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IF YOU ARE A SINGLE MAMA AND ARE CALLED TO MY WORK, THEN I AM CALLED TO WORK WITH YOU.


Red Envelope = Pay What You Wish


See, I developed my modality over seven years and five homes, while raising my two young sons in the pricy sprawl of Los Angeles—and grappling with the very particular heartache of family court.


My work serves as my simultaneous life raft and launch pad, keeping my family financially afloat and energetically soaring.  From the beginning, I made a vow to share this opportunity to Begin Again with my fellow pressurized cocoon dwellers.  Single Motherhood is certainly an archetype ripe for reclamation, one home at a time.


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On a sheet draped over Villa’s makeshift dining room table, I laid out the communal possessions I planned to pack.  Space still left on that too small for the room surface, and my husband didn’t agree with it all, but offered his man-dated sign-off.  He wanted to keep it all and I wanted a fresh start, so that was that.


Years prior when I moved into his Bond Street bachelor pad—professionally decorated for two—I had known him maybe two weeks.  Brought a suitcase and my sewing machine, still warm from those Parsons all-nighters, and now, in the midst of our divorce, I was moving out with little more.  Time Loops. 


It was the summer of 2015 and my sons and I quickly settled into the branches of TreeHouse, a tiny, dreamy post and beam cottage in Nichols Canyon.  About a twenty minute topsy turvy cruise from Villa, or now just “dad’s.”  Complete with a kidney shaped pool, it was wildly irrational, but I had to live there—she beckoned me.  Wrote a letter to her owner making my case and convinced him to lower the rent by a smidge.  Reclamation of my womanhood?  Early onset mid-life crisis?  Who knows, but I soon filled the naked space with houseplants, central to my experimentation, three new beds and...  Well, that’s about it.


For me at that point, Heavy Lifting was reflected in the myriad of divorce logistics.  New address, new name.  Emotional labor out the ass.  My ex is a decade older than me, well established when we hooked up.  So I was playing catch-up on all that real-life-stuff that I knew I couldn’t ignore forever.  Might as well dive right in.


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Sexy times in a sexy house.  Just like riding a bike... Like that night on the back of my new lover’s motorcycle, which would have terrified me if he weren’t a stunt double.  Midnight under a no joke full moon, whipping along the bends of a near empty Mulholland when he slows to a stop.  We flip up our visors.


“Are you leaning into the curves, or leaning away from them?”


“Away!”  (Terrified regardless of SAG credentials.)


Grinning, he shook his head, “You have to lean into the turns.  Go with the flow baby.”


Short term love affair with a long term life lesson.  Lean into the direction life is taking you.  Find a way to surrender despite your instinct to resist—surrender into what you know you need to do.  Work with the energy, even when it terrifies you, even when it hurts so good.