Courage is not the absence of fear but the judgement that something else is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all. For now you are traveling the road between who you think you are and who you can be.- Meg Cabot

She flies through the air with the greatest of ease..... most of the journey!

X marks the spot of my
mid zip dangle ordeal 

This week as I was dangling by a mere cable over the top of a tree canopy in the Mohican forest, I made a new friend.  “Hello”, I said, to this brave little soul who had this silly grin on her face. She was staring, mesmerized, by the view into the precipice below.  I asked her, “Hey, lady, are you nuts?  Do you know you're stuck smack dab in the middle of the highest zip line here?”  Her eyes dreamy (for sure- she must have been crazy) she responded,  “Well, it appears for now, there is nothing we can do about this, so let’s just get our Zen on, and enjoy the forest through the eyes of an eagle.”  By the time I recognized this serene sister was me, and completely surrendered to the beauty of the view and the moment, my guide and hero, Brandon, came to my rescue.  Hooray!  He zipped out to meet me halfway (because that’s where I was stuck) and together we backstroked our way on the cable to the platform I missed, by many feet. There is a reason these guides are very young!  I huffed and puffed.  He barely broke a sweat. “Remember, he said, when they told you not to bounce off of the launch point?” Ahhh... lesson learned from “flight training” but apparently forgotten.   Hey, it was hard for me to contain my excitement and enthusiasm at such a daring and fun activity.  I was on an adventure..... Ms. Indiana Jones (excuse me but it’s my fantasy) , zipping through the trees, rappelling to the ground (twice) and moving cautiously through the forest to find that hidden treasure at the end.  There it was, a shiny pot of riches marked with self-confidence, satisfaction, bravery, exhilaration, accomplishment, and just plain fun! Fun is too trite a word for this experience.  It was a blast.  My infamous WooHoo, won’t do..... WAAAAAHOOOO is the action verb for this. 

My awesome hat - fit for a
Royal Wedding, or zip adventure

I was long overdue for an adventure and this one was over the top.  The course took about 2 1/2 hours to complete.  We started off buckling into some really edgy looking duds as we suited up and into all kinds of straps, buckles, pulleys, and toggles. Big, thick gloves, ten sizes too large, palms already primed and blackened from past braking experience, protected our hands.  Topping off our couture, a bright red helmet.  This is obviously designed to keep the contents of your skull contained should you happen to plummet from a platform or cable. I gave mine a few extra twists of the wheel, leaving bowl marks on my head when I removed it later.  My brains weren’t going anywhere, although some friends questioned whether I had already lost my mind.   I looked like a rock star, or at least, a rock climber. 

Heading out into the forest in a jeep we arrived first at “flight school”.  Here we learned how to position our hands and legs, readjust and center our bodies should they drift left or right; how to brake, slowing our zip enabling us to make it to the platform without crashing into a tree. We were given a briefing on the hand signals the guide would be communicating to us from the awaiting platform.  These were clear enough... a newborn would "get it".  The most important thing we learned was self-rescue.  What??  Rescue myself? What were the odds?  This certainly came in very handy in my personal experience, although I was able to enlist the help of Brandon when I encountered the perfect storm of opportunity. 

Then, off to cross the first of two rope bridges to our debut platform and zip.  I have to admit, the first time, I was sweating profusely and shaking so badly I looked like I had been plucked from the sea water of the Titanic. First zip completed, I dried up, jitters gone and could not wait to do it again.  The views from the platforms were spectacular and soothed me while waiting my turn.  A few zips under my straps, and I was Tarzan reincarnated.  

Then, we came to the rappel.  The guide told me to walk to the very edge of the platform, squat down as far as I could, (my kneecaps recoiled in horror) and the piece’ de resistance... LIFT my right leg and PIVOT around so I now faced the platform, tush  hovering over the edge, just sitting there, mid air, straps cradling my derriere.  Then, when my toes were higher than my nose, (or was it the other way around?) I could begin to rappel.  Slowly, or quickly, it was my choice.  I was the master of my destiny and descent to the ground.  Not so bad.  Actually very fun.  My creative mind whirled again as I envisioned my future with the Secret Service Swat Squad.  A Bond girl for seniors. 

Sadly, as I  sensed we were coming to the end of my big adventure and fantasy,  I made my mind up to fully savor the final zip- every long, fast, second of it.  As I zipped along what our guides claimed, everyone’s favorite, I exhaled and finally emitted a big,  long, WOOOHOOO.  I paid attention to every delicious detail. I listened, and really heard the zipping sound as I shot across the cable.  I felt every breath of the air, rushing  onto  my face.  I was so fully alive and alert, I’m sure the forest even felt my energy.  Then, the final rappel.  This time, my body just knew to go to the edge, squat, pivot, and drop like a rock to the ground.  I picked up my reward, my pot of gold, and proudly walked out of the forest into the reality, I had just check marked another ‘to-do” off of my bucket list!  

My Fellow Dare-Devils

Oh, and yes, another positive from this awesome experience.  I thought I lost my abs about ten years ago at the Battle of the Bulge. It appears they have just been MIA.  I heard them screaming for help late last night.  They’ve been located.  What a relief.  I took two aspirin and went to bed. 

Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right.- Henry Ford

Inspiration

When my daughter was just hours old, I recall the nurses bringing her back into my room, swaddled tightly in a little pink blanket.  All family and visitors had left and I had my brand new baby girl all to myself.  As I held her in my arms, staring into her tiny face, the one thing I was most in awe of was her alert, all knowing eyes, smiling into mine as if to say, “Well hello, mama (and she calls me this today)! I am so happy to see you again!”  I lifted her little body to my face, kissed her tiny rose bud lips and inhaled the freshness of her.  The word inspire in Latin means to breathe upon or into.  My daughter has inspired me from the moment she was hours old.  Just as my body nurtured her into life, she has breathed life back into mine, many, many, times. 

All of these thoughts were prompted after she ran her very first 5K yesterday.  She completed it running every single, hilly, terrained mile.  Her little girls were lined up along the path, pride and awe lighting up their faces as they clapped and cheered her to the finish line. Waiting with them was her incredible husband, who pre-race, shouted his pride from the pages of Facebook for his world of friends, to hear.  She is a very lucky young woman to have so much love and support.  She knows it, appreciates it, and thrives in the glow of it.  She deserves it.  She is the epitome of tenacity.    

My sweet girl was born with a hand anomaly.  Two of her fingers on both hands were webbed.  This has never been an impediment for her in doing anything she wanted to do.   When she was small, she shrugged it off like it was just an itchy little mosquito bite.  The kids in the neighborhood never really questioned her hands. They too were mesmerized by her awesomeness.  She was the CEO of our block and pretty bossy from time to time.   I have to give her credit, she even got the little boys to dress up in girls clothes and wigs engaging them in some make-believe scheme.  She wore the pants in the neighborhood!  We joke today, perhaps she was the fire starter in igniting the flame of homosexuality in one of her little male playmates!   She underwent 3-4 surgeries before she was even 5 years old and started school.  This, didn’t stop her from building one handed sandcastles, making mud pies, or dangling from the trapeze on her swing set, one arm in a cast. When she was 11, she tried out for band at her elementary school.  An insensitive music instructor suggested to her, she may want to play the trombone.  She didn’t and boldly told him she wanted to play the trumpet.  He begrudgingly told her she could, but wouldn't give her a year and she would get frustrated.  She played the trumpet, and ultimately played it well enough to be in the marching band in high school AND qualified for a seat in the exclusive Jazz Band, both her junior and senior years.   

Sadly she shares the unfortunate experience of many losses; beloved and significant people in her life, at very early age.  She lost one grandmother when she was in middle school, yet used that loss to motivate her to perform in a Show Choir and dedicate many of her performances to her grandma.  In College she was destroyed by the loss of another young grandmother, one she had spent almost all of her free time with, from babyhood through high school.   The grief made her question the meaning of many things and drove her into a sabbatical her Junior year.  She came back home to regroup and tried to make some sense of life.  Six months at home, the passion to return and get her degree, compelled her to switch Colleges, mid stream.  She battled with school officials getting them to accept the credits she had already accumulated, and did not stop until they saw things her way.  One day, she barged through the door announcing the Fisher College of Business at OSU  had proclaimed she would be graduating with her BA in Business and Marketing at the Spring graduation ceremonies.  

The death of a beloved step-dad and mentor, while wrenching in dealing with such a profound loss,  made her more determined to take the lessons learned from her time with him and appreciate the many gifts he brought to her life; a new church and religion that fits her like a glove.  She inherited his set of values and the integrity he portrayed in his daily dealings with her.  Her little ones are blossoming under this nurturing spirituality today.  He taught  her service to others is the pathway to happiness and humor is the best way through the tough times.  Once again, she extracted the good from a very difficult period and went on determined to not waste time on self-pity and find the blessings instead. 

Today, her parenting skills leave me humbled and amazed.  Her commitment to her little girls, their self-esteem, character, and providing them a well -rounded life, is a beautiful thing to witness.  She has this balance in her life I  never seemed able to achieve.   She is a supportive, committed wife, a loyal friend, a determined professional and leader, and a shining example of womanhood to her daughters.  She knows what is important to and for her and will go to the ends of the earth to fight for that. 

I spend a lot of time reading the words of so many wise ones and gurus.  It occurred to me as I watched this young woman come down the hill and push towards the finish line yesterday, inspiration can also be obtained in mindfully looking around and really seeing those people who are a part of our daily lives.  We can be changed and inspired by those we know so very well, if we just step back  and observe how they work with the fate they are dealt.... How they take what's been handed, mold it into something magnificent, and walk in this world. 

Woo Hoo Miss Christi!  You did it!  Proud mama here!

Someone I once loved gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too was a gift.- Mary Oliver

When I was a child, I was terrified of the dark. I had this routine before bedtime.  I opened the closet door to check inside to make sure the only things hanging out were my clothes.  Then, I would drop to my knees beside the bed, lift the dust ruffle and peek underneath. My dad wasn’t the kind of guy to provide us with the comfort of a night light.  No wussy kids in the Colonel’s household!   I’d go to bed and lie awake shivering with fear; certain I missed a corner of the closet, anticipating the feel of the bogey man’s breath on my face. Most nights I didn’t leave the bed, no matter what.  If my bladder absolutely could not stand the strain, necessitating a dreaded trip to the potty, I would sprint out the bedroom door to the bathroom.  Mission and task completed, I would then long jump back into bed, barely surviving the hand I just knew was going to reach out and grab my ankles, and pull  me into the nether world beneath.  Every night was an undelightful adventure in getting dumped inside a nature preserve filled with lions, and tigers, and bears with nothing but my feather pillow to defend me.  Daylight would come and I would breathe a sigh of relief that I survived another night of horrors.  

Essentially that fear of the darkness has followed me a good part of my life. I hate the unknown and I would do practically anything, including selling off pieces of my soul to avoid that heart pounding fright of being alone, in the dark.  Comfort for me came in being able to clearly see the road ahead and the path behind. I could control  things then.  Be prepared was my motto. A few years ago this great big package of everything I feared was presented to me.  It was especially difficult as it was handed to me, tied up with a cheery, bright bow of potential new beginnings, (with a smile) by people I liked and trusted, and someone I dearly loved. All illusion of happiness and safety was ripped away as the lid fell down on the box, trapping me inside, alone, in the darkness.

For a while, heart-pounding and gasping for air, I clawed at the sides of the box.  I yelled for help, but no one heard me.  Finally, my voice gone, exhausted and resigned, I surrendered to the blackness.  Oh, there were days when the monsters pinched, poked, and tortured me to tears.  Demons of depression, isolation, loneliness, and inadequacy taunted me.   I had never been in the darkness like this before, for so long with no imminent rescue in sight.   So, I stopped, became still and settled in.  I became more comfortable with where I was at, and simply road the waves of fright, stillness, entrapment and hopelessness.  I began to recognize, even in the box, those were all just emotions and I sensed there was so much more here than that.  Acceptance of them set in.  There were no demons or angels.  It all just ebbed across the span of the moments. 

I also began to hear the whisper of a voice... soothing and reassuring;  a message I don’t believe I ever heard quite like this before.  I thought I was all alone.  The voice chuckled at my discovery and said, “Sometimes, it takes the darkness in order to really hear.”  In the darkness I have learned to listen to what is being spoken rather than what is said, looking with the eyes of my soul rather than the visual presentation playing out in front of me.   I’ve stared down the bogey man of loss, betrayal, isolation, and insecurity and watched as those pathetic little creatures scampered off, tail between their legs.  

When I got quiet enough inside the darkness of the box, I  found this light!   It cast it’s soft glow on this beautiful woman of compassion, talent, humor, confidence, integrity, and most of all,  great courage.  I don’t ever think I really ever saw her in the daylight.  But, there she was, all along... a gemstone hidden inside that dark box. 

Today, lying in the dark is an act of faith.  It’s there it seems I’ve found this incredible  peace.  There is comfort and freedom in the knowledge, I  don’t  have to see anything clearly all the time.  Sometimes its just better to blindly grope our way through, trusting and letting the light inside show us the way. I don’t need  be afraid of what I can’t see.  Whatever new bogey man crosses my path, will be invited in for a good conversation about his contribution to my life and growth.  No more long jumps to avoid what’s under the bed. 

What I believed I couldn’t survive, has given me the ability to thrive.  I thank the VIP in my life for my box of darkness.  I’m sure from time to time I'll return to the box.  Mostly for comfort or to be recharged by the Light.  Revisiting that gemstone lying inside isn’t a bad idea either. 

“You put high heels on and you change”- Manolo Blahnik

I used to tell people, "I am a shoe whore".  The reality is, I’m in the business of accumulating shoes.  I don’t think I have an addiction.  Perhaps an undiagnosed case of Hyper Shoe Disorder. I’ll admit I have a stable of shoes, and it’s still not enough. I’m coming out of the closet, along with my shoes.  I am a hard core shoe pimp. I was forced to consider this possibility the other day when I opened my shoe closet and a pair of Lucite and rhinestone stilettos fell from the top shelf and bonked me on the head.   Yes..... I have a closet designated just for my shoes.  Two- 20 compartment bags dangle from the clothing rod and three racks rest underneath.  The top shelf is a mountain of rubber, leather, wood and plastic, molded into the shape of shoes. It’s no wonder the Barbarella shoes caused a mild concussion.  Time to move into closet number two.  

I’m not a fussy or discriminatory shoe pimp either, although I do tend to be drawn to styles that make a statement; the kind that scream, “I am shoe, hear me roar.”    My psychedelic, Magical Mystery Tour, lime green and orange espadrilles, were the number one gal in my stable a few summers ago. One winter, my bronzy gold, pointy toe cowboy boots started conversations in places you wouldn’t expect to appreciate the allure of Goldfinger western wear. I name my shoes too.  I kind of think of myself as the Mother Theresa of footwear. Give me your poor, your cheap, your 7 inch heels.  I’m frequently adoptive mom to last season’s fashion failures and over the top designs which, sadly, find themselves in bargain basements.  I give them a home, sweeping them into my shopping bag, and later, sliding them on my loving feet. I just can’t bear to see a pair of shoes neglected.  When I spied some mango colored pumps (marked down three times) my right brain cranked out a mental fashion spread using the clothes in my closet; eventually matching those shoes to a little floral skirt with just that shade in one of the flowers.  Almost every shoe has such potential.  All they need is a great skirt, or dress, coaxing them to release their artistry.  I offer my feet as their canvas.  

There ain’t no mountain, or shoe high enough to keep me away.  My unconditional love is returned a hundred-fold. I’m 5’3”.  When I put on my six inch heels, my shoes tell me, “Baby, you’re a super model!”   I don’t really need to lose those extra ten pounds.  I clearly fall within the appropriate weight range for my height!  Like a best friend, my shoes focus on my attributes. They exclaim:

 “See how slender your ankles look in these Roman lace-ups?  No cankles for you, you old fox.” 

 “That strappy lime green stiletto sandal really compliments your tiny neon pink toes.”

“Could your thighs look any tauter in these knee high hooker boots?”  

They know my love language is affirmations, and provide plenty. Every time I slide a pair on my size six foot, I feel ten feet tall!   

My shoes also provide me the opportunity to play many roles, a daily debut.  Reading my mind, my puce and violet patent leather stilettos smile and say,  “Feeling sassy today you Brazilian Goddess?  Wear me.” 

My thick-strapped, black, five inch chunky heeled Roman soldier sandals, huskily taunt me with their domineering presence.  “Ready to conquer the world today, Wonder Woman?

“So you really think this date is worthy of you Mae West?” questions my black sateen and rhinestone dazzlers. Wink. Wink. 

My shoes are a safe outlet to express a minor case of multiple personality disorder. 

I have to confess, I’m not a big winter shoe gal. First, I hate the confinement of my feet  encased in sheepskin, leather and sensibility.  Second, even their names are unattractive.  Ugg... Boot...Clog. Ugh!    Compare that to the sound of summer shoes. Thong, slingback, kitten heels,peek-a-boo, stilettos.....pumps.  Oh, my God.  I am a shoe whore.  And, a foot doctor’s dream date! 

  

Liar, liar, pants on fire!

Years ago, my husband relayed to his father, how I had fallen asleep, in the midst of a conversation (one sided apparently) right before bed.  He said, “She looked me in the eyes, smiled, bobbed her head, and nodded off right in the middle of my sentence!”  My father-in-law laughed and said to him, “Son, that’s a great thing!   Your wife obviously has a very clear conscience!”  God bless him.  That’s one measure I use in determining whether I am conducting my life in an honest manner.  No secrets tapping at my subconscious, trying to get my attention and keeping me awake.  I’m a terrible liar too.  I’m not sure if my nose grows to ginormous proportions, or canary feathers are peeking out from the edges of my mouth, but most anyone can tell, at a glance, if there is a lie bubbling up in this being. I can’t seem to hide it. 

Nonetheless, there is a from of dishonesty I have been guilty of.  I only recently became aware of it so, I’m not going to sentence myself to anything dreadful.  You have to know it’s a crime before you can be convicted, and I plead insanity.  I used to think remaining silent when people hurt me, or were crossing boundaries, was a positive thing; turning the other cheek was an attribute, right?  What a loving, kind person I was!    Sigh....the sacrificial martyr;  post death I would surely be nominated for sainthood for my generous gift...of.... inauthenticity.  Someone special told me a year or so ago, not speaking up and telling people the truth about what we need, or how we feel, is the same as lying about who we are.   I was shocked.  A rewind of the past revealed the damage I did to myself not honestly acknowledging my feelings, and to others, in never really letting them know me.  

The news last week focused on some over the top lies and shocking betrayals. Real whoopers.  The kind of lies that destroy lives and leave people stunned in trying to reconcile if they ever really knew the perpetrator. Hitler said, “If you tell a big enough lie, and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.  These liars, haven’t just lied, they’ve lived it for a long, long time...  I think they’ve also existed in that space for so many years, they do believe they’re above accountability, repercussions, or making amends of any kind.   Their internal gauge for right and wrong isn’t just broken... it’s missing.   Time Magazine this week used a pig to represent the cover story in speaking about these entitled men and their lack of empathy toward others.   I think it’s an insult to the poor pig.  At least a pig can plead ignorance.  They aren’t the brightest barnyard animal in the pen.   

First we have Strauss-Kahn who allegedly raped the chambermaid in the hotel room, where he was a guest.  He saw absolutely nothing wrong with selfishly indulging in sex with the frightened woman.  It was consensual, according to him.  She just happened to walk right into his penis as he was toweling off from a shower, and I'm sure couldn’t resist the allure of this 60 something year old man's body.   This is not the first time he has been bold enough to help himself as, sadly, his third wife, turns a blind eye and defends him and his despicable, narcissistic behavior.   Then, we have “The Terminator”, Arnold Swartzneggar, who proceeded to annihilate his political career, his credibility and most important his wife, and children.  We aren’t talking about merely an indiscretion here, or an affair.  We are talking about years of deception, betrayal and dishonesty.  Happily, his wife has chosen to be an example to other woman in refusing to believe she is worthy of that kind of treatment.  Love or not, she will move forward post grief and be a happier, stronger, person recognizing that true love doesn’t ask that we live with secrets, selfishness, and shame. 

It would seem that lies come in all shapes and sizes exploding in degrees of damage.  I’m not sure the lies we tell by not being authentic are spiritually different from the lies we tell others to get something we want.  Both are equally damaging to human souls.  Both are connected with an underlying theme of a fear based life....  Fear that we aren’t enough, or that we won’t get enough. We lie when we’re afraid... afraid of what we don't know,  afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us.  But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger. 

Lying is a selfish act which robs others of their choices.  Whether it strips an individual of the facts and clarity in whether or not to leave a marriage or relationship, or the right to make an informed choice about who we have sex with; or simply, the basic information in allowing others to decide whether they want to be our friend or not.    

I sat in a support group meeting last week and a gentleman made this statement, "I learned I didn’t lie because I was a dishonest person, I lied because I was afraid."  

We must recognize, we are all human, we are, who we are, and that's plenty good enough. We all make mistakes and the best we can do is honestly amend them and try not to repeat them. Until we learn to live with that truth, we will continue to live in fear. And, as long as we live in fear, we'll lie.  

These days, I am trying my best to set up housekeeping with authenticity and joy.  Fear has been banished to those stronger than I am to haul around that baggage. 

Joy is the best make-up - Anne Lamott

Beautiful People

Recent media attention has focused on a few news stories that have outraged the general population.  Seems a young mother in California has been giving her eight year old daughter Botox injections.  She views this as an act of love and support. It was all done to give the little girl an edge over the other tiny contestants in beauty pageants she was competing in.  Apparently, her adorable little dimples were viewed as wrinkles by some of the other moms.  I’ve always looked at dimples as a gift from God, a physical manifestation of a happy spirit!  All that joy carving out accents around the mouth, like a lovely work of art to be admired.  

The news also broke last week, if you were over 35, you had no business wearing a miniskirt; by 47 your bikini days were over, and when you reach the ripe old age of 51, the stilettos need to be placed in mouth balls. Best of all, at 61, bathing suits of any kind... banned!  Perhaps that means skinny dipping then becomes acceptable?  Or, shall we all don, diving attire then?  Spandex at 61 somehow doesn’t seem ideal either.  It isn’t very comfortable.  In France a few years ago, I was delighted to see how settled in everyone seemed to be with their bodies.  Old women on the beach, thong style suits, topless, their pendulous breasts drooping down to tickle their little round tummies.  Leathered old men, sporting neon Speedos. These flirty Frenchmen’s  butts looked like they  abandoned residence from their backsides, relocating and setting up permanent housekeeping in their burgeoning bellies.  I thought they all were beautiful.  I was fascinated by their sensuous pleasure in the sun and sand, and joyous freedom from the bondage of other people’s opinions.  

Is it any wonder our young people have issues with body image and self confidence.  The hypnotic brain washing of print media, the fashion world, and our own insecurities (created in part by the media and rich malcontents) has crept into the belief systems of our youngest, like an insidious fog, blinding them to real beauty.  It’s time it ended.  Attempts have been made the last few years.  We had the Dove Real Women Campaign.  Women of all ages, shapes and sizes posed joyfully in underwear.  More realistically shaped Barbie Dolls found their way to store shelves too.  Clothing lines, as fashionable as clothing available to the petite, focused on big, beautiful women.  Somehow, I think even these changes still feeds the madness.  Accommodating, yes, but we’re still focusing on appearances.  It’s going to take decades to change the current generations interpretation of beautiful.   I’m not sure our economy is ready for that financial hit.  Think about all the money that’s spent to fix up the outside... The diet, fashion and beauty industry alone could likely eliminate our National Deficit.  As “beautiful” as we have all become with our perfect fashion, skin, hair, boobs, and abs, discontent prevails and we continue to seek Happy. Maybe another face lift, or ten pounds, or a younger looking model on our arm will lead us into the land of milk and honey and a perfect life.  Perhaps, its time to explore some other options....

I heard an outraged mother make the statement that we need to begin raising our children from the inside, out.  I wonder if world peace would be possible (and Miss America pageants would go by the wayside for lack of participation) if we taught our children the importance of non-judgement, acceptance, integrity, and kindness.  What if we taught them about the wonder of their bodies, how they miraculously work behind the scenes for us so that we can enjoy this earthly life and all its pleasures?  What if we taught them a body works most efficiently when nourished well with fresh, wholesome foods?  What if we taught them a body loves to move, and it's fun to play tag, dangle from the jungle gym, roller-skate, bike-ride, and dance in the rain? What if we taught them that a smile is better than Botox or a year’s supply of the finest cosmetics? What if we told them laughter generates a brighter glow than any make-over?  What if we taught them to identify something beautiful about every person they meet?  What if we exposed them to beauty through the eyes of many cultures and throughout history?  What would that kind of internal change do for their perception of their own appearance?  More important what would that do for their contribution to the world? I believe it would break this cycle of self-loathing, and carve a new path to good health, freedom, and happiness.  We are held in bondage by our beliefs about beauty, just as much as we experienced the bondage of segregation, half a century ago. 

Beautiful people come in all shapes and sizes.  I know I didn’t always believe that and bought into the madness too.   Maybe a shift takes place as we get older and recognize our time on this earth is winding down. Perhaps we finally get, it just isn’t worth our time to fret about a natural process that is merely physical. Maybe it's enough to do our best enjoying our remaining days spending meaningful time with others, filling our souls with our passions, and really looking at this fabulous world we live in as the greatest Art we’ll ever witness. Maybe instead of being Art Critics, we become Art Appreciators.  Perhaps we just begin to look around and redefine beauty by using the eyes of Spirit.  We aren’t physical beings having a spiritual experience.  We are spiritual beings experiencing a physical life and all that comes with it.  What remains long after the body becomes weak, diminished, and tired is real Beauty.  What remains is the joy of a human experience well lived, not well preserved.  The memories, the tenderness, the service, the joys and sorrows, the Love.  That is what I see dancing around in the eyes of my 92 year old neighbor.  That is what I saw the other day at a luncheon, in the sweet smile and brilliant glow of a lady who was likely 100 pounds overweight.  To me she looked a cherub, right from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, spreading the joy and delight of her great life with everyone in the room.  That is what I see in the etched, wise, Mona Lisa smile of my mother-in-law.  A kind compassion and all knowing, answered if asked, yet allowing others to experience their journey. Beautiful.  

It’s time we all explored the nuances of beauty.  Just leaving open the option that we just may find some unexpected delights in the world’s definition of imperfection.  It’s then we might begin to know that real beauty can, and does last forever. Most of all, it just may free us to wear stilettos at 70 and go topless on a beach in the coastal regions of France.  We can leave this road map of a happy, joyous, free, life to  future generations, wrinkle by wrinkle. 

"There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this Source, you will truly have defeated age." –Sophia Loren

When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me to give birth to myself - Nancy Friday

MY MOM.....................

It’s been almost 23 years since my mother died.  She missed so many things in my life, even in her younger years.  Addiction robbed her children of a close relationship with her.  Far worse, it stole a large chunk of her life and snatched away so many blessings.   By the time I reached adulthood, marriage, and having my own child, the insidiousness of alcoholism had taken her to a helpless, hopeless, and solitary state. It highjacked her home, marriage, self-respect, children, and most of all her identity. She missed both of her children’s first weddings and births of grandchildren, and by the time my brother and I had figured out how to select healthier marriages, the second time around, she had passed on. 

 She walked into the rooms of recovery, and blossomed under the light of awareness as well as discovering a Creator that had loved her all long; something she craved all her life...desperately. Seven years later, an equally aggressive disease infiltrated her body.... brain cancer. She was 51 years old when she died.  It seemed to me to be cruel punishment for a woman who had already suffered so much in her lifetime. I felt cheated.  She didn’t.  She was so grateful for experiencing those few years unshackled from the bottle.  No matter, what, she was my mother.  I made my peace with the raging battle inside me that spoke fighting words about the damage she had done to my life and I chose to love her deeply instead.  She revealed a treasure trove of spiritual tools before she left her earthly role as my birth mother.  Examples of how to live a surrendered life, one day at a time, were mind-boggling to me as she graciously walked through her cancer and three months later, death.  The day of her diagnosis, she said to me, “I’m not really scared.  I have lived such a blessed life.”  I didn’t think so at the time, but she did, and that’s all that mattered.  I was highly pissed off at God for not allowing her more time to dance in her new found joy and freedom.  More selfishly, for the time I felt entitled to in getting to know her as a human being. 

I vividly recall the last time I flew out to be with her.  She was living (and dying) in Phoenix.  I had taken my adolescent daughter with me sensing this might be the last time I would see her in this earthly life. Head shaved, thin, and often incoherent, it was not only difficult for me to witness the deterioration of her body, but some of her behaviors teleported me back to a frightened little seven year old. The nature of her cancer and its location caused her to behave like she often did in her addiction.  Facial expressions, slurring her words, and measured gait made it hard for my mind to stay focused on the reality of the present.  It all opened up the stuffy, musty attic of the past.  Something I had boxed up, put into storage and moved away... as far as I could.  It did bring me to the realization that her alcoholism was as much of a disease as her brain cancer and set into motion some empathy and understanding.  

It’s hard to see our parent’s as souls with tears, fears and foibles.  It’s much harder to take a walk into their past.   After she passed away, going through her things, (which felt like a severe violation of her privacy), I found some of her letters from others to her; books with inscriptions, old legal papers, and special items sent to her through the years.  Pictures of a little girl on a pony being led by an older sister and brother-in-law with a note on the back, “mom and dad #2”  a smiling, skinny, teenage girl, prancing in her majorette uniform; and later, a beautiful, sophisticated, unhappy, solemn wife- dressed fit to kill for a mandatory Officers wives function. Letters through the years from various people, many condemning her lifestyle, her parenting skills, her morality were appalling, even to me.  Why would she keep such negative documentation of those dark periods of her life?  Angry pre-divorce letters passed back and forth between spouses who had grown too far apart to ever pull anything together again. Amongst all the drama that unfolded novel style, a few shining stars - handmade Mother’s Day Cards from my brother and I, pictures of her two newborn granddaughters.  Special books she had received in her recovery, highlighted and annotated.  One made a particular impact.  The chapter was on feelings, learning to identify them in order to be able to accept and walk through them.  She had written next to the words “less than” and “isolated”, I have felt this way all of my life.  I sat, book in my lap and cried.  It explained so much to me. I packed it all up and shipped it home, to myself, after her funeral.  I wasn’t sure why.  

Years after her death I did study her letters and memorabilia like a hungry neophyte seeking the meaning of her life. Finally for her, and me, I burned the majority of the docu-dramas.  They served their purpose. They gave me insight about her journey and the overwhelming shame connected to so much of it.  Enlightened, I learned it really was just her story, not the soul she was, and it served no purpose for anyone to live with that kind of regret and fear anymore. I have to come to know today, that when we live connected by a genetic umbilical cord of dysfunction of any kind, it carries on, down through the generations.  It was time to severe that cord and reconnect... at the heart, with love.  My little family no longer needs to live with an inheritance of secrets, fear, and shame.  I also discovered we were never really so different, my mom and I.  She was fun-loving, kind, social, intelligent, and loyal. She had hopes and dreams too.  She was a perfect soul, navigating an imperfect world.  As am I. 

Through these years since her death, I’ve had so many miraculous things that have allowed  me to peel back the layers and understand my real mom as well as helped to build a healing bridge connecting me, to her.  Evidence that even death cannot steal from us the love OR relationship.  I like to think of her as fulfilling her maternal instincts, now, as my guardian angel.  She has heavenly guided so many other beautiful women my way through these many years; second mom’s, step-mom's, mother-in-laws, mother figures, mentors, best friends.  They all have blessed me, helping to fill that aching void of a motherless daughter. I treasure and will hold them close to my heart, always,  for their unconditional love, support and the many things they've taught me. It doesn’t take a blood line to build a mother. 

Happy Mother's Day to the
woman I was privileged to
mother.....

I wonder, as I end this Tribute to my Mom on Mother’s Day, if other’s will perceive it as a Tribute?   It doesn’t matter.  I know she does.  She helped me write it. The legacy she left with me is far more beautiful, and meaningful, than any storybook tale of a mother’s love I could create.


I miss her every day.  She knows that too.  That's why she continues to touch my heart through others.

Happy Mother’s Day to Women everywhere.   

Asking is the beginning of receiving. Make sure you don't go to the ocean with a teaspoon. At least take a bucket so the kids won't laugh at you. - Jim Rohn

I’ve never understood the platitude, “It’s as blessed to receive as it is to give.”  I am a giver.  Before you begin applauding me for my contributions to humanity, you also need to know that my motives for giving haven’t always been selfless.  I’m not diminishing a strength I do possess: I have an enormous capacity for compassion.  That gift has come packaged, without bubble wrap to cushion the impact of a myriad of personal tragedies and life experiences.  For the most part, I can close my eyes, walk in others shoes, and relate on at least a heartfelt level.  So, I’m not going to be too mean to myself.  I honestly didn’t recognize, I was carrying around this tattered, decades old agenda, I often pulled out to chart the operatives in my giving affairs.  I wasn’t even very selective. I gave of my time, my heart, my loyalty, my body and my money, often to those that didn’t even want what I had to offer. That particular awareness has come about in these last ten years, as I’ve trepidatiously tip-toed inward to discover who this spirit, disguised as a human being, is. 

Closer scrutiny revealed how often I gave just to be accepted, loved, or obtain something I thought I had to have; or, amend, what I perceived as past poor behavior for sins I committed.  Unforgivable crimes..... like having the audacity to be born in such an untimely manner, or not being a good enough wife, girlfriend, daughter, mother... human being.   I was the self-appointed little Deity pronouncing judgement on myself as well sentencing me to a larger than necessary dose of retribution.  Instead of four hundred Hail Marys and a thousand Our Fathers, I gave until it harmed me, spiritually, emotionally, physically, socially and financially.  What I heard Mini-God-Me say was, you better keep giving or you will never, ever, be good enough to get to wherever it was good people went.  I thought I needed to earn the RIGHT to receive and I just knew I would never be able to pay it forward enough to inherit the Kingdom on Earth let alone Heaven. 

I am much better today extending myself in healthy ways, and kindly walking away from the giving tree when I don’t feel like shaking its leaves free for you.  In the past, I would have chopped it down, cut it up into firewood and hauled it to your house.  You wouldn't have even had to ask. 

Receiving, even after enlightenment set in, still makes me squirm.  Receiving demands you surrender, accept, and take the risk that you might intimately be touched in some way. Receiving involves loving yourself enough to recognize what you are tenderly doling out to others, you are deserving of, as well.   

Surrender was not in my vocabulary.  To be able to surrender, you have to trust that someone or something else is occasionally equipped to run the show and play their role in the unfolding of the Universe. My childhood tapes played back in a very masculine voice, “YOU can do anything YOU set your mind to do all by yourself.”  And, acceptance... well, that was just another word for giving up.  I’ve worked hard on redefining surrender and acceptance.  In my dictionary, it now means, knowing I am not the Master of the Universe, there is a plan, others are a part of the plan, and it is okay to let them make their unique contributions.  Sometimes their contributions might involve doing something, helping, or giving.... to me too.   Surrender and acceptance have come to mean peace of mind as I ALLOW others to do their holy work and occasionally help me move through mine.  I could actually ASK for their help too. 

There is a risk to this receiving stuff.  Intimacy.... Yikes.... That word made me shudder, break out in a cold sweat and bolt.... as fast as I could. When we receive, we are opening ourselves up to the recognition, we are worthy, we are connected by Love, compassion and generosity.  It is a part of each one of us, just waiting to be asked. It is the part of us, the Father, whose face lights up at being able to bring joy to His own creation. It is the Father who says I want to give you it all and their are big things in store for you. Those emotions and the enormity of that kind of Love frightened me.  I just knew it would leave, like love often does.  

I’ve slowly been opening myself up to receiving and am beginning to see how treasured I am by the many faces of my Creator, who wants to give me so much, but hasn’t been able to because I’ve been using my own measly little teaspoon at the ocean to construct my sand castles.  It’s been exhausting.  All I needed to do was bring the big empty bucket! Then, watch the look of joy as others help Him to fill it and my heart, with hope and dreams come true.  When I think back to the payoff in satisfaction and joy I get when I give, why wouldn’t I want to give that joy to others and welcomingly receive too? 

So, when I got the phone call a few weeks ago to RECEIVE the gift of having my bare feet washed at my church as a part of the Maundy Thursday ritual, I looked skyward and asked, “Is this a test?”  I think it was.  I mean, seriously, it’s rather intimate to have someone bathe your toes, especially a Priest!  We hadn’t even had a first date!   But, I buffed and softened my heels, trimmed my nails and painted them a pretty shade of pink. As I was called to the alter, along with the other eleven “disciples” (I’m certain I was Thomas) that evening, I squirmed restlessly in my chair. I saw the Priest, the deacons, and the servers approach my feet slowly and meaningfully.  They 

poured soothing warm water over my toes, a pan underneath catching it.. then, gently towel dried my feet with bleached white, fresh towels.  As they completed their task, they each smiled, shook my hand, and thanked me!  I was stunned.  And I sat there, and they moved on to the next "disciple", tears began to mist, I was intimately touched by the understanding of the  loving gift Jesus gave his disciples after The Last Supper. I became aware in that moment of the power of allowing others to give us the gift of their service.  When we begin to get comfortable with receiving, it is then that our world becomes larger and full of so much possibility! And, it all starts with saying yes, or just asking. 

Pictorial To-Do List for 2011

Take the time to  wander  through
God's art gallery.

Learn to skip.

Dance, dance, dance.... 

Schedule play dates with your Inner Child.

Pause and refresh.

Cuddle with your favorite people

Stay in the Moment

When you feel like you're drowning... Stop struggling.
Check out the view instead.

Learn to love every season of your life.

Sing out loud! 

Inhale...... Exhale.....

Look at your world from different views.

Work hard and make your unique
contribution, every day.

Read the entire collection!

And finally, Pray (you talk to God)
Meditate (you listen to God)
every day......