It's been quite some time since I ventured into the Hollisphere. I have asked myself on many occassions what is compelling me to keep my distance. On the one hand, I think I often doubt the relevance of my offerings - whether purging them from my mind and releasing them into cyberspace is in any way impactful or even appreciated. I've also considered whether laying bare my soul is actually worthwhile and/or beneficial in the grand scheme of things. I often find myself making silent apologies in my head - wishing I had held more tightly to the thoughts that escaped onto the page when I was at my most introspective or reckless.
But...despite all that, I find myself here again. And, from what I can deduce at the present moment, there is no more appropriate place for me to be. Thus, I bring you my account of my January cleanse which I intended to use as a jumpstart to a year of healthy living - a revival of my dedication to mastering my personal ultimate lifestyle. I welcome your judgments as to whether it was successful.
I considered inacting a cleanse for some time before actually diving in. 2011 was a difficult year for many reasons, and I thought that perhaps a cleanse would act as a fitting symbol for the sort of purge I was trying to accomplish - emotional...spiritual...physical. And, as I so very often do, I turned to the easily accessible, often unproven resources of the internet for guidance. As the great Billy Joel once crooned, "I don't know why I go to extremes"...but I do. I almost always do, so for me there was absolutely no other option but "The Master Cleanse".
Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with "The Master" as we'll call it, this particular cleanse involves an intense saltwater flush combined with a regiment of ingesting only liquid calories by way of a "lemonade" concocted of fresh lemon juice, real maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It sounds disgusting, but it is actually delicious albeit very high in sugar which I really didn't understand seeing as how I thought I was trying to avoid sugar..... Anyway, adhering to "The Master" meant performing the saltwater flush and drinking nigh unto 6-8 cups of the lemonade daily. There is also an "easing-in" period of consuming only living foods followed by only juices for about three days. Because I tend to believe myself to be invincible, I skipped that. The phrase "ease-in" does not exist in my vocabulary. The Piano Man and I have more than a few things in common....
Frightened of the explosive nature of the saltwater flush and keenly aware of my public persona, I chose to exercise a less aggressive elimination stimulant. They make a tea which can be used for this purpose which is actually quite pleasant. You can find it at any drugstore. The name makes my giggle, so I won't share it here, but you'll know it when you see it. (Not that I am recommending this cleanse....keep reading) Day 1 passed without incident, and because I am sometimes overly self-motivated, I was actually excited about the fact that I was not eating. Day 2 was pretty much the same. And, because I am every bit as competitive as I am dedicated, I decided to decrease my daily servings of "lemonade" to roughly 3 or 4 - about half of the recommended "dose". Every hunger pain or stomach growl issued a pat on the back from my conscious mind, but somewhere way back in the recesses of my being, there was a disturbance.
By Day 3, I was starting to falter. I went for a massage at my favorite spa, and upon revealing my intentions to my masseuse, found my massage being down-graded to a less toxin expelling version. Basically, she was forced to simply pet me for an hour. And, I was freezing! I was cold all the time - not just during my massage. I was having flu-like chills on the regular...I have never worn so many layers of clothing at one time in my life - not even on ski trips. I was beginning to think perhaps my plan was not such a good one, so I decided that on Day 4, I would allow myself a fist-sized portion of vegetables to try and defend myself against the effects of my choice.
When I awoke on Day 4, I was still freezing and felt strangely agitated. It was a Friday, so I was thankful that I would be able to spend a little time resting after the work day. I also began to notice a strange smell emanating from my skin. It was reminiscent of freshly cut grass mixed with some kind of citrus fruit, enhanced by a hint of copper. It was unnerving. Despite my extra long shower and brushing my teeth a record four times that day, I could not shake the smell. It was the new smell of "me", and I was going to have to either live with it or call it quits on the cleanse. I chose the former, but I did do a little research on the oh-so-reliable internet and found that my body had gone into ketosis, and while the smell was all-encompassing for me, other folks were probably not noticing it. I decided to stick to my plan for minimal vegetable consumption hoping that perhaps that would help to eliminate if not at least minimalize the odor, as it was not particularily pleasant.
That Friday evening, I ventured out to one of my favorite dining establishments called "Taco Bus" where I knew I would be able to order a simple dish of roasted butternut squash with avocado on top. I spent a good half hour savoring my tiny portion, conversing with friends and shivering. About 45 minutes into our visit, one of my friends began talking about a stone she had purchased at a New Age store across the street. She said that the shopkeeper had delivered a blessing onto the stone, and while we could all look at it, we were not allowed to touch it. She spoke about asking the stone to deliver its powers into her life. I found the idea intriguing. Another of my friends glanced across at the little shop and noted that there were psychic readings offered inside. She made mention of this fact, to which I responded that psychic readings were often rather expensive and typically vague. (I would have no real knowledge of this considering that I had never had one, but I read it on the internet, so it must be true.) There was a phone number on the window, so my friend pulled out her phone and called to see how much a reading would cost. It was surprisingly inexpensive. She made mention of this to the group, and everyone nodded.
Quite suddenly, I did something extremely out of character which surprised me AND my cohorts. I stood up and walked across the street. I'm not sure why I did it - I just did. It seemed to be the right thing to do, and I had an immediate inclination that constantly second-guessing my intuition was one of the many characteristics I needed to release. I carried myself across the street with gusto, then found myself entering the shop rather tentatively...suddenly afraid of the choice I had made.
I was greeted cheerfully by a kind gentlmen only a few years my senior named Chris. He asked if he could help me, and I told him that I wanted to inquire about a psychic reading.
"Nita is incredible," he told me. "She's with another guest just now, but she'll be done in just a few minutes if you'd like to wait."
I decided to do so. In an effort to make small talk, I asked Chris if he had been the one to bless my friend's stone. He smiled warmly and chuckled.
"That was me. There are good things coming your friend's way," he said. And, quite unexpectedly, I unquestioningly believed him.
Chris and I continued to chat, and he asked me what I do to help curb stress. I told him that I do yoga, but that I somehow find myself in a much more meditative space when I am running. He nodded, and asked me to look over my shoulder.
"Does the sculpture to your left resonate with you?" he asked.
I looked to my left, and there was an ornate statue of an indian chief with one arm extended up to the heavens and the other held down to his side - almost ironically positioned in a yogic "warrior" pose. I was suddenly choked up. My cultural heritage is heavily centered among the Cherokee, but by looking at me, you might not know it. I have a year-round tan but no other real specific native American physical traits. A million thoughts passed through my mind in response to Chris' inquiry, but my reply was simply, "yes".
He nodded, knowingly, but not condescendingly.
"I'd like to play something for you," he said, and bent over his computer. He summoned a YouTube channel where a young man sat stocially pounding out a simple but powerful rhythm on a single drum. I felt my breath catch in my chest as I listened. Standing there in the middle of that shop, my mind began to narrow to a singular focus. There was nothing but the sound of the drum. The rest of the world was silent. The other customer who was still behind me perusing a wall of books had ceased to exist. In an effort not to sound too dramatic, the moment was somewhat existential.
Chris pushed pause on the computer, and I shook my head some to relocate my connection with my body. I was standing in a New Age shop in downtown St. Pete waiting to receive a psychic reading. Even my reality seemed too surreal, so I decided to give in to it. Perhaps Chris sensed this. Chris seemed to sense quite a lot.
He proceeded to tell me a story about an encounter he had had with a deeply spiritual woman a year or so earlier. In an effort to convey a story to her on the sidewalk outside his shop, he recounted diminishing and even "dumbing down" his rhetoric to protect himself from judgement by the woman. As he was speaking, the woman stopped him mid-sentence and said, "Chris. Stopping taking the Eagle out of your words." Trying to simplify the story for the woman had removed Chris' full honesty and passion for the words he was expressing, and the woman recognized it.
"And, you don't have to be a spiritualist to notice that," he told me. I nodded. I knew exactly what he was saying. If we all think back on conversations we've had with friends, colleagues, family members and even strangers...there is an innate human ability to know when the full spirit of a story or piece of dialogue is missing.
Chris looked at me warmly but with genuine concern.
"You're a healer, Holley. It's your gift. But, you won't be able to do your job if you take away the Eagle."
I was speechless, but the moment allowed for my retreat into dumb silence because Nita walked out from her office with her previous client, and Chris' attention shifted. I waited, still mute, while Nita grounded herself and purged her space of the last visitor's energy. Even after my strange but enlightening encounter with Chris, I was still a little nervous about spending time with Nita. She seemed normal enough - diminutive and brunette, she wasn't wearing a turban or carrying a crystal ball. She wasn't draped in scarves or painted with henna. She looked like any other St. Pete gal who might work at a coffee shop or as a graphic designer at an artsy ad agency. She seemed...cool.
I entered Nita's little office and sat opposite her in a wooden chair with a small table between us. The table was adorned with a series of decks of cards all stacked off to the side. The middle of the table was empty and covered with a velvet cloth. Nita instructed me to place my palms on hers, and she closed her eyes and breathed. She told me that I was getting a new car with a circular emblem like a BMW, but not...she didn't reconize it because she was not familiar with the logo. I received my long awaited Fiat that week. There was no way she could have known that. She proceeded to tell me other small details about my life...and then greater ones...all information I choose still to protect because it belongs to me and me only. She never instructed - she only provided insight. She new I had come to her in confusion with need of guidance, and in a weakened physical state, but she refused to offer counsel...only insight.
About ten minutes into our encounter, she asked me, "Why am I being so drawn to the area of your stomach? There is so much confusion there."
I told her I was in the midst of a cleanse. She nodded. Then...
"But, that's not the type of cleanse you need...."
Pause.
"But, you already know that."
My eyes misted over and I nodded. She told me that I spend too much time churning over information, perceptions, ideas, experiences...creating a horrible blockage in my mind and spirit. What I needed to purge was not in my digestive system. It was in my heart.
All I could do was nod.
We chatted some after that about more specific areas where I had questions, and then our time was up. I left the little office with Nita following behind me, and my friends told me I was as white as a sheet. Before the reading, I had promised myself that I would not take it at face value - that I would mull it over some before I made any conclusions about what I had experienced. But, then I realized that mulling things over was exactly what I had just been warned against. And, so I let that inclination pass and thanked my angels for allowing me a moment of clarity with a kind woman who could have just as easily been a very perceptive barista.
The next day, I gave up "The Master" which I admitted to myself had basically been a fast. I allowed myself to recognize my true motivations for the physical torture I had undertaken then promptly forgave myself and resolved to stop judging my actions and decisions at every turn. Besides, while my destructive cleanse might have been just that...in the end, it yielded a series of events and encounters that brought me to the true cleanse I needed...and still need...to pursue. Life is so often that way. What looks like a mistake one day, often brings about transformation days or weeks or months later. There is an ebb and flow to this existence, and we are very simple beings trying to navigate a very expansive experience.
Such was my run-in with "The Master" - much different that Beyonce's was, I am quite sure. Now that you've ingested my story, without the removal of the Eagle - I can assure you-...touch it...breathe with it....and let it pass along, as Nita would say. I refuse to be a contributor to YOUR personal spiritual blockage.
And, because you may have been wondering....I no longer smell weird. So, that's good.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Monday, November 14, 2011
The lamentations of "Should" and "Supposed-to"
One bright and sunny morning, Should and Supposed-to were walking the rocky stretch from the outskirts of town to the city center. The morning sun was just creeping over the hilltops, and the dew was still fresh on the summer grasses.
As the friends walked, Should let out a long, vocal yawn. Supposed-to turned to his friend, concerned.
"My friend," he said, "you seem tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?"
Should rubbed his eyes and pinched the thin spot between them, at the top of his nose.
"I slept only a few hours last night," he replied. "My horse stalls needed cleaning, and I knew I Should take care of that before turning in. When my alarm sounded this morning, I thought perhaps I could sleep another hour or so, but I knew I Should rise and do my morning exercises, so I did."
Supposed-to nodded for he understood Should's position. He too had gotten little sleep as he had repainted his barn door by moonlight as he was Supposed-to. He stifled a yawn of his own.
The two friends quickened their pace so that they could arrive at the city center by noon as they were Supposed-to,. Their afternoon scheduled left little room for dilly-dallying. About half an hour into their journey, the friends passed a clear, blue pond by the side of the road. The water looked refreshing, and there were young people and children diving in and splashing about, clothes and all. The day had grown warm, and Should looked longingly at the water.
He turned to look at Supposed-to, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead.
"Could we?" he asked.
Supposed-to glanced sternly in his direction.
"Most certainly not, Should. After all, we are not Supposed-to jump into water, however clear it maybe be, with our clothing on. We'll catch our death from the dampness, and we'll certainly be late in arriving at the city center."
Should nodded. He understood the point Supposed-to was making. They most certainly Should Not visit the pond. There would be other days for swimming, when proper arrangements could be made.
An hour or so later, the friends came upon a fruit stand where men and women were selecting items from a variety of bins. There were apples, grapes, bananas, papyas, pears, plums and the most delicious looking peaches Supposed-to had ever seen! The men and women were taking big bites of their purchases just after paying for them. Their delight was clear upon their faces. Supposed-to looked at Should who shook his head with reproach.
"No, Supposed-to," he said, understanding his friend's intention from the look on his face, "we most certainly Should Not taste fruit directly out of the bins as these people are doing. We will undoubtedly end up with a stomach bug or parasite. One Should Never taste fruit without first properly washing it, no matter how reliable the vendor, or how clean the fruit appears. We Should press on."
Supposed-to was saddened but shook his head in agreement, nonetheless.
Another hour passed and the friends encountered a field full of wildflowers of all shapes and colors. Townsfolk danced amongst the flowers, gathering together rainbow bouquets, singing to themselves all the while. Should was drawn to the field, and found himself unconsciously drifting in that direction. He was stopped by Supposed-to's arm which extended out in front of him, holding him to his course. Supposed-to shook his head.
"No, my friend," he said, "we are not supposed to pick wildflowers. They could be poisonous to our skin, causing us to itch. Also, we do not know to whom this field belongs. Perhaps we would be run off the property by an angry farmer or a dog turned-loose to chase us away. No, Should....we Should Not visit that field of wildflowers today."
Should was saddened, but nodded his agreement, and the friends pressed on. They arrived in the city center promptly at noon as they had planned. They purchased only the items they had planned to purchase, dined where they had previously decided to dine, and left the center promptly at 3 p.m. for their return trip to the outskirts of town.
About twenty minutes into their return trip, a small band of dark clouds blew over the friends' path. A heavy rain shower took them by surprise, and they dashed under a tree to seek shelter. Just beyond the tree was the field full of flowers, now being beaten down by the strong storm.
"If we were to be drenched anyway, I would have like to have taken a dip in that clear, blue pond we passed," thought Should. He drew his wet shirt closer around him for warmth. The storm did not let up for some time, and Supposed-to felt his stomach begin to rumble.
"If we were to be delayed for such a time as this, I would surely have liked to have had some of that delightful fruit to snack on. Or perhaps I would not be hungry now if I had tasted some earlier." He rubbed his stomach, willing the ache to subside.
When the storm let up, the friends took to the road once again. When they arrived at their respective homes, they were both exhausted and chilled through. Should looked out at his garden which he knew he Should set about pruning, but his muscles ached, and his head felt feverish. Supposed-to visited his cows which he was Supposed-to milk that evening, but his stomach was feeling quite rumbly, and his eyes were crossing from fatigue.
Still, Should and Supposed-to took care of their chores. They were certainly not going to put off the responsibilities they were Supposed-to perform, nor Should they rest when there was work to be done.
When the light had faded, Should and Supposed-to retired to their beds. The next morning's sun greeted two very ill individuals. Should woke with a terrible cold, and Supposed-to was taken with a terrible case of food-poisoning, contracted from the dining establishment he had visited the day before.
Both friends looked out at the sparkling new day wishing for a second chance at the previous day's events.
Perhaps, if we had taken an hour to go for a swim, our clothes would have dried over the course of the sunny morning, and we would have delayed in the city center long enough to miss the rainstorm. Or, perhaps if we had stopped for some fruit, we might have ordered differently at the restaurant, and one of us might not have ended up with tummy trouble. Or, perhaps if we had taken a moment to pick wildflowers, we might at least have lovely bouquets to comfort us in or beds as we convalesce. And, had we taken ourselves straight into hot showers and early bedtimes instead of performing chores which could have waited until today, we might not feel quite so terrible this morning.
Should and Supposed-to learned that morning that often, Should and Supposed-to lead to Must and Must Not...if one is very ill, one Must certainly remain in bed. One Must Not visit one's friends. One Must not take on difficult chores.
Perhaps now and again Should and Supposed-to might be better replaced with Can, Will and Want to. After all, if the result Might be the same anyway, one Might As Well take a dip, have some fruit and pick some flowers from time to time. We Should all shirk Should and Supposed-to once in a while, Should we not?
As the friends walked, Should let out a long, vocal yawn. Supposed-to turned to his friend, concerned.
"My friend," he said, "you seem tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?"
Should rubbed his eyes and pinched the thin spot between them, at the top of his nose.
"I slept only a few hours last night," he replied. "My horse stalls needed cleaning, and I knew I Should take care of that before turning in. When my alarm sounded this morning, I thought perhaps I could sleep another hour or so, but I knew I Should rise and do my morning exercises, so I did."
Supposed-to nodded for he understood Should's position. He too had gotten little sleep as he had repainted his barn door by moonlight as he was Supposed-to. He stifled a yawn of his own.
The two friends quickened their pace so that they could arrive at the city center by noon as they were Supposed-to,. Their afternoon scheduled left little room for dilly-dallying. About half an hour into their journey, the friends passed a clear, blue pond by the side of the road. The water looked refreshing, and there were young people and children diving in and splashing about, clothes and all. The day had grown warm, and Should looked longingly at the water.
He turned to look at Supposed-to, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead.
"Could we?" he asked.
Supposed-to glanced sternly in his direction.
"Most certainly not, Should. After all, we are not Supposed-to jump into water, however clear it maybe be, with our clothing on. We'll catch our death from the dampness, and we'll certainly be late in arriving at the city center."
Should nodded. He understood the point Supposed-to was making. They most certainly Should Not visit the pond. There would be other days for swimming, when proper arrangements could be made.
An hour or so later, the friends came upon a fruit stand where men and women were selecting items from a variety of bins. There were apples, grapes, bananas, papyas, pears, plums and the most delicious looking peaches Supposed-to had ever seen! The men and women were taking big bites of their purchases just after paying for them. Their delight was clear upon their faces. Supposed-to looked at Should who shook his head with reproach.
"No, Supposed-to," he said, understanding his friend's intention from the look on his face, "we most certainly Should Not taste fruit directly out of the bins as these people are doing. We will undoubtedly end up with a stomach bug or parasite. One Should Never taste fruit without first properly washing it, no matter how reliable the vendor, or how clean the fruit appears. We Should press on."
Supposed-to was saddened but shook his head in agreement, nonetheless.
Another hour passed and the friends encountered a field full of wildflowers of all shapes and colors. Townsfolk danced amongst the flowers, gathering together rainbow bouquets, singing to themselves all the while. Should was drawn to the field, and found himself unconsciously drifting in that direction. He was stopped by Supposed-to's arm which extended out in front of him, holding him to his course. Supposed-to shook his head.
"No, my friend," he said, "we are not supposed to pick wildflowers. They could be poisonous to our skin, causing us to itch. Also, we do not know to whom this field belongs. Perhaps we would be run off the property by an angry farmer or a dog turned-loose to chase us away. No, Should....we Should Not visit that field of wildflowers today."
Should was saddened, but nodded his agreement, and the friends pressed on. They arrived in the city center promptly at noon as they had planned. They purchased only the items they had planned to purchase, dined where they had previously decided to dine, and left the center promptly at 3 p.m. for their return trip to the outskirts of town.
About twenty minutes into their return trip, a small band of dark clouds blew over the friends' path. A heavy rain shower took them by surprise, and they dashed under a tree to seek shelter. Just beyond the tree was the field full of flowers, now being beaten down by the strong storm.
"If we were to be drenched anyway, I would have like to have taken a dip in that clear, blue pond we passed," thought Should. He drew his wet shirt closer around him for warmth. The storm did not let up for some time, and Supposed-to felt his stomach begin to rumble.
"If we were to be delayed for such a time as this, I would surely have liked to have had some of that delightful fruit to snack on. Or perhaps I would not be hungry now if I had tasted some earlier." He rubbed his stomach, willing the ache to subside.
When the storm let up, the friends took to the road once again. When they arrived at their respective homes, they were both exhausted and chilled through. Should looked out at his garden which he knew he Should set about pruning, but his muscles ached, and his head felt feverish. Supposed-to visited his cows which he was Supposed-to milk that evening, but his stomach was feeling quite rumbly, and his eyes were crossing from fatigue.
Still, Should and Supposed-to took care of their chores. They were certainly not going to put off the responsibilities they were Supposed-to perform, nor Should they rest when there was work to be done.
When the light had faded, Should and Supposed-to retired to their beds. The next morning's sun greeted two very ill individuals. Should woke with a terrible cold, and Supposed-to was taken with a terrible case of food-poisoning, contracted from the dining establishment he had visited the day before.
Both friends looked out at the sparkling new day wishing for a second chance at the previous day's events.
Perhaps, if we had taken an hour to go for a swim, our clothes would have dried over the course of the sunny morning, and we would have delayed in the city center long enough to miss the rainstorm. Or, perhaps if we had stopped for some fruit, we might have ordered differently at the restaurant, and one of us might not have ended up with tummy trouble. Or, perhaps if we had taken a moment to pick wildflowers, we might at least have lovely bouquets to comfort us in or beds as we convalesce. And, had we taken ourselves straight into hot showers and early bedtimes instead of performing chores which could have waited until today, we might not feel quite so terrible this morning.
Should and Supposed-to learned that morning that often, Should and Supposed-to lead to Must and Must Not...if one is very ill, one Must certainly remain in bed. One Must Not visit one's friends. One Must not take on difficult chores.
Perhaps now and again Should and Supposed-to might be better replaced with Can, Will and Want to. After all, if the result Might be the same anyway, one Might As Well take a dip, have some fruit and pick some flowers from time to time. We Should all shirk Should and Supposed-to once in a while, Should we not?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
To all the "No's" I've "Yes-ed" before....
A couple of weeks ago, I interviewed Sherri Shepherd, one of the hosts on "The View", and the woman behind the force that is "Angie" on "30 Rock". I'm always happy to interview a celebrity, but I certainly didn't expect to take away the profound message Sherri had to offer that day...in fact, I thought I was meant to be talking to her about toothbrushes. (we did that, but the discussion was brief - in short, electric is better)
Amidst our discussion about her life, her child, her work and her goals, we addressed one of the most important themes young women, and ambitious people in general, seem to overlook in life...until it is too late. Sherri told me that the secret to balance in her very hectic life has been embracing the word "no". Considering the variety in her professional life, I had expected her to say the very opposite - that the secret to life fulfillment comes from frequent and even reckless use of the word "yes"!
I expressed as much to Sherri, and she shook her head sympathetically. She told me that her relationship with the word "no" had developed over time and that she hadn't always been so keen to use it - much like myself. But, with prioritizing, comes the necessity for reclamation of one's self, and as we get older and take on more and more and more....we begin to come to terms with the fact that "yes" could be the death of us while "no" could literally save us from being crushed by the world's demands.
When I was in the 8th grade, my best friend, Amy, and I developed a whole new alphabet which we used to write and pass notes in Senora Stout's Spanish class. I remember well one day conveying to Amy via a variety of combined symbols that I was feeling a bit taken advantage of by a friend who was struggling in another class. We had a group project, and I had finally begun to understand that her constant requests for help were really translating to me doing all the work and her watching me, filing her nails and talking on the phone to boys. The situation had me frustrated and depressed.
In code, Amy offered up the following nugget of wisdom which has haunted me every since. "Holley," she said in smiley faces, dots, squiggles and squares, "you are a people-pleaser. I know that because I'm one too. And, it isn't a good thing." At the bottom of her response, she drew a little person with long hair and converse tennis shoes (my tiny likeness) holding hands with a curly-haired figure in khakis (her), both of them looking up at a giant stop sign which read "Stop Pleasing People!" I kept that note for a very long time, and when I felt like I was being manipulated, I would look at it, sigh, and usually, do whatever was being asked of me anyway...just in full knowledge that I was the only one to blame for my exhaustion and/or disappointment.
As I progressed through college and into the working world, I began to think that maybe Amy had been wrong - that maybe being a people-pleaser was the way to advance in life. I mean, after all, when you are very helpful, people like you, right? And, they respect you for your efforts? And, they ask you to do more things and more things and.....wait a gosh-darn second.... The previous revelation took thirty-one years to manifest. Despite Amy's foreshadowing, I allowed my life to become a piece-meal mosaic of constant attention to the needs and wants of other people. Shoot, I thought I was helping myself in the process, and maybe I was to some extent. I have certainly developed a wide variety of skills as a result, but there has always been a tiny little piece of me...perhaps that little drawing staring up at that giant stop sign....crying out from the recesses of my brain that what I am giving up might be more valuable than what I'm gaining.
A few nights ago, I watched an incredible documentary about Bill Cunningham, the 82 year-old New York Times photographer who gathers snapshots of people on the streets of New York, then dissects them into sub-sections that represent fashion trends as perceived by the everyday guy or gal. You can find his pictorial in the Sunday edition and online. There's even a groovy little narration that he does himself, over an animation of his work. It's pretty fabulous.
Anyway, the point of this story is that this documentary has been reviewed farily consistently as a sweet little film about a man who loves what he does more than anything else in the world and has given up much of what we all value in life to pursue it. Okay - I'll buy that Bill Cunningham loves his job. It is more than a little bit obvious that he not only has a keen eye for fashion but a genuine joy over observing how modern women and men pick and choose they ways in which they will bring the catwalks to the alley ways. The key word here is "observing". Bill Cunningham has spent his entire eighty-two years...watching. Only recently did Mr. Cunningham leave his tiny room in Carnegie Hall where he has lived for the better part of his life, to become a resident in a real apartment complex, with a bathroom that isn't in a public hall way. He eats as inexpensively as possible...wears the same blue jacket day in and day out...and still shoots on bonified film. He is well-known by celebrated designers and fashion icons. He has received awards for his contributions to fashion from the highest ranks of the industry...awards he has accepted in his blue jacket. He spent a little time in the forties designing hats, but when the United States Military called, he shifted his course and never returned to his original calling.
If a viewer were to watch only the first three-quarters of the Bill Cunningham documentary, he or she would likely derive the same conclusion mentioned earlier: cute movie; this guy likes his job. But, when the interviewer actually musters up the courage to ask Bill a series of difficult questions regarding his romantic life and his take on religion, the truth creeps out like a fine eau de parfum several hours after its original spritz.
Bill Cunningham let "pleasing" take over his life. He found a way to derive joy from the industry in which he should have been a participant rather than a mere historian, where with his eye...his appreciation for all things beautiful...and his genuine euphoria over the principle of human expression through fashion...Bill Cunningham might have been iconic as a creator. Instead, the oppression of a family who never understood him and a society that dictated his lifestyle choices, boxed up his exuberance and hid it behind a lens and a shutter.
I laid in bed after my brief encounter with Mr. Cunningham by way of my Netflix account and thought about how this incredible man's life might have been different if he had also been able to embrace the word "no".
No - I will not be bullied by my family's assessment of my chosen field.
No - I will not abandon my dreams in favor of someone else's vision.
No - I will not hide myself away behind the fabulousness of others.
No - I will not concede my place in this world based on the restrictions handed to me by a cold and closed-minded generation.
No - I won't let anyone else tell me who I should or should not love.
I have no doubt that Bill Cunningham has found contentment through his work. If we all loved our professions as much, the word "mediocrity" would not even exist. But, my gracious, the potential that is stored up in his apartment full of file cabinets....the inspiration that he could have used to buoy up his own designs...there could have been much more for him, but like so many of us, he did not see fit to claim himself for himself. And, maybe....just maybe....Mr. Cunningham might have been willing to give up some of his professional acclaim to have a true, honest love affair, had the notion pleased his family and society in general. My heart aches for his dedication to the expectations of those for whom he cared - maybe too much.
Perhaps not all of our "no's" need to be quite so grand as Bill's might have been. Maybe a "no" is simply issued in response to a perceived obligation which will diminish time with family or friends. Maybe tomorrow's "no" will be in reference to what might seem like an opportunity....but under the light of serious scrutiny, reveals itself as a manipulation. Maybe next week's "no" really will be the passing over of an opportunity for another one...or simply...for rest. Sometimes we issue a "no" to someone we barely know...sometimes we have to say "no" to the people we love the most. One way or another, a "no" to someone else can quite often mean a "yes" to ourselves, and, while a people-pleaser like myself might find that selfish at first glance, the truth is - it can be the difference between survival and happiness.
So once said the wisest twelve year-old I've ever encountered. Amy, wherever you are these days, I hope you are "no-ing" up a storm and living an uproariously happy life. Living...not just watching.
#:)%%&!
Amidst our discussion about her life, her child, her work and her goals, we addressed one of the most important themes young women, and ambitious people in general, seem to overlook in life...until it is too late. Sherri told me that the secret to balance in her very hectic life has been embracing the word "no". Considering the variety in her professional life, I had expected her to say the very opposite - that the secret to life fulfillment comes from frequent and even reckless use of the word "yes"!
I expressed as much to Sherri, and she shook her head sympathetically. She told me that her relationship with the word "no" had developed over time and that she hadn't always been so keen to use it - much like myself. But, with prioritizing, comes the necessity for reclamation of one's self, and as we get older and take on more and more and more....we begin to come to terms with the fact that "yes" could be the death of us while "no" could literally save us from being crushed by the world's demands.
When I was in the 8th grade, my best friend, Amy, and I developed a whole new alphabet which we used to write and pass notes in Senora Stout's Spanish class. I remember well one day conveying to Amy via a variety of combined symbols that I was feeling a bit taken advantage of by a friend who was struggling in another class. We had a group project, and I had finally begun to understand that her constant requests for help were really translating to me doing all the work and her watching me, filing her nails and talking on the phone to boys. The situation had me frustrated and depressed.
In code, Amy offered up the following nugget of wisdom which has haunted me every since. "Holley," she said in smiley faces, dots, squiggles and squares, "you are a people-pleaser. I know that because I'm one too. And, it isn't a good thing." At the bottom of her response, she drew a little person with long hair and converse tennis shoes (my tiny likeness) holding hands with a curly-haired figure in khakis (her), both of them looking up at a giant stop sign which read "Stop Pleasing People!" I kept that note for a very long time, and when I felt like I was being manipulated, I would look at it, sigh, and usually, do whatever was being asked of me anyway...just in full knowledge that I was the only one to blame for my exhaustion and/or disappointment.
As I progressed through college and into the working world, I began to think that maybe Amy had been wrong - that maybe being a people-pleaser was the way to advance in life. I mean, after all, when you are very helpful, people like you, right? And, they respect you for your efforts? And, they ask you to do more things and more things and.....wait a gosh-darn second.... The previous revelation took thirty-one years to manifest. Despite Amy's foreshadowing, I allowed my life to become a piece-meal mosaic of constant attention to the needs and wants of other people. Shoot, I thought I was helping myself in the process, and maybe I was to some extent. I have certainly developed a wide variety of skills as a result, but there has always been a tiny little piece of me...perhaps that little drawing staring up at that giant stop sign....crying out from the recesses of my brain that what I am giving up might be more valuable than what I'm gaining.
A few nights ago, I watched an incredible documentary about Bill Cunningham, the 82 year-old New York Times photographer who gathers snapshots of people on the streets of New York, then dissects them into sub-sections that represent fashion trends as perceived by the everyday guy or gal. You can find his pictorial in the Sunday edition and online. There's even a groovy little narration that he does himself, over an animation of his work. It's pretty fabulous.
Anyway, the point of this story is that this documentary has been reviewed farily consistently as a sweet little film about a man who loves what he does more than anything else in the world and has given up much of what we all value in life to pursue it. Okay - I'll buy that Bill Cunningham loves his job. It is more than a little bit obvious that he not only has a keen eye for fashion but a genuine joy over observing how modern women and men pick and choose they ways in which they will bring the catwalks to the alley ways. The key word here is "observing". Bill Cunningham has spent his entire eighty-two years...watching. Only recently did Mr. Cunningham leave his tiny room in Carnegie Hall where he has lived for the better part of his life, to become a resident in a real apartment complex, with a bathroom that isn't in a public hall way. He eats as inexpensively as possible...wears the same blue jacket day in and day out...and still shoots on bonified film. He is well-known by celebrated designers and fashion icons. He has received awards for his contributions to fashion from the highest ranks of the industry...awards he has accepted in his blue jacket. He spent a little time in the forties designing hats, but when the United States Military called, he shifted his course and never returned to his original calling.
If a viewer were to watch only the first three-quarters of the Bill Cunningham documentary, he or she would likely derive the same conclusion mentioned earlier: cute movie; this guy likes his job. But, when the interviewer actually musters up the courage to ask Bill a series of difficult questions regarding his romantic life and his take on religion, the truth creeps out like a fine eau de parfum several hours after its original spritz.
Bill Cunningham let "pleasing" take over his life. He found a way to derive joy from the industry in which he should have been a participant rather than a mere historian, where with his eye...his appreciation for all things beautiful...and his genuine euphoria over the principle of human expression through fashion...Bill Cunningham might have been iconic as a creator. Instead, the oppression of a family who never understood him and a society that dictated his lifestyle choices, boxed up his exuberance and hid it behind a lens and a shutter.
I laid in bed after my brief encounter with Mr. Cunningham by way of my Netflix account and thought about how this incredible man's life might have been different if he had also been able to embrace the word "no".
No - I will not be bullied by my family's assessment of my chosen field.
No - I will not abandon my dreams in favor of someone else's vision.
No - I will not hide myself away behind the fabulousness of others.
No - I will not concede my place in this world based on the restrictions handed to me by a cold and closed-minded generation.
No - I won't let anyone else tell me who I should or should not love.
I have no doubt that Bill Cunningham has found contentment through his work. If we all loved our professions as much, the word "mediocrity" would not even exist. But, my gracious, the potential that is stored up in his apartment full of file cabinets....the inspiration that he could have used to buoy up his own designs...there could have been much more for him, but like so many of us, he did not see fit to claim himself for himself. And, maybe....just maybe....Mr. Cunningham might have been willing to give up some of his professional acclaim to have a true, honest love affair, had the notion pleased his family and society in general. My heart aches for his dedication to the expectations of those for whom he cared - maybe too much.
Perhaps not all of our "no's" need to be quite so grand as Bill's might have been. Maybe a "no" is simply issued in response to a perceived obligation which will diminish time with family or friends. Maybe tomorrow's "no" will be in reference to what might seem like an opportunity....but under the light of serious scrutiny, reveals itself as a manipulation. Maybe next week's "no" really will be the passing over of an opportunity for another one...or simply...for rest. Sometimes we issue a "no" to someone we barely know...sometimes we have to say "no" to the people we love the most. One way or another, a "no" to someone else can quite often mean a "yes" to ourselves, and, while a people-pleaser like myself might find that selfish at first glance, the truth is - it can be the difference between survival and happiness.
So once said the wisest twelve year-old I've ever encountered. Amy, wherever you are these days, I hope you are "no-ing" up a storm and living an uproariously happy life. Living...not just watching.
#:)%%&!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Lightning Crashes....
For those of you who read my very first blog post on this site, you are already aware that I am prone to....spontaneous adventure. From illegally scaling the rocky cliffs of the Turks and Caicos (and subsequently battling a small shark...) to launching myself into a ropes course carrying a $10,000 camera, I don't exactly repel excitement. Often times, my "electric" experiences come from within the minutia of my everyday life....in this week's case, walking across the parking lot to my car at the end of a work day.
If you live in the Tampa Bay area, then you know that, up until today, things have been rather...damp. Even now, the atmosphere is heavy with humidity which I am told should be remedied by Saturday morning. (fingers triple crossed!) Monday was especially rainy, with storms that offered up tropical storm force winds and lightning which, if harnassed, could have likely powered all of St. Petersburg for a month. Maybe more.
As luck would have it, said storm rolled in just about the time I was about to leave the station and make my way across town to Ybor City for my weekly film screening. I stood in the hallway outside my office until I believed the torrential downpour was lessening, then ran across the building only to find the deluge kicking back up just as I was looking to exit. I waited again...this time for only a few minutes before I decided it was better to just toughen up and brave it then to sit idly waiting. Having left all three of my umbrellas in my car, I approached my husband who works on the other side of the building about borrowing an umbrella. He had made the same mistake I had that morning, yielding zero umbrellas indoors....and four of them out.
Luckily, a friendly colleague offered to loan us hers, but the issue arose of her needing it back later on in the evening. So, my husband decided that it would be very romantic to walk me out to my car then return with the umbrella...problem solved, and quality time together spent.
As we stepped outside, the liquid assault intensified, and lightning flashes could be seen no more than a couple of miles off to the north. We clung together and headed for my car as quickly as my heeled feet would allow given the parking lot's slippery conditions. Our backs were being thoroughly saturated, but until we had only about 3 feet left to go, that was our only real issue. We were sure we were home free. Then, Zeus clearly became displeased with our efforts to traverse his maddening storm because he sent a lightning bolt in our directions that nearly knocked us to the ground. It couldn't have hit more than 10 or 12 feet away.
I screamed. My husband ducked. My head became exposed, and my husband, in a flurry of panic, closed the umbrella and took off running for the building. I don't blame him one bit - but there I stood, becoming more and more drenched as I endeavored to shove my giant work bag into my car. The thunder that followed the lightning strike was so loud, I could feel it inside my body, and I was shaking wildly, making the use of my key fob much more difficult that it should have been.
When I finally managed to climb into the driver's seat, I took a few moments to breathe. Rivulets of rainwater flowed from my hairline, down my face to my chin, and dripped all over my dress. I was a mess. But, I was alive. However, my body felt rather....unusual. I became keenly aware of my skin - it was like I could feel it just...being skin. I have no idea how to better explain that. To say it tingled would be an extreme understatement. It was just so....THERE. And, my insides were turning like a front-loading washing machine. I was beginning to get nauseous, but I knew I needed to get on the road, so I pulled out of the parking lot to begin my journey.
I made it about a quarter of a mile before an intense sleepiness overtook me. I felt drugged - like I'd taken a muscle relaxer that was just kicking in. I was sure I was going to fall asleep at the wheel...and in a monsoon, no less! I pulled into the Goodwill parking lot thinking that maybe I could walk around the store for a few minutes until my senses returned and I regained some vitality, but the lightning was coming even more frequently. I didn't dare make a run for it.
I turned off the engine, laid my seat back and set my phone on the seat next to me. I toyed with pre-dialing 911 just in case I lost some of my motor function (that's how weird I felt), but I have heard horror stories about people doing that and the police showing up before the phone call was even actually made, so I decided I would just scream bloody murder if I suddenly lost feeling in my arms and legs. In the moment, that seemed entirely plausible.
The next thing I knew, fifteen minutes had passed. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember falling over so that my arm rested under my forehead which was now parallel with my center console. I don't remember knocking my cell phone into the passenger's side floorboard. I must have passed out - it's the only thing I can think of. And, I didn't even get to have any tequila...what a waste.
Upon regaining my composure, having woken with a real lack of clarity as to why I was in the Goodwill parking lot, I resumed my journey to the Ybor movie theater. I stopped at 7-11 for a diet coke and a snack, hoping that would help to curb the weird nausea. It did, to some extend, but I never really felt right again that night.
When I finally returned home quite late in the evening, I was a little afraid to go to sleep. Given the evening's earlier events, I wasn't sure if it was safe! But, eventually my desperate fatigue overtook my fear, and I dosed off, only to awake with my alarm the next morning...same old, same old. I have never been quite so thankful to hear that horrendous, high-pitched screeching.
I looked up "indirect lightning exposure" when I arrived at work on Tuesday morning to no real avail. Apparently, "almost" being hit by lightning is not nearly as glamorous as actually making direct contact, so there was very little literature to help me make sense of my odd post-electrifying symptoms. But, I do know this...I can now see through clothing, bend metal with my teeth and hover a few centimeters off the ground.*
So....I guess that's something. ;)
*Totally untrue.
**Have been informed that symptoms were likely due to an influx and subsequent abatement of adrenaline. I am not superwoman. Yet.
If you live in the Tampa Bay area, then you know that, up until today, things have been rather...damp. Even now, the atmosphere is heavy with humidity which I am told should be remedied by Saturday morning. (fingers triple crossed!) Monday was especially rainy, with storms that offered up tropical storm force winds and lightning which, if harnassed, could have likely powered all of St. Petersburg for a month. Maybe more.
As luck would have it, said storm rolled in just about the time I was about to leave the station and make my way across town to Ybor City for my weekly film screening. I stood in the hallway outside my office until I believed the torrential downpour was lessening, then ran across the building only to find the deluge kicking back up just as I was looking to exit. I waited again...this time for only a few minutes before I decided it was better to just toughen up and brave it then to sit idly waiting. Having left all three of my umbrellas in my car, I approached my husband who works on the other side of the building about borrowing an umbrella. He had made the same mistake I had that morning, yielding zero umbrellas indoors....and four of them out.
Luckily, a friendly colleague offered to loan us hers, but the issue arose of her needing it back later on in the evening. So, my husband decided that it would be very romantic to walk me out to my car then return with the umbrella...problem solved, and quality time together spent.
As we stepped outside, the liquid assault intensified, and lightning flashes could be seen no more than a couple of miles off to the north. We clung together and headed for my car as quickly as my heeled feet would allow given the parking lot's slippery conditions. Our backs were being thoroughly saturated, but until we had only about 3 feet left to go, that was our only real issue. We were sure we were home free. Then, Zeus clearly became displeased with our efforts to traverse his maddening storm because he sent a lightning bolt in our directions that nearly knocked us to the ground. It couldn't have hit more than 10 or 12 feet away.
I screamed. My husband ducked. My head became exposed, and my husband, in a flurry of panic, closed the umbrella and took off running for the building. I don't blame him one bit - but there I stood, becoming more and more drenched as I endeavored to shove my giant work bag into my car. The thunder that followed the lightning strike was so loud, I could feel it inside my body, and I was shaking wildly, making the use of my key fob much more difficult that it should have been.
When I finally managed to climb into the driver's seat, I took a few moments to breathe. Rivulets of rainwater flowed from my hairline, down my face to my chin, and dripped all over my dress. I was a mess. But, I was alive. However, my body felt rather....unusual. I became keenly aware of my skin - it was like I could feel it just...being skin. I have no idea how to better explain that. To say it tingled would be an extreme understatement. It was just so....THERE. And, my insides were turning like a front-loading washing machine. I was beginning to get nauseous, but I knew I needed to get on the road, so I pulled out of the parking lot to begin my journey.
I made it about a quarter of a mile before an intense sleepiness overtook me. I felt drugged - like I'd taken a muscle relaxer that was just kicking in. I was sure I was going to fall asleep at the wheel...and in a monsoon, no less! I pulled into the Goodwill parking lot thinking that maybe I could walk around the store for a few minutes until my senses returned and I regained some vitality, but the lightning was coming even more frequently. I didn't dare make a run for it.
I turned off the engine, laid my seat back and set my phone on the seat next to me. I toyed with pre-dialing 911 just in case I lost some of my motor function (that's how weird I felt), but I have heard horror stories about people doing that and the police showing up before the phone call was even actually made, so I decided I would just scream bloody murder if I suddenly lost feeling in my arms and legs. In the moment, that seemed entirely plausible.
The next thing I knew, fifteen minutes had passed. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember falling over so that my arm rested under my forehead which was now parallel with my center console. I don't remember knocking my cell phone into the passenger's side floorboard. I must have passed out - it's the only thing I can think of. And, I didn't even get to have any tequila...what a waste.
Upon regaining my composure, having woken with a real lack of clarity as to why I was in the Goodwill parking lot, I resumed my journey to the Ybor movie theater. I stopped at 7-11 for a diet coke and a snack, hoping that would help to curb the weird nausea. It did, to some extend, but I never really felt right again that night.
When I finally returned home quite late in the evening, I was a little afraid to go to sleep. Given the evening's earlier events, I wasn't sure if it was safe! But, eventually my desperate fatigue overtook my fear, and I dosed off, only to awake with my alarm the next morning...same old, same old. I have never been quite so thankful to hear that horrendous, high-pitched screeching.
I looked up "indirect lightning exposure" when I arrived at work on Tuesday morning to no real avail. Apparently, "almost" being hit by lightning is not nearly as glamorous as actually making direct contact, so there was very little literature to help me make sense of my odd post-electrifying symptoms. But, I do know this...I can now see through clothing, bend metal with my teeth and hover a few centimeters off the ground.*
So....I guess that's something. ;)
*Totally untrue.
**Have been informed that symptoms were likely due to an influx and subsequent abatement of adrenaline. I am not superwoman. Yet.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Living eulogies
Death.
I used to banish the thought of it. I believed that if I were to dwell on it, I would essentially invite it...that it could be summoned by my attention. As a teenager, I developed strategies for eluding death's presence in my consciousness. I became busy. I built a fortress of activities - a wall to keep out death and its minions...those cloying "possibilities" that would surely seal my fate and condemn me to an afterlife of suffering. Searching desperately for an ideal to cling to and something to define me, I grabbed on to religion and served constant penitence for the sins I was sure I was unknowingly committing. I went to sleep every night terrified that I hadn't done a good enough job of repenting. I was sure God could see deep into my soul where I wasn't really all that sorry that I kissed my boyfriend while reclining in a horizontal position, and whatever that made me feel was surely born of the devil, but....I kind of liked it. Which made it worse. I was afraid. I was afraid all the time.
Over the course of the last 13 years, I have come to recognize a shift in the way I perceive death. In some ways, it serves the same purpose it did at that other, more confusing time in my life. Death is a great motivator - whether we see it as a reason to commit our lives to some higher power through self-sacrifice and joy in purpose, or whether we view it as the catalyst for making the appropriate decisions that will compel us to find the greatest happiness in this life, should it prove to be the only one we get. Maybe there is even a balance between these two ideas. One way or another, the only certainty is that death is final. It is the end of THIS existence, whether or not there is one to follow. Even if we live many times over, we will never be exactly THIS at exactly THIS time ever again.
This past week, a friend of mine lost her closest companion suddenly. One moment her sweet, generous sister was alive, and the next, she wasn't. In the appropriate timing, word began to spread of my friend's tragic loss. I received the information during potentially the busiest week I have had in quite some time. Work of many kinds overwhelmed me, and I began to question my relevance and to feel sorry for myself for putting forth so much effort for so little reward. It was at the height of my anxious frenzy that I got word of the week's horrific events, and I was immediately humbled and profoundly aware of each single moment. The world slowed. I began to notice things - raindrops, wind gusts, birds, the way my hands felt, the way cold glasses of water sweat, how much lovelier Thai food tastes when you eat it with your best friend.
And, on that terrible night, fear left me. When I closed my eyes that night, I let Death in. What filled my head were a thousand eulogies - things I would say if ever I lost those dearest to me. My response would have once been to force those thoughts into a corner and box them away, frightened that Death would catch wind of them and descend upon my loved ones. But, on that night, and still today, I see so very clearly that all of the wonderful, heartfelt offerings we have for those we love should not be contained until they are gone. Why is it not better to share them while they can enjoy them - benefit from them in some way? Why do we hold back our deepest feelings for dear ones until they have left us?
And, so, I have these things to share:
Dad, you are the kindest human being I have ever known. When I see you offer a helping hand to a stranger or say something encouraging to someone you've only just met, my heart hurts because I want so badly to be like you. You are the perfect combination of strength and sensitivity. You find joy in quietly, unassumingly giving of yourself. I admire you more than you could possibly know.
Mom, you are so strong. There is nothing you can't do, and you know that - you are brave and smart and observant. You can turn anything and any day into something special. You make things lovely without even trying. You are genuine and honest, and I know that if anyone ever hurt me, you would be the first responder on the scene. I have seen you do it. You are determined, and you know yourself. I hope that one day I will have your sense of assurance.
Adam, you could charm your way into an igloo carrying a space heater. You make people smile, simply by being present. You are a shiny, effervescent presence. You put people at ease and turn awkward moments into comedic gold. You are going to go so far. I am so proud to tell people you are my brother.
Matt, you love bigger and stronger than I ever thought was possible. Your ability to find the humor in the most frightening situations still astounds me. You are passionate, dedicated, determined and worthy. I prize and aspire to your nobility. You have an enormous heart, and I hope upon hope that those closest to you understand just how much you love them - I can see it, even when you don't say it.
Kristi, you are so beautiful and so sparkly. I look so forward to knowing you better, but for now, I am so thankful that you have embraced my family the way you have. They are safe with you. I know you truly love them.
To my sisters: Liz, Lisa, Sarah, Cara, Nadyne...there are no words. I send you my love in a quiet meditation, and offer you all of the joy I have to give. You have each changed me for the better. Mountains of glitter to each of you. Don't use it sparingly.
I have so very many bits and pieces to share, but as I write, I realize that I could sit at this computer for days and never complete my affirmations. Each and every one of you deserves a book of your own. My life has been touched by so many - the blessings I have known are more numerous than the drops of rain that fall on the concrete outside my window on these especially wet days.
My final nod for tonight, I offer to Death itself. Thank you for showing me how important it is to share my heart while it still beats, and to pass along my gratitude and affection for the many, many beating hearts that have made me who I am, and who will continue to grow me into the person I hope to be - until you come for me. Whether you are the end of the book or simply the last page of a chapter, you are the necessary catalyst that compels us to open up to one another.
For Dori. Such a beautiful spirit, now present among the stars and in the innumerable sands and shells that make up the beaches she loved so much. Be at peace.
I used to banish the thought of it. I believed that if I were to dwell on it, I would essentially invite it...that it could be summoned by my attention. As a teenager, I developed strategies for eluding death's presence in my consciousness. I became busy. I built a fortress of activities - a wall to keep out death and its minions...those cloying "possibilities" that would surely seal my fate and condemn me to an afterlife of suffering. Searching desperately for an ideal to cling to and something to define me, I grabbed on to religion and served constant penitence for the sins I was sure I was unknowingly committing. I went to sleep every night terrified that I hadn't done a good enough job of repenting. I was sure God could see deep into my soul where I wasn't really all that sorry that I kissed my boyfriend while reclining in a horizontal position, and whatever that made me feel was surely born of the devil, but....I kind of liked it. Which made it worse. I was afraid. I was afraid all the time.
Over the course of the last 13 years, I have come to recognize a shift in the way I perceive death. In some ways, it serves the same purpose it did at that other, more confusing time in my life. Death is a great motivator - whether we see it as a reason to commit our lives to some higher power through self-sacrifice and joy in purpose, or whether we view it as the catalyst for making the appropriate decisions that will compel us to find the greatest happiness in this life, should it prove to be the only one we get. Maybe there is even a balance between these two ideas. One way or another, the only certainty is that death is final. It is the end of THIS existence, whether or not there is one to follow. Even if we live many times over, we will never be exactly THIS at exactly THIS time ever again.
This past week, a friend of mine lost her closest companion suddenly. One moment her sweet, generous sister was alive, and the next, she wasn't. In the appropriate timing, word began to spread of my friend's tragic loss. I received the information during potentially the busiest week I have had in quite some time. Work of many kinds overwhelmed me, and I began to question my relevance and to feel sorry for myself for putting forth so much effort for so little reward. It was at the height of my anxious frenzy that I got word of the week's horrific events, and I was immediately humbled and profoundly aware of each single moment. The world slowed. I began to notice things - raindrops, wind gusts, birds, the way my hands felt, the way cold glasses of water sweat, how much lovelier Thai food tastes when you eat it with your best friend.
And, on that terrible night, fear left me. When I closed my eyes that night, I let Death in. What filled my head were a thousand eulogies - things I would say if ever I lost those dearest to me. My response would have once been to force those thoughts into a corner and box them away, frightened that Death would catch wind of them and descend upon my loved ones. But, on that night, and still today, I see so very clearly that all of the wonderful, heartfelt offerings we have for those we love should not be contained until they are gone. Why is it not better to share them while they can enjoy them - benefit from them in some way? Why do we hold back our deepest feelings for dear ones until they have left us?
And, so, I have these things to share:
Dad, you are the kindest human being I have ever known. When I see you offer a helping hand to a stranger or say something encouraging to someone you've only just met, my heart hurts because I want so badly to be like you. You are the perfect combination of strength and sensitivity. You find joy in quietly, unassumingly giving of yourself. I admire you more than you could possibly know.
Mom, you are so strong. There is nothing you can't do, and you know that - you are brave and smart and observant. You can turn anything and any day into something special. You make things lovely without even trying. You are genuine and honest, and I know that if anyone ever hurt me, you would be the first responder on the scene. I have seen you do it. You are determined, and you know yourself. I hope that one day I will have your sense of assurance.
Adam, you could charm your way into an igloo carrying a space heater. You make people smile, simply by being present. You are a shiny, effervescent presence. You put people at ease and turn awkward moments into comedic gold. You are going to go so far. I am so proud to tell people you are my brother.
Matt, you love bigger and stronger than I ever thought was possible. Your ability to find the humor in the most frightening situations still astounds me. You are passionate, dedicated, determined and worthy. I prize and aspire to your nobility. You have an enormous heart, and I hope upon hope that those closest to you understand just how much you love them - I can see it, even when you don't say it.
Kristi, you are so beautiful and so sparkly. I look so forward to knowing you better, but for now, I am so thankful that you have embraced my family the way you have. They are safe with you. I know you truly love them.
To my sisters: Liz, Lisa, Sarah, Cara, Nadyne...there are no words. I send you my love in a quiet meditation, and offer you all of the joy I have to give. You have each changed me for the better. Mountains of glitter to each of you. Don't use it sparingly.
I have so very many bits and pieces to share, but as I write, I realize that I could sit at this computer for days and never complete my affirmations. Each and every one of you deserves a book of your own. My life has been touched by so many - the blessings I have known are more numerous than the drops of rain that fall on the concrete outside my window on these especially wet days.
My final nod for tonight, I offer to Death itself. Thank you for showing me how important it is to share my heart while it still beats, and to pass along my gratitude and affection for the many, many beating hearts that have made me who I am, and who will continue to grow me into the person I hope to be - until you come for me. Whether you are the end of the book or simply the last page of a chapter, you are the necessary catalyst that compels us to open up to one another.
For Dori. Such a beautiful spirit, now present among the stars and in the innumerable sands and shells that make up the beaches she loved so much. Be at peace.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Life lessons in dress-making....
Last week, I saw a photo of a dress that I absolutely loved on a website for a shop I can rarely afford. (only during a massive sale) The dress was, as expected, radically out of my price range which spurred me to make a trip to my favorite little fabric shop in St. Petersburg in an attempt to recreate my coveted piece. Of course, the shop did not have the exact fabrics I needed to make a replica, and I honestly wasn't looking to do that anyway - I have never created anything that didn't possess my own unusual spin. I played for an hour with different textiles, laying one lovely bolt on top of another until I came up with two options that excited me, both creatively and economically. (Even at the fabric store, I shop the sales racks.)
I purchased the necessary portion of fabric to create both possibilities, and even with plenty of materials to make 2 dresses, I barely spent half of what I would have had I purchased the dress I loved so much from the retailer I cannot afford. It was this very conundrum that drove me to learn how to sew in the first place. As I neared my 30s, I realized that I was no longer satisfied with inexpensive, trendy clothing. My tastes had become much more refined, but sadly, my pocketbook could not keep up with my fashion maturation. Never one to be defeated by any obstacle, I asked for a sewing machine for my 27th birthday, and my mom and grandma surprised me with one along with a long weekend intended to afford a crash course in basic sewing.
I have now been sewing for 4 years, and I no longer use patterns. My husband bought me a dress form a couple of Christmases ago, and my stepmother in-law has provided me with almost every tool one could need to create almost anything out of any material. I am well-stocked in threads of every color, fabrics that range from high-end silks to vintage tablecloths my mom picked up at a flea market. (these make AMAZING vintage-inspired pieces...I like to use them for cutesy little shorts and skirts) This past March, I made the bridesmaid dresses for one of my best friends' weddings, and every once in a while, when the mood hits me, I hide away in my sewing room (which doubles as my husband's office in our tiny house) and just create until all of my restless energy is purged and my spirit is still.
As I crafted the first of my designer-inspired pieces this weekend, it occurred to me that the progression of my sewing hobby has sort of mirrored my life to this point. In the beginning, the matriarchs in my life gave me all of the knowledge and skill that they had to offer in the short period that they had to guide and direct me, and then, I was on my own. In their absence I made some serious mistakes, and even had to take a few pieces apart entirely and start all over again. Some of my creations found themselves on top of my scrap pile, half-finished, reminding me of the frustration I suffered in my endeavor to bring them to life. Some of my work has been made better by my missteps. I have a one-shoulder, purple mini-dress, the sleeve of which I sewed on inside-out. But, it looked so cool, I decided to leave it. Earlier in the year, a panel of design experts from a state fashion institute reviewed some of my work and didn't hate it. I was even applauded for my technique and attention to detail.
I thought back on my journey fondly as I hand-sewed a beaded/sequin trim onto my latest work-in-progress. I thought about what it means to grow up and how necessary mistakes really are in the tapestry of life. Like the pieces I have had to take apart, there are habits that must be unlearned and ideologies that prove to be toxic to the individuals we will eventually become. If we don't go back to the seams and often times, undo what has taken us a long time to craft, we will never find out who we really are. We never move forward or grow. And, the forsaken pieces that find themselves on the scrap pile represent the relationships and friendships we leave behind. They are no less meaningful for having been abandoned - in fact, they might be even more so. Had I made my very first dress perfectly, there would have been no reason to continue creating. I would never feel the sense of pride that overtakes me when I celebrate little successes like getting my zipper perfectly straight or properly sizing a bodice on the first shot. If I didn't know how difficult it was to install a straight zipper, I wouldn't know to be excited about doing it. Every stitch is an opportunity to learn, whether or not the piece is ever fully finished.
Having finally mastered the basics of dress-making, I have really come into my 30s as a designer as well as in age. I am no longer as worried about just getting from point "a" to point "b"...both my existence and my design process have become much more nuanced. I am not concerned about attaching a skirt to a bodice or a sleeve to an arm-hole. But, because I am not so concerned with the mechanics of sewing, I have become much more attentive to the overall presentation of a piece...the way the textiles marry together...the placement of the waistline...the fit...the straightness of the hemline. I am a participant and an observer, and infinitely more self critical despite the progress I've made in my art. It's funny how that happens. The better we get at something, the more we hyper-focus on our flaws. As it is in sewing, it is in life. At 31, I am a much harsher judge of my place, position and contribution to the world than I ever was in my 20s.
When I finally finished my most recent creation late last night, I redressed my work mannequin as I always do, and stepped back to observe and critique. For the first time since I started making my own clothes, my very first response was not trepidation or nervousness about what other people would think of my work. This time, I just felt proud. I had executed to the very best of my ability, without cutting any corners or rushing any part of the process. I had delighted in the journey and not hurried through the less glamorous tasks like pinning the hem and centering my pleats. For once, I made no excuses to myself. I let down my guard and admired the work of my own hands without worrying whether someone else might find it lacking. Stepping back from my finished product, I was content.
Perhaps a little long-distance perspective is the answer to self hyper-analysis in life, as well. For those of us who fixate on the problems that arise time and again, maybe stepping back and taking in the whole picture is necessary to afford real, honest appreciation of ourselves and what we've accomplished. I can easily find myself lacking by comparing my life to those of my peers if I take myself apart and examine only the pieces....the inside out sleeves...the slightly askew zipper. Or...I can take two steps back and look at the incredible creation my hands have wrought as a whole, and I can be pleased. No nitpicking. No analysis. No comparisons. Just admiration.
My dresses are a collection of stitches, pleats and inspiration.
I am a collection of experiences, ideas and choices.
I supposed I don't just make dresses....in many ways, I am one.
I purchased the necessary portion of fabric to create both possibilities, and even with plenty of materials to make 2 dresses, I barely spent half of what I would have had I purchased the dress I loved so much from the retailer I cannot afford. It was this very conundrum that drove me to learn how to sew in the first place. As I neared my 30s, I realized that I was no longer satisfied with inexpensive, trendy clothing. My tastes had become much more refined, but sadly, my pocketbook could not keep up with my fashion maturation. Never one to be defeated by any obstacle, I asked for a sewing machine for my 27th birthday, and my mom and grandma surprised me with one along with a long weekend intended to afford a crash course in basic sewing.
I have now been sewing for 4 years, and I no longer use patterns. My husband bought me a dress form a couple of Christmases ago, and my stepmother in-law has provided me with almost every tool one could need to create almost anything out of any material. I am well-stocked in threads of every color, fabrics that range from high-end silks to vintage tablecloths my mom picked up at a flea market. (these make AMAZING vintage-inspired pieces...I like to use them for cutesy little shorts and skirts) This past March, I made the bridesmaid dresses for one of my best friends' weddings, and every once in a while, when the mood hits me, I hide away in my sewing room (which doubles as my husband's office in our tiny house) and just create until all of my restless energy is purged and my spirit is still.
As I crafted the first of my designer-inspired pieces this weekend, it occurred to me that the progression of my sewing hobby has sort of mirrored my life to this point. In the beginning, the matriarchs in my life gave me all of the knowledge and skill that they had to offer in the short period that they had to guide and direct me, and then, I was on my own. In their absence I made some serious mistakes, and even had to take a few pieces apart entirely and start all over again. Some of my creations found themselves on top of my scrap pile, half-finished, reminding me of the frustration I suffered in my endeavor to bring them to life. Some of my work has been made better by my missteps. I have a one-shoulder, purple mini-dress, the sleeve of which I sewed on inside-out. But, it looked so cool, I decided to leave it. Earlier in the year, a panel of design experts from a state fashion institute reviewed some of my work and didn't hate it. I was even applauded for my technique and attention to detail.
I thought back on my journey fondly as I hand-sewed a beaded/sequin trim onto my latest work-in-progress. I thought about what it means to grow up and how necessary mistakes really are in the tapestry of life. Like the pieces I have had to take apart, there are habits that must be unlearned and ideologies that prove to be toxic to the individuals we will eventually become. If we don't go back to the seams and often times, undo what has taken us a long time to craft, we will never find out who we really are. We never move forward or grow. And, the forsaken pieces that find themselves on the scrap pile represent the relationships and friendships we leave behind. They are no less meaningful for having been abandoned - in fact, they might be even more so. Had I made my very first dress perfectly, there would have been no reason to continue creating. I would never feel the sense of pride that overtakes me when I celebrate little successes like getting my zipper perfectly straight or properly sizing a bodice on the first shot. If I didn't know how difficult it was to install a straight zipper, I wouldn't know to be excited about doing it. Every stitch is an opportunity to learn, whether or not the piece is ever fully finished.
Having finally mastered the basics of dress-making, I have really come into my 30s as a designer as well as in age. I am no longer as worried about just getting from point "a" to point "b"...both my existence and my design process have become much more nuanced. I am not concerned about attaching a skirt to a bodice or a sleeve to an arm-hole. But, because I am not so concerned with the mechanics of sewing, I have become much more attentive to the overall presentation of a piece...the way the textiles marry together...the placement of the waistline...the fit...the straightness of the hemline. I am a participant and an observer, and infinitely more self critical despite the progress I've made in my art. It's funny how that happens. The better we get at something, the more we hyper-focus on our flaws. As it is in sewing, it is in life. At 31, I am a much harsher judge of my place, position and contribution to the world than I ever was in my 20s.
When I finally finished my most recent creation late last night, I redressed my work mannequin as I always do, and stepped back to observe and critique. For the first time since I started making my own clothes, my very first response was not trepidation or nervousness about what other people would think of my work. This time, I just felt proud. I had executed to the very best of my ability, without cutting any corners or rushing any part of the process. I had delighted in the journey and not hurried through the less glamorous tasks like pinning the hem and centering my pleats. For once, I made no excuses to myself. I let down my guard and admired the work of my own hands without worrying whether someone else might find it lacking. Stepping back from my finished product, I was content.
Perhaps a little long-distance perspective is the answer to self hyper-analysis in life, as well. For those of us who fixate on the problems that arise time and again, maybe stepping back and taking in the whole picture is necessary to afford real, honest appreciation of ourselves and what we've accomplished. I can easily find myself lacking by comparing my life to those of my peers if I take myself apart and examine only the pieces....the inside out sleeves...the slightly askew zipper. Or...I can take two steps back and look at the incredible creation my hands have wrought as a whole, and I can be pleased. No nitpicking. No analysis. No comparisons. Just admiration.
My dresses are a collection of stitches, pleats and inspiration.
I am a collection of experiences, ideas and choices.
I supposed I don't just make dresses....in many ways, I am one.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Holley Takes Manhattan...
I've been to New York City four times. The first time was with my immediate family - the trip was my Christmas gift. A dance enthusiast in my youth, I had been begging since I was only a little girl to see "The Nutcracker" at Lincoln Center, and when I was 19 years-old, we went. It was perhaps the most magical trip of my young life. It was cold, but not frigid. The store windows were all decorated for the holidays. There were Christmas trees everywhere...some real...others made of tinsel and other, more creative materials. A dear friend was also scheduled to be in Manhattan at the same time, and his family was staying at The Waldorf Astoria. We were not scheduled to stay there, but upon hearing this, my mother made it her mission to relocate us. Not only did she find a deal which allowed us to change locations, but we spent our first night in NYC in a Waldorf suite. We sipped hot chocolate, rode in a carriage and ice skated in Central Park. We bought knock-off designer wallets from a man with a folding table on a street corner. I was in heaven.
My second visit was a quick one. My cousins and I were interning in Washington D.C. the summer I turned 21, and my mom flew in to take us on a whirwind, 5 states in 3 days, driving trip. It was August. It was HOT. We visited Times Square and whined about the heat. I think we went to Planet Hollywood.
My third visit was with my husband, once again at Christmas time. It was the coldest winter on record in NYC, and my husband stood in line at the TKTS booth in Times Square to purchase tickets to "Fela" for almost 2 hours. It was 20 degrees at high noon. Myself an enormous Food Network fan, we made a point to visit Chelsea Market (still one of my favorite food destinations to date) and to spend time shopping in SoHo. We successfully navigated the subway system. We stayed in a boutique hotel with a shared bathroom on the Upper West Side. We waited in line at Serendipity III for an hour and a half. I slept a total of seven hours over three nights, nursing a mean case of walking pneumonia with more Aleve Cold and Sinus than my body could reasonably handle. We spent about two and a half minutes at Filene's Basement.
My most recent trip to NYC was the shortest, but perhaps the most interesting because I was alone. I consider myself a brave individual, but seeing as how this was my first overnight trip ANYWHERE completely by myself, I was more than a little intimidated. The purpose of my visit was business related. I was scheduled to interview Anne Hathaway regarding her new film "One Day" on Monday and to attend a screening of that film Sunday evening. The movie studio had set up the interviews at The Waldorf Astoria, which meant the press would be staying there as well - familiar surroundings put me much more at ease than I might have been at a strange hotel in an area I'd not experienced.
I arrived in Newark at 11 a.m. Sunday and was transported to the Waldorf by a gentleman in a Mercedes named "Rafi". He was very proud of his children - a doctor, a future lawyer a math whiz and the youngest who he claimed "had a superior intellect but simply no ambition". By the way, City College in London costs 8,000 pounds per quarter...that is, I'm told, more expensive than Harvard. Rafi was greatly displeased by this, but luckily, his daughter had received scholarships. My 45 minute ride passed quickly.
I checked into my lovely and overly extravagant room at The Waldorf, made my way to press check-in (I cannot even effectively decribe to you the suite where that was located...let's just say, you could fit three of my house in it...) then proceeded down the elevator from the 29th floor to ground level and an afternoon of adventure.
I began walking north on Park Avenue with no plan in my head. I simply went. I wore a floral print jumper with leather sandals and my hair pulled back in a mess of curls. I felt very stylish indeed. The spring in my step likely gave me away as a non-native, but I was in no mood to worry about the perceptions of others. I was doing New York with no restrictions and no agenda. At each intersection, I looked left and right to see if there was anything I might be missing on my aimless trek northward. About 3 blocks into my excursion, I noted a street fair happening one street East of Park, and I redirected to see what it was about.
The street fair was block after block of food trucks, clothing and accessories vendors and craftspeople. There were purveyors of organic goods like honey and jam, and of course, the usual designer knock-off sellers whose kiosks I avoided. Fifteen minutes and $40 later, I had a new dress and two time-piece amulets shaped like owls...one for me, and one for my friend Liz who had risen at 6:30 on a Sunday to take me to the airport. I was jubilant. The one thing I couldn't seem to locate was a Starbucks. (there was one in my hotel, but I was way to excited to even notice it)
I continued through the street fair until it ended, and upon turning back toward Park Avenue, I found myself across the street from Central Park. I wandered through the outer, free portion of the Central Park Zoo and noted all of the different languages and accents I heard along the way. I waited in line at a food kiosk to purchase some water behind a family I believe to have been Dutch. I walked a few paces behind a group of young women speaking French for a while, and encountered a family speaking Portuguese alongside a used book seller set up on the outskirts of the park. For a moment, I wished I could speak every language in the world. Then, I decided it was much more fun and mysterious to interpret their conversations blindly. You can discern quite a lot from body language and facial expressions.
I strolled past The Plaza and Tiffany's ( I may have been on 5th at this point...I am not really sure...) through Henri Bendel and H&M and eventually, back toward my hotel. Three and a half hours had passed, and I had amassed quite a treasure trove. I emptied my prizes on to my bed, looked them over, returned a call to my dad, then dozed off surrounded by my day's conquests. I awoke just in time to shower, dress and catch a shuttle to my screening, which was a short 3 blocks away.
After seeing the film (which was lovely!), I ordered room service. This is not a common occurrence for me, but since I had been issued a credit to the hotel restaurants, I decided to indulge. I found a movie on television, then ordered angel hair pasta with stewed tomatoes and basil, a salad and a Coors Light. Half an hour later, I had a neatly appointed table set before me, complete with three kinds of bread, a full wine chiller for my one beer, and a pat of butter the size of a bar of soap. I dined, ironed my dress for the following day's events and settled in for an evening's repose in a bed that could have easily fit four of me.
The following morning I rose earlier than I needed to, dressed, and located the Starbucks that had elluded me the day prior. I composed questions for my interviewees, sipped a soy vanilla latte and tried to sedate the butterflies that had taken flight in my stomach.
I consulted the concierge on the best/quickest/cheapest way to return to Newark (cab...that's pretty much the only option) then checked in for my appointed interview time half an hour early. I had my new, special edition copy of "Jane Eyre" in my purse, so I commenced reading to help distract myself from what I was about to do. Around me, reporters who frequently make celebrity interview trips conversed in animated tones, as if they hadn't seen each other in years. A few other people sat reading the film's production notes. An elderly gentleman on a couch opposite me had fallen asleep and was snoring. I made one friend when I consulted the fellow next to me as to whether it was common for interviewers to fall asleep while waiting their turn. He said it was the first time he had seen it happen.
I waited for an hour. I almost leapt out of my skin when the press wrangler announced that it was my turn to "head down to Anne". If you've ever seen the film "Notting Hill", then you know basically what the set up looks like. You are ushered down a hallway to a room where television cameras, lights and microphones have been strategically placed to accommodate reporters quickly and easily. There are people monitoring tape decks and audio equipment. There are other very fashionable people sitting about...chatting...looking fabulous and not really doing anything.
I was Anne Hathaway's last interview before lunch. She was warm and cordial....very professional. It was clear she had been doing this for years. She shook my hand (yes, I touched Anne Hathaway...) before and after the interview, and blushed when I told her she looked quite a lot like Audrey Hepburn when her hair was cut short in her film. I proceeded to interview an equally charming Jim Sturgess who is best known for his role in the strange but visually stunning movie-musical "Across the Universe" featuring the songs of The Beatles.
Having finished my interviews, I had a lovely lunch in the monster press suite, spent an hour or so traversing 5th Avenue looking for Bryant Park in a Suzy Chin tunic dress and flip-flops, then cabbed it back to Newark, nauseous with exhaustion. I spent the next three hours before my flight with my friend, Jane Eyre, boarded a plane and found myself deposited back in Tampa just before 10. The next morning...business as usual.
I'm not sure how often I'll be making whirlwind trips like this one...I don't know for sure when the next opportunity will present itself, but I can honestly say, I feel much more self-assured and confident in my ability to "go it alone" having now navigated the biggest and most densely populated city in the United States, all on my own. It is, perhaps, much more fun with a companion, but there is much to be said for the uninhibited experience of making one's own rules and adhering no one else's schedule.
Now, where to next?....Paris, maybe?
My second visit was a quick one. My cousins and I were interning in Washington D.C. the summer I turned 21, and my mom flew in to take us on a whirwind, 5 states in 3 days, driving trip. It was August. It was HOT. We visited Times Square and whined about the heat. I think we went to Planet Hollywood.
My third visit was with my husband, once again at Christmas time. It was the coldest winter on record in NYC, and my husband stood in line at the TKTS booth in Times Square to purchase tickets to "Fela" for almost 2 hours. It was 20 degrees at high noon. Myself an enormous Food Network fan, we made a point to visit Chelsea Market (still one of my favorite food destinations to date) and to spend time shopping in SoHo. We successfully navigated the subway system. We stayed in a boutique hotel with a shared bathroom on the Upper West Side. We waited in line at Serendipity III for an hour and a half. I slept a total of seven hours over three nights, nursing a mean case of walking pneumonia with more Aleve Cold and Sinus than my body could reasonably handle. We spent about two and a half minutes at Filene's Basement.
My most recent trip to NYC was the shortest, but perhaps the most interesting because I was alone. I consider myself a brave individual, but seeing as how this was my first overnight trip ANYWHERE completely by myself, I was more than a little intimidated. The purpose of my visit was business related. I was scheduled to interview Anne Hathaway regarding her new film "One Day" on Monday and to attend a screening of that film Sunday evening. The movie studio had set up the interviews at The Waldorf Astoria, which meant the press would be staying there as well - familiar surroundings put me much more at ease than I might have been at a strange hotel in an area I'd not experienced.
I arrived in Newark at 11 a.m. Sunday and was transported to the Waldorf by a gentleman in a Mercedes named "Rafi". He was very proud of his children - a doctor, a future lawyer a math whiz and the youngest who he claimed "had a superior intellect but simply no ambition". By the way, City College in London costs 8,000 pounds per quarter...that is, I'm told, more expensive than Harvard. Rafi was greatly displeased by this, but luckily, his daughter had received scholarships. My 45 minute ride passed quickly.
I checked into my lovely and overly extravagant room at The Waldorf, made my way to press check-in (I cannot even effectively decribe to you the suite where that was located...let's just say, you could fit three of my house in it...) then proceeded down the elevator from the 29th floor to ground level and an afternoon of adventure.
I began walking north on Park Avenue with no plan in my head. I simply went. I wore a floral print jumper with leather sandals and my hair pulled back in a mess of curls. I felt very stylish indeed. The spring in my step likely gave me away as a non-native, but I was in no mood to worry about the perceptions of others. I was doing New York with no restrictions and no agenda. At each intersection, I looked left and right to see if there was anything I might be missing on my aimless trek northward. About 3 blocks into my excursion, I noted a street fair happening one street East of Park, and I redirected to see what it was about.
The street fair was block after block of food trucks, clothing and accessories vendors and craftspeople. There were purveyors of organic goods like honey and jam, and of course, the usual designer knock-off sellers whose kiosks I avoided. Fifteen minutes and $40 later, I had a new dress and two time-piece amulets shaped like owls...one for me, and one for my friend Liz who had risen at 6:30 on a Sunday to take me to the airport. I was jubilant. The one thing I couldn't seem to locate was a Starbucks. (there was one in my hotel, but I was way to excited to even notice it)
I continued through the street fair until it ended, and upon turning back toward Park Avenue, I found myself across the street from Central Park. I wandered through the outer, free portion of the Central Park Zoo and noted all of the different languages and accents I heard along the way. I waited in line at a food kiosk to purchase some water behind a family I believe to have been Dutch. I walked a few paces behind a group of young women speaking French for a while, and encountered a family speaking Portuguese alongside a used book seller set up on the outskirts of the park. For a moment, I wished I could speak every language in the world. Then, I decided it was much more fun and mysterious to interpret their conversations blindly. You can discern quite a lot from body language and facial expressions.
I strolled past The Plaza and Tiffany's ( I may have been on 5th at this point...I am not really sure...) through Henri Bendel and H&M and eventually, back toward my hotel. Three and a half hours had passed, and I had amassed quite a treasure trove. I emptied my prizes on to my bed, looked them over, returned a call to my dad, then dozed off surrounded by my day's conquests. I awoke just in time to shower, dress and catch a shuttle to my screening, which was a short 3 blocks away.
After seeing the film (which was lovely!), I ordered room service. This is not a common occurrence for me, but since I had been issued a credit to the hotel restaurants, I decided to indulge. I found a movie on television, then ordered angel hair pasta with stewed tomatoes and basil, a salad and a Coors Light. Half an hour later, I had a neatly appointed table set before me, complete with three kinds of bread, a full wine chiller for my one beer, and a pat of butter the size of a bar of soap. I dined, ironed my dress for the following day's events and settled in for an evening's repose in a bed that could have easily fit four of me.
The following morning I rose earlier than I needed to, dressed, and located the Starbucks that had elluded me the day prior. I composed questions for my interviewees, sipped a soy vanilla latte and tried to sedate the butterflies that had taken flight in my stomach.
I consulted the concierge on the best/quickest/cheapest way to return to Newark (cab...that's pretty much the only option) then checked in for my appointed interview time half an hour early. I had my new, special edition copy of "Jane Eyre" in my purse, so I commenced reading to help distract myself from what I was about to do. Around me, reporters who frequently make celebrity interview trips conversed in animated tones, as if they hadn't seen each other in years. A few other people sat reading the film's production notes. An elderly gentleman on a couch opposite me had fallen asleep and was snoring. I made one friend when I consulted the fellow next to me as to whether it was common for interviewers to fall asleep while waiting their turn. He said it was the first time he had seen it happen.
I waited for an hour. I almost leapt out of my skin when the press wrangler announced that it was my turn to "head down to Anne". If you've ever seen the film "Notting Hill", then you know basically what the set up looks like. You are ushered down a hallway to a room where television cameras, lights and microphones have been strategically placed to accommodate reporters quickly and easily. There are people monitoring tape decks and audio equipment. There are other very fashionable people sitting about...chatting...looking fabulous and not really doing anything.
I was Anne Hathaway's last interview before lunch. She was warm and cordial....very professional. It was clear she had been doing this for years. She shook my hand (yes, I touched Anne Hathaway...) before and after the interview, and blushed when I told her she looked quite a lot like Audrey Hepburn when her hair was cut short in her film. I proceeded to interview an equally charming Jim Sturgess who is best known for his role in the strange but visually stunning movie-musical "Across the Universe" featuring the songs of The Beatles.
Having finished my interviews, I had a lovely lunch in the monster press suite, spent an hour or so traversing 5th Avenue looking for Bryant Park in a Suzy Chin tunic dress and flip-flops, then cabbed it back to Newark, nauseous with exhaustion. I spent the next three hours before my flight with my friend, Jane Eyre, boarded a plane and found myself deposited back in Tampa just before 10. The next morning...business as usual.
I'm not sure how often I'll be making whirlwind trips like this one...I don't know for sure when the next opportunity will present itself, but I can honestly say, I feel much more self-assured and confident in my ability to "go it alone" having now navigated the biggest and most densely populated city in the United States, all on my own. It is, perhaps, much more fun with a companion, but there is much to be said for the uninhibited experience of making one's own rules and adhering no one else's schedule.
Now, where to next?....Paris, maybe?
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