CB Creative

It's Time to Change the World One Step at a Time

2011-11-07T16:58:00.000-05:00

Reprinted from StayThirsty.com

It was about 7:15am on September 11, 2001. I overslept by 15 minutes. Those extra minutes kept me from being at the base of the World Trade Center when the towers were struck. Instead, I watched from just across the river in New Jersey as the towers smoked like two giant chimneys and fell to the ground.

I will never forget that awful, acrid smell that surrounded the greater New York City area. I’ll never forget staring out the window long after dark, saying that the glow from the fires burning on the New York skyline looked like the gates of hell had opened.
Every year since 2001, one thought has dominated my mind: I have not done enough to justify the gift of my life.

This past September 11th was the 10th anniversary of that tragic day, and right around the same time of day that the second tower fell, I took Jessie, my four-year-old yellow Labrador retriever, in the car and we went hiking. Each and every minute of that day was not lost on me.
On our way to the trail, we passed a parade of gleaming fire trucks parked in front of the local cemetery for a memorial service, a little boy waving an American flag, and someone helping an elderly person into a wheelchair. I smelled fresh bread as we walked by the local bakery. And then, in a matter of minutes, Jessie and I were in the woods. It was silent and beautiful, and we were alone on the trail. All I could hear was the sound of leaves crunching under our feet and birds overhead.

Edward Everett Hale said, “I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. And I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can do.”

So often in our lives we focus only on ourselves - bettering our homes, our financial positions, our jobs. And that is noble, but in so many ways, it is selfish. I started Walk4Good because I am tired of standing by and watching the world change in ways that make me sad, and almost embarrassed. I’m tired of turning off the news, disgusted with our nation’s politics, our growing national debt, our skyrocketing unemployment, the constant bickering, and the way, as human beings, we seem more likely to be violent than kind to one another. So often, it’s easier to swear at the person who cuts us in off in traffic than to simply let them pass. Let’s face it - the world is a tricky place. It’s harder to be kind than it is to be cutthroat. I’m tired of doing nothing, of expecting someone else to change things, of assuming if I don’t pick up that piece of trash on the sidewalk, someone else surely will.

I know I am only one person. And I know that I alone cannot change the world, but I can change some of it. This is why I founded Walk4Good, a non-profit organization whose primary mission is to inspire and empower people to practice kindness and to pass acts of kindness onto others.
Walk4Good is literally, and figuratively, a step in that direction. Jessie and I will walk the 2,180 miles of the Appalachian Trail in a grueling thru-hike beginning June 15, 2012. The hike will last six months in the hope of finding 2,180 people willing to make a dedication to practice an act of kindness. We will walk through wind and rain and swarms of black flies. We will sleep in a tent and give up nearly every creature comfort for six months with the singular hope that, while we might not be able to change the world alone, together we can make a tangible difference and make helping others second nature, something you do without being asked.

So please join Jesse and me. We need 2,180 promises to help someone else by paying-it-forward. My goal is to secure one promise for every mile that we walk. There is no fee for making a dedication on our website, and you’ll not only help make this world a better place, but you’ll also help me realize there was a reason why I slept late on 9/11/01.
Links:
www.walk4good.org
Facebook: walk4good
Twitter: @thewalk4good

The Secret Keeper

2011-08-03T20:30:00.000-04:00

Shadows wander across the dark furniture in slanted lines, stretching to cover the entire front hall before the midday summer sun begins its slow rotation. Fresh lilacs drape the air with a heavy fragrant scent. Littered in the center of the large Persian carpet are various shoe-shaped imprints and my steps add to the odd arrangement.

A woman sits behind a polished mahogany desk in the right corner of the expansive room. She shoves aside her unruly gray bangs, smiles sweetly in my direction. I give her my name and cross an oblong shadow on the carpet. After choosing the middle of three straight-backed chairs, I sit down and wait, although I have no idea who I am waiting for. The latest gardening magazine beckons to be read and I succumb to its charms, not because of my green thumb, but because it’s the first on the pile. Instead of reading up on the most popular eco-fertilizers, I vacantly stare at the smoke-tinted French doors and wonder about my first-time elderly companion. At 25 years old, I realize I should possess the fine-tuned ability of taming reveries, but I don’t. From the depths of my imagination, I envision an elderly masterpiece: A woman too old and decrepit to speak complete sentences, too senile to remember her own name and too degenerated to urinate without the aid of a catheter...

A noise startles me so much I lurch forward and the gardening magazine slips from my lap to the floor. Phyllis the receptionist dropped a large black binder. Instead of speaking, she smiles again in my direction. I bend over and replace my magazine to the pile of other ignored periodicals and squeeze my eyes shut, asking myself why I volunteered for this program to begin with. A crusty old lady is the last addition I need in my life right now. Simplify, that’s what I keep telling myself. The muzak distracts me and I try to relax.

“Excuse me, Ms. Michaels, I am sorry to disturb you, but you can go in now. Last door on the left.” Phyllis is smiling again. Does she ever not smile? I rise. Phyllis moves a gray wisp from her eyes before giving me a slight push. She whispers, “Don’t worry, love, Mrs. Hathaway will surprise you.”

When I reach her room, I try to peek in without anyone noticing me. Mrs. Hathaway wears a royal blue silk bathrobe and gently rocks in a white wicker chair. She faces the rustic country view while sipping iced-tea. Her back is straight as a rod and her shoulders square. I notice her shining white hair is coiled perfectly into a bun at the base of her neck. She moves back and forth and stares out the window. I stand for nearly a minute deciding whether to bolt or not before she realizes my presence. Draped over the two remaining seats are colorful quilted blankets. Well-worn classics ranging from Shakespeare to Chekhov line a small bookshelf. Freshly picked flowers in an intricately sculpted alabaster vase sit atop a crocheted lace trimmed doily on her nightstand and several black and white pictures of two smiling little boys hang next to her bed.

Just as I decide to make a run for it, she turns and glances up at me with a mild expression of curiosity. A liver-spotted hand emerges from a blue sleeve and waves me in. I step forward, catch her gaze and say unsteadily, “My name is Cameron, and I’d like to talk with you, if that’s okay.”

She replies in a soft, commanding voice, “I am Mrs. Hathaway and of course my dear. Please sit down. We do have much to talk about.”

–––

The following months flow much like the tides, often soothing, sometimes stormy. Instead of dreading my time in a convalescent home, I begin to treasure the hours once a week we spend together. I never really had grandparents and Mrs. Hathaway is the kind of person I can say anything to without fear of judgement. I actually try, unsuccessfully, to shock her. I find myself telling her all my fragile dreams and my deepest secrets. As I talk, she rocks in her white wicker chair, listening intently. After several months, I realize that one of my best friends has become a 92-year old woman, but I still know very little about her. Every time I ask her to talk about her life or her past, she changes the subject back to me. Once, I get up the courage to ask her about the two smiling boys in the photos next to her bed.

She responds, "Strangers. They are strangers to me now."

Four months after I begin visiting Mrs. Hathaway, everything changes. It’s a beautiful warm, clear day, and I can’t wait to take Mrs. Hathaway outside to the yellow chaise lounges for some fresh air. But instead of seeing her knitting as I normally do when I arrive, she’s rocking to and fro, talking intimately to the open window. I stand in the doorway and listen, not wanting to disturb her.

“There used to be a white house on the right side,” she says, motioning to the window like it’s a long lost companion. “Do you see it? The one with black shutters and guest house off to the side. Salt Marsh Road banks softly to the left. Above the small hill is a bridge. It marks the beginning of the salt marshes. Just to the right beyond the marshes is the house all alone, facing the water on its own point. I have always noticed the sand around it is mostly purple with browns and beiges of normal sand mixed in. An odd combination for sand in these parts, don’t you think? No, not exotic really, just different. Very beautiful indeed.”

Her hands flutter around her face and she’s almost leaning out of her chair. I consider coughing or clearing my throat, but before I’m able to do either, she straightens and continues. “People around here knew the couple who lived in that house,” she whispers to the window. “The woman is mad, they say. One of her sons was killed in a convenience store robbery. He was 17, just 17. Her other son died in a car accident three years later. He was only 16. Everyone said the younger was her favorite. But he wasn’t. They both were.” Mrs. Hathaway’s voice shakes as she speaks. She rises from her chair and resumes the tumble of words, still with her back to me.

“When the younger son died,” she explains, “the woman vowed never to leave the house again. Not even to walk on the beach. Because of that, people were convinced she was crazy.”

Her head jerks suddenly, hair comes loose from her bun, and she immediately straightens her shoulders. She crosses her arms and draws the blue robe tightly across her back. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath.

“Did you know,” she says, “when there’s a bad storm that particular house gets hit harder than any other house on the waterfront? I don’t care. I never cared. The storms were beautiful. Beautiful and powerful. We always rebuilt it. We rebuilt because I always had to stand on the porch and taste the sea. We rebuilt it because I had to dream of making love once again on the purple and beige sand. We always rebuilt that house because in the music of the waves, I could hear my sons laughing. Yes, I’ve always loved that house. But now I’m here, thinking of that place. Sometimes I sit in this room that I will die in and I wonder if my children can see me, because I can’t hear them laughing anymore.”

Mrs. Hathaway stares out the window lost on her own world, in her own past. I stand up, hoping to sneak away unnoticed. The floorboard creaks slightly and Mrs. Hathaway’s head swivels around. Her mascara has run and her foundation is gone around her eyes and nose. But her shoulders are still square underneath that royal blue bathrobe and her arms rest lamely at her sides.

When she spots me standing in her doorway, she sighs, looks almost relieved. Taking a tissue from the pocket of her robe, she smiles but the smile never reaches her eyes. In a tired voice she says, “We’ve chatted Cameron and I didn’t even realize it. Now you know all my secrets.”

I nod and try hard to gather myself. “No, there is one other thing I don’t know.”

“What’s that, my dear?” she asks.

“Your first name. I don’t know your first name.”

“Siriana,” she whispers. “My mother used to call me Siri, which means secret. I always wondered if my mother knew something even then.”

As I turn, I see her take the pins from her hair. In one shake of her head, waves of white hair cascade down her back. Heading down the hallway toward the French doors, I wonder how many secrets we can all hold deep inside.

–––

The small hill and the bridge mark the beginning of the marshes. Just at the end of the bridge on the right, is a paved opening that leads to a steep drop. Carefully sliding down, I make it to the base of the bridge about 10 minutes before sunset. I take off my shoes, drop them near the no trespassing sign and walk. I walk as the beach curves right and water fills in to the left. I go as far as I have to and sit with my feet tucked under me in the sand.

Looking down at the photograph in my hand, I make sure I’m in the right place before proceeding. I know I’m standing on Mrs. Hathaway’s beach. The image in my hand is of the sun setting above a white house with shutters open and the ocean looking magnificent off to the left. In the picture is Mrs. Hathaway with her arms around two smiling boys. I received the picture this morning, along with a brief explanation from Phyllis letting me know that Mrs. Hathaway died of heart failure yesterday, a few hours after I left her room. According to Phyllis, Mrs. Hathaway walked into the reception area moments after I left and specifically instructed Phyllis to give me the photograph today. On the back of the picture in precise cursive is written: Thank you for walking the beach for me. You are my secret-keeper now. –Siri I accept those words as a direct command, and I know she had meant them to be.

Beaches in this small tourist town are unique, and I’ve missed them desperately. The sun will never rise or set on the water. Instead, it chooses to go left to right. A soft breeze glides off the water and the sky is streaked with all the colors of day and night whirled together.

Facing the white house on the point, I secretly want Mrs. Hathaway to emerge. I imagine her standing on the jagged point with her head tilted to one side, straining to hear whatever voices talked to her and her alone. While I stare at the empty weather-beaten house, the orange-red sun virtually rests on the highest peak of the roofline for nearly a minute. Briefly, I scan the house for some sign of life, but nothing seems to move and the black shutters are closed. I sit in the cooling sand, until the joggers and couples fade out of sight, until the street lights above the road click on. I listen, half hoping to hear her voice on the waves. Who will I talk to now? Who will be my secret keeper? Instead, I hear the crickets and the waves, the tall grass shifting and gulls passing overhead. I stand up and brush the sand off my legs and I swear that somewhere within the depths of the waves, children are laughing, and so is Siri.

Good Morning. I Am Here.

2011-07-28T16:46:00.001-04:00

The smell of the orange fills the room and I am suddenly covered in mud, in sand,

in bones and bits of trees growing from my limbs.

If I stand still long enough will I turn stiff and timber-like?

Will a bird land on me and think I am home to him?

The sunset sucks the juice from the orange and the blueberries

so that when I chew I taste nothing but the dirt.

That’s where I will end up anyway - brown and yellow adjacent to one another

in the earth, in the sand, in the stranger’s deadened eyes

as I pass by pretending not to notice

but noticing enough that it bothers me to my core.

This is why I love convertibles and classical music with the windows rolled down.

The leaves may fall and the wind may blow but my soul can rise up like a phoenix from the ashes and fly free into the blues and the yellows and the sunshine again only to scream at the top of my lungs:

“Good Morning. I am here.”

Edge of the Earth

2011-07-26T15:00:00.000-04:00

Wanda's greatest fear is that goddamned one-legged bird missing breakfast. Each day at precisely 6 a.m., Wanda rises from bed, wraps herself in her old, ratty purple robe, puts on her rose colored glasses (really, they are rose colored) and looks for the bird on the deck railing.

“If he doesn’t show up it might mean he’s dead,” Wanda says out loud to the empty kitchen. “If he doesn’t show up it’ll mean that useless freeloader- you know, the healthy one with the big beak- might’ve finally done him in. Poor goddamned bird. How will he survive without me feeding him? He does like his eggs. Fried eggs over easy with two slices of bacon. Never sausage. Once I gave him sausage. He threw it up in the air and squawked all day.”

7 a.m. and the bird still hasn’t shown. I’ve got to get myself a hobby, she thinks, twirling her gray hair over her fuchsia finger nails, staring at the railing where the bird usually sits. There are flights to Reno. Flights loaded with men, and they’ve got money. They go to gamble and play golf. I should spruce myself up and sit on that plane. Back and forth. I could go just to find a husband. That would take my mind of this goddamned bird.

She walks from the kitchen to the upstairs in the living room, staring out a large picture window overlooking the Bandon Lighthouse. The fog is so thick you can cut it with a knife. It’s like living on the edge of the earth, she tells all her guests when they arrive at her bed and breakfast. When her guests complain about the fog, Wanda tells them, “What do I look like, Mother Nature? It’s foggy, BFD. So scrap your walk on the beach, find a bar and drink. It’s about all you can do in Bandon, Oregon. You can't even buy a pair of underwear here.”

Maybe that's where that damned bird is, she thinks, buying a pair of underwear for her. God knows she needs a few new pair- ones where the elastic isn’t shot. Put that on the grocery list- underwear and eggs. That goddamned bird goes through two-dozen eggs a week. Eats me out of house and home. It’s not right for a bird to eat eggs with such gusto. Its like me gnawing on an infant’s arm just because I’ve got a hunger pang. Oh, what the hell's the sense of wondering anymore. It’s late and the day is already shot. Time for a nap. The bird will come or he won’t. “It's that simple,” she says, sighing into her purple bathrobe.

Just as she walks into the bedroom and takes off her glasses, the seagull sets down on the railing.

The Timeline

2011-07-20T08:27:00.000-04:00

This was published originally by the Survivor's Review in 2010 and was written for and about a close friend who suffered from cancer.

“Sometimes it’s a burden being the only person who knows where you actually are.”

5:15 a.m.

We sit huddled on the beach, shoulder-to-shoulder, sand between our toes, wrapped in the bedspread that we just dragged outside with us. I want to see the sunrise with you. I want to feel you near me as we tip our heads back and drink up the first light the morning has to offer. The sky is wispy and pink with the light July breeze reminding us that later in the day, it will be blazing hot. For a moment, I wonder what you are thinking and almost nudge you to ask. Instead, I gently rest my head on your shoulder and feel you lean into me.

Sometimes it’s a burden being the only person who knows where you actually are. I don’t mean like on the corner of Lexington and 41^st, I mean where you really are in you mind, in your heart, in your soul. I never asked for that kind of power. I never really wanted that knowledge, yet here I am. Here we are.

8:46 a.m.

After we eat a light breakfast and drink the remainder of the coffee, I insist we take a walk in the woods behind the cottage, even though you protest the walk with your eyes, giving me that exasperated “oh please not now” expression. Undeterred, I march out the back porch of the house to find a narrow trail amidst the evergreens. Wanting to keep the peace, you good-naturedly follow, smiling at our non-verbal banter. The morning light filters softly through the treetops and I notice a young red-tailed hawk to our left. Excited, I turn to point out the hawk to you, but my breath catches in my chest when I see the way you are looking at me. Your eyes have always stopped me cold, and today is no exception. During our walk, we take turns leading, changing the pace and stopping to look at chipmunks or perfectly spun spider webs. You trip once on a stump and we laugh at your clumsiness, even though I’m more worried that you are beginning to tire. After about an hour, we turn back, both of us sweating and thirsty. I’m relieved when you pick up the pace considerably, knowing there is a cooling swim at the end of the line.

11:47 a.m.

We race to the beach (I win) and peel off our clothes, sprinting into the sharply cold water. We laugh, giddy in the coolness and the perfection of the day. After our bodies grow accustomed to the water, you swim over to me. I watch as you inch closer to me, the butterflies in my stomach jumping without warning. We stay like that, for what feels like an eternity to me, inches from one another, staring wide-eyed. I feel the electricity of your body through the water and want to curl up inside your soul. I watch the water run down your tanned face and marvel at how a droplet of water could stay so perfectly still on your eyelash. You lean into me and touch my lips with yours. Salty. Cool. Electrifying. I sigh and forget we are even in water.

4:19 p.m.

You are lying on your stomach, the sheet barely grazing the top of your thigh. I can still smell the salt water in your hair. Your left arm is over your head, but you are turned towards me, quietly looking at me with so much love and desire I have difficult time breathing. Your skin is so soft, so smooth, I run my hand over and over again from the base of your neck to that amazing curve in your lower back. Each time, my hand drifts lower and lower and I can feel your body respond and arch towards me. You slowly rise up on your elbows and turn towards me, gently rolling me over on my back. I let you place your weight on me, and close my eyes as you lower your head and kiss my neck, my throat, my lips. I want to feel you, all of you. I lean up towards you, into you and taste your kiss. Each minute pulls me deeper and deeper into you. It’s you I want, have wanted for so long that the power of our love shakes me. I have to concentrate. I have to let this go slowly and memorize it all. The first word I speak all day is your name. Over and over again until you know for certain, this need to be near you is not because I know I am losing you.

You are dying and it’s too much for me to take. It’s impossible for me to comprehend that a small tumor on your ribcage has turned into this-- this last weekend, these final moments before the cancer eats away your body and our love.

6:47 p.m.

I left you sleeping in bed. When you wake up, I know you’ll be starving, so I focus on making dinner. I open a bottle of red wine even though I know you’re not supposed to be drinking. What the hell, either the cancer will kill you or a glass of red wine will do it. If it has to happen at all, I vote for the red wine, especially after a day like this. I put on some music- Brandi Carlile. I sauté vegetables, make brown rice and a salad. I set the table outside with flowers and I sit down to write you a note, you know, the kind of note you bury with someone, the kind of note that lasts an eternity.

I try to write but the words don’t come. The pressure is too much. How do I tell you about deepness of my love? How do I explain this urgency, this heat, this unrelenting connection? I sit for a few minutes and scribble a sentence or two, only to cross them out. It’s a burden being the only person who knows where you actually are. Loving you is a burden and I wish I could walk away and save myself the pain, but this isn’t about me. Loving you is the only thing I’ve ever done right. When you are gone, the sky will never again be this shade of blue. The breeze will never feel this warm, and I will never feel so complete.

Suddenly, I feel your hands on my shoulders and I relax. I lean back into you and sigh. You bend forward and whisper in my ear, “Don’t write it. I already know.” You kiss me lightly on the ear and ask me what’s for dinner.

The Torn Place in the Sky

2011-07-14T15:26:00.000-04:00

Upstairs in Mama’s bedroom, it still smells like blood. Faintly metallic, rusty, stale. Mama’s things are thrown all over the floor. The tortoise brush lies shattered in the corner of the room. The stains dried on the jade green bedspread. Tiponi sits in the corner watching her breath trail over her head and waits for the house to tip on its side. It will swallow her up like it did Mama. The wanting, the needing better things than the other Indian women, the feel of fine silk on her legs finally ate Mama alive. The life by the river never satisfied her. Fine things come with a price and Mama made her daughter pay those debts to the house. For as long as she can remember, Tiponi’s sole existence was to serve the house, and she knew nothing of a life beyond it.

The old ones thought the blue house unnatural, mostly because of the women within it. Iroquois were known for loving the white life, but not the Huron. A Huron woman would not choose to live white, to wear fine clothes, furnish the home with meaningless trinkets and sell herself to anyone who would pay. A Huron woman would not build a house without a man and have the audacity to paint it blue, the color of the May sky.

Even still, the blue house on the corner of Stitch Road had plenty of visitors, although none of them talked much. Men mostly, but some women came too; they always slipped in the back door. When Mama was beaten and stabbed to death because she charged extra for the second blow job, they all stopped coming. Two weeks after her death, when the first frost had blanketed Mama’s fresh grave and the fields, Grandmother Silwa went to her daughter’s grave one last time, then walked West, naked, to the river where her ancestors waited and did not return.

The house creaks against the January wind. Grandmother Silwa’s spirit talks

quietly to Tiponi while the young girl sits in her Mama’s bedroom, waiting patiently for the orders that will never come. Grandmother Silwa whispers gently, recounting their people’s story of the good brother and the bad brother who fight each other using a bag of corn and the horn from a deer as weapons. The badgers and the frogs sit with Tiponi and watch with her as the story unfolds as if it is the first time they have heard this story too.

Tiponi leans against their warmth as her Grandmother’s voice echoes from somewhere just beyond the edge of the room, recounting this battle between good and evil, between life and death. Mama joins in the battle, swinging a bag full of corn, her ribs popping out from under her yellow skin, her face churned into a grimace. Tiponi waits for Grandmother Silwa to interfere, to pull her Mama away from the fighting, but Grandmother Silwa is long gone, past the eagle’s land to a place Tiponi cannot reach.

“Maybe that’s what I will do,” says Tiponi aloud in the empty room, while she picks absentmindedly at a scab on her knee. “I will walk west into the water. Walk west where Grandmother Silwa tells me all the Huron spirits go and live forever. Grandmother Silwa will be there, sitting at the bottom of the river, talking to the turtles. They will listen to her stories. Everyone listens to her stories.”

Tiponi closes her eyes and imagines laying her head in Grandmother Silwa’s lap, like she did as a little girl. She can almost feel her grandmother stroke her hair and sing to her of the torn place in the sky.

---

The last time Tiponi looks at the sickening baby blue house she’s standing at the edge of the gravel driveway, her chest heaving, her lungs hurting from the early winter cold. She stares at the house steely-eyed, sizing up her enemy, waiting for it to make its move, expecting it to lift itself off the foundation and pull her back inside. The house she hates does not budge. Its white shutters unblinking, its large oak double doors curving into a slow, wide smirk as if to say, “You will not stay away from here for long.”

Stitch Road is silent for a moment, cold and silent, watching Tiponi make her first independent decision. No hawks or crows, no wind, nobody yelling in the house on the corner or the shacks down the street. No men shuffling along to pay a visit. No muffled crying from within.

In its day, Stitch Road was a busy thoroughfare to town. Four thousand people made this place by the river and mountains home, by force or by choice. Iroquois settled here mostly, some Algonquins and Hurons, and even a few Chinooks who came east when the salmon chose not to let the nets take them. Little by little, the old women died, defeated and lost. The men, without their mothers, left drunk and hunched over, to shacks built on other people’s homelands. Now, Stitch Road is a single stitch on the land’s curving breast. The only remaining squatters are the scavengers and the pests– foxes, buzzards and fire ants, and they stand at attention as Tiponi flies past, her long braid rolling from shoulder to shoulder as she runs.

She runs down the road, dirt trailing in a cloud behind her, legs pulling, arms propelling her farther and faster. Away. In this moment, Tiponi finally understands the meaning of leave– of never come back. The last time she tried to run, it was mid-summer when the warm breeze and the smell of the river made everything feel open and flowing. She left at midnight when the moon was full, but only reached the outskirts of town. That time, Mama caught up to her in their old Ford pickup. As she drove both of them home, she held her only child to her chest, whispering to her or to some spirit behind the wide-eyed moon, “You are my daughter. My wind-song girl. When you were born, you would not breath. Grandmother Silwa pushed air into your lungs and you sang your first song, long and clear. My daughter, you are all I ever done right in this world.”

---

Grandmother Silwa has eaten the last of the pole beans. She has forgotten the time or the day and has not bathed in so long that her hair is matted to her head, and even she can smell herself– the dank odor reminding her of the caves near the creek where the wild men are. She dreams the great turtle has swallowed her, eaten her whole where she lives forever in its stomach with no one to talk with or sing to. She looks up and no longer sees daylight, but something else, farther away than the sun where nothing grows but the nothingness. In this place, the deer turn to dogs, the hawks into slugs. The water pushes hard against the sky to raise it up. Silwa stops wandering and stands tall, knowing that none of her ancestors have ever seen it so. The old ones often spoke of the place in time when all that is great and unknown in the world would force itself upon the people and crush them.

Soon, the milky white sky turns a pale shade of blue while Silwa scrapes the dry earth in search of something to eat. The sky turns deep blue, dark blue, then the clouds shift behind the mountain. Silwa believes it is the first time anyone has seen the sky talk to the water, and she is the first person to witness it. Excited, she begins to walk west, toward the high mountain place. When she finds the old ones, they will rejoice because in their lifetime someone has seen the sky and the earth talk, and it will be her, small Silwa of the creek.

A whining, crying sound stops Silwa in her tracks. A whimpering really. Silwa sits in the dirt and tries to force the sound from her mind. “Stop. Stop. Stop!” she cries to the sky, clutching her head with filthy hands. She knows this sound. Recognizing it from somewhere so far beyond, it rests at the fringes of her memory. The crying becomes more demanding, more insistent. Silwa looks up to the sky, and it cracks down the center, the dark blue giving way to a familiar blackness. From deep within, she vaguely sees a girl that looks like her own granddaughter on her hands and knees, crying in the middle of a dirt road.

Silwa sighs as she watches the young girl’s shoulders heave. She knows now that she will not go to her ancestors so that they may rejoice in her vision. Instead, she begins to climb back into the torn place in the sky. Tiponi hears a humming in the distance. She raises her head and wipes the tears from her eyes. Straining to see the figure walking toward her, Tiponi picks herself up and begins to run toward the old woman, her Grandmother, finally feeling as though everything will be all right.

A Mimi Named Julia

2011-02-07T19:50:00.000-05:00

It was almost exactly a year ago that I stood before many of you eulogizing my grandfather, Louis. Now, here we all are to say goodbye to my grandmother, Julia. My parents and I would like to thank each of you for your support during this very difficult time, and we would like to thank the truly caring and wonderful staff at Apple Rehab for making my grandmother part of your lives, and your families. I know that you welcomed her into your hearts and cared for her as you would your own mother or grandmother. It did not go unnoticed by my parents, by me, or by my grandmother. Thank you.

When thinking about what to say today that would paint a picture of my grandmother, and her life, I realized that to me, she was always a bit of an enigma. Maybe it was the glint in her eyes, or the proud way she held herself. Maybe it was that one moment she said just what you needed her to, and the other moment she was stubborn as a pack of mules. Whatever the reasons, I stand before you all today blessed that I was able to spend so much time with her, and also wishing I had more time to figure her out.

One thing I never quite figured out was the Blue Room. Some of you may recall my grandparents’ house in Higganum, CT. The Blue Room was literally ALL powder blue, and was the decorating brainchild of my grandmother. The sofas, the rug, the throw pillows were all the same exact shade of powder blue, and the room was absolutely off limits for anyone to actually use. If you remember that room, you might also remember the clear plastic that covered everything a human being might actually come in contact with. Once when I was about 10, I thought I’d play a joke on my grandmother and lay on the forbidden blue couch. Let me just say that it was summer. It was hot, and I was wearing shorts and a tank top. After five minutes, I felt as though I had been duct taped to the plastic. The joke was on me.

One of my grandmother’s best qualities was her sharp sense of humor. She loved my father like a son, and she loved that he would joke around with her as much as she did with him. She also was so proud at how my father could build or fix anything, although she tried for years without success to organize his garage workshop.

Sometimes she was a source of great amusement for everyone, even without really trying. My mother recalls sitting in the back seat of the family car with Ralph as my grandfather taught my grandmother how to drive. Practicing in an empty parking lot, my grandfather told her to go left, and she turned right. He told her again to turn left and she turned right. After driving in circles, my grandfather lost his cool and said, “Julia! I said go left!” She replied, “Louie, I am!” He also told her to beep her horn if she saw something in the street ahead of her. She took this quite literally, and frightened a young boy so much with the blare of her horn that he smashed his ice cream cone right into his mouth and ran.

There was also the year that my grandmother dressed up for Halloween as a clown. She rang the doorbell at her parents’ house while my mom and grandfather hid in the bushes. So convincing was her costume that when my great-grandmother answered the door, she had no idea who it was and she slammed the door in her face. In between bouts of hysterics, she rang doorbell several more times only to have it slammed in her face. Finally, my great-grandfather opened the door and told her unceremoniously to go home, that there was no more candy and it was too late to be out trick-or-treating!

My mother also learned the secret of Christmas Club shopping from my grandmother. For those of you who don’t know, a Christmas Club is way to save up some money throughout the year for Christmas gifts. Except in my grandmother’s book, no one ever said that those Christmas gifts couldn’t be for yourself. Some of my mother’s best memories with her mother included these shopping sprees, where they would spend the day out together, shopping and having lunch. When they arrived home with bags of items, maybe one would be for my grandfather or someone else in the family. I have since learned this same skill.

My grandmother also taught me the importance of appearance, and more specifically, wearing makeup. When I was small, I used to sit in my grandmother’s bathroom and watch her apply her makeup so often that I had memorized the steps. Again and again, she would try to trick me - put on her mascara before her eyeliner – or blush before foundation - and I would yell at her that she was doing it all wrong, and we would laugh. My grandmother told me once that it didn’t matter how old you were, that you should always take pride in your appearance. I often marveled at how nice she looked in the nursing home. Even if she wasn’t feeling well, she would dress up and fix her hair and makeup, no matter how long it took her. I know she did it because if she looked good then it would transcend into her feeling good. Within that daily routine was her will to live. It served her well, between that and genetics, she hit 92. And for those of you women in the room who always marveled how few wrinkles she had on her face, my grandmother gave me permission before she passed to give you all her two beauty secrets: one – stay out of the sun and two – Pond’s cold cream every night on your face and neck.

Singing, if you can call it that, was another one of my grandmother’s favorite past times. I’m sure many of you recall my grandmother cheerfully belting out Happy Birthday as off key as possible. Her sister, Aunt Josie, did the same thing, so perhaps that’s a Mirando trait. They used to sing duets and that was enough to shatter windows. The more off key her voice, the more she loved you. I never could understand how those two things were related, such was the enigma that was my grandmother. One moment you thought you knew her, and the next, she was a mystery.

Now that my grandmother is gone, the title of the family’s slowest eater passes to my cousin, Paul, with her blessing. For as long as I can remember, at every family meal, my grandmother was the last one left eating. She ate slowly and with great purpose and could care less if she was the last one at the table. I think she was quite pleased when we all realized Paul ate as slowly as she did. She finally had company when everyone else left! One of her more memorable birthdays, we had taken her out to brunch buffet and a boy in our neighborhood was the waiter. After he saw most of us finish our meals, he lit the candles on her cake and proudly walked to the table. We waved him off. He blew out the candles and ran back to the waiter’s station with the cake. He waited a few minutes and tried again. We waved him off. He did this three, maybe four times before my grandmother finally finished her Eggs Benedict. By the time the cake arrived, the candles were almost totally melted into the cake.

One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was to point out to my grandmother that we all had blue eyes except her and Sam. By we, I meant my dad, mom, grandfather, me and even our Siamese cat Charlie. Sam was our black Labrador retriever, who had brown eyes. Even though we laughed at that for years, she never quite forgave me for comparing her to the dog, although she did love that dog, and she absolutely loved animals. Recently, she took great pleasure to learn that my yellow Labrador retriever has been chosen by an animal talent agency to do commercials and even possibly television. She absolutely loved this, and loved the idea that the dog could possibly make some money, and that my mother has been lobbying to become my dog’s official manager. Just before she died, she was lobbying to take a split of the manager’s role from my mother.

As a child, I never realized how extraordinary she really was. My grandmother was educated, and for her time, she was quite modern. She worked full-time and became a manager in an era where women didn’t oversee much other than family. She did both, and always did so with grace and with style. She loved to hear stories about my work, and was very proud when I told her I was starting my own business. She told me she always wanted to have her own business and be her own boss. And, she believed fervently in keeping one’s mind sharp. I barely have the patience to do one clue of a crossword, and at 92, my grandmother would power through the crossword puzzle every single day without fail. She was, right up until the end, sharp as a tack. And trust me, she never missed a trick.

She worked extremely hard, but she liked to have fun. She loved to play cards with my aunt Betty and Uncle Ralph. During some of our more serious conversations as she aged, she made us promise to leave her with a deck of cards for the ride. “Who knows, there might be plenty of time to play with Betty, Ralph and your grandfather and I’d like to be prepared,” she said.

I’d like to think she’s sitting in the kitchen with my grandfather, my aunt Betty and Uncle Ralph, playing a round of Gin Rummy with a glass of Southern Comfort in her hand. There’s a tray of lasagna cooking in the oven with a pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. Music is playing on the radio. I can see them sitting around the table laughing and throwing their hands up in the air. When my grandmother wins the hand, I can hear my grandfather complaining that she cheated, and I can see that elusive smile on her face where you just aren’t quite sure if she cheated or not.

May we all live to play the hand that my grandmother played, and may we all live our lives as she did: with dignity, humor, pride, and a little bit of mystery.

Thank you.

Do Wishes Come True?

2010-10-02T14:55:00.001-04:00

Something in my dreams last night left me unsettled, unsure, wondering if all the things I wish for are just there to rattle around in my head (or my heart) and remind me I'm alive. In fact, that was my first thought upon waking up: Will my wishes come true?

I immediately sat down at my computer and typed in the phrase:

DO WISHES COME TRUE?

Answers:

#1 wishes do come true but not by themselves. you have to help them come true u cant just make a wish and sit back to see it come true it won't work that way. blessed be.

#2 I think that wishes can come true but you have to put in a little work to get it going towards the right direction.. Think of the wish that you want and try to think of some small things you can do to make your wish come true.. A little bit of help can go a long ways.. I believe that good things come to those who deserve them.

I do have a wish list – a secret, intense and beautiful list of feelings, hopes, desire and most of all, dreams. I have so many wishes, sometimes I think I should edit them, put them in some sortable, alphabetical order. My Capricorn self loves order and those who know me know I am big on lists anyway. But in the end, what does it matter how I order them, or if they change along the way?

I'm getting older and each day I pay more attention to them -- much more attention then I ever did when I was younger. Now the small moments matter, they mean something. And as the years pass by, I don't really think my wish list gets any longer. In some cases, it has gotten shorter. I've already been blessed to have a few wishes come true. I hope there's no quota to the amount of wishes we are granted, because there are a few more that I am holding tightly to.

There is one wish in particular that I take out at night, in those moments just before sleep. I dust it off, and look at it carefully from all angles. It's not a perfect wish, but it's close. Like worn sea glass in my hand, it once was sharper, bolder even, but in the last few years, it's taken a beating. Like sea glass, the pounding waves of my life have made it more beautiful, and more unique. More special to me.

On my desk, I have a dish full of sea shells and sea glass that I have picked up along the way. I like to believe that dish holds my wishes. As I work during the day, I can be reminded that what will be, will be. Que Sera Sera.

A Day in the Life of This Writer...

2010-10-01T13:32:00.000-04:00

I resent this idea that writers don't work hard. It's often said that there is a reason why a high percentage of writers are alcoholics. Writing is not for the inert, delicate or easily distracted. It takes concentration. It requires dedication. It expects nothing less than all you can muster every moment of every day. I don't spend every day writing. Some days are spent teaching. Other days are spent working for my clients. But at least one day a week is focused solely on my creative writing. Right now, it's a script based on the life of Emily Dickinson.

Here is a look at a day in the life of this writer:

Meditation today: clear my mind of all the uncertainties. Know that I am on the right path and that I am creating something amazing. Be at peace with my life in this moment and thankful for all the love I feel today. Center my mind to focus on the task ahead.

Okay two hours in and I'm a little stumped. No stumped isn't the right word. What is the right word? How can I not know the right word? I'm a writer for God's sake. I'm supposed to have a command of words. Maybe I don't need just a word. Maybe I should start over all together. Wait. Don't trash it all. That's not helpful. Let it sit for a few minutes. Stop fighting the story. Stop fighting the characters. Let the characters be in the moment. You're pressing too hard. Take a break.

Trash can hoops! Always does the trick!

Don't censor yourself. Just write. Write. Write.

I'm on the edge of something. Maybe it's the edge of nothing. Huh? Ok great. Now I'm at the point of making no sense at all and it's not even noon.

Wonderful.

Stop the negative thoughts.

Wow. The clouds are really moving fast.

I need a cup of tea.

Ahh. Better. Ugh. It's only 11:10 am. I am so behind. I needed to get through at least 10 pages by lunch.

Okay. Now I am on a roll. I somehow silently slid into a comfort zone. The words are rolling. Even my fingers feel good on the keyboard. I've always loved the sound a keyboard makes when I type. Especially the definitive sound the space bar makes. Hitting the space bar = progress. Motion. Movement. Space bar is my happy sound. I'm in my red zone.

The world falls out of focus and the only thing I see is texture and red and words and the light changing outside the window I'm vaguely aware there is a world outside this office. The waves crash into the seawall. The rain still falls but it's as if time as been suspended and even the wind cannot reach me. I'm in a bubble a red, cozy and secure bubble filled with my thoughts and my words.

BREAK TIME. Okay. I'm losing my focus. Time to get outside for a few minutes and catch some fresh air. I need to run some errands. Back to real life for a while.

Driving always helps me think. This song by Lady Antebellum has beautiful lyrics:

(Written by: Dave Haywood / Charles Kelley / Hillary Scott / Tom Douglas)
I run from pain
I run from prejudice
I run from pessimists
But I run too late
I run my life
Or is it running me
Run from my past
I run too fast
Or too slow it seems
When lies become the truth
That’s when I run to you

Chorus
This world keeps spinning faster
Into a new disaster so I run to you
I run to you baby
And when it all starts coming undone
Baby you’re the only one I run to
I run to you

We run on fumes
Your life and mine
Like the sands of time
Slippin’ right on through
And our love’s the only truth
That’s why I run to you

This is the perfect song for my my story today. I see it now. I understand how to write Susan's pain. I've had an epiphany on this gray, rainy day. The wind is blowing but I don't care. People pass me by but I don't really see them. I'm in my mind, inside the world I have created. I can't wait to get back to my computer.

Lunch first.

Snuggle with the cats for a few minutes and snuggle with Jessie.

Think for a few minutes. Stop and be still. Re-focus.

Okay. Go.

3 hours have passed in the blink of an eye. I think I'm stuck. Where do I go from here? Don't even look at how many page's you've written. I can't believe it's nearly 3 pm. Too quiet. My thoughts are starting to rattle around in my head and they are distracting me. I cannot allow myself to get distracted. Oh what the hell. I'm already distracted.

What's going on outside? More rain.

How are the fish?

Is there something else I can do before going back to my desk? I'm afraid to sit down. What if I'm just out of words for the day? Do writers get a word quota? Did I hit my word quota? I need to change a few things. Something doesn't feel right. UGH.

Yes. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am re-organizing the tupperware cabinet. Why the hell do we have so much tupperware? Isn't plastic bad? How old is this stuff? Why do I always feel guilty throwing tupperware away? I think we have more lids than containers. How does that happen. It's like having socks just disappear from the dryer.

LAUNDRY!

Bozo never needs socks. What would Bozo write? Perhaps Bozo has a better command of language than I do. He looks so damned happy all the time. I just want to punch him in the nose.

Enough with Bozo. Bozo really isn't any fun...DARTS!

Okay. Enough screwing around. You've just wasted 45 minutes. Get back to the computer. Get back to the story. Get back to the characters.

Music. I need music.

Okay. Ahh. Nice.

WRITE. It is not an option.

Facebook and email break. Hope someone sent me a funny joke. I need a good laugh right now.

The sky outside looks amazing.

God I'm tired. Not my body. My mind. Mind fried. Keep going.

I think it's midnight. Maybe 1 am. Maybe later. It's dark out. I missed dinner. I missed sunset. I missed Dancing with the Stars.

I don't know anything anymore. I've got nothing left in the tank. I'm running on fumes, but I'm thankful. Tired but happy. What if no one reads this?

But wait. The story isn't finished yet.

Time to...

Oops. I Did It Again...

2010-09-20T14:37:00.001-04:00

I have never considered myself a particularly clumsy person. Sure, I sometimes bang my funny bone (and it's really never that funny) or stub my toe, but who doesn't?

Bear with me, this blog is actually going somewhere.

This past summer, I've injured myself more than I think possibly since the summer of my 12th year when I was very into climbing trees (and not so into climbing down them).

Here's a list of my summer's injuries:

1. Banged RIGHT temple so hard on the corner of the kitchen cabinet I nearly passed out.

2. Have this really strange bump on the top of my RIGHT hand that even my dermatologist is a little perplexed about. My doc. isn't worried, he's just perplexed.

3. I fell this summer trying to rescue an empty kayak floating down river after a particularly strong thunderstorm. (Okay everyone you can stop laughing.) My RIGHT knee and RIGHT calf were scraped up so badly they still have not healed completely after like 2 months. In that same accident, I also lost my toenail on my fourth toe on my RIGHT foot. I know gross, but bear with me, I am making a point here and you need all the details.

4. Saturday while washing my car at my parent's home in CT, I slipped on the concrete of the garage floor. (I agree it's not smart to wash cars with flip-flops, so don't lecture me on this one). My RIGHT big toe got caught in the pavement and let's just say I nearly tore off the top of my big toe, including the toenail.

Is anyone else noticing a pattern? For the past 3 months at least, I've noticed that not only are the ordinary bumps and bruises occurring on my right side, but I'm also having a rash of accidents, all injuring me on my right side.

Yes, I know, I'm getting old and old people fall more. My 75 year old father told me yesterday that he thought I need the medical alert more than him. Not funny.

So I did what I always do... HELLO GOOGLE.

It seems that in ancient Chinese medicine, the body is broken down into the left and right side. The left side typically relates to Qi or energy. The concept of Qi (pronounced Chee) is often translated into energy Life Force. The left side of the body typically relates to energy and the right side to the blood. To look at it a different way, the Yang is the right side and the Yin is the left side of the body.

So, my 10 minutes on Google taught me that:
A) my energy is fine but my blood is bad.
B) I've got some serious Yang problems.
C) no one else in the Google universe seems to be entering in search terms like "why do I keep injuring my right side."
D) I really need to make an appointment with my acupuncturist. I bet she doesn't get this every day.

Perplexing. I'll keep you all posted!

Officiating in the WNBA

2010-09-13T08:21:00.000-04:00

Every team has problems with the officials. It is the nature of basketball to question a referee's calls. A ref's job is to be objective and consistent. It's often said that good refs are invisible- you don't even notice they are on the court.

This past WNBA season, I have seen so many atrociously called games, I've felt compelled to write about it. For the first time, I feel as though the level of play in the WNBA is both entertaining and good basketball. Games are normally fun to watch; especially the playoff games.

But the officials have sucked the entertainment value from many of the games and turned them into whistle-fests. Example: In the WNBA Eastern Conference Finals NY Liberty vs. Atlanta Dream, one player on Atlanta went to the free throw line 22 times in a single game. Are you kidding me? That has to be a joke. I have seen officials cost teams game this season in the WNBA. That has to stop.

If the level of play continues to rise in the league, the level of officiating must also rise. It seems as though today's WNBA officials (and yes, I am generalizing here, there are many great refs in the league), cannot keep up with the speed of the game, even with a 3-man crew. They don't allow the players to be physical and my biggest pet peeve: they are not consistent.

If the WNBA is going to continue to thrive - and yes, this past season indicate a bit of a resurgence in ticket sales league-wide, then the league needs to take a good, hard look at the officials and how they are trained. The officials also need to understand the game is for entertainment and blowing the whistle less offers a smoother game, and a more entertaining one, for fans.

So, Donna Orender, CEO of the WNBA - are you listening? Spend some time working on a better training protocol for your refs in the off season. Most of the WNBA officials move over to NCAA Division I hoops when the WNBA season ends. Maybe some of these refs should be allowed to work NBA games- after all if they can keep up with an NBA game, they can keep up with a Liberty game.

The views expressed below are purely my opinion on what I have watched this season in the WNBA.

Just for the Hell of It

2010-08-27T09:34:00.000-04:00

Just for the hell of it, I was browsing Craigs List, which I confess, I tend to do when I can't sleep. Somehow the overwhelming amount of information on Craigs List makes me drowsy and usually works like a charm. Not last night. Last night, I visited a page on Craigs List called: MISSED CONNECTIONS.

Here are a few entries I was struck by:

#1: Unrequited Long Island
I'll only see you for an hour tomorrow and while its all I look forward to, I almost have nothing to say. And beyond that I dread every moment afterward, until I see you once again next week. I love your hair, and your smile, and how sometimes you don't laugh but tell me that I said something funny. I am in love with your existence; the thought that someone like you is alive and is real. I'm in love with all the things I don't know about it, which is a lot. I am NOT in love with your unattainability. I don't want you because I can't have you, I want you because when you hugged me, it created a circle of love and safety that was overpowering. I desperately want to sleep and pass all these moments that I am not in your presence.
God help me sleep tonight, and lift the misery from my situation.

#2: Dark Shades and an iPod - NJ Transit, Secaucus Station
You had dark shades and an ipod, and an archangel bag. me - black dress. it was only a short trip from secaucus to ny penn this AM, but was hoping you caught me checkin you out the whole ride. liked your shoes. wonder if this will reach you.

#3 I Think About You - Williamsburg
i wish i wasn't commitment-phobic because i think of you often. i enjoyed your company tremendously and i will miss you when you leave. and i miss you now.

#4: I love You. SM - NYC
That's all.
Just wanted to get it out.
I know, so stupid.

Reading these entries made me so sad. Are we all so starved for contact, for a true connection, that we feel the need to post things like this anonymously? These are real people. Real people with real feelings who cannot say to the people in their lives, "Hey, I love you. I want to be with you. I can't stop thinking about you."

And so most of us go on with our days- iPods cranking, blackberrys beeping, and we pass by people all the time on the train or the bus or stopped in traffic in the next car. And we don't really see people. See them as people who are tired, who have experienced great passion or heartbreak, who are just trying to get through the day and make ends meet. Maybe if we turned the iPod off and put the blackberry down, we'd have a conversation on the bus, or connect with someone on the train. Maybe if we weren't becoming a society so engrossed in NOT connecting would we actually have the wherewithal to say the truth to the people we care about and not wait until the moment passes by and we're left with writing anonymously heartbreaking tidbits on Facebook or Craigs List.

So if you get anything from this blog today. Get this: CONNECT with one person today. Be kinder to people in traffic. Stop and open the door for someone. Tell someone you love them. Call a friend you haven't talked to in a while. Be present in your lives and take the headphones out of your ears. Put the cell phone down and turn off the TV. Listen to the sound the breeze makes in the trees. Take 2 minutes and enjoy the beauty of nature. Connect with the people in your life and the world around you. Be kinder and CONNECT dammit!

A New List on a Hot Summer Day.

2010-08-23T15:27:00.003-04:00

The other day, I sat in my backyard watching water slap up against the seawall. Add it to the list of days in the 90s here in New York. Today, the sun feels good, like my bones are getting warmed up. As I lay in the sun and listen to Jack Johnson lull me off to a late afternoon nap, I start to toss around the things I want from life. They rattle around in my head in no particular order. Usually when thoughts rattle around in my head, it means it's time for them to come out and be written down. So here is that list:

1. I want to keep my faith in people and small moments.
2. I want to always believe in the beauty of this earth and possibilities.
3. I want to pass whatever test is next.
4. I want to hit the game winning shot at the buzzer (metaphorically or literally).
5. I want to be surprised.
6. I want always to feel comforted by the warmth of the sun and the breeze in my face.
6. I want my hard work to pay off greater than my expectations.
7. I want to believe with all my heart I was put on this earth for a reason and I found that reason.
8. I want to feel my spirit rise in the sky for one glorious moment and know this is exactly where I was meant to be.
9. I don’t ever want to hit the snooze button again. I know, I digress, but I think the snooze button is the worst invention ever. It allows, no wait, it condones people eeking their lives away nine minutes at a time. Why not ten minutes? Who decided nine minutes was the acceptable timeframe to sleep in? Why do we allow someone else to decide what is acceptable for us? What if I want my snooze to be exactly forty-three seconds.
10. I want to live acceptably for me and no one else, even if you don't agree.

11. I want to feel calm and at ease with my decisions.
12. I want to throw away my television and take a walk instead.
13. I want to pray to God in my own quiet way, and not be dictated how to worship by men who are as far away from God as I’ve ever seen.
14. I want to rant sometimes like the homeless person on the corner about all the wrongs in my mind, and I want to rant in my own language, even if you can’t understand it.

15. I want to feel passion that lasts, to feel undressed by someone’s eyes, feel the tingle in my toes from a kiss, the whisper on my lashes, the flipping in my stomach, thinking- wow, this is gonna be good. It’s gonna be sweaty and it’s gonna be good.
16. I want to write it all down - leave no word unwritten, no sentiment untouched.
17. I want to tell stories - good ones- and be paid well for it.
18. I want to sit at my desk and write with the ease of flipping the channels on the television. No, wait, I take that back. I never want writing to get easy because I never want to take it for granted. Okay. That one has been amended.
19.I want to go to sleep each night with the confidence that I wasted no time during my time awake. Not one second lost.
20. I want to spend my day understanding that I have done nothing less than my purpose for that day.
21.I want to be in awe of the unknown, because within the unknown is the place I fall asleep dreaming about.
22. I want to have enough money that I can comfortably give plenty away to others.
23. I want to make someone laugh.
24. I want to grill a steak, roast some potatoes and sit crosslegged on the beach eating dinner and watching the sun set.
25. I want all the people whom I love to know that I love them.
26. I want to send my parents on a trip to Italy.
27. I want to...fall...asleep....

Summer Time and The Grass is Burned

2010-07-12T14:15:00.006-04:00

Judging by the amount of time it took me to gear up for this blog, I think my brain is as fried as the lawn.

I know I'm burned out and in dire need of a vacation, but there is no rest for the weary. I'm all in- my cards are on the table and I'm down to my last chips. I will not quit early, I won't pass out from heat stroke and I certainly will not whine about the long hours in front of the computer. It's all good, and it's all leading me in the right direction.

About three weeks ago, I quit my full-time job as director of Public Relations for a local college in order to focus on writing. (Can someone give me a WOO-HOO?) All my life I've wanted to be a writer. (Well, that and a professional basketball player. The way I figure it, one out of two isn't bad.) But for as long as I have been working, I've been earning my living; paying my bills, by NOT writing- by doing other marketing and communications work that wasn't at all as fulfilling. I justified continuing in this manner because, well, the utilities bill had to be paid and I needed gas in my car.

Then one day, I watched "The Secret" and I realized something very simple in theory, but life-changing for me. I realized that so long as I kept working and trying to write in my spare time, I was never putting it out to the universe that I EXPECTED to succeed at writing, that I was good enough to throw myself into it 125%, and be paid well for that work. So I made a change. The utilities bill still needs to be paid, and I still need gas in my car, but I never doubted I'd make money some other way.

And you know what? Now I'm actually getting pay checks to write. It's been a seamless transition. I might say I've been lucky, but that's not the truth. I've asked, and the universe is responding in kind.

When I get overtired and feeling sorry for myself (don't worry, it doesn't happen often), I think of the quote by Michael Jordan where he said "winners will do whatever it takes not to be losers, no matter how unpleasant the work of improving may be."

I've learned that writing is an awful lot like basketball. It's all about repetition, about doing the work when no one else is around. It's about putting in the time and willing myself to improve, to take the next step, even if I'm too exhausted to take another step.

Why are people so intimidated to work hard? Do do what is in their hearts?

If there is one thing I have learned these past few years it's that I know what kind of people I want in my life, and what people I want to work with. I want to be with people who inspire me, who have a light within them. People who still make shapes out of clouds and tell knock-knock jokes and love hard and strong and true- those are my people!

And so I'm writing. Every day. Sometimes for me, sometimes for other people and companies. I've finished a script based on the life of Emily Dickinson and I know that story came from somewhere down deep inside me, like the words flowed from some previously untapped well.

Now I've tapped the well. I know how to access it and I won't let that door close ever again. It's a new day. A new life for me. My list of things to do today puts it all in perspective:

1. Live in the moment.

2. Snuggle with my cats.

3. Play wiffle-ball with the dog.

4. Write for me.

5. Write for clients.

6. Meditate.

7. Workout.

8. Read one thing today that touches my soul.

9. Laugh.

Why I love animals

2010-05-21T12:05:00.014-04:00

Last night, I came home late after an evening event. It had been a long day and an even longer week. (Have I mentioned how happy I am that it's Friday?) When I walked through my front door, I was just wiped out and all I really cared about was getting into my pjs and relaxing (i.e. sleeping).

Jessie, my nearly 3 year old yellow lab, met me at the front door. She saw me walk in and instead of her usual super-excited to see me routine - which constitutes a banging tail, lots of kisses and the occasional sneeze and snort - she just quietly sat and faced me. In a split second, she gauged my mood and waited patiently for me to leave my day at the door and drop down on one knee so she could proceed with the aformentioned greeting. It took me a moment, and she waited without moving a muscle. I sighed. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes and sat on the floor with her for a few minutes while she brought me nearly every toy from her toy box. I forgot about my day, my pounding headache, all the things left undone, and my fatigue, and I just played with my dog without speaking a single word. It was like the day washed away from me in mere seconds.

It was at that moment that I realized how grateful I am to have Jessie in my life, how much I love animals, and how they have been a constant source of love and comfort my entire life.

I grew up with a black lab named Sam and a Siamese cat named Charlie. I grew up an only child but Sam and Charlie were my constant companions. When I was in kindergarten, I apparently told the teacher that I had two older brothers. When she inquired my mother as to why my mom's other kids were not in school, my mother had to kindly inform the teacher that I was referring to the family pets.

(Top -Lucy, Bottom - Linus) My two current cats are Linus and Lucy. We rescued them after 9/11. Both cats had been displaced several times and had been previously abused. When we got Linus and Lucy, they each weighed about 4 pounds and were absolutely terrified, not to mention filthy and frail. While Linus will never trust strangers, Lucy is always around and wants to meet anyone we have over. For the smallest creature in the house, she runs the show and makes sure she tells everyone exactly how she's feeling at any given time. Helping those cats lead normal, happy lives has taught me a thing or two about forgiveness, and about how resilient we all can be to survive even the worst of circumstances.

I talk for a living. All day long, I talk, I type, I email, I sit on conference calls and never-ending strategy meetings. But when I'm with my dog or my two beautiful Siamese cats, I don't have to utter a single word. We can be silent and still communicate just fine. I've read articles that talk about how healthy it is for people to have pets - they lower blood pressure and make us live longer. They also can teach us a thing or two about life.

Lessons I've learned from my pets:

1. Live each day in the present.

2. Never turn down a massage.

3. Naps are great.

4. A long walk is the perfect way to end the day.

5. Talking is not the only way to communicate.

6. Everyone should have a little catnip.

7. Everyone should snuggle.

8. Everyone loves treats.

9. Forgiveness is easier than we think.

10. Laughing fixes almost everything.

And so rather than spending any more time on my computer today, I'm choosing to shut it down and go play in the yard with my dog. After all, she's waiting patiently for me.

Perspective

2010-05-13T12:09:00.004-04:00

On Tuesday, I was having one of those days. Work was insane and I felt like I was on a treadmill running from one meeting to another with no time to breathe.

One of my co-workers was giving an inspirational speech called "Get Up. A Story of Hope Through Adversity" to students, faculty and staff at Mercy College. I really wanted to hear him talk but I just wasn't sure how I was going to fit it in. I thought about skipping it so I can take a few minutes to catch up, but then decided to run over. I was 15 minutes late but it didn't matter.

In moments, I was captivated by Andy's story. Dottie Person was diagnosed with melanoma during her eighth month of pregnancy in February, 2006. Jack, was born safe and sound and is the youngest of Dottie's five beautiful children. Dottie died on April 2, 2007 at age 32. She died as an inspiration of faith, hope, and love.

Andy's story is heartbreaking. He found a soulmate, built a life with her, and lost her so quickly. Yet anyone who has ever met Andy can see this light- this tangible quality that is all together amazing. He's one of the most positive people I have ever met. Period.

In Andy's talk, he said that in every moment when something happens to us- big or small - there is a moment, a space, when decide our response. He said when everything is taken away or everything changes, we have that one moment to decide how we will respond to whatever is thrown at us. We can respond with fear, anger and jealousy or, we can choose to respond with love.

I wasn't able to watch all of Andy's presentation, but I caught enough to make me stop and think - stop running for a minute. LISTEN. There are people all around us in our lives who can inspire us if we only take a moment to really see them. People we work with, live with, give birth to, attend college with, etc. These people are gifts.

There was a reason that I heard Andy's words on that particular day when everything seemed like a whirlwind. Andy opened up a door for me and reminded me that I am so blessed to have the life I do, and the people around me whom I love so very much. I cannot take any of it for granted - even on the worst of days.

Thank you, Andy.

For anyone interested in Andy and Dottie's story, please visit: The Caring Bridge

Pass it on. It's the least we can do.

2010-04-29T11:45:00.003-04:00

I've been restless lately. Unsettled. Unsure. I don't know which direction to go next. I've also been reading a lot lately - and it's no coincidence that when I feel unsettled, I turn to books. As many people as I have in my life, it seems I always turn inward.

I recently read this:

"Whatever you are feeling, whatever it is you have a question about, whatever it is that you long to know, there is some book, somewhere with the key. You just have to search for it."

When I am troubled or stuck, I read. I read anything. Fiction, non fiction, children's books, history books. Hell, I'll even take a stroll through the yellow pages.

But as I get older, I don't know if that quote is true. The more I read, the less I realize I know. The less I feel like I am finding answers and the more I feel like I'm just making a mental list of more unanswered questions. And the last thing I need right now are more questions.

As I write this, I stop every now and then to look out a the Hudson River and the whitecaps grazing the top of the water. It's windy today, with the wind coming from the North. A familiar refrain weaves in and out of my mind as I watch the water: "You don't know me at all. You just don't know me at all."

I think those words are meant for me and no one else. I'm not quite sure who I am anymore. For so long, I measured myself by my dreams. I followed my heart wherever it led, and I let myself believe in a higher purpose, in something that was smarter than me guiding me wherever I was meant to go.

But these past couple of years, my heart has made a wrong turn or two. I've made mistakes. In a very basic, real way, I realize now that I no longer trust my own instincts. Maybe this is the lesson I was meant to learn. My heart doesn't always know the way. My heart has always been my compass. By not trusting it, I've lost my way. I drift. I wander. I survive the day, one after another.

I can't go back to yesterday or a minute ago. They are passed. Gone. Flowing like the tides of the river just outside my window. But one thing I know by watching the river all these years: the tide recedes and becomes full again. What ends begins again. What begins ends.

I must learn how to re-dream. I must learn how to salvage the innocent part of me and let it lead. Pieces of me are scattered everywhere. Little notes I've written and torn up. Letters I never sent. Footsteps in the damp spring ground. My scent on the pillow. Lipstick stains on a coffee cup. I am real. I am here. Just when I think nothing is left, just when I think the years are passing with not so much as a pause, I remember I am me. I am here. I will be okay because somewhere down deep, I will find a way to trust myself again. It's a full moon and the tides are running high.

Today I am listening. The breeze and the new green leaves reminded me that I am a constellation but it's not up to me to connect the dots. It's up to me to shine. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just shine.

The Lesson of the Red-Tailed Hawk

2010-04-06T17:25:00.005-04:00

My father told me once when I was small that seeing a red-tailed hawk was a sign of good things to come. I saw a red-tailed hawk today fly low over my head, carrying sticks for its nest. As the bird flew past and I craned my head to watch it slip out of sight over the treetops, I was reminded of a time when my world was less complicated.

There were days I used to lie on my back and make shapes out of the clouds. There were days I believed the animals really did talk and there was wonder in the world as I lay in the cool, damp grass. In those moments, I could close my eyes and become someone else. A superhero. A celebrity. An Olympian.

Now, I have to work at it. I have to meditate and push out the noise like I'm holding back the swelling tides. I have to force myself to sit and stare out at the water and NOT think, not worry, not run around and try to accomplish all the things I think I am supposed to.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about who I am and what I want out of my life. Sometimes I ask too much of the people I love, and of myself. I push everyone, including me, to the limit, and it seems nothing ever satisfies me. Why is it that I always seek perfection in every one and every thing when I know perfectly well that perfection doesn't exist? Sometimes I can be stubborn, and pensive and angry when things don't go exactly as I've planned.

I look back at pictures of me when I was younger and I wonder if I am the same person that I was in those photos. I'd like to think that I am as much of a dreamer now as I was when I was 11 or 17 or 22. When it's all said and done, I want someone to say at my funeral that I reached for my own stars and maybe caught one or two.

Today, I looked up the meaning of a red-tailed hawk. All these years, I believed in my dad's silly superstition without questioning it. Today, I learned above all else that my father is wiser than I ever give him credit for.

Here's what I found out about the hawk:

In the Native American tradition, the red tailed hawk carries the roll of visionary and messenger. It is a symbol of illumination and peace. This special friend offers a path to channel direct contact with hidden wisdoms and insights. It further teaches us to be very observant of these insights and wisdom, the treasures offered by Red Tailed are sacred and of a higher calling. We are asked to show precision and a sharp mind in our hunt for wisdom along our path.

Red Tailed Hawk’s Power is further represented by the beautiful red color that comes with maturity. This is a reminder that wisdom takes time and is not something that is given, the wisdom of Red Tailed Hawk is something that must be earned.

In the Celtic tradition, Hawk empowers a person to seek out their ancestral roots and to examine in depth that which is positive so that it may be integrated into the person's life and that, which is limiting so it can be released.

In the Egyptian Tradition Hawk was associated with Magic and shape shifting. Isis is said to have shape shifted into a Hawk to save Osiris. Horus also carried Hawk medicine which allowed him to see the “unseeable.”

Among Native American traditions, Hawk served the role of Mercury, bringer of messages and portents of change. Hawk reminded the people they needed to be awake and aware.

Lessons learned on this day: All things are connected. Dad is usually right.

All these years, I've never had trouble sleeping. When I close my eyes and drift off, I can imagine anything is possible. I can still leap tall buildings in a single bound. I can still hit the jumper at the buzzer to win the game. I can still believe that all the secret wishes I hold in the deepest corners of of my heart will come to be. After all, they have to. I saw a red-tailed hawk today.

For My Grandfather.

2010-02-21T19:42:00.004-05:00

I remember walking down a long straight line. On one side was a train. A line of men stood on the other side. I was three, maybe four years old, and I recall the noise from the train engines being so loud, it hurt my ears. In one hand, I held my grandfather’s hat as he guided me down the track, stopping at every man to introduce me as his granddaughter. Every man dropped a coin in the hat and patted me on the head. This was a railroad tradition – men took their grandchildren to walk this same line and receive a few coins for good luck. By the time we reached the end, I remember my grandfather had to take the hat because it was too heavy for me to hold. And, I remember he was smiling from ear to ear, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. That was my first memory.

It is said that a grandfather is a little bit parent, a little bit a teacher and a little bit best friend. Not many grandchildren can call their grandfather their best friend, but I can, and I am thankful for that.

As a parent to my mom, Sylvia, he treasured every moment he spent with his daughter. I know my mom recalls their “special dates.” A few times a year, he would take my mom to a new restaurant or to a play at the Shubert Theater, so that they could spend some special time together. To put it simply, my mother had a hero, and her hero was him.

I also believe that my grandfather never considered my dad, Vincent, to be his son-in-law. He treated my father like a son, and never failed to tell him that he was a son to him. My grandfather loved working alongside my dad, whether it was to build a house or landscape a yard.

My grandfather, or Poppi as I always called him, was an exceptional teacher. I was lucky enough to grow up living just across the street from my grandparents in Higganum. I saw my grandfather daily and always loved to hang out with him as he did work around their house. As I grew up, my grandfather never failed to take time to teach me the lessons about life he believed were most important. My grandfather had beliefs that governed his life. They were:

Number one: My grandfather believed strongly in God, but he never feared God. He believed that a man should be judged only by his actions and the truth in his heart. He told me once that understanding God was in realizing that one’s actions and one’s words should always be in synch, because God pays attention to the little details everyone else misses.

Number two: A grandfather is someone who stands as the pillar of wisdom and strength in any family. My grandfather loved his family and understood that being part of a family wasn’t just convenient for the holidays it was about spending time together on the front porch on a cool summer evening. Family was about celebrating birthdays and anniversaries together, playing cards together after dinner, getting through difficult moments together. He was married to his beloved wife, Julia for nearly 70 years. Their anniversary was coming up in just two short months. Family was everything to my grandfather. Many people may say that but few live it. He was one of the few.

Number three: My grandfather was a proud U.S. Army Veteran, and a true patriot. He served in both World War II and the Korean War. At every July 4th parade, he was the first to stand and salute the flag and other veterans as they passed. Just a few months before he died, my grandfather was honored for his service to his country, which I know some of you attended. He received six awards and commendations for his time in the military, and was so overwhelmed by the attention that he told my mother it was almost too much for him to take in. He also told me more than once that if he was called back to serve, he would gladly go. I pointed out to him that if he was called back to active duty at the age of 93, we as a country would be in deep trouble!

Number four: My grandfather worked for the New Haven Railroad for over 44 years, where he held many different positions, including Chief Clerk. As I grew older and attended college and then graduate school, my grandfather always was there to guide me. He told me never to shy away from hard work, and that you could tell a great deal about a person by how much they complained while they were doing their job.

Number five: Competition is good. His beliefs about competition were two-fold. First, he loved sports. It would have been easy for him at the time I grew up, to suggest that girls should not play basketball, but my grandfather did nothing but support me as I played sports in high school and college. Some of my favorite memories of him were when he came to watch me play basketball in college. Part two of this rule extends to his beloved New York Yankees. The Yankees might very well win the World Series, but if they lost so much as a single game, they were “bums.”

Number six: Be Neat and Tidy. For those of you who knew my grandfather, you knew about his affinity for neatness. It extended everywhere from his closet to the car. His clothes were always perfectly pressed and if he wore blue, it had to match his eyes. A garage should be so clean that you could eat off the floor. A neighbor in Higganum once entered my grandparents’ garage and was shocked to see carpet on the floor. Clean carpet. She said, “Louie, your garage is cleaner than my living room. We should have dinner here tonight.”

Number seven: Never ride in a pickup truck with a dog. My dad had an old red Ford pickup truck that he used to take on trips to the dump or to pickup stones for any one of the twenty-seven rock walls he and my grandfather built over the years. We would bump along Little City Road, my Dad, me, our black lab Sam, and my grandfather. Inevitably, our dog Sam would, shall I say, swallow a great deal of air with his head out the window and release an odor in the car (who could blame him, the roads were so bumpy), always in the specific direction of my grandfather. These trips were actually learning experiences for me. Inside that old Ford pickup is actually where I gained my impeccable pronunciation and knowledge of Italian curse words.

Like all of us, my grandfather had his share of idiosyncrasies. He loved his “jammies.” At night he would always tell me that he could hear them calling his name so he could get ready for bed. He told me once that his pajamas said, “Louie, come on, it’s time for bed.” I don’t know why, but I never doubted that his jammies spoke to him.

He had a thing for telephones. And I don’t mean one or two- I mean nine or ten in a one-bedroom apartment, especially the train phone that sounded like grand central station every time it rang. Once I came to visit and saw him installing a new phone in the bathroom. When I asked him why, he looked up at me, surprised I would even ask such a question, and said calmly, “Christine, all the nice hotels have phones in the bathroom.” Who could argue with that logic?

He was also very, concerned about the time change every spring and fall. For some crazy reason, he’d start changing clocks (and let me tell you, he had about as many clocks as he did phones) the day prior to the time change. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother had to call my mom to ask what time it was. She’d say, ”Would someone please tell me what time it is? Your father has gone and changed half the clocks again.”

He greatly disliked any tree or shrub that was crooked. If a tree branch was not growing perfectly straight, it was trimmed. I like to believe this was because he was such a talented artist and painter, and that his visual aesthetic was just very precise, but the truth is, I have no idea where he got that one from.

In the days that pass, I ask each of you to do me a favor. Remember my grandfather. He was a kind man. A good man. A warm man. As my mother said, he was both a gentleman and a gentle man. This summer, when you smell fresh basil, tuck a sprig behind your ear as he often did and think of him. When you feel a warm breeze and hear the birds sing, think of him. When you eat a wonderful meal with your families, think of him. When you see a man pass with a perfectly trimmed mustache, think of him. When you watch an old Doris Day movie, think of my grandfather. Because all of us who knew my grandfather owe him this – for all he gave us, it’s the least we can do.

On behalf of my grandmother, mother and father, I wish to thank all of you for your love and support during this difficult time.

A Guardian Angel?

2010-02-05T08:40:00.007-05:00

The other day, on my way up to cover a Mount Saint Mary College basketball game in Newburgh, New York, I nearly died. I was driving northbound in the left lane on Rte. 9. Off to the left was a beat up blue mazda with an older man behind the wheel. He was stopped, waiting for traffic to clear before entering the northbound lane. I was driving along, listening to the Weepies, and for all intents and purposes, zoned out, when a white pick up truck next to me decided to shift into the left lane- the lane I was driving in. I slammed on the brakes and laid my hand on the horn. My car skidded and fishtailed. The white pick up truck kept coming. The man stopped in the blue mazda threw his arms up in the air and his eyes widened in fear. We made eye contact for a moment, my car flying past between him and the white pick up truck.

All of this happened in a matter of a second, or two, at most, but it felt like super slow motion. I remember thinking that I didn't want that man's pale face and wide eyes to be the last image I see.

Turns out, everything was fine. The white pick up truck continued on its way, oblivious to the damage that driver nearly caused. I continued onto Mount Saint Mary College, but for the next five minutes, I could feel tingling in my fingers and toes as the adrenaline rush left me a little shaky.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened to me. Every time I somehow avert an accident, I always think that there is someone out there looking out for me. I'm reminded that when my great grandmother was dying, my mother (her granddaughter) asked her to be my guardian angel, and I'm told she nodded in agreement. I was only 4 or 5 at the time and have no recollection of this woman at all. All these years later, there are times I feel someone unseen looking out for me, putting an invisible hand on my shoulder when I need it, pushing down the brakes of my car before my reflexes kick in, keeping me from crossing a busy intersection, and so on.

I'm not the kind of person who believes necessarily in angels or demons, in ghosts or guardian angels, but I can't say I disbelieve either. Who am I to make judgements on things I have not seen with my own eyes? Who am I to assume anything?

I've never thought of myself as a lucky person, per se. I don't win prizes or scratch off lottery tickets. I rarely win at Bingo. I really don't think luck has much to do with anything. Maybe that's why it's easier for me to consider the fact that I might have a guardian angel. It's comforting to imagine this old, Italian woman with a beautiful smile somehow there at the very moment I could use a helping hand.

After all, the older I get, the more I realize we could all use a helping hand every now and again, no matter what form that helping hand comes in.

Being Thankful Even When Nothing Wonderful Happens

2010-01-13T20:25:00.004-05:00

I sat down to write this blog three, maybe four times. I'm a procrastinator by nature, and I'm perfectly well aware when I am stalling. Usually, the first clue is if I actually spend time to update my computer or clean out my old emails. These, along with balancing my checkbook and re-organizing the tupperware cabinet, are tell-tale signs I'm not ready to write.

For me, writing is like a form of meditation. It forces me to sit still, quiet my mind and focus on the words before me as they string together to form sentences. When I write, I take deep breaths, I slow down, I stop for a moment to think about the world around me. The only other time I feel peace like this is when I step onto a basketball court. For me, writing and basketball are my two forms of meditation.

Now the inherent problem with this blogging schtick is that I feel I need to have something important to say - something that will change my world view, or someone else's. I know, I know, what can I say, I'm relatively new to this blogging thing and still learning.

I was in the car today driving over the Tappan Zee Bridge, as I do nearly every day, and I was struck by a simple thought: not every day is magnificent. Most everyone else has probably figured this one out. I'm a late bloomer, I guess. When I was small, I thought every day would be magnificent. I thought that way because as a child, nearly every one of my days was, in fact, amazing. Maybe because of that, I was hard-wired to expect greatness every single day.

But as I get older, I realize that living life isn't about expecting every moment to be one for the record books. It's about finding one small thing in a day that might be ordinary, but is beautiful nonetheless. And I am reminded that I should thank my parents more for raising me well. I should tell them how beautiful my childhood was for me, and thank them for giving me that extraordinary gift.

I must also remind myself that I will not be perfect every day. For as long as I can remember, I have been harder on myself than anyone else could possibly be. So today when I drove over the Tappan Zee Bridge frustrated about all the things on my To-Do List that had not been completed (and it was already past noon), I noticed the way the sunlight reflected off the ice on the Hudson River, and I told myself to lighten up.

The truth is, there are some days when nothing wonderful happens. While there are times when I fear that mediocrity will eat me alive, and if I have to spend one more minute on the phone with the cable company or the cell phone company or a bank's automated system I might just lose it completely, I know now that life isn't just about doing great things. It's about being thankful even when nothing wonderful happens.

I am so very thankful for all of my blessings...

Now onto that To-Do List.

Santa Claus Syndrome

2009-12-03T16:01:00.009-05:00

Are we that naive that we believe athletes to be perfect? We expect them to be. We believe them to be. We will them to be. Just like we want to believe in Santa Claus, we want to believe that our athletes are the best of us, the infallable; the gifted ones.

No Virgina, there is no Santa Claus.

Babe Ruth, the legendary slugger, is regarded to be one of the greatest sports heroes in American culture. According to ESPN, he was the first athlete whose fame transcended sports. He was a drinker and a womanizer, but even in the 1920s, fans overlooked his off-the-field antics, preferring to cheer the slugger on, homerun after homerun. And still we remember him as the greatest, womanizing or not.

We expected perfection from Michael Jordan,

perhaps the greatest basketball player to ever set foot on a basketball court. Like Woods, Jordan had a squeaky clean image for many years. When his father was murdered, we learned more about Michael

Jordan than we wanted to. He gambled. He had affairs. He divorced his wife. We learned that while he may have been nearly flawless on the basketball court, he was just as flawed as the rest of us off of it.

Charles Barkley, former NBA player, made headlines in 1993 when he stated, "A million guys can dunk a basketball in jail, does that make them role models?" Barkley took quite a bit of heat for that comment, and while he may have communicated it wrong, his sentiments were right.

Why do we expect our athletes to be perfect? Why are we so shocked when Michael Phelps is caught smoking pot after winning more gold medals than any other athlete in history?

Why are we so surprised to learn that Alex Rodriguez may have hit so many homers because he was on steroids?

Don't misunderstand me, I'm disappointed. I heard the news about Tiger and shook my head in disgust. But I can't say I was surprised.

The truth is, as a culture, we have the attention span of gnats. We are outraged that our athletes make mistakes because we hold them to a standard that is flat out impossible to uphold. We should not expect our athletes to be perfect in life and on the baseball field. We should not expect that just because Tiger Woods earns $100 million annually for endorsements that he is any different than the rest of us.

He is an extraordinarily talented golfer, and apparently also an adulterer. Should Gatorade end his endorsement deal because he likes to sleep around? Does his sleeping around affect his golf game or his personal life? Because to be honest, I don't care to know his personal life. I just want to see him pump his fists after hitting an almost impossible Eagle. I want to watch him hit a hole in one. In those moments, my spirit is lifted, even if just for a moment, at the beauty of human competition and sport.

Why do we expect perfection of others, of athletes, and not ourselves? Why is Tiger Woods any different than me? I don't expect perfection, I hope for it, knowing that even my hoping is futile. And I don't just wish for perfection in our athletes, I wish for it in our President, in our elected officials, in our teachers and surgeons and engineers. Could you imagine a world where no one erred? Where a doctor never misdiagnosed a patient, where a President didn't make promises on the campaign trail only to ignore them once he was elected? Where a pilot didn't fall asleep with 185 passengers on his plane? None of us is perfect, so why should an athlete be?

As Americans we love a comeback more than we love a fall from grace. We want to see the beaten down rider get back on his horse to win the Triple Crown. We want to be there when Michael Phelps bows his head for another Gold Medal in the next Olympics games. And you can bet the cheering will be louder than ever the next time Tiger sets foot on a golf course and wins it all.

The Sweater

2009-11-29T20:21:00.001-05:00

I awaken because I can feel it. Winter is here.

At 1:13 a.m. it arrives on my doorstep, tired and winded,

an old lover I never really wanted to be friends with

but lie to because it sounds better than goodbye forever.

Dragging myself from my almost dreams,

I make myself believe that this ragged blue sweater

I wear like armor against the early winter chill

could have been yours. So I rush outside to imagine

the feeling of you or us, I can’t quite remember it now -

maybe just to feel the cold air caress my face.

Because only in the deep night cold,

when my body still radiates warmth from bed,

can I close my eyes and imagine

you overwhelm me, enter me, pass through me,

sleep inside me -

in all those places no one ever thinks to search,

like the corner of my closet where a sweater,

smelling vaguely like winter rests, waiting to be worn again.

The Farmhouse

2009-11-24T11:40:00.004-05:00

I passed a beaten down farmhouse on the way to Geneseo. It was an an unusually warm late summer day when even a convertible wasn’t cooling.

The house once had life kicking within it, an expectant mother smiling each time she touches her stomach. Freshly painted outside with the comforting smells of bread baking, an apple pie cooling on the kitchen windowsill, a dog lying near the back steps, snoozing in the late afternoon sun. There were fights and parties, a death or two, screaming orgasms with headboards banging, rain pouring off the roof, lulling those inside back to sleep.

Now empty and forgotten, the ivy ate the house board by board greedily engulfing the entire lower floor, stretching its sticky fingers upstairs, past the shattered windows, its black eyes swollen shut, its red trim peeling and dark, dried blood caked into its sides.

As I drove, I felt its sadness reach out to me. If it had arms, it would have lurched across the expanse of highway to grab me as old people do when you walk down the hallway of a nursing home. The house begged, “please burn me down now, let me go, or else the nothingness will eat me alive.”

I ignored it and continued on my way, pretending I had somewhere better to be. Perhaps if I was a different person, I would have pulled over and gone to the house, sung it a lullaby, whispered gently as I lit matches near the front door. If I were different, I’d sit with the house, respecting it enough to hear its final confession, watch it heave its final breath before giving itself over to whomever it is that watches us all.

Instead I continued to drive further and further east, away from all the things in my life that are supposed to matter, wishing I had the chance to become myself all over again. Because then, I would have made sure to become the type of person who would stop and help a friend in need. Instead of being this person, afraid to make eye contact, afraid that if I stopped, all I would to do is climb up its uneven stairs and curl up in the farthest corner until the autumn breeze cooled me down.