Sydney Rebecca - Comic, Diva, Super Model and Sage.....Born on 2/21 at 2:21.

I have three spectacular little grand-daughters.  They are all bright, engaging, nice, and well-mannered, but beyond that their only similarities: 1.  They are all female  2. They have the same parents.  Each of them were born with different attitudes, characteristics and means of navigating their world.  I had one child, so I am fascinated by their individuality as well as watching the evolution from toddlers to little girls.   Despite the differences, there is a firm bond that cements their love and loyalty for one another.  Don’t get me wrong, they get angry, compete, fight, and  sometimes they’re just mean to each other.  They’re sisters, as well as little women with hormones that lie in wait..... Yet, when push comes to shove, each seeks out the wisdom and comfort in the other they find lacking in themselves.  Amazingly, they intuitively know which one to go to when they need a dose of a trait that's not one of their strengths.  I have written about Alex, the oldest, our kind, spiritual, careful, curious and intellectual one.  I wrote about Guru Cameron, our youngest, with her little OCD personality when it comes to order, routine, and cleanliness. Her easy-going, go with the flow nature is an example to the grown-ups surrounding her. I hadn't written about Sydney Rebecca, my little namesake, wanting to wait until her birthday. She's my go-to girl,  If I want an adventure, a good belly laugh, or a lesson in self-confidence. 

It certainly wasn’t my intent to write about my middle grand-daughter, last.   Don’t let her birth order lull you into thinking the psychology of middle child syndrome is at play here. No one would ever deign treat Sydney Rebecca as an afterthought, or minimize her importance to the world!  She’ll set you straight with a look that’ll make you feel foolish for being so out of touch with her divineness.  When asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she will tell you a dancer, a diva, and a super-model.  Don’t waste your breath explaining super models are generally quite tall. She’ll respond with a shrug of her shoulders and confidently retort, “ I’m going to be the first short super model.”   When she was born, I gasped and my first words were, “Oh, my gosh, this baby is absolutely beautiful.”  She was.  A tinier version of the Gerber Baby, all round, rosy, perfectly shaped, eyes wide open and alert.  At first breath, her little cry commanded attention.   Every bit of energy in that room, was directed towards her.  She turned heads as a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler. Her magnetism is as powerful today. 

Guess who Mimi? Santa!

When she was very little, she had this air of entitlement. It was HER mom, HER dad, HER sister, HER toy, and HER time.  As she has grown older, she has learned to temper those overt demands by manipulating and playing the little coquette, drama queen, or comic;  whatever role she feels will work its magic in getting her way.  She’s very good at it too.  She can read people, at first meeting with a piercing vision that leaves you feeling naked and vulnerable.  You get the sense she knows you better than you know yourself.  She’s not adverse to using your weaknesses against you to get you to see her way of thinking either.  Before you know what hit you, you’re mesmerized, and find yourself dancing to her tune, joyfully becoming a part of her growing conga line of admirers!  Her intuitive nature isn’t always self serving.  She seems to know what you need, and has an innate ability to make you feel like the most important person in the world (right behind her of course)!  If you’re sad, she senses it.  Not only does she feel it, but diagnoses the cure appropriately with whatever you need; empathy, hugs and loving, or silliness and laughter.  She is the Queen Bee of funny faces and mime. 

Sydney always the Fashionesta!

A born leader, I watched a few years ago at the softball field as she drew a crowd of kids twice her age, leading them into some dare devilish adventure.  Most of the time she is the ring-leader in pursuing anything new and exciting;  the consummate CEO, engaging her team’s support in whatever endeavor she undertakes.   If it doesn’t interest her, she can cajole and delegate so adeptly, you are thrilled to be making her bed, or doing her homework for her just so you can be in her presence.  If it is something she is headstrong about pursuing, she doesn’t much care what the cost is, and accepts her punishment with the attitude it was worth the crime, and her time.  She seems untouched by discipline, and takes her licks and moves on reliving her forbidden adventure with a smile. 

Her tenacity is one of her greatest attributes.  The spirit of Winston Churchill lives on in Ms. Sydney, and she is inclined to never, ever quit.  This quality is especially inspiring when you witness "giving it her all" at basketball games.  She is an itty-bitty girl and her tiny stature borders on comical with most of the players towering over her.  But, she’s a little bull-dog when it comes to defense, nipping at the  the knee caps of her opponents.  The most joyful moment  I witnessed recently,  was an entire gym of spectators, crossing their fingers as her shot spiraled towards the basket in slow motion, swooshed through the net after approximately 100 determined trys.  The crowd rose and  roared.  She never gives up! 

Dancer, Diva,
Super Model

One of her favorite things to do is don dress up clothes and walk the red carpet, striking a pose.  She has the Art of THE WALK of  Miss America,  a Victoria Secret Angel, and Paris Fashion Week,  mastered.  She can do the parade wave and blow kisses without missing a beat.  Prancing in dance clothes from past performances, dripping in rhinestones, a marabou fur throw twisted around her shoulders, she’s an 8 year old Mae West.   She loves to dance as well, and has the gift of rhythm and flexibility.  Because of her natural ability, two years ago, she was asked to be a part of our local Competition Team representing her dance studio.  She declined because it would interfere with her Daisy meetings (Girl Scouts), basketball, and softball.  She wasn’t ready to commit to just one passion yet;  there are just too many other adventures to be had! One of her other hobbies is baking and her Great-Grandma M. has helped develop that skill. They have been known to make some incredible desserts and coffee pie is Sydney's specialty!  Look out Julia Child, this little mite has the  charisma to become the next cooking show diva - rather than those trademark pearls, it will be diamonds and stilettos!

International Spy

The depth of her interests and personality can be disarming.  Just about the time you think she is all fluff and self will run riot,  she blows you away with a new interest or says something profound.  Christmas this year, she wanted "spy stuff" as she might add "International Bond Girl" to her repertoire of career options.  She already seems to have a spiritual sense of who she is and where she came from. Recently, she informed her mom that when we die, we don’t really die.... we just come back again, as a different person, into a new life. Reincarnation.  Accusingly, her mother asked me if she had overheard some of my New Age conversations.  I assured her that I knew better than to discuss matters of that magnitude around Sydney.  We looked at each other in awe at the depth of this little child’s innate beliefs that touched on some enlightened truths! 

Exasperating at times when her willfulness runs amok, she's blessed to have two loving gardeners (her parents) who carefully cultivate those buds of fearlessness, while pruning away some of the impulsivity and kindly nurturing self confidence and high esteem. The term born leader is fitting.   Sydney Rebecca will be the teeny- tiny girl, from the small town, that made good.   She is simply blind to obstacles with a  20/20 vision for opportunity.  

Happy Birthday
my  beautiful, confident,
 little lady!

Sydney will be 8 years old in a few days.  Where has the time gone?  When she was a little girl, I was her passion.  She loved her Mimi intensely, and when she got into trouble, she howled for me to save her from the torture of discipline, routine, or structure. Today Sydney would tell you, we have a special connection- both of us sassy, adventurous, and total girly-girls.  She, as well as her sisters are my passion and heart's desire.  They show me the real meaning of starting anew, how to act silly, hug often,  explore, experience a new kind of enlightenment, love unconditionally, and dream big.... on their behalf..... and,  right along with them. 

Passion vs Love.......

Valentine's Day is upon us.  For some, its a day of romance; flowers, candy, lingerie and passion.  For others, its an evening of red flannel jammies, a large spoon and gourmet ice cream, Kleenex, and Bridges of Madison County.   Some years I've  spent Valentine’s Day pierced in ecstasy by Cupid's arrow. Others, you would find me hanging out in the front yard, a big neon bulls eye emblazoned on my chest, a sort of directional light, to help Cupid find me.  Our celebrations rarely measure up to how the media portrays this day of love. Some of the cornball commercials on television are purely a gag-fest. You know the ones... "I'm here... I'll love you forever.... Here is   half my heart.... You complete me..... I am nothing if not for you... "   Yuck!  Oddly, in retrospect, the warm PJ’s and ice cream haven’t been all that bad in comparison to some of the ghosts of Valentine's Day past. I personally think there has to be more to love and this Holiday than what's showcased in Victoria’s Secret, Hallmark, and Teleflora.  

So, I did a little research. 

The origins of Valentine’s Day are exceptionally beautiful. Their beginnings in both Christian and Roman tradition. I'm a sucker for ancient history- minus the lions in the  coliseum gig.  Legend spins several tales, specifically of St. Valentine, a martyred saint.  One story tells of Valentine’s bravery as he defied Emperor Claudius II, who proclaimed, single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families. Risking his own safety, Valentine secretly performed marriage ceremonies, to accommodate young lovers.   Another story, tells of a St. Valentine who attempted to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons. Later, captured and imprisoned, he fell in love with his jailor’s daughter. This attentive, compassionate and beautiful young woman visited him during his confinement. Before his death, as a gift to her, it is believed he wrote a letter which he signed, “from your Valentine.” The first recorded Valentine greeting!

Sorting through the various tales, a solitary theme did arise.   Valentine’s day wasn’t necessarily a celebration of passion, romance, chocolates, or lace garter belts, although  there were some fertility ceremonies contained in some of the history.   Mostly, Valentine’s Day was a celebration of Love.  The kind of Love often disguised in sacrifice, justice, honor, service, and compassion. Love as a verb. The kind of Love that acts in ways and says, to others, I want you to know you are unique, special, and deserving. 

Passion is a potent aphrodisiac. We feel rapture as this powerful drug surges through our bodies.  The high is relatively short lived and not really a good marker of our true feelings for another. Jungian analyst , Robert Johnson, quotes, “The passion of romance is always directed at our own projections, our own expectations, our own fantasies.  It is a love, not of another person, but of ourselves.”  This wise analysis makes sense to me.  Awhile back, a dear, therapist friend asked me to examine whether I was really ever  in love with someone, or did I love the idea of that person.  At first, this made no sense to me, and I accused him of talking in circles. Months later, a light bulb went on. Was I in love with  this person?   Or,  was I passionate about all those expectations and fantasies that I had built around what I wanted him to be and my world to look like? Was I in love with the human being he was?  Did I even know that person, or was he just a reflection of my ego?

Enlightened Love, the kind St. Valentine is accredited with, is a kind of power that awakens us to the existence of something outside of ourselves, our own world, and security.  It is a transcendence of our own ego and a desire to connect with another, just as they are.  It's the kind of Love that's a salve to the wounds of the world. A recognition that it is far more rewarding to extend love, for Love's sake, than expect a return on our investment. Once we know that Love, and come to know its power, we  go to the ends of the earth to cultivate and share it.  Most of us  never really recognize it although it's inside of us and in front of us, always.   

We know passion; our egos  understand that well. It’s allure and thrill is exciting and makes for great storytelling. But, it pales in comparison to connecting in love.   This desire to move beyond our ego,  towards  a higher knowing and purer Love, is why we were created in the first place.   

Moving out of romance and our fantasies and expectations, to a place where we show Love to another, make their day, or let them know how important they are to this world, is a worthy intention for Valentine’s Day. We can make it a day of friendship, understanding, reaching out, and service as well.  

I sent a Valentine letter to a wonderful 91 year old man who recently lost his wife of 65 years. His storytelling of their time together would seriously make for a blockbuster movie. What an honor it was to have him share that with me.  He needs to know how much his wisdom and time have meant to me this past year.   I designed my own Valentine cards and sent personal notes to a few people who have touched my life recently, my contribution to the perpetuation of this beautiful gift of Love.  I’ll still probably curl up in the red jammies and sniffle over Bridges, but I know that’s just a part of the passion and allure of the Holiday, titillating and romancing my ego!  I'm just a new soul learning the ways of Love.  It will be a number of lifetimes before I am ready for sainthood.  

Happy Valentines Day..... From Your Valentine...... with Love! 

Late Bloomer......

I used to call myself a late bloomer. Usually with a shrug of the shoulders and a sheepish grin.  My self-deprecating humor is one of the defense mechanisms, I use to put myself in my place, so you don’t get a chance to. This self proclaimed moniker came about due to my perception of  the order which life should flow.  This is how it should be....You’re born and move into a childhood of protected fun as well as reading, writing, and arithmetic.  As  you grow, you gradually learn essential tools encouraging movement from childhood into young adulthood; skills like sharing, patience, obeying the rules, and manners.  You become a teenager, forget all the rules because you now know they are not meant for you!  You date, fall in love, date fall in love, and move on and go to College.  When you leave College,  you get your dream job. Time for Prince Charming or Kim Kardishian to arrive. You marry. You work hard, buy a house, make a name for yourself, and have children.  Life evolves and so do you.  You discover most of what you paid bucks to learn in College, is relatively useless in your life today.  Late middle-age, you begin to suffer a few losses;  grandparents, possibly parents, some friends and through these trials you develop character traits such as compassion, appreciation, gratitude and perhaps, a thirst for discovering the meaning of your existence develops.  Also called a mid-life crisis.  You finish raising your family, maybe change jobs to pursue your purpose and live out your days in ecstasy knowing your life has been normal, orderly, because you  have made good decisions and  followed the timeline of civilized society.  Right?  Perhaps.  At least this was my interpretation of how a life got to be named “a life well lived.”  I liked the flow of it.  Its practical evolution made sense to me.  Because it sounded so perfect, THAT  was my expectation.  My real life never seemed to measure up to standard. Those milestones and that story, just didn't play out that way for me.  

I’ve lived so much of my life in reverse.  I was an old lady at 8, the emotional burden of my highly dysfunctional family and their problems resting on my small shoulders.  I really believe I was born old, and wise, a female Benjamin Button.  I also, romanticized... the stork had an anxiety attack at my delivery, freaked out, and accidentally dropped me into the wrong household.  But, later, in my teenage years, I discovered I really was adopted, by one parent (ahha... my stork story was a reality). Until.... I met my blood parent and didn’t seem to fit there either! Since, I was already a grown-up at puberty, it seemed fitting to get married at 19.   By then my immediate family had all gone their separate ways through divorce and addiction.  I was already quite skilled at taking care of others and their needs.  Why not start my own family?  I did and became a super responsible young wife and mom. Yet, no matter how hard I tried to create the picket fence life, with my husband and little daughter, others in my story found the picket fence confining.  It was not to be. I was  left to raise a daughter at age 26. I was brighter than average, but with my education predominately centering around the emotional care of others, I was really left floundering.   I escaped for a time into the arms of oblivion and addiction.  It was cozy to be unconscious for awhile.  Repercussions began to arise and bad things happened.  I wasn’t such a good caretaker anymore. I didn’t even have a clue how to take care of myself.  Six years later I emerged, ill and emotionally battered,  but addiction free.... a newborn baby (me) cohabiting with an adolescent daughter.  The adolescent daughter became a teenage daughter and I dated  right along with her.  Losses weren't new to me either, the majority of them happening before I turned 34. That part of the story wasn't  supposed to happen until I began getting grey and wrinkly.  I grieved as I watched grandmothers, aunts, uncles, some friends, and my own mother pass on.  By 45, I had lost my beloved soul mate too and this  left me reeling.  Recognizing  I had exhausted the luxury of becoming unconscious in pills and booze to numb my pain,  I spun out of a 17 year, successful career, right into the seat of higher education. College...the old lady in the classroom.  Experimental job hopping followed as well as rather unfulfilling man hopping. This became the new life for this 50 something year old woman.  I was living the life of a young twenty-something!  Is it any wonder I called myself a late bloomer?  

This revisit to a few of the chapters in my life was prompted by my long recovery process during my recent illness.  When I get lonely, I've been known to visit a very busy head, one which swirls with liveliness and activity.  It isn't always the best place to hang out if you're looking for good, clean, fun.  I can get into some serious trouble there.  Especially when the potty mouthed  brain cells gather and start a rumble.  This "late bloomer" label resurfaced one boring day as I indulged in a mental walk through the memoir of my life and times.  This little self-serving (with a larger than healthy dose of self-pity) day dream was interrupted as I noticed, and shook my head in disbelief at the blossoms on my Hibiscus plant resting in my kitchen bay window.  It's a tenacious little sucker! Admiring it gave me a whole new perspective on late blooming.  


I've had this plant for five years.  We have a little history.  When I first got it, it was stunning; flawless, shiny leaves, profuse colorful blossoms, perfectly poised on long stems.  It didn't stay that way.  Through the years, the plant got brown and sickly looking, leaves falling off onto the window sill.  Often, the spindly, barren stems indicated its days were numbered.  Sometimes, I'd make a concerted effort to nurse it back to health.  Other times, in disgust, I just unkindly ignored it and secretly wished it would just naturally expire completely.  It never does!  This summer it was gorgeous, lush and full.  By Fall, it was inflicted with little white mites all over its leaves.   Fed up, I stuck the plant out in an unheated room in the house with the secret hope it would just freeze out and die.  Post holiday, I hadn't checked on it in weeks, I went out into the room and there it stood.... mite free, budding, getting ready to  burst into full bloom!  I couldn't believe it! It's never followed a predictable pattern of development.  It grows, becomes lovely, regresses, looks ugly, grows again only to become the prettiest plant, no matter how I take care of it.  It's not seasonal.  There is no pattern.  It just grows and blooms when its time to grow and bloom.  It has no idea whether it's Spring, Summer, Fall, or Winter of its little chlorophyll saturated life.  Pretty much like the progression of my life.  Perhaps we both have our seasons mixed up, or maybe our internal Source  guides our growth and progress based on our unique needs and contributions to this life.  

I’m not a late bloomer.  I’m kind of a perennial......... for all seasons.    

Our attempts at control and strictly ordering our life in a rigidly intentional manner, is relatively futile.  We have a destiny and a divine timeline that directs our soul towards a specific purpose. We are always right where we need to be, when we need to be. When we fight its flow or try so hard to swim upstream, when we get there, we often find we're exhausted and  it isn't what we anticipated anyway. The big picture is a puzzle. The discovery of what pieces fit and when they're placed doesn’t matter. Sometimes it's better and more fun to  take our time in figuring it out. Trying one after another, and re-trying later, after several others fall into place.   All that matters is that the puzzle will eventually come together in a sacred way.  Makes no difference that I was Yoda at 8, or that I went to College at 47.  It doesn’t matter that I was an overly responsible wife and mother at 19, then dated along with my teenage daughter at 34.  It's irrelevant that I finally found my soul mate at 38.  In my 50’s, I’ve jumped out of an airplane, savored a "sans clothing" spa, and flirted shamelessly with a cruise ship Captain, twenty years my junior.  Now, in my late 50’s, I'm  the inquisitive 5 year old driving my Higher Power crazy with my incessant why, why, why questioning. 

We all come from the same divine seed.  We push outward, we bud, we grow; tall and strong.  We bloom. We’re exposed to the elements, lose our leaves, shrivel and take cover underground for a time.  Somehow the soil gets  fertilized again, with hope; with new knowledge.  We catch a glimpse of the light and the warmth of our Creator. We timidly venture upward and outward, over and over again. We reach out,  a burning desire to, perhaps, pursue something we missed earlier on.  It’s taken all of our experiences, in no particular order, to create the beautiful, individual blooms of our unique life.   It’s the mites, the brown leaves, the cold air, and the dormancy that makes the blossoming so much lovelier, no matter how many years the plant has been around. 

Don’t worry about what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive. - Robert Thurman 

We Plan. God Laughs......

This bit of wisdom was a text from my daughter.  A quote from a speaker at her business conference over the weekend.

 Day Fourteen - cooped up in the white elephant (my house).  My face is healing slowly, and I can walk by a mirror now without shuddering.  The pain in my scalp, ear, teeth, and left side of my head has diminished to a mild discomfort. The manner in which I’ve spent my days in the first weeks of 2011 isn’t quite what I had in mind. I was ready to crash through all those limitations I had placed on myself the last few years, like a Biggest Loser contestant busting through the “before” poster.  I was planning to block my ears to the negative naysayers by singing joyfully, at the top of my lungs. My self-awareness and confidence was strapped in my back pack as I confidently headed down  a much gentler path and adventure road, gratefully, one day at a time.  

Instead of a list of resolutions I could beat myself up about not achieving at years end, I decided to find a word, a sort of mantra, to focus on and send out to the universe as an Intention.  My word was BLOSSOM. I figured that was a good fit since I spent last year nurturing, feeding, and letting my Creator coax me back into healthy vibrancy.  It was time. Time to take the practice and apply it moment by moment.  Time to create something positive wherever I found myself potted. I really wanted to take this carefully cultivated and relatively weed free spirit out into the world and spread a little beauty- and kindness. Growing Shingles was not what I had in mind. This wasn’t blossoming. My petals had the blight. 

Yet, the words “there is a season and a time to every purpose, under heaven” kept echoing through my head.  Probably due to the time available to peruse I-tunes and some of my oldies favorites.  The Byrds, Turn, Turn, Turn was one of them. It appeared to be a time for me to blossom in inquisitive, quiet ways. A time to read..... old newspapers; everything from the Wall Street Journal, the Columbus Dispatch, the Cleveland Plain Dealer and really local papers detailing the week’s Kiwanis meeting.  The papers were daily gifts from loved ones who also brought jello, tapioca pudding, and other soft comfort foods. I borrowed David Sedaris new book, Squirrel meets Chipmunk thinking it would leave me in stitches, as most of his work does.  His ability to turn the mundane into a hysterical event, sarcastic wit, and self-deprecating humor, are normally right up my alley. This newest book was a little over the top for my taste; beautifully crafted but sort of sad and sickening.  The first few stories I forced laughter, but somewhere about Chapter Five or so, I wondered if Aesop’s ghost had taken over Sedaris’ body as the fables became gruesome and depressing.  It just went on and on. I can hardly meditate now, at least not when reflecting out my kitchen bay window anymore.  When the squirrels scamper by in my bucolic back yard, I’m distracted.... wondering if they are seriously dating or what pick up lines they’re using!   Much easier on my damaged head and gentler to the spirit was Regina Brett’s new book, God Never Blinks.  Reading it, I felt a soul sister connection as the events in her life seemed to mirror so many of mine.  The big difference....she seems to have “gotten it” MUCH earlier in life than I have. Thus, her personally detailed, 50 life lessons.   I would highly recommend this book as a graduation, anniversary or milestone birthday gift. I was introduced to Regina’s column in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, several years ago, and became an instant fan. Her  honesty, humility, spirituality and love of life is palpable in all her writing.

It also appeared to be a time to catch up on the television of this decade.  I’m not a big boob tube watcher.  Most of the shows folks have been talking about, I've never seen. Now was the time to sit and watch marathon, back to back sessions of Millionaire Matchmaker, Beverly Hills Housewives and Jersey Shore. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly was a shake your head in disbelief experience.  How about those housewives?  We wonder why we have serious bullying issues with our youth?   These botoxed, bulimic, potty-mouthed Stepford wives, are just  middle-aged versions of Mean Girls.  And that, is just how they treat each other!   Yikes... With friends like that.....  I guess, this venue is so popular there are “Housewives” shows from all the major cities, each series giving us a taste of how “the other half lives, where they live.”  I gained a serious appreciation for my half....... you know, the poor... the tired.... the hungry.... the compassionate.  Curiosity led me to Millionaire Matchmaker.  Why in the world would successful, wealthy folks need someone to fix them up?  A few episodes of this show reinforced an old line my dad used to use, “not for all the tea in China” (or my line...no matter how many zero’s are on the portfolio) could I endure even a one-nighter with any of these charmers!  I’m not sure where they find their candidates, but a better name for this show might be, “So You Want to Date A Physchopath?”  I could barely tolerate the episode where the millionaire took his date (first date mind you) to a Sex Museum, but the millionaire who exposed this sweet, young kindergarten teacher to eccentric food by ordering her meal for her ,bordered on gruesome. Now, I am not talking exotic as in deep-fried crickets or shark-fin soup.  This meal began with an embroyo cocktail and spiraled into the stuff upset stomachs are made of.  Ahhhh....then we have Jersey Shore- every parent’s worst nightmare. It’s a cross between an XXX-rated The Godfather and Girls Gone Wild.  The nightly prayer on every parent’s lips, "Please God, don’t let our son bring home Snookie or let my daughter move to the East Coast to shack up with The Situation."  I was trying very hard to find the redeeming aspects and popularity of these shows.  The only value I could find was the reinforcement of the great lives, friends, boyfriends and spouses we have been blessed with!  My gratitude was the highest it had been in two weeks. 

Some of my channel surfing was wholesome. I landed on the food channel and spent a good 8 hours drooling over delectable, fresh food reminiscent of my European vacation a few years ago.  My fave was the episodes of The Barefoot Contessa. Her farm co-op delivered fresh fruits and vegetables weekly. The market basket brimming with color and good health was eye candy but it was an out of body experience as she whipped up such delights as an arugula, green apple, red onion salad with chunky smoked bacon and blue cheese. My mouth watered at the tomato, basil, cheese bake with homemade olive oil and rosemary infused croutons. The bite sized hot zucchini pancakes incited the beast in my stomach and made demanding, growling, noises. It did spark my creativity as I indulged in the preparation of a "from scratch" Caesar Salad this week, anchovies, home-made croutons and all. Hey, the doctor did say I needed to load up on the fresh fruits and veggies! 

This, my dear readers, is how I have spent my last few weeks. Nothing like what I had planned.  Nonetheless, at the next social gathering, I will dazzle you with my knowledge of the similarities between the moral conscience of animals and humans; tell you why Kelsey is leaving his marriage to Camille and how much its going to cost him;  let you know that in the dating world there are bimbos, cougars and himbos; reassure you if someone from the Jersey Shore calls you a b- - ch, it is truly a term of endearment. I can advise you which of fresh, garden greens flavor and pungency are complimentary to various dishes. Most important of all, I have it on good authority, The best is yet to come (Lesson #45) and It’s okay to get angry with God.  He can take it (Lesson #8). 

Maybe this week I will spend some time meditating with my new Mandela coloring book. I’m  not making any plans!  

I’m sure I heard God laugh.  


P.S. A little update. I must look better. I ventured out for a few hours today and my littlest grand-daughter said to her mom as I walked towards their car, "Mimi looks cute today!"  A few weeks ago she was recoiling in horror. This time, I laughed.... with God. 

“Operation Self-Esteem-- Day F- - -ing One” - Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)

I'm convinced this is a good depiction
of the photo of me on file at the
Doctor's office.

I had a busy, fun holiday this year.  My focus was on enjoying it, moment by moment. I really concentrated on eliminating any of the negative thoughts that pervaded last year’s season.  No more of that kind of energy from me this year!  I appreciated and savored every bit of it; the shopping, baking, cooking, eating, partying, seasonal events, out of town guests, and family.  Did I feel any stress?  I didn’t think so.  Seriously, I savored it all and put on my floating fairy godmother robes, waving my serenity wand over everything that landed in my path. I was patting myself on the back for my spiritual growth in my ability to remain grateful and mindful this year.  Was I a little tired?  Somewhat, but not profoundly.  Post New Year’s Eve, I felt “flu-ish”, nothing that a good dose of Tylenol Cold couldn’t handle.  Then, I woke up Monday morning, and found this tiny, little blistery thingy under my nose, right in that adorable little crease that separates one nostril from another.  A little zit... somewhat sore.  I went happily on about my day. By Wednesday morning, I looked like Rocky Balboa after his first fight with Apollo. My upper lip was grossly swollen.  Under my nose, the blisters had multiplied and had a sort of brownish cast to them and they patch worked themselves onto the left side of my face, prominently on my left cheek inching up towards my eye. A self-proclaimed research scientist, ( a deserved laurel due to my patience and abilities to dig through mounds of Internet information others would never find) I knew the diagnosis was looking bleak, and a little frightening.  Certainly more serious than the over the counter remedies I was nickling and diming towards my cure, could handle. Beginning to really panic, I knew I had to haul my monster face in to see a professional. I needed a magic potion that could only be obtained from the heavenly script pad. 

I'm generally pretty healthy and  haven’t even taken the time to obtain a new family physician since my former “hottie” doctor moved two years ago. I thought he was irreplaceable, with his beach boy blonde looks and professionally whitened teeth.  It was irrelevant to me how skilled he was in the practice of medicine: I felt better just sitting in his office dreamily looking up into his baby blue eyes as his stethoscope connected with my chest.   I have to give credit where it’s due. He was a phenomenal doctor as well; thorough, compassionate, kind, and skilled.  So, I didn’t try to replace him. I hadn’t counted on my health betraying me in such an “in your face” (har...har....) manner.  I  now didn’t care if my caregiver had no hair, and flashed old yellow teeth.  A witch doctor would do. 

I wasn’t comfortable driving myself... my face hurt.  The physical pain emoting from my skin was closely matched by the sickness in my stomach every time I glanced in a mirror.  I enlisted my daughter to transport me to a medical facility.  

Because I hadn’t been a patient in a long, long, time and never with this new doctor, I had to sit through a registration process AND get my picture taken... You heard me. What kind of sick mind thought this one up?  Let’s photograph the ill!  If they live, we can send them a before picture along with the bill!  They’ll be so grateful they won’t even argue about the cost. Through swollen lips I pleaded with the sadistic, little clerk who asked me to look into the light of the camera and I mumbled some threat about karmic paybacks. She looked at me with very frightened eyes as she snapped away.  Egads, my face was so monstrous they would have to do fingerprinting next time I came in just to verify my identity!   I would have been a cheap candidate for the witness protection program.  No one would know me and I wouldn’t even have to move! It was all very humbling.... 

Equally mortifying, was to leave the house sans make-up. I don’t even go to the gym without SOME make-up - lip gloss at the very least.  Although no amount of Mary Kay could have covered whatever party was taking place on my skin. It was like an entity had crawled inside it and was fighting to get out, leaving marks and blisters in its path. It comforted me some to hide behind my biggest Jackie O sunglasses as I slunk in to the see the doctor.  Heads turned...... I don’t think it was because they were awed by the resemblance between the 35th  President of the United States’ wife and me. 

The verdict... Shingles. The Varicella Zoster Virus.  The same one that causes chicken pox.  It lies dormant in the bodies of those of us who have had chicken pox.  When our immune system is depressed, the potential is there for it to attack the nerves, in my case the cranial nerve ganglia, and cause eruptions and a world of pain.  It can also damage the eye, or the hearing, if it spreads. The healing can take quite some time; kind of like a difficult pregnancy with the relief of birth.  The reward of having shingles, at term,  you get to gaze lovingly into a face you once knew.  As I left the doctor’s office his final words to me, "You need to work harder at eliminating stress, take better care of yourself.... keep meditating." 

As I came home, prescription bottle in hand, popping the first 800 mg. pill in my mouth, I was really, really pissed.  And, confused.  I think, to the best of my ability, I have eliminated the stress in my life.  What was the lesson here that I need to learn to help me to just get through this and move into acceptance? I have been tooting my own horn about falling in love with myself in the past year.  And, I have, in many respects.  My spiritual life has expanded so much I am filled with peace and awe most of the time.  My emotional world is nicely balanced now: realistic and centered in what is best for me, knowing that leads to a better me for those around me. Yes... me, me, me with the best outcome for everyone else!  I have fallen in like with the person I discovered in my inner world explorations. In fact, she’s a helluva nice gal.  So what was this about stress?  

Well.... well... well...A body can have stress too.  I have spent a great deal of my time this past year or so seeking, exploring, examining and fine tuning my spiritual body.  But, I have sorely neglected the physical one.  In my attempts to focus on my soul’s purpose, I had forgotten about the vessel which is the worker bee in putting that purpose into production. This was the lesson.  Love the vessel.  Treat it as you would your own child. It is your child.  It’s not enough to grow through learning and practice.  Human form has to be nurtured and maintained in order to stay healthy.  Good nutrition, restful sleep, calm surroundings, exercise, vitamins, regular check-ups on an on going basis are an expression of self-love too. 


Let’s be honest, our self-esteem is certainly impacted by the physical condition and appearance of our vessels. Mine plummeted this week.  

With that revelation, I headed for the bathroom, stared at the creature in the mirror for a very, very long time.  I planted a big blistery kiss on lips that looked like a bad Botox job, and said, “Hey beautiful, how about if we take a nice, long soaking, lavender bath. It’s time I started to take care of YOU kid!”  

Operation self-esteem, Phase II has begun.

The universe does not require you to stress for good things. - Alan Cohen 

Change is inevitable..... progress is optional - Jack Welch

I found this old journal entry cleaning out to make space for the new.  It's just Good Feng shui.    The message is clear.... don’t get too caught up in any particular moment... it will change and it has.... Praise God.... for the lessons, (I've learned a few), the progress, (self-awareness and acceptance), the freedom (from the anger, resentments, and self-pity) and a return to serenity (even in the midst of so much uncertainty)!  It's pretty personal, but its only through sharing that we resonate with the heart of another. If you are having "one of those days, or weeks, or years"  rest assured, it will change, and it does get better!  Happy New Year! 

Big smiles in Rome two years ago

Journal Entry Dated October 24, 2009

This has been going on about a week now; the butterflies beating against the lining of my stomach and a spirit so saturated with sadness, it’s heavy, and difficult to move it along the path of life.   There’s that, and the fact, that I know I have piled on at least 10 pounds during this past year of the drama... “Nightmare on Becky Street”.  It isn’t enough to watch my rapidly growing ass spread across the back of my lethargic, relatively immobile body, but to contemplate the need for  anti-depressant medication, a side affect being weight gain.... Ugh.  It may be the pharmaceutical feather duster I need in clearing the cobwebs long enough, while God works his magic in helping me uncover the joy that's still there... somewhere... buried way down deep. Seriously, I believe it’s going to take a back hoe to dig out the piles of manure others shoveled into my life for several years now.  I know my signature zest for living is there somewhere.  I look at pictures of me, hardly recognizable, from last summer, in Europe, and see glimpses of deep gratitude, serenity and joy memorialized in those Kodak moments. 

Let’s just keep it simple......GOD, PLEASE HELP ME!  

This depression is quite different than what I experienced before.  I don’t cry all the time or feel anxious and obsessed.  That could be because I am all dried up.  A desert of a human being, barren, and stripped of any emotion.  I do know that isn’t entirely true.  If I want to smile, I just need to stop by and visit three of the most fabulous, happy, authentic, little divas in the world... my granddaughters.  I spend the majority of my days seeking answers and trying to drench my soul in those little girls joy, memorizing wise quotes, reading insightful books, and meditation; if 5 seconds of respite from my monkey mind qualifies.    My bookshelves look like a psychiatrist’s office! So many attempts at piecing together this puzzle named My Life.  Or, maybe what I am really doing is using a bit of advice from a former boss who said to me, “If you throw enough shit up against a wall, some of it’s bound to stick.”  There's certainly plenty there to throw. Maybe that philosophy is at the core of my piss-poor ongoing life choices, too much shit sticking, because rather than stopping and getting still for awhile, getting acquainted with me, and just accepting and being, I am always throwing more up against the wall trying to find something to make me feel better...... And, the compost pile grows.    My personal library houses authors running the gamut of M. Scott Peck (I sure as hell feel like I am on The Road From Hell Less Traveled) to Sylvia Brown (C’mon my dearly departed husband, throw some crumbs from heaven for crying out loud). A wise friend said to me once when I used the crumbs from heaven line, “How about tossing yourself some crumbs?” I wanted to tell her, shut the #@%$ up, but I knew she was on to something.  Truly, I could start my own self-help colony here. It might behoove me, this time, to find some like minded people genuinely seeking enlightenment to hook up with, rather than picking the same dysfunction over and over again and expecting different results.  

Symbol courtesy of my friend and
phenomenal artist, Tim Gorka. He
posted it on a Holiday float entry
he created (Noel). Clever!
I saw it in a different light.
A sort of sign...  Perfect! 

I need to recognize when I see the "L" written clearly 
all over a face, it DOES NOT necessarily mean "Love".  My therapist actually chuckled at that "sic" joke. He's a good guy... He agrees.  He says, "No more scum bags".  I argued that slur with him in my typical nicey, nice, codependent manner.   I told him everyone has value and is just working through their own stuff. Ick.  Disgustingly martyr like of me.  Giving everyone, but myself, a break.   His response, 
" Maybe so, but if the bag fits my dear, let them wear it." His style of sarcasm, wit, and humor mirrors mine and somehow it makes me feel healthier to see that.  I tried to squelch it for awhile, to please others, believing it to be a serious flaw.  I've discovered, I kind of like my tarty tongue.  It serves me well in coping with how ludicrous life and folks (including myself) can be.   My shrink has this same twisted, humorous, confrontational style.   We get along well.  This great guy with the framed artwork verifying his knowledge and accomplishment decorating his walls, and those impressive PhD initials after his name, simply ended our last session saying, "F--- him... he is not even close to worthy of you."  That's why I love him.  He keeps it simple-gets right to the point, no fancy-smancy physcho-babel. 

It has just recently dawned on me that perhaps, my desert of the soul, can be turned into  a positive process. In Ann Lamott’s book Plan B, she talks of the beauty of the desert.  Many of her spiritual friends find stillness and refreshment there in its barren starkness.  To spend time there is an exercise in quietly searching for the cactus in bloom, despite the scorching sun and heat so intense it's difficult to breathe.   Maybe I need to just change my therapeutic mindset. Stop reading and seeking.  Endure the heat for awhile. Just be still, develop some gratitude for the black hole I’m feeling now, knowing it is really through spiritual emptiness that we can be filled.  Maybe in reality, I am doing what I always do, the perfect addict that I am – trying to cram all these feel good words from The Sages, down inside to make the pain go away.  Could it be through the pain, just by being still, I will come to move beyond this daily “joyless ride” and begin to see a certain beauty in the reptilian desert feelings?  And, maybe.... just maybe, someday, notice the small, brilliant flower nestled inside the thorns of that prickly, unapproachable cactus? Just observing non-judgmentally and accepting?  Perhaps I can begin to view those people who hurt me so deeply this year in that manner, God’s creations, cactus flowers... beautiful simply because they too are the essence of God.  To be observed and admired, from a distance; not worth the price of reaching out to touch only to be painfully pricked each time.   I do know that every time I touch, and  the cactus flower does, what cactus flowers do, there is another healing involved that seems more difficult than the last.  I am just human and our fragile bodies can only take so much suffering. After awhile things just don’t heal like they used to.  They scab over a bit, but the tiniest little bump produces howling new pain.  Eventually the scabs become scars, but they look hideous, and obvious, and scare others away.   

A segue here....I became a blonde again, sort of…  Another attempt at fixing the outside up in the belief that the inside will somehow improve. Ha! I think that somewhat lends to my melancholy today anyhow.  I was looking for something “different” rather than the same old pure, white blonde "hooker hair". So, I told my stylist to go at it and turn me into a ravishing new creature.  Well, lets be honest, you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and I have been feeling pretty “sow like” lately.  But, being the adventurous soul that I am, albeit a depressed explorer, I told her to do whatever she wanted to do.  She too, felt my Blondie look was  becoming a bit much, and so inserted swatches of color.  The swatches of color, she called “strawberry blonde” are really a gentle word for RED- American flag RED.   Imagine bold red streaks on my white blonde locks.  When she swiveled me around in the chair, my horrified expression was enough to make her say, “Give it a day or two and several washings and if you don’t like it, call me, and I'll do something different next week.”  Great, not only do I have an ugly aura of doom and gloom, and a bigger butt, but I now look like I am costuming as an old rock star; perhaps Lady Ga Ga at 60, for Trick or Treat.  All I need is a pointy bra and some fishnets. I could have cried. Reactions were mixed.  My son-in-law just said, “Hey, I rarely notice hair. I’m a guy.”  My three little angels said, “Oh, Mimi, you look rockin!”  Rockin? Red flag word (pun intended)....The final nail in this “new do’s” coffin came when the teenage cashiers at the video store stared, wide-mouthed at my hair and said, “Cool.  We like your hair!”  They were about 15ish.... maybe.  I’m sure they were in awe that someone as old as me could be such an adventurous (or stupid) old soul. Old Queenie Becky was a silly old soul, a silly old soul was she.  She called on her stylist, she got hot pink hair, which made everyone roar in glee!    I am sure it will come up in the middle school cafeteria next week.  “Hey, you should have seen this old lady that came in to rent a movie Friday night.  She had pink and white hair… really.  I didn't ask for her ID, but I'm pretty sure it was Grandma Strawberry Shortcake.” I am really not into any more controversy or further reductions to my self esteem these days. Foolishly handing my life over to the whims and dysfunction of others these past years has given me enough of a dose of  misery to last several lifetimes.   My health and immune system can’t take too many more of the Rum Raisin ice cream breakfasts not to mention the entire wheel of Brie cheese for lunch, and the candlelit Potato Chip (the large bag mind you) dinners. The more I try to stuff that gaping hole inside with instant gratification, the wider the gap on the zipper of my jeans. Way too much comfort food, falling down on its task to comfort.   And, in actuality, those kinds of fixes tend to stretch out the hole inside even more.  I've tried to fill it through the years with alcohol, drugs, work, men, compliments, exercise, and now crackers and cheese. Good God.  What's next?  Maybe stuffing it with prayer and a good God?  What?  You say He's already there?..... Time to try a lot more of this?  How?  The prayer.... simple.....just keep repeating this mantra- please help me, please help me, please help me....OOHHHMMMM...... His response.... Shush..please listen, please listen, please listen.

Time to head out on the adventure road
 in 2011 and LIVE my examined life!
Please note the dashboard... BYOTP!
(Bring your own toilet paper)

God bless us everyone.... Joy in 2011!  And, thanks so much to all of you who have supported me, my endeavors and my cathartic blog this past year! Many, many,blessings.
CARPE DIEM!