites to hanging out there were that you actually lived in our little ghetto beach town, had tattoos, and the bartender tolerated you. There was an unspoken rule that if you played ANY song on the jukebox that annoyed him he would crush the override button under the bar, bypassing all of the songs you had paid for until he came across a song he approved of. Once he had reached the end of his rope with the drunken chaos of the night, he would simply play Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” over and over and over until everyone eventually trickled out. This was also the anthem that would abruptly begin playing on the rare occasion a stranger did somehow find their lost soul sauntering in, expecting to be served. This very minute as I am writing this I am suddenly realizing, or perhaps just remembering, why this particular song, and Johnny Cash himself, has always resonated with me. After all these years, another reason I find this writing stuff to be so healing.

On Tuesdays, shortly after we returned home from the beach with the dogs, he would disappear into the bedroom and salvage a heap of quarters from the stash he kept in the hugest pocket I have ever seen, of a coat I had actually never observed him wear. We would then lug our mighty laundry bags around the corner to our favorite Tuesday spot. To say the laundromat/bar location was ‘epic’ would be an understatement.

Each moment we spent together invariably had a playful, mischievous tone that seemed to intensify our already familiar connection, which left us both confused and overwhelmed. Even a mundane task such as laundry became a profound, heartwarming encounter. We were young, carefree, reckless, and magnetically united. This was undoubtedly evident from our very first encounter. It was like looking into the mirror of my soul the day our paths first crossed. But that’s a story for another day…stay tuned!

So back to the drive home from the island under the full Harvest moon, and back to the whole ‘laundry’ situation. To say A LOT has happened since those most extraordinary Tuesdays back in California would be the most ridiculous of euphemisms. Fast-forward through multiple heartbreaks including a marriage, a tragic death, a birth, a divorce, a sociopath, a few Mediums and of course…lots of laundries…here I sit…alone.

I cannot explain how many of those Tuesdays nights ultimately ended up down on the cliffs of the beach, laundry long forgotten. Wednesday mornings were the usual, “oh shit…we forgot about our laundry”! We had always managed to get all of the clothes into the washing machines, and most of the time they had even made it into the dryers! But it was rare that we actually came home with clean, dried and folded laundry…if in fact ever? Those Tuesdays always turned into a day of losing each other in the reflection of ourselves and abandoning all responsibility (except for the dogs of course).

Some of my favorite memories are of our adventures back home on Tuesday nights. If any two people were ever meant to explore together it was us. We would stay at the bar for a few hours, a few burgers, a pitcher or two…or three…and then venture back down to the beach, where we belonged. We made stops along the way at random friend’s houses who were usually just returning from classic surf excursions. After those detours, we usually ended up at the beach down by the cliffs. This is where we always lost ourselves, some of my most treasured recollections.

We were so young, so fresh, and we had no notion of what was in the cards for either of us. Had we known then…I can’t even imagine? Would we have made different choices? Would we have felt cheated of time we knew would be so short-lived?

So here I sit, scribbling about the past, about the yesterdays with this person, my person…who is no longer on this earth. And all this time I had not given a second thought as to why the laundry room was so significant. Now I know. Now I understand why this is where I feel closest to him, as peculiar as that may sound. It’s finally all beginning to evolve in my head. Things are actually starting to make a fragment of sense. My life as it has unfolded…the ups and downs…the miracles and tragedies…and most impactfully…the tremendous loss my heart senses every day.

Life is…well, life is what it is…but today, life feels slightly heavy. Today would have been his 45th Birthday. I miss him. And…I miss our Tuesdays…doing laundry.