Woke up early to the ping of a text alerting me to sad news.
A friend who had moved away years ago to a remote town named after a game show,
took her life.
I was aware her mind was seized with madness, but didn't realize the daily battle she was fighting.
The woman I met in Los Angeles in the mid '90s was a whisper floating on the wind.
We were a growing circle, a bundle of live wires, not connected by the industry
but other like-minded friends.
Like native plants we took root and these relationships came to define
my thirties and first decade in LA.
My life was richer for the weekends spent in Venice or Hollywood at spirited backyard parties.
There was ALWAYS a gathering sometimes marking an occasion, but more often than not, just a reason
to be together.
I bonded with Paula's boyfriend, Davey D, first, an affable, big hearted guy
who happened to grow up in a neighboring NJ town.
He encouraged her to get to know me, but working as a set dresser she was skeptical of executives
and was certain she wouldn't like me.
She soon came to realize that I didn't fit the stereotypical mold of her fears and we bonded.
Born three days apart, our similarities were many and our curiosity for the world, art and design
lead to many thrifting adventures and hours crafting.
Paula was a cautious seeker working through childhood demons and forging a path forward.
One long weekend we loaded up the car and headed North to Esalen
for a qigong retreat with a renown mystic.
Prior to breakfast, all guests were invited to participate in early morning ecstatic dance before dispersing to individual workshops.
Paula looked through the glass window at the guests wildly gesticulating at 7am to hippie dippy music
and was horrified.
Her comfort zone was 500 yards down the sprawling lawn, but Kate and I joined in as she remained on the outside looking in.
On the third morning, without any coaxing, she took part.
We all laughed as she abandoned herself to the rhythm without a care to what she looked like to the outside world.
We were kindred spirits, yoked by our curiosity and wanderlust.
My early desert adventures were with Paula.
Years before I owned a house in Palm Springs, we rented a friend's mid-century modern
and spent blissful hours thrift shopping.
Before the trend became mainstream, Paula's finger was on the pulse of MCM treasures.
For two consecutive years, we spent Easter weekend in Desert Hot Springs at a funky, recently renovated motor lodge with thermal baths, succulents and a peculiar night manager.
My first Pappy and Harriet's encounter was during one of those jaunts.
A Sunset magazine article lead us to the off-the-beaten-path Integretron.
We sat around a fire pit with three sister's who recently purchased the geodesic dwelling and were given an impromptu sound bath under the expansive wooden dome.
Months leading up to our respective fortieth birthdays we spent hours discussing how we wanted to honor the watershed moment.
We were shedding our 30s, moving deeper into adulthood and
we both knew it was significant in a way we couldn't describe.
On the night before I turned 40, I had dinner with Dave and Paula at their house in Eagle Rock.
Dave made pizza and I basked in the joy and effortlessness of their friendship.
We toasted the last day of my 39th year, honoring the life receding in the rearview mirror.
The moment had such a profound impact that, to this day,
I continue to acknowledge the eve of my birthday.
Like standing on the banks of the river, I breath in my surroundings and let the sounds fill my senses, before crossing to the other side.
The last time I saw Paula was in 2009.
Craving a different lifestyle, away from the traffic and hustle of LA,
Dave and Paula sold their house and bought an old bank in Truth or Consequences NM.
In the front of the building they opened an artisanal coffee shop
and became a popular destination in the quirky, tight knit community.
They had been there for a few years when Vanina and I took a road trip to see them.
Correspondence was minimal since Paula loathed lengthy phone calls or emails,
but we picked up just where we left off.
By this time, they had closed the coffee shop.
Living behind the storefront made Paula feel like she was living an examined life from the outside.
She longed for privacy and an existence where the small town couldn't peer into their lives.
On our last day together we floated down the Rio Grande gently bouncing on inner tubes
under a sky so blue heaven seemed visible through the clouds.
It felt like a day ripped from the carefree summers of childhood when the hours were vast
and chilling with your best friends was the only thing you needed to do.
I would have hugged her tighter if I knew it was the last time,
but that is the inherent tenderness of life.
We never know what lies around the bend.
Perhaps that is why my initial instinct to the winds of change is to hold on tighter.
