Risk Loving.....

The death of Betty Ford last week left me awash in my own memories of similar struggles. Her openness and willingness to expose them to the world, changed and saved lives. That is why we are here:  to open up our hearts to others, showing them who we are, risking judgement and our egos for a much greater good. We will gain so much more than we could ever  lose by choosing to be ourselves and to love. 


 Twenty-four years ago, Love reached out, and pulled me out of the darkness of addiction, despair, and hopelessness.  The amazing thing is, I barely asked for help.  A tiny, frightened voice I recognized as my own, simply said, “If there is anything out there, help me, please.” That plea wafted through the air and reached the ears of Something greater than me.  Thus, began the journey to opening a heart that had been sealed up and mummified. When Love touches you like that, all that you have wrapped around it for protection begins to fall away.  Alcohol, drugs, busyness, control, manipulation, achievement, accumulation, and shallow relationships, no longer were an option to keep love (and life) at bay.  Everything paled in comparison to the promise of rebirth.   

Along with a new life, came new behaviors.  I had no idea how to give love. I had no idea what love was.  I equated love with being loyal, keeping secrets, and  tolerating betrayal and abandonment.  Love hurt.   I wasn’t interested in indulging in that.  So, I kept my heart and emotions tightly tucked away.   I only put myself out there so far, never far enough that you would ever really know who I was.  Although I didn’t want you to love me, I did want you to like me.  I didn't have a clue how to be intimate... with anyone.  I equated it to mean sexuality.  I was a giver... Or, so I claimed. It never occurred to me I was being inauthentic by giving you what you needed, at my expense. I didn't realize when I did everything to please others, without letting you know what I needed,  made me dishonest.    I also didn't know that to love anyone or anything else, you need to love yourself.  When you give to another from a place of low esteem, you are seeking validation; a faithless, selfish act.  I did a lot of that. I measured love by what you could give me, do for me, or how you made me feel.   

All that changed when that Hand reached out in Love and saved my life.  The bands of protection around my heart began to loosen and then, fall away.  Slowly at first, but eventually they were all gone.  My bare naked heart was able to breathe, inhaling in the freshness of faith and hope.   It softened and opened wide.  It was healthy and flexible, perhaps for the first time in my life.  It felt so alive in my chest. It twittered at a first kiss. It beat fast in anticipation of loved ones visits.  It did flip-flops when I laid eyes on my beautiful grandchildren for the very first time.  It squeezed tight at dear friends' disappointments and heartbreaks.  And it shattered into a million pieces at untimely deaths and lost loves.  

How can I ever repay in this life the Love that was extended to me twenty-four years ago?  My gratitude can be expressed by loving openly, without fear..... out loud.    It is only in loving in this manner, we move  down our path into greater enlightenment, joy, and peace.  It’s when the heart is broken that the hand of God reaches in and gently pieces it back together, healing it with Love.  It doesn’t matter, a hammer or a velvet glove, every emotion, felt in the heart, is reassurance of our aliveness and connection to Love....the Love that is flexible, consistent and eternal. We needn't recoil and build an unpenetrable wall around it anymore.   Every hairline fracture, every jagged crevasse, every chink is a blessed road map through the biography of our lives.

This morning as I meditated, tears flowed from my heart, out through my eyes.  I felt this message clearly, “You are so loved my child.”  I know when I reach the gates at the end of my days, the guardian angels won’t need to ask me the question, have you found joy in your life, and have you brought joy to others?  All they’ll need to do, is take a look at the condition of my heart to know just how much I continued to love, no matter what.  Revealed, they will see my vessel, full of large cracks and wide fissures, patched together like a delicate piece of beautiful antique pottery.  A  timeless work of Art. They’ll welcome me in saying, “A heart that worn and tattered, has certainly given and received immense joy."  You see, I've discovered, the only way to experience that kind of joy, is to risk loving.   

For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. 

 It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.--  Judy Garland

Life has taught me undeniably, that surrender, in its place, is as honorable as resistance, especially if one has no choice. -Maya Angelou

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And in utter nakedness,

But, trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.- William Wordsworth

This beautiful piece of William Wordsworth’s poem has always provided comfort. Especially in times of tragedy and loss.  If we enter this world trailing clouds of glory, coming from God, who is our home, then it makes sense we would depart this world, joyfully  trailing stars, fireworks of celebration, announcing our return to Home.  I like to think of stars as a portal between heaven and earth.  If I shut my eyes and make a wish I feel the love and energy of the universe holding me in a group hug.  I sense my loved ones who have moved on to their heavenly life, listening to my hopes and dreams.   I have done a lot of wishing upon the stars.   I learned a lesson this week.  Wishing is a wonderful practice,  even necessary.  It’s a faith based act praying our desires  into the Universe.  Occasionally, all the wishing in the world will not change things, and we must simply let go. The answer sometimes is... just let go.   

My cousin decided to do exactly that this week.  She is a beautiful young woman, the mother of two adolescent children, a loving wife; adored by all of her family, treasured by friends.  She’s an accomplished professional, a pillar in her community, and an incredibly wise old soul.  I didn’t know that part of her that is a wise old soul... until recently.  She was diagnosed with a very aggressive, inoperable cancer about five months ago.  Through it all, her mindset has been to fight and win the battle of her life, doing anything she needs to do to be victorious over this insidious disease. There was no room for any other outcome in her mind.   She had so many strikes against her right from the git go, but hasn’t let that stop her from charging ahead, ready to kick-box her illness into remission.  The news in the past weeks from her doctors that  her cancer has spread and there is no more they can do for her from a treatment aspect, would send most into a tailspin, spiraling into depression.  Not her.  She doesn’t have that kind of time.   She said, “It is what it is and I am not afraid to die.”  I am in awe. 

Her quote may sound resigned.  Her behaviour is not.  She has surrendered. Letting go doesn’t mean giving up, but rather accepting that there are things that just cannot or will not be.  In no way, shape, or form, has she stopped living her life, just for today.  She’s simply taken the energy she was expending slamming her shoulder against the closed door of a return to good health, and is using it to leave something special with each one of her family members.  She’s spent time, sharing her heart’s desires, for their lives. Some of the lessons she’s imparted are; fight for what you want and what you believe in, but when you know it’s not where you need to be, or part of the plan for your life, accept it and retreat.  Use your energy and time on this earth to share what you’ve learned and know, celebrate the fun times, and the abundance of love... mostly the love.  Don’t let self-pity and regret block the beauty of this unpredictable, chaotic, blessed life.  

I know, it would be impossible for me to deal with the sadness and such a profound loss if I felt that this was our final stop, the journey completed upon the  death of the body.  I know there is so much more.  I know our loved ones that go before us, are present in our lives always. Not in the same way, but perhaps, in a more powerful way.  The goodness of their lives, the kindnesses extended, the sacrifices made, the examples set, remains always, and changes us at our very core.  

My husband has been gone for twelve years.  I attended church a few weeks ago only to have him touch in and remind us all what a spiritual and compassionate person he was in life.  In his homily, one of our Deacons relayed an encounter he had with Mark when he was alive. This memory continues to play a role in how this gentleman conducts his life today.  I smiled and I cried.  They were tears of joy at the reminder of the goodness of my husband and gratitude that his story has continued on.  My three little grand-daughters who never knew him, were there to hear this testament as well. This simple act, many years ago,  that touched our Deacon’s life, has now become a powerful message in guiding others to live their lives less judgmentally and  more spiritually.  Our spirits do go on.  We do make a difference and the ripples of our imprint are felt for all eternity. 


This is the case already with our Kelly.  Her acceptance of her pending death...  Her reassurance to her children that she will always hear them and be an angelic presence in their lives.....  Her “lectures”, as her  nieces call them, reminding them to recognize their own worthiness and value always;  her immense faith and bravery that this is not the end of her, but simply the end of her physical body.  I know what I am witnessing is Grace in action.   I can’t even imagine.  Many of us know what it’s like to let go of  beloved relationship, a marriage, a home, a job... but how do you surrender your own life to death?  There can only be one explanation.  This is a soul that knows this is not her home and can rest comfortably knowing it isn’t ours either.  She knows we will all reconnect with each other again, someday.   

This living angel, a gift to us all, is showing us how we need to live while we are visiting here.  And when the time comes for her to leave this earthly existence, I know the trails of glory she will leave on her way Home, will light up the sky forever.  

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.