tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18198805192037184232024-02-07T11:19:45.648-08:00HollisphereThe Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-37925731847336778642015-08-12T19:11:00.000-07:002015-08-12T19:11:55.664-07:00Nearly Naked and Unafraid: A TV girl's guide to claiming your glowNaked FACED. (Now keep reading. This is good stuff.)<br />
<br />
It was a rainy Thursday morning.<br />
<br />
Every time the consultant came into town, I was always assigned a meeting. I was starting to feel a little targeted.<br />
<br />
I sat, as usual, with pen in hand, ready to take notes on how I could change my on-air presentation/look to better represent myself and the company brand. At first, I feared consultant meetings, but our consultant was a genuine, kind-hearted woman with a lot of experience in the business, so I had come to value our time together. When I first became pregnant, she was incredibly helpful in guiding me through gracefully gaining baby weight on the air. I appreciated that. I hoped that Thursday's meeting would also be positive, but I had a feeling I was in for more of a rude awakening.<br />
<br />
The consultant was not as chipper as she had been in the past. We sat face to face in an empty conference room. She sat in a chair directly opposite me and scrutinized my face. My very tired face.<br />
<br />
"What kind of foundation make-up do you use?" she asked rather sympathetically.<br />
<br />
I told her. It was a lovely but expensive boutique brand made for heavy coverage but light wearability. She nodded.<br />
<br />
"It's not really working for you," she began cautiously. "I think you need to find something with better coverage."<br />
<br />
She went on to very tenderly convey to me that I looked worn-out, washed-out and broken out. It was all very hard to hear. I had a five month-old at home, so I was VERY aware of the toll that sleeplessness, poor nutrition and hormones were taking on my skin…and my psyche. I was in LOVE with my baby son, but my infatuation had also led me to spend less time considering my outward appearance. The truth is, I still feel that way to some extent.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before I knew that I would be leaving television, at least full-time, to relocate with my husband. Despite my 13 year career, I was somewhat relieved to be turning in my "TV persona" for a little while. I looked forward to living minimally - cleaning out the cosmetics case and dialing down my everyday dress. I was tired of spending the big bucks on make-up because I hated wearing it. My first move upon arriving at home every single day had been to wash my face so that I wouldn't rub a day's worth of grime on my son's perfect little face as I snuggled him. <br />
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But, as I fell into my new routine, and my make-up use dropped off to twice a week at most, I realized, I didn't feel too awesome about what was lurking underneath. All of that fatigue the consultant had mentioned had become all too obvious, and even though I didn't know anyone and had few interactions daily, I was still losing confidence. I was terrified I was becoming one of those women people accuse of "letting herself go".<br />
<br />
It was time to have a little heart to heart with my vanity. <br />
<br />
I have never been a big fan of the heavy focus placed on TV personalities' looks. I understand completely WHY that focus exists, but I was always given to rebelling against the system. In 2009, I participated in a nationwide push for television personalities to appear on the air without make-up in support of a movement toward greater confidence in young women. I was happy to do it, but I wasn't a big fan of what I was putting out there. However, at the time, I believed that investing in proper skincare was playing into the hands of the great media machine, and I was fervently against that. Ah, how we do know EVERYTHING in our 20s, right? <br />
<br />
What I didn't think about was how I was doing MYSELF a disservice by trying to buck the system. Not taking care of oneself is not taking care of oneself - period. The idea is a bit like sitting and eating an entire tube of cut-and-bake cookie dough just to prove that weight doesn't matter. It doesn't, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't still eat healthfully and exercise. I'm much more useful to any movement if I'm healthy. That goes for everyone.<br />
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Where my understanding of the situation exited the track was my perception that I could only present my best self by covering it up. Make-up. More make-up. MORE MAKE-UP! Cover those dark spots! Concealer! Concealer! MORE CONCEALER!<br />
<br />
It has taken me midway through my 30s and motherhood to finally GET what looking my best is about. What I LOOK like is, and should be, an extension of what I'm doing to take CARE of myself. What I'm doing to be KIND to myself. What I'm doing to BETTER myself. How much I VALUE myself. <br />
<br />
This is why I now do what I do. <br />
<br />
This debrief is not a sales pitch by any means, but it is important to note that I am now a consultant with what I believe is truly the modern leader in effective skincare. You can <a href="http://www.holleysinn.myrandf.com/" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a> to learn more about what we offer, but for the time being, just know that I do what I do because I am living proof that you really CAN look your best and hold onto your ideals. In fact, I am SO pleased with the way my skin has been transformed, I decided to ditch the foundation and concealer and REVEAL myself through the skin in which I live. (Here I go, bucking the system again! But this time, the RIGHT way.)<br />
<br />
What you see here is my once dark spot, blemish-riddled skin with only a light dusting of powder and blush. I'm still sporting my eye make-up and lip color so that you can actually make-out my features, but there is not a spot of liquid treatment anywhere else on my face. <br />
<br />
Taking these photos felt pretty amazing. Whether I'm in front of a camera on a consistent basis again or not, knowing I'm glowing because of what I'm doing to treat myself right informs the rest of the way I live my life. When I'm at my best, those I love (one little tiny guy in particular) are getting the best I can give.<br />
<br />
I think the consultant would be proud of me. No re-touching. No filter. No foundation.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-63272240873433958012015-08-04T19:00:00.003-07:002015-08-04T19:02:17.636-07:00HUGE August R+F Giveaway! HUGE, I TELL YOU!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB6sf0GxSzDSAtwcytIlyeA3nPeY7IYr57A0E3VKgoKSbphtWyQhtI7PLLAsikPpQbZgg4JYjHo8SPuUcUDKmdXMtrY5xLPje2VAeoQZ0FXr-VNFmr___YjsxxPAEoGQglWJ6H6DUMVT0/s1600/IMG_2831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB6sf0GxSzDSAtwcytIlyeA3nPeY7IYr57A0E3VKgoKSbphtWyQhtI7PLLAsikPpQbZgg4JYjHo8SPuUcUDKmdXMtrY5xLPje2VAeoQZ0FXr-VNFmr___YjsxxPAEoGQglWJ6H6DUMVT0/s320/IMG_2831.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i>
<i>First of all, this giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook. In accordance with FB rules, I am stating that now.</i><br />
<br />
Okay, now that THAT's out of the way…<br />
<br />
This is an AMAZING prize package containing this FABULOUS vintage tote, our award-winning foaming sunless tanner, a much coveted REDEFINE Eye Cream AND…wait for it….an <b>ENTIRE BOX OF REDEFINE ACUTE CARE for Expression Lines</b>. That last part in and of itself is worth over $200. <br />
<br />
For those unfamiliar with <b>Acute Care for Expression Lines</b>, this is R+F's answer to dermal fillers, and it is truly an innovation. The product is a gel patch/cone instead of a needle assisted gel. All you have to do is press the cone into the expression line you are targeting and go to sleep. Wake up in the morning looking YOUNGER! Results appear after just one use, but our doctors recommend three usages in one week to achieve top results.<br />
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And, with this giveaway, you could win <b>A WHOLE BOX</b>! 10 sets! 20 single treatments!! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAeZYWZXerB77p8tJQbpGw3eyyEnTuP_5IYKjEr8az6agCsrHyjYvS68Dr496fBovDA854kjOV54fHqsq0uf2bMuLzK1kBtsxOsNR78w4KK7mImXDd7DIQNNFLtx6vPk5VQbEOoUduv4P/s1600/IMG_2832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAeZYWZXerB77p8tJQbpGw3eyyEnTuP_5IYKjEr8az6agCsrHyjYvS68Dr496fBovDA854kjOV54fHqsq0uf2bMuLzK1kBtsxOsNR78w4KK7mImXDd7DIQNNFLtx6vPk5VQbEOoUduv4P/s320/IMG_2832.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<b>Here's how to win:</b><br />
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- Become a *Preferred Customer through me before 4:45 p.m. on August 15th. - 1 entry<br />
<br />
- Become a Preferred Customer through me before 4:45 p.m. on August 15th and refer a friend who ALSO becomes a Preferred Customer through me before that same day and time - 2 entries<br />
<br />
- Become a Rodan + Fields Consultant through me before August 15th at 4:45 p.m. - 5 entries<br />
<br />
*Preferred Customer means that you sign up to receive your products automatically shipped every 60 days. The cost is $20 the first time you order, but you receive a discount of at least 10% on that order and every order thereafter. I will personally adjust your future orders for you - contents, shipment date, etc., and you can cancel anytime. <br />
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Also, do NOT forget - all R+F products come with a 60 day money back guarantee. If you're not happy with your results, you get your money back. All you spent was the $20 enrollment fee.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://holleysinn.myrandf.com/Pages/OurProducts/GetAdvice/SolutionsTool" target="_blank">Click here</a> to take the R+F solutions tool test (it takes 5 minutes) to find out what our doctors recommend for you, then send me your results. Private message me on Facebook to order or email me at holleysinnrf@gmail.com. If the regimen recommended for you seems daunting, don't worry - I have ample experience with this whole line to be able to help you craft your perfect plan! <br />
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<b>Contact info again:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>holleysinnrf@gmail.com</b><br />
<b>Facebook Private Message</b><br />
<b>If you have my number, use it. I cannot include it here for security reasons.</b><br />
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<b>*All past PC members may secure a double entry by referring a friend who becomes a PC through me by the stated date and time.</b><br />
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Prize winner will be selected by a drawing at my Business Launch Party on August 15th. Winner will be notified by email, text or phone call.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-85887177462431729472015-07-23T11:08:00.000-07:002015-07-23T11:08:05.916-07:00A Maguire-ish Manifesto<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's July in Wisconsin. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Everything is in bloom. The trees are green and pink and white and purple. The rainbow flowers are set off all the more by the blueness of the sky. The world here exists in over-saturation which means my photos of my little son rarely need a fun filter. There is a Monarch butterfly fluttering outside my window as I type.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I spend my days at the splash park. The pool. The playground. And, I love it. I LOVE IT. Never in a million years would I have believed myself the quintessential stay-at-home mom, but here's the skinny: I WANT to make homemade popsicles. I WANT to mow my own lawn. I WANT to teach my son how to grow peppers and tomatoes. (which means I better learn, I suppose)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I DON'T want to miss a minute of his transition from baby to child to adolescent to man. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">BUT….</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I also don't want to forget that I am capable of other things. Once upon a time, I was so career hyper-focused, I wasn't even sure I wanted children. I worked as hard as I could to climb a ladder I was sure would lead me to happiness or at least a place of financial zen. Then, a wise co-worker imparted this tidbit that has never left the dark recesses of my consciousness: "It's not all about the money, Holley. Always remember to love what you do too or, at the end of the day, you'll look at what you have and it will all seem meaningless."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And so, I am embarking on a new set of journeys with a new vision and a new passion. Will you still find me on air in the future? It's possible. I am certainly not ruling that out. To say never is to pose a dare to the universe. I'm not in the business of playing cosmic roulette. Meantime, I AM in the business of self improvement.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I recently contracted my own independent consultant business with Rodan + Fields which many of you already know to be a fast-growing leader in skincare (the docs also created Proactiv….) . Why? Because I've used it and it works. In fact, I used it then stopped using it and am now using it again because in the interim when I was NOT, I saw a serious decline in the quality of my skin. I have a toddler. I rarely have time to put on lip gloss let alone make-up. I NEED to already have good skin that doesn't need to be all covered up. My lifestyle demands it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">More importantly, as I mentioned, the business model (which is not what you think - I promise) allows me the freedom to work from wherever which is paramount to my commitment to my son. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here are my links if you are interested in finding out more. If you're feeling "sold to", that isn't my intention. I'm just excited to finally be settling into some direction with something I believe in as a base. (And, it's DARN good, you guys. Remember, I was on TV for a really long time. I have some perspective on putting your best face forward - pun intended.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For product: <a href="http://www.holleysinn.myrandf.com/" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">www.HolleySinn.myrandf.com</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you want to learn more about the business to get the gist of why the heck I'm doing this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.holleysinn.myrandf.biz/" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">www.HolleySinn.myrandf.biz</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, for phase 2: As of the end of September, I'm in hot pursuit of the title "Milwaukee's Best Group Fitness Leader". I'll be all trained up, fully and entirely certified and ready to build my niche in this already incredibly active community. So many of you told me I should be doing this. So, I'm doing this. I'll be posting updates, but my first endeavor involves getting mommies and babies out into the fresh air for fitness, fun and bonding. After all, Mommy can't be her best for her little guy or gal without feeling her strongest. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, for those who have been asking "what they heck is she doing now?", there's your answer. These decisions come from a place of true introspection, a LOT of consideration and sincere "heart talk". </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, I'm tired of breaking out like a teenager. I'm 35, for pete's sake! I'll also be sharing lessons I'm learning along the way via a new blog which I'll write more about later. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I part with this thought: Doing nothing is guaranteed to yield nothing. Doing something may yield something unexpected, but it is guaranteed to yield SOMETHING. <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span>The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-11654659317743533682015-01-19T20:02:00.003-08:002015-01-19T20:02:31.574-08:00And then what: From chaos to cabbage and toxic chemicalsMy plan is to make soap. <br />
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At first, I fully intended to make my soap the old-fashioned way - a little jojoba oil, a little shea…highly combustible lye…<br />
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Needless to say, a little research and my husband's raised eyebrows changed my focus. I'm a risk-taker, no doubt, but I have a child who is in need of a mother, and I wasn't very good at chemistry in high school. Plus, I don't have a well-ventilated work space seeing as how it has averaged 15 degrees in my new frosty home since I arrived, and I am fervently opposed to losing fingers to frostbite because I chose to mix hazardous chemicals in my backyard. <br />
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Nonetheless, I plan to make soap.<br />
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I have done a lot of googling, and there are plenty of lye-free methods out there I intend to try. I am passionately committed to addressing complicated skin issues for people like myself who once thought they had combination skin, then moved to Wisconsin and learned that they actually had very dry, flaky, chapped, lizard skin. <br />
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Today, I am committed to this idea. A few days ago, I learned to knit. Last week, I made kimchi. <br />
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One might say I am bored, but the truth is, I don't get bored - I get inspired. Over and over. By many things in many different forms. I bought performance activewear so that I can begin training for another half-marathon this summer while the weather remains in the sub-freezing zone. Today, I turned an old garage shelf into a stylish storage piece for my kitchen. I study Google Maps to find shortcuts to the places I frequent. I post a little too often on Facebook.<br />
<br />
But, I'm not bored. Not yet.<br />
<br />
Honestly, taking care of my little man is absolutely a full-time job. I love actually being there for every new milestone. I am so thankful for this opportunity to observe him in action. He is amazing, and I spend a lot of time brainstorming ways to provide him with even more stimulation and to entice him to say "Mama" before he settles on "Dada" as his first word. (It seems this is the direction in which we are headed. Dada, kitty, or, on the outside chance, "lamp".)<br />
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But, I have never NOT worked. (And, when I say "work", I mean maintain employment by a company that pays me. Anyone who says raising a child isn't work needs to have their wiring checked.) This is the first time since I graduated from college that I have not received a paycheck, and it is a strange and awkward feeling. <br />
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I come from strong feminist stock. My mother might not consider herself thusly, but I remember well a particular Sunday when our church pastor gave the "women should be submissive" sermon, and my mother stood up in the middle of our pew and stepped over no fewer than eleven people to exit the sanctuary. I was seventeen, and I followed her. Hence, I am not comfortable not being a breadwinner - however anemic my bread contribution might be. I'm sure my husband would say that it is pretty nice having me take care of a lot of the everyday logistics, but there is a small shred of my being that wishes I was getting paid for setting up our car insurance, managing our investments and doing all of the laundry. I would also relish being surrounded by "peers" again, as attempting to make friends without constant exposure to the same people everyday is a lot like trying to pick up a date in a bar using lame lines, except there is no social lubricant. I am literally hitting on the women running the registers at stores and the mothers of the other children in my son's music class. <br />
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"So, you're from here? I'm not. I just moved here from Florida. No, I don't mind the cold at all - want to be my friend? I make a mean kimchi!"<br />
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Luckily, people here are incredibly nice or else I might very well be "that weird girl"- avoided in mommy groups and snubbed in stores. As it were, I am more capable of handling this odd state of singularity now than I ever have been. Working in television, one grows armadillo skin. In the immortal words of Chumbawumba, "I get knocked down, but I get up again…" Eventually, my incredibly awkward pick-up formula will work, and I'll find a friend as bizarre as I am. I'm maintaining hope, anyway.<br />
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For now, I'll make soap. I may change my mind tomorrow and opt to pursue a taco truck (which this area desperately needs!!!) or simply buy popsicle molds and see how many different flavors of pudding pop I can devise. Maybe I'll plant tulip bulbs. Maybe I'll knit eight more infinity scarves. <br />
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Maybe I'll spend a little time meditating on that word "maybe". Maybe may be the single most freeing word in the English language. It's an open door - a cosmic vastness - one of those restaurant menus that is five pages long. Overwhelming, yes - but also infinitely promising.<br />
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Two syllables. Endless possibilities. The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-21457154325211129782014-12-30T08:04:00.000-08:002014-12-30T08:04:03.537-08:00Farewell, Florida: A parting thought (or 10...)<div class="MsoNormal">
Here we are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 24 hours, I will have completed my final moments on air
at WTSP and will be embarking on my final New Year’s Eve in Tampa Bay. Perhaps it’s the rain…the lack of sleep…some
pull of the moon even…but this otherwise stalwart pragmatist is driven to
nostalgia. It’s an uncomfortable place –
but so goes the theme of 2014. Stand
outside your comfort zone long enough, and the disconcerting cold pricklies on
your skin begin to turn to enthusiastic warm fizzies. Funny how similar they feel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s cold where we are going. So I’m told over and over and over daily by
my colleagues and friends. Mind you – we
are all Floridian – almost all of us transplants, but we all came here for one
reason or another. Those reasons range
from new starts to jumpstarts, but we all have one thing in common: the
sun. We crave its warmth, and here in
Florida, we can get it in abundance. We
live in vacation-land. We are the
reprieve for those poor, chilled folks who travel here from where I am
going. So I’m told.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, something changed in 2014. Up until this year, the Bay was my baby. My husband is the lifer, but I somehow felt
that I was cosmically a part of the tapestry woven by the immigrants who
largely built the collection of cities I have come to love. They travelled from places afar, and I just
came from Texas, but those bridges are every bit as much mine as anyone’s – at least,
I have always felt that way. But, on
March 6<sup>th</sup>, 2014, I somehow stopped needing the sun, the sand, the
sidewalks of the Burg. As I stand beside
the seawall across from Straub Park now, my gaze is not on the boats in the
marina, but on my son’s smile. With him
and his father now completing my team, I am free. My sun goes with me to the great white north
where there are bears, moose, cheese and beer in excess. (Maybe not moose. I kind of hope so, though.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is not to say that there is not still a golden place in
my heart where the Burg abides. I hold
high the rooftop at The Birchwood, the brick courtyard of Cantina, the flamingo
pink façade of the Don Cesar, the sunset deck at Caddy’s. But, the truth is, my priceless collection of
friends and “extended family” compiled here is worth infinitely more than any
of those sun-kissed locales. Because I
was here, I have the love of my life in Oshkosh overalls. I have my incredibly talented and usually
congenial husband. I have a god-daughter who is smarter than all of us and will
probably be president or the next Tina Fey one day. Her mother may as well be my sister – people already
believe her to be. I have a spirit guide
with a pixie haircut and a heart of gold whose progeny is Beyonce reincarnate. I even have my very own version of Julia
Louis-Dreyfuss who took her game westward a year ago. God, has it been a year? But because she went, I know that my leaving is
not equal to letting go. The ties that
bind us all are made of sturdy stuff, and neither the salt on the roads in
snowy Wisconsin nor the salt in the air on St. Pete Beach can corrode our
connections. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for my cohorts at WTSP – my kindreds - the misguided folks
who chose a similar path to mine – this is a transient business. We are all rather used to goodbyes, aren’t
we? But we do get our share of “hellos”
in the process. Those make the “miss you”
moments more bearable. To all of you, I
simply say this: who would know better
than us how very small the world is? We are
the ones who make it so. Given that, I
expect to be informed of all of your comings and goings – from job changes to
new additions (wink, wink). I’m-a-be
watching! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, while where I’m going might be cold, I won’t be. I pocketed plenty of Florida sunshine by way
of each and every one of you – enough for the Sinn clan to stay toasty for many
winters to come. I also got a heated
mattress pad for Christmas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be well. Be
kind. Be warm. Don’t be strangers. C’est la vie, et la vie est bonne!<o:p></o:p></div>
The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-76091994748825860982014-02-14T15:36:00.001-08:002014-02-14T15:36:28.900-08:00Lessons for my little man: What is Love?It's Valentine's Day.<br />
It comes every year…<br />
Red roses abound, reservations are made and people hold each other near.<br />
<br />
Babies like you are often…ahem…created,<br />
and romantic gestures are extravagant and overstated.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness society has set aside a day,<br />
when it is encouraged to make a grand display…<br />
of how we feel when we hold each other close,<br />
but this isn't the day of love that your mama loves most.<br />
<br />
That day will inevitably be the day you appear…<br />
when your cry will be the sweetest sound I could hear.<br />
The day when I know my life won't be the same…<br />
the day that your daddy and I officially give you your name.<br />
<br />
Meantime, there are some things about love I've learned in my time…<br />
Some little nuances I'll now put into rhyme…<br />
If you want them, they're yours to use or discard.<br />
Some of these lessons were easy - others were hard.<br />
<br />
First, people are people - we're flawed at the core.<br />
Love is making allowances for this and not expecting too much more.<br />
For the mercy you give will be the mercy you take.<br />
We forgive each other readily when we accept and don't forsake.<br />
<br />
More often than not, there is good in every heart.<br />
Choosing to believe that is a gift and an art.<br />
The pain that was cause comes from the pain that we feel<br />
Love is offering a hand to help someone else heal.<br />
<br />
Love is keeping those close who feel so far away…<br />
Making an effort to reach out every day.<br />
Giving of our time when we have no time to give…<br />
Serving others first is the kindest way to live.<br />
<br />
Never shy away from those who touch your soul.<br />
It's becoming vulnerable that eventually makes us whole.<br />
Love is knowing that the sting of another's pain<br />
is what inevitably compels us toward making great change.<br />
<br />
Love is preserving hope for another no matter the cost.<br />
Never allowing for the possibility that the future is lost.<br />
In this way, love is exhausting and a burden to bare,<br />
But no greater fulfillment can be found in anything else, anywhere.<br />
<br />
Love is giving of joy any chance that you can.<br />
Offer kindnesses unlimited, my son, and you will truly be a man.<br />
Love is essentially wearing your heart on your sleeve,<br />
But from all my experience, I truly believe…<br />
<br />
That even when you want to build a wall and hold the world at bay,<br />
And your impulse is to tuck your broken heart away,<br />
If you keep yourself open and your chin pointed north,<br />
The love that you give, back to you will come forth.<br />
<br />
So on this February day marked by flowers and such,<br />
Perhaps your mama's broken verses don't mean all that much.<br />
But one day, I know, you'll see the value in what I write and what I do.<br />
Because this is the kind of Love I'll be giving to you.<br />
<br />
I love you, Teddy. The tiny feet that kick me in the ribs….and the sweet spirit I know you already possess. I know that because of the woman I have become from carrying you. Perhaps these are lessons that you are teaching me….from the inside, out.<br />
<br />The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-11313408595766252832013-12-04T17:25:00.001-08:002013-12-04T17:25:19.163-08:00Dear Santa...It sure has been a while since we last spoke. I know my letters stopped coming in 1988, but I want you to know, you are still a very real part of my Christmas - I just always figured you had enough on your plate what with fulfilling my little brother's unusual requests (rope, plywood and nails…oh, and that Christmas of the bag of rocks…) and keeping up with ever changing technology. I mean, these days, your elves are busy assembling complicated tablets, smartphones and interactive virtual reality games. All I ever really wanted was a doll that didn't have scary eyes.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I haven't been keeping my distance because I don't believe in you. Quite the contrary! As a matter of fact - if you would consider doing me the honor - I have a very important request for this Christmas. And…I, in no way, doubt your ability to deliver, but what I'm about to lay out here isn't exactly a friendly-eyed dolly. This request might prove a bit more elusive and might require a bit more time and cooperation from some outside parties.<br />
<br />
You see, in just a few very short months, I'm going to become a mommy. (to a person this time - not cats) I'm sure you were already aware since you are in the business of knowing things. The point is…well, Santa…if you could…for my one gift this year, I would like to have the ability to be good at that. Being a mommy, I mean. I know that is a vague and ambiguous gift request, but it really is the one and only thing I want for myself this year. <br />
<br />
Now, you may be hearkening back to that one Christmas when I asked for the ability to fly….I can see how that one might have been outside your gifting scope. But, the way I see it, you have a pretty good handle on the whole parenting thing. After all, a world full of children looks at you as the grandest and most generous of patriarchs, so from where I stand, this minimal gift list is totally doable for you. But, just to make things a bit easier, allow me to elaborate.<br />
<br />
My little fella is going to come with his own unique batch of talents, character traits, strengths and challenges. The angels have already adorned him with his collection of bit and pieces - some that I can potentially predict but most of which will come as a total surprise to me and to his daddy. He may have my nose and his daddy's confidence. Conversely, he may have his daddy's mouth and my strength of focus. Whatever he brings to the table, I need to be ready to flex my adaptability muscles…more than I ever have before. He might like soccer. I know next to nothing about soccer. Heaven help me if he loves golf. He may cry on his first day of preschool…or worse…he may run into the fray with nary a backward glance at his mother who will be crumbling inside. <br />
<br />
In any scenario…at any moment…whether small or critical…I need your help, Santa, to be both an oak and a river all at once. I need to learn to love all the harder the firmer I stand. I am desperate to understand how to let my tiny boy fight one or two of his own battles when my instinct is going to be to pounce like an angry tigress. What do I do when he comes home with a naughty note from his teacher…or asks me to stop giving him a hug goodbye in the drop-off line? I know there are far worse scenarios, but Santa, those frighten me too much to mention. But, know that I could certainly use an extra dose of fortitude (or 10!) should any of those situations present themselves. <br />
<br />
Hopefully, I'm explaining this request clearly enough - I'm happy to itemize if you see fit, but something tells me you get it. Being the best possible mommy I can be is the only thing I want now…and will probably ever want again…so I'm really putting all my eggs in this one basket. I understand that this is a doozy and likely rather overwhelming, so let's not impart the old traditional time frame on it. Christmas is less than three weeks away: how about we spread this thing out over the next…oh….well...the next indefinite number of Christmases? <br />
<br />
To put it simply: if you'll keep teaching, I'll keep listening and learning, year after year. That is my promise. And, while I'll be happy to write each year just to check in, you can just keep this letter on file. I can pretty well guarantee it will be forever applicable. Oh…and I'll do my darndest to stay on the "nice" list, although if that tigress does make an appearance….well….cut a momma some slack.<br />
<br />
I suppose that will do it, Santa. Baby Teddy and I will put out your cookies and milk (or Irish coffee if you need a little somethin') on Christmas Eve then snuggle into our nest of pillows to listen for your jingle bells. <br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
Holley (and baby Teddy)<br />
<br />
PS - If you DID happen to have any of that magic reindeer feed that sets your velvet-footed fellas aloft lying around…I STILL wouldn't say no….The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-47495889138899039372013-10-14T16:08:00.002-07:002013-10-14T16:09:11.918-07:00Lessons for My Little Man: Let It BeHappy nearly 19 weeks of existence, my little fella! You are now the size of a bell pepper, although, by the size of my tummy, one might guess you were closer to the size of a large gourd or small pumpkin! I must take a moment to thank you for your recent attempts at getting my attention - admittedly, I first thought I was simply having a case of misplaced soda bubbles, but it soon became obvious that either your little fists or your tiny feet were hard at work against the lining of your snug little home. I don't blame you! You must have inherited your momma's claustrophobia. I would be itching for a little more space too in your position.<br />
<br />
You know, it's pretty incredible the way that carrying you around has opened my mind and heart to all of the stimuli coming at me from all directions right now. It's beautiful and poetic but also terrible because not all of it is lovely, and all I want to do is build a wall around little you and keep it all outside. I want to make you a fortress of iron! A castle of stone and steel! But, guess what! No amount of rock or metal will keep you safe and sound. <br />
<br />
My challenge is not to protect you with force...but with peace.<br />
<br />
Your favorite band, The Beatles, seemed to have a pretty decent grasp of the human condition - one might not think so should one only be familiar with their earliest work, but like your momma, they seemed to gain a lot of insight once those all too telling 30s rolled around. Perhaps the greatest advice they had to offer is both the title and defining lyric of their most popular ballad, "Let It Be" which speaks of peace through acceptance that sometimes...searching for an answer is like trying to find your keys. They inevitably will not show up until you've stopped looking and moved on to something else equally or even more important. <br />
<br />
Then you find them in your sock drawer. Or in the pantry. Or in the box with the single-serve coffees. <br />
<br />
And, sometimes, it's not your keys that have you desperately searching. More often then not, true understanding is the real precious lost item, and the search for it can be more than just frustrating. It can tear you to pieces. Your Aunt Liz tells your mommy all the time that trying to figure out why people and things are the way they are is only beneficial to a point. Then...you just have to let go, give up the search and let it be. I ache already anticipating the day that someone says an unkind word to you...or makes you the butt of a joke...because I know that your impulse will be to figure out what made them say it and why. I know this because your daddy and I both come wired that way. Your chances of being easy-going in the grand life lottery are slim. (although, I'm sending all of my positive energy into that corner!)<br />
<br />
Knowing this, I want to share with you that, now and again, the answer...really isn't that important. What The Beatles were really preaching when they wrote "Let It Be" is the philosophy of Detachment. What that means, sweet boy, is that there are things in life we cannot control, comprehend or give context....all we can do is let them be. In our house, we live like this: give as often as you can; do good for others as much as possible; be kind even when it is hard; learn from every hardship or mistake. Daddy and I are not 100% good at following our own set of mantras, but we try very hard, and knowing you are coming makes us try even harder. Having little ideals like this helps us focus on what is important when things happen that we just can't understand or impact.<br />
<br />
That's a lot to take in, Little Man - especially for a being no bigger than a Florida sized avocado, but if you can just remember that sometimes, all the answers don't have to be up to you, I'll feel much better sending you off to school one day where kids can be buddies one day and bullies the next. You needn't worry anyway because I'll be having one heckuva chat with THEIR mommas if I hear they were mean to you. Kindly....of course. ;)<br />
<br />
Now...I've put off your dinner long enough. What's that you say? Ah! Pancakes it is. I like the way you think, Little Man. And, I love you bigger than all the stars in the sky and fish in the sea.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-62211620958114758202013-10-02T17:25:00.000-07:002013-10-02T17:25:51.113-07:00Lessons for My Little Man: To Be Brave<br />
Hello my sweet little boy!<br />
<br />
Today, you are the size of a turnip, or so says the weekly email I get from one of the twenty million websites I visit to get information about your impending arrival. I have learned a lot about you in the past few days! You seem to like The Beatles which makes your daddy VERY happy! When I play "Across the Universe" for you, I can feel you settle....listening. I can't wait to see your sweet face when I play it for you after you arrive. You don't mind when I jog outside as long as you get something delicious afterward. I tell you stories about the things we will do as you grow up, and somehow, I know you can hear me.<br />
<br />
One of the great benefits and curses of being human is that you come into this world an amalgam of the personality that belongs only to you along with the treasures and demons genetically bestowed upon you by your parents - in your case, Daddy and I. I hope that you get your daddy's ability to let unhappy things roll off his back. I hope you maybe like sports a tiny bit less than he does. I pray that you don't come with my overactive, racing thought patterns and my propensity for self judgment.<br />
<br />
However, I do have one very special gift for you - one that I know deep in my heart will be embedded in your tiny little genome. <br />
<br />
You will be brave. <br />
<br />
Now, it's very, very important to note that to be brave is NOT be to fearless. In fact, it is quite the opposite! To be brave is to stand up against fear when it threatens to paralyze you. Your mommy is very scared of flying on airplanes. Right around the point of takeoff, she gets all flustered and sometimes has to breathe in and out into the little bag that they give you in case you get sick. (She has had to use that bag for its intended purpose a couple of times as well.) Daddy goes to sleep while mommy clutches the arms of her seat so tightly that her fingers turn white, then purple. <br />
<br />
But - I fly. I fly a lot. Your "Elle", Papa Russ, Aunt Kiki and Uncle Adam all live in Texas (the place where the bluebonnets are!) so, the only way for mommy to see them is to get on an airplane and tough it out. Mommy and daddy also like to go to fun places like islands in the Caribbean, and we can't get there without getting on airplanes. So - we fly. <br />
<br />
For mommy, airplanes are like dragons - each one another fire-breather to be slain. But, even worse than flying, mommy is afraid of judgment. She works very, very hard to avoid ever having to encounter this nemesis, but because of what she does for a living, she meets up with that dragon quite frequently. This dragon is especially terrifying - he is big, ugly and has terrible, beady eyes.<br />
<br />
You will have your dragons to battle too, my little man. I wish it wasn't so, but no one gets a free pass when it comes to fear. The key is to find your legs. Find 'em, plant 'em and stay steady. Look that dragon straight in his eyes, and gather all the courage you have. You'll find it in your bones, in your blood and in your spirit. You will have a lot of it, my son - you are your mother's child. <br />
<br />
What you may find as you stare into that dragon's eyes is that he doesn't need to be slain at all. In fact, what you might see mirrored in those beady eyes is a version of your own fear. That big ole monster may be just as afraid of someone or something else as you are of him. And, maybe - just maybe, you will feel sympathy for that scary dragon and instead of putting up your dukes, you will just walk away and leave him to take on his own foes while you go play a pick-up game of kickball with your buddies.<br />
<br />
So, when you come crawling into my bed someday oh so soon, terrified of whatever is lurking in your closet, I will cuddle you up while we make up silly names for your dragon...and picture what he would look like in a dress or in his under-roos. And, when the bigger, scarier dragons of life show up at your door, you will not fight them alone. Daddy and I will be standing right next to you, waiting for your signal to attack or lay down our arms and go get Blizzards at Dairy Queen.<br />
<br />
Let's go fall asleep now to the sounds of John, Paul, Ringo and George. I love you, my little man.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-62076510625798342512013-09-22T14:48:00.000-07:002013-09-22T14:48:05.687-07:00Little Lessons for my Little Man: Roles We Play<br />
To my little son,<br />
<br />
They tell me you are the size of a peach this week - and equally as fuzzy. I hear rumors I'll be getting little signals from you soon...flitters in my tummy that I will probably excuse as gas bubbles or nervousness. I'm so anxious to finally "hear" from you because I have so very much to tell you - so many things that I want you to know so that maybe you will just arrive in this world fully equipped for the cruelties and frustrations that will inevitably present themselves. If I could keep them all away, I would lay down my life to do that, but the fact is, we all have to experience them because they are the very moments that shape our character.<br />
<br />
But...because there are things that I know, I will share them. You will listen to some and excuse others. Some will wedge themselves in your little psyche, and others will pass from one ear to the other without leaving a mark. Still, I'll offer them, and maybe one day, you will read these words and know that your momma loved you so much...even when you had yet to make yourself known...that she wrote these lessons down for you...just in case.<br />
<br />
Carrying you around with me all the time, I've become very aware of my role as your protector. Sometimes we eat a blueberry muffin when we SHOULD be eating broccoli. Today, we enjoyed almost a half a bag of s'more flavored candy corn because your poor hormonal mother couldn't resist them when she went to Target to get shampoo. But, for the most part, we eat healthfully. I make sure you have all of your vitamins and have cut our caffeine intake down to almost nothing. We even eat pasta so that you will have the benefit of whole grains. (heaven forbid!) I go to bed earlier and take frequent mini-naps. We drinks water even though we would MUCH rather have Diet Coke. <br />
<br />
And I try...oh how I try...to be peaceful for you. You'll soon learn, peaceful is not your mother's natural state.<br />
<br />
In addition to being your protector, I've also taken on new roles at work. There's a lot of pressure on your mother right now to succeed, and it's very difficult for her to accept that there may be those who don't believe in her abilities. Doubt makes her angry, and that...tragically...gets passed down through her belly to little you who have nothing yet to anger you. It's the terrible injustice of pregnancy. But, hopefully, in so much as you now feel my pain and fear and frustration, one day I will intrinsically feel yours...even from miles away...and I'll be able to soften the world's blows by reminding you that YOU ARE MAGICAL.<br />
<br />
Your mother's life has been marked by role play. With every new challenge comes a new role - athlete, dancer, princess, graduate, television personality, entrepreneur, activist. In short: achiever. What I've learned that I want you to understand is that those roles...those "titles"...they are not WHO I am, and they do not define me. Even when my number one title is "mom" (one that I am so thrilled to assume) - even that will not be equal to who I am as a person - as a human being on this earth. It has taken 33 years for me to understand this principle, and I still forget it 23 hours out of most days. My journey toward knowing myself has been wrought with frustration, and my efforts at excusing the judgments of others have been met with challenge upon challenge. (mostly self imposed) But, I'm starting to clue in that there is someone inside me who is better than the titles - better and brighter and stronger than the labels - someone who can light up her own little corner of this maze of a world we inhabit.<br />
<br />
My prayer for you, my little man, is that you will not suffer so in understanding that your value has nothing to do with where you choose to devote your energies. What makes you so special is that you are the only you that there ever has been and ever will be. Whether you choose to be a baseball player, a zookeeper, a fashion designer, an earthquake predictor or a tap dancer, you will be YOU first and foremost. Any time you ever doubt your worth because someone has taken it upon his or herself to judge you (and there may even be people who get PAID to judge you!), you call me. It is my number one job as your mother (aside from making sure you get fed and live under a roof) to remind you that you are not the sum of your parts. <br />
<br />
The thing that gives you value is that intangible, undefinable thing that we call a "soul". It's that force that makes you instinctively aware of right and wrong. It's like a soft wind inside you that leads you to be kind even when you know you have a choice not to be. It's where your ideas, your dreams, your aspirations and your memories live. It's how you know...without ever being taught...that love is the most important thing there is. Not approval - LOVE. <br />
<br />
And I love YOU, tiny, peach-sized boy. I will try so hard to remember these words I have written down for you more regularly so that you don't have to taste the sour taste of anger. I'm sure you would much rather taste ice cream...which daddy just brought home for us....<br />
<br />
Night, night, little man.<br />
<br />The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-35131024749457238312012-11-09T05:50:00.000-08:002012-11-09T05:50:56.896-08:00The Sweetness of WeaknessThere's a natural flow to the way humans perceive the world and our general cosmic surroundings. One might say our emotions mirror the tides - sometimes high, sometimes low...more or less intense given the state of our fleeting experiences. This week, the tides were especially strong nationwide as an entire region fought to put the pieces back together after a major storm only to batten down the hatches for another one. We re-elected a president and made some radical and progressive choices about policies within our varying states - all decisions that pleased some and offended others. <br />
<br />
Personally, the tide's pull became all the stronger as I was fortunate enough to launch a fashion line last Saturday with a dear friend - an experience that culminated in the glitter party to end all glitter parties in our beloved downtown St. Petersburg. What was meant to be a fundraiser for a charity that is near and dear to our hearts (<a href="http://www.feedingchildreneverywhere.com/">Feeding Children Everywhere</a>) and a showcase of our hard work and intended efforts for the future of the fashion line became something so much larger and more beautiful.<br />
<br />
Our Glitterama became a celebration of friendship and a testament to the fact that we are in no way complete without those that surround us and support us.<br />
<br />
My parents instilled in me a few important lessons that I have carried with me since childhood - 1) Always under promise and over deliver 2) Try your best and don't worry about the outcome 3) Believe in yourself no matter what anyone else says... and... 4) Look out for yourself because it's possible that no one else will. <br />
<br />
While I still carry these lessons around in my proverbial basket of perspectives, I find that the older I get, and the more my friendships evolve, number four is quickly diminishing in weight. Of course, I still guard myself fiercely against the potential sneaks and leeches of the world, but when I do encounter a spirit that I know I can benefit or that I know will benefit me and my journey, I am far more likely to reach out than to pull back. Without the spirits I have collected to this juncture, the vision I had for what this past weekend would yield would never have even manifested let alone shattered my wildest dreams into pounds and pounds of fairydust. <br />
<br />
They say we are born into our families and we choose our friends, but I'm not sure that black and white description of life's parameters is accurate. Maybe the way I have come to look at things is a little on the "woo-woo" side, but I genuinely believe that we are all here, stumbling around, bumping into one another, covered in cosmic Velcro, waiting to see who sticks. The family we create is the collection we derive from all that stumbling and bumping, and while we may not always get along or understand one another, we are far more likely to become our best selves by knowing and experiencing each other than by wrapping ourselves in fear and paranoia so that our Velcro is rendered useless.<br />
<br />
This morning, as the glitter is finally really settling, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the sweet souls who make me better in some little way everyday and in very big ways when there is a sparkle party to be thrown. From my parents who have supported me and my often insane ideas from birth and my husband who somehow doesn't think I am completely nuts to my cosmic sisters who I "collected" along the way and who make me a better me with every spray of glitter paint or swag bag stuffed, I am honored to be just a small portion on the universal buffet we have come together to create. <br />
<br />
Because of all of you, I can now celebrate my weaknesses because I know that where I leave off, there you are. I may not be whole on my own, but I am whole, all the same. You make me so. And, if I can offer even a tablespoon of my own strengths to your spiritual recipe, then I am blessed. <br />
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So, by proxy, like a little bit of sugar, it seems, our weaknesses actually make life a bit sweeter.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-78282382930520284392012-08-03T12:28:00.002-07:002012-08-03T12:28:52.243-07:00I am the warrior.I am writing this blog because I believe that it is possible someone might be able to extract some kernel of help from it. I have protected it for so many years because I could not see the good that could come from sharing it, but now I offer it up because my spirit realizes that keeping it tucked away is an act of self preservation. I hope it yields a benefit somewhere out there in the universe. It is certainly beneficial to me to release it.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I was a dancer. I took lessons from 4 years-old until I was out of high school. (I even took a tap class just for fun in college!) I was on the high school pom squad (we called it "drill team" in Texas) and I performed at a variety of high profile festivals and competitions. I was an all-star, of sorts. I participated in every genre available...tap, jazz, ballet, modern, that Olympic inspired style with the balls, hoops and ribbons...you name it, I did it. Imagine my surprise when, at 16 years old, my dance teacher pulled me aside after a particularily difficult class and said, "Holley, you may want to think about giving up ballet. I know you try, but you just don't have the body type for it." <br />
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I responded the same way I always do when an authority figure is delivering bad news. I nodded and agreed. Of course, I was in no way equipped for a future in ballet. She was most certainly right - yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. <br />
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But, then I sat with it a while...again, like I always do...and the wound she had inflicted, that I had welcomed, began to fester. I stood in front of my full length mirror that night and examined myself. What was wrong with me that I wouldn't make a good ballet dancer? I was strong. I wasn't very flexible, but my dad was working with me on that - monitoring my nightly stretch routines. I wasn't overly tall - I was only about 5'5 at the time. (I have since grown a couple of inches) I couldn't figure out what she meant unless she was saying that I was overweight. Needless to say, I was crushed, but I tried to collect myself and move past it.<br />
<br />
I never took another ballet class.<br />
<br />
Shortly thereafter, my boyfriend of just over a year broke up with me. I saw it coming. Honestly, I was kind of relieved, but I quickly realized that the identity I had built in high school was lost when I lost him. I wasn't "Holley" in my own right - I was his girlfriend. That's how people knew me. That's the monicker I had embraced. And, suddenly, at 16 years old, I had no idea who I was. <br />
<br />
I dipped into depression and the loss of appetite that accompanied it bore substantial weight loss. 14 pounds in just over two weeks. I had no energy. I was irritable. I hated myself and everyone around me. One day at lunch, one of my high school's "mean girls" chose my lunch table for some unknown reason. Upon placing her tray on the table, she covered her mouth with a shocked expression on her face and stared at me.<br />
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"Holley! You've lost so much weight! You look fantastic!" <br />
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At first, I took her comment as a compliment. I looked at the way the waistline of my jeans gaped and put my tupperware of carrots that I had been considering back in my lunchbox. (Yes. At 16, I still carried a lunch box. My mom made me healthy lunches every day. I had made a habit of returning them home, uneaten, and placing the contents back in their places in the refrigerator or pantry. I thought she didn't notice. She did.)<br />
<br />
That unkind girl's comment took my loss of appetite and turned it into a weight loss obsession. I was trying desperately not to eat, but my family meals caused a problem. I was horrified at the thought of putting anything more substantial than jelly beans in my mouth, and I was being forced to consume pizza and stew. (two of my favorites) But, I didn't want to upset my family, so I would eat. <br />
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After about two weeks of grinning and bearing enchiladas, chili and my mom's famous "invention cookies", I came up with a solution. The first time I made myself throw up was terrifying. I sat on my knees in front of the toilet for an hour or so before I mustered the gumption to shove my finger down my throat. It was terrible and exhilerating at the same time. My eyes got all squinty, my nose ran profusely, and my skin turned all splotchy. I looked a mess, but I was quite sure it would all be worth it. No pain, no gain, right? I threw up nearly everyday from then on out until I went to college. <br />
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When I got to college, it was two or three times a day. <br />
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My dad had caught me in the act once just before I left for college, and with tears in his eyes, begged me to stop and forbid me to leave for OU if I continued the behavior. I promised him I would stop. When my suite mate and now best friend caught me in the act our freshman year in our shared dorm bathroom, she drug my to counseling at our campus clinic. I sat through one session because it was free and no charge would show up on the tuition bill that went to my parents, but I never went back. <br />
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I had a longterm boyfriend in college who broke up with me once because he didn't know how to deal with my "problem". My aunt recently revealed that she had become aware of my issue the summer I lived with her and my uncle during an internship. She thought I was doing it to look good for the same boyfriend who couldn't deal with my post-meal trips to the bathroom. It was impossible for me to explain to her the actual reason. So, I just said, "well, everyone in my sorority house was doing it." <br />
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The sorority, by the way, did not help matters one bit. Eighty-six desperately body conscious women all living in one house was a nightmare scenario for a girl in my position. Their insecurities became my insecurities, and all my neuroses escalated to dangerous heights. In an effort to keep my habit a secret, I would throw up in the downstairs bathroom behind the snack bar that was supposed to be for male visitors. When it was discovered that someone was throwing up in that bathroom, the door was locked during non-function hours, so I started throwing up in the shower. When I became too scared that someone was going to notice, I started taking laxatives. <br />
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The problem became slightly less pervasive when I moved into a three bedroom apartment with the aforementioned suitemate and one of her high school friends, but it didn't stop all together. I also had my own bathroom, so I could do what I needed to do whenever I felt the urge without anyone finding out. I found that when I was away from the constant influx of free food that seemed to make its way into the sorority house, a little of the pressure released, and I could go back to simply not eating. It is worth mentioning that my habit had caused my hair to become brittle, my fingernails to peel and my hands to smell a little weird. It is also worth mentioning that it was not acheiving the desired weight-loss I thought it would. Bulemia doesn't do that in most cases. Because lifestyle bulemics are at the mercy of their schedules as to when they can purge, most of the calories associated with food have time to make their way into the system. Digestion is a process, but when one is very young and has a high metabolism, it doesn't really take all that long. <br />
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After college, I continued to struggle. I had my own apartment and a rigirous schedule at my first television station which yielded virtually no time for eating. After moving to Florida, I began attempting to eat healthfully as often as possible, but I found that I was actually drinking most of my calories. (Even good girls have to rebel at some point!) I even mustered up the courage to tell my then boyfriend, now husband, about my habit because I had finally arrived at the realization that it wasn't a very healthy thing to be doing. He wasn't happy with the information, but he didn't run away like the last boyfriend had, so I at least felt like I had an ally. <br />
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After we got married, vomiting gave way to yo-yo dieting and frequent bouts of starvation. My husband was diligent about making sure I wasn't throwing up after meals, but he was less inclined to pay attention when I declared myself "far too busy to eat!" We moved from a small Florida town to a more metropolitan area, and I started a new job where people frequently took lunches together. They called them "lunch buses", and I always participated, though lunch for me was usually two bites of whatever I ordered and a whole lot of coffee or diet coke. I even got a gym membership despite the fact that we had one at our apartment complex, just so I could go there at lunch and avoid eating out where people might be watching. <br />
<br />
It was a doctor's appointment for a sinus infection that set in motion the catharsis that would come some seven years later. The doctor listened to my chest a few times before asking, "has anyone ever diagnosed you with a heart murmur?" I responded that they hadn't, and she ordered a cardiac ultrasound. The technician couldn't pinpoint any particular problems, so I believed the diagnosis to be a fluke. However, when my OBGYN asked the same question during my annual visit, I became a little concerned. I told her about the ultrasound and my family doctor's diagnosis, and she told me that heart damage can some times go totally undetected unless one were to be opened up for surgery of some kind. She also mentioned that one of the primary causes of heart damage is malnutrition. She also wrote me a prescription that day for my unusually intense acid reflux.<br />
<br />
Fast forward seven years. Seven years of some times eating, some times starving. Seven years of working out obsessively. Of training for long distance races on less than substantial nourishment. Seven years of living off of caffeine, popping insane doses of fiber and occassionally revisiting my old enemy in the bathroom. (I popped a blood vessel in my eye during one of my more recent visits. I told everyone I had done so via a violent sneeze.)<br />
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If you have read my limited posts on this blog, then you know that I visited a psychic at the beginning of the year. After spending only twenty minutes with her, I knew I had a resolution to make. It was time to become my best self....but within the parameters that genetics and the universe had set out for me. I wasn't totally sure what that meant at the time, but I was confident that a solution would reveal itself. I had also just attempted to engage in a "cleanse" that was more about weight loss than it was about spiritual awakening, which is what I told my friends. (In fact, I chronicled it in a blog here - if you read it, you'll see how very clearly I was still in the dark.) <br />
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A couple of months ago, I enrolled in a "Boot Camp" for charity. I began rising at 5 a.m. to engage in intense cardio and weight-lifting, once again, endeavoring to drop a few pounds and see myself looking tiny and svelt like my mind always believed I could. About two weeks in, I had an appointment with my doctor which necessitated a visit with a scale - an unpleasant one. I had gained weight. Two or three pounds. I was mortified. I almost didn't get up to go to boot camp the next morning, but something told me I should do it anyway. I was lifting weights. I was bulking up. I was becoming a hulk-woman. I was sure people probably looked at me and saw Popeye. But, I got up with my alarm anyway.<br />
<br />
I told my trainer about my experience, and he told me not to lose heart - that women who don't lift weights often see a little bump in weight as their muscles are building. After all, muscle weighs more than fat. He took my body fat calculation, and it was actually pretty good. However, we made a plan to lower it which included eating more protein and fewer carbs. But, his main piece of advice was to make sure I was eating enough. This was a foreign concept for me. I even tracked my meals and snacks on a website, and we went over the results together. I cut back in certain areas and amped up others. I was diligent, and I ate. I ate plenty. <br />
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This morning, we took my weight and body fat percentage again. I am down about four pounds and 1.5 body fat percentage points. I had to take my shirt off and do the body fat test in my sports bra and work out shorts in order for my trainer to properly use the little measurement pinchers (there is a technical name for these...) and I got a look at my full physique in the giant mirrors that surround the gym where we work out. The woman I saw was chiseled. She wasn't overly bulky or hulky. She had definition in places she didn't realize she could have it. She was something of a specimen.<br />
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But, she wasn't a waif. She was slim but not slight. She had substantial triceps and the beginnings of a six pack. Her quadriceps were full and cut inward vertically down her upper thigh, and her calves were large but smooth. She did not look like a fashion model. She did not look like a Hollywood actress. <br />
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She did not look like a ballerina. <br />
<br />
The woman standing in that gym looked like a warrior. It was in that moment, with me staring at her and her staring at me, that I realized how backward my concept of beauty had always been. For so many years, I had been trying to alter the woman on the outside to make the woman on the inside feel better about herself. To yield something that fit into my vision of loveliness. I was trying to bolster my insides with the help of my outer appearance. <br />
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But, in that gym, nearly naked, standing in front of those giant mirrors, it all clicked. In my life pursuits, I have always been strong, aggressive and poised. I fight the good fight. I stand up for the underdog. I am professional and proud. I am disciplined. When I offer a kindness, it is backed by everything I have. I am extreme, some times stubborn and a good leader.<br />
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I was never meant to be slight. My outside would not have been consistent with my inside. That mirror revealed a woman who was more herself than she had ever been - an outward expression of an inner power. I am becoming the best Me possible. And, now I can't imagine why I ever tried to do any different. My true self had to reveal itself to me before I could finally see that my body is its perfect counterpart. <br />
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I don't just look like the warrior. I am the warrior.<br />The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-14015387941757543802012-01-23T15:05:00.000-08:002012-01-23T15:05:41.689-08:00The CleanseIt'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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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". <br />
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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....<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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"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." <br />
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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.<br />
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"That was me. There are good things coming your friend's way," he said. And, quite unexpectedly, I unquestioningly believed him. <br />
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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.<br />
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"Does the sculpture to your left resonate with you?" he asked.<br />
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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". <br />
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He nodded, knowingly, but not condescendingly. <br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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"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. <br />
<br />
Chris looked at me warmly but with genuine concern.<br />
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"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."<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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."<br />
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I told her I was in the midst of a cleanse. She nodded. Then...<br />
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"But, that's not the type of cleanse you need...."<br />
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Pause.<br />
<br />
"But, you already know that." <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
All I could do was nod. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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, <strong>without</strong> 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.<br />
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And, because you may have been wondering....I no longer smell weird. So, that's good.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-49840230676671196652011-11-14T14:29:00.000-08:002011-11-14T14:29:14.160-08:00The 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. <br />
<br />
As the friends walked, Should let out a long, vocal yawn. Supposed-to turned to his friend, concerned. <br />
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"My friend," he said, "you seem tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?" <br />
<br />
Should rubbed his eyes and pinched the thin spot between them, at the top of his nose. <br />
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"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." <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
He turned to look at Supposed-to, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead. <br />
<br />
"Could we?" he asked.<br />
<br />
Supposed-to glanced sternly in his direction. <br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Supposed-to was saddened but shook his head in agreement, nonetheless. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Both friends looked out at the sparkling new day wishing for a second chance at the previous day's events. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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? The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-25506258113485246522011-10-11T14:09:00.000-07:002011-10-11T14:09:00.371-07:00To 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)<br />
<br />
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"! <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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". <br />
<br />
No - I will not be bullied by my family's assessment of my chosen field.<br />
No - I will not abandon my dreams in favor of someone else's vision.<br />
No - I will not hide myself away behind the fabulousness of others.<br />
No - I will not concede my place in this world based on the restrictions handed to me by a cold and closed-minded generation. <br />
No - I won't let anyone else tell me who I should or should not love.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
#:)%%&!The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-65409632549693358982011-09-29T13:49:00.000-07:002011-09-29T13:49:00.640-07:00Lightning 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.*<br />
<br />
So....I guess that's something. ;)<br />
<br />
*Totally untrue. <br />
**Have been informed that symptoms were likely due to an influx and subsequent abatement of adrenaline. I am not superwoman. Yet. <br />
<br />
The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-47541560292419641952011-09-12T19:11:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:16:29.335-07:00Living eulogiesDeath.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
And, so, I have these things to share:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-65403534537807757132011-08-22T13:06:00.000-07:002011-08-22T13:06:52.136-07:00Life 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.)<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
My dresses are a collection of stitches, pleats and inspiration.<br />
<br />
I am a collection of experiences, ideas and choices. <br />
<br />
I supposed I don't just make dresses....in many ways, I am one.<br />
<br />
<br />
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The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-21345107819808133862011-08-11T14:27:00.000-07:002011-08-11T14:27:30.450-07:00Holley 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Now, where to next?....Paris, maybe? <br />
<br />
The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-75787240579287565072011-08-04T14:10:00.000-07:002011-08-04T14:10:48.985-07:00"That is so not my momma...."As is quite frequently the case, my co-host, Jerome, took me on a trip down memory lane today by way of a pre-show tangent. We share a love for stream-of-consciousness discussion, and having both worked for the Home Shopping Network in some capacity, we got to chatting about which celebrities we'd met and what they were like. I was lucky during my stint at HSN, in that most of the celebs within my sphere of influence were pretty tame, many of them downright nice. None more so than long time Dallas Cowboys running back, Emmitt Smith. (who could have gotten me fired, but for some reason didn't. Although Cowboys owner Jerry Jones did kick me off an elevator. A different story for another time...)<br />
<br />
It was my first full football season with the Home Shopping Network where I was hired to help produce merchandising programming for the NFL. "NFL Shop" was the name of our flagship show, and we were taking it on the road for the first big weekend of the regular season. Our backdrop would be the field at Dallas Cowboys Stadium in Irving, Texas, not empty, but chock full of the most enormous men I had ever seen in person - the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins. <br />
<br />
For one full day we "pulled cable". That is to say, we drug heavy, rubber-coated cables from a satellite truck parked outside the stadium, through never-ending underground tunnels and onto the field where they would attach to an enormous board, the hub for our small but mighty operation. During that day, inside the un-air-conditioned home of God's chosen team, I sweated more than I ever have in my entire life (and that is in combined years, not single episodes of sweating). I almost passed out once. I smelled like a high school locker room. I also laid on the 50 yard-line and looked up through God's window...the one He once used to see his boys play. Now, He watches them on the world's biggest HD jumbo-tron housed inside a spaceship. When that day was over, I only had enough energy reserved to devour an entire order of Taco Cabana tortillas and queso with my family before falling into bed by 9 p.m. I've never been so tired in my entire existence, and I have completed two half-marathons. Live, remote television is exhausting.<br />
<br />
But it was all worth it, because I was scheduled to be the one to attach a microphone to NFL legend, Emmitt Smith. <br />
<br />
Two hours prior to kick-off, we were all in place. I had struck up a friendship with the Cowboys merchandising manager (we'll call her Andrea....) and we were chatting alongside our little makeshift set. Behind our show host, the Redskins were warming up. The offensive line was spaced out in the end zone doing drills of some sort, and watching them, I became convinced that giants do, in fact, exist. Granted, they were adorned in their game time padding, but still...the sheer mass of these men was overwhelming. I felt very intimidated and incredibly tiny. <br />
<br />
I was handed a headset which would allow me to talk to the producer in the truck outside. I felt very official and important. I nodded at people a lot. I gave my colleagues the "thumbs up" at random. I saluted the officials as they took the field. I waved at the fans who had flocked to the lower level in order to potentially wind up on camera. I was like a beauty queen in a parade, but sweatier and wearing jeans that seemed to be shrinking the hotter I got.<br />
<br />
Before I could really process everything, we were handing our host his first piece of memorabilia to sell and the countdown to the start of the show commenced. By the date of the Cowboys shoot, I had already been working in television for four years, but the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by the home of the legendary and revered Dallas Cowboys made me feel like a total rookie. I was all nerves. My hands were shaking. I was short of breath.<br />
<br />
But, I was focused. I was in constant communication with our supervising producer, Gerry, hoping that an opportunity would present itself for me to shine in some capacity. That's when a well-dressed African American couple and a woman who appeared to be their grandmother entered the field. They were all wearing the coveted VIP passes I had seen on several equally well-adorned individuals in the bowels of the stadium en route to the field. The elderly woman was spry...she bounced around excitedly, her escorts looking on lovingly. She wore a Cowboys jersey that she had clearly doctored up herself. It bore patches from Super Bowls and signatures from players. Among them....Emmitt Smith.<br />
<br />
Speak of the devil....my attention quickly turned from the adorable trio to the man of the hour who was being rushed toward me by a couple of large gentlemen dressed all in black. May I take this opportunity to say that Emmitt Smith is one snappy dresser? When I shook his hand, I couldn't help but stare at his sparkling diamond inlaid cuff links. I wanted them. I could have worn them for earrings.<br />
<br />
I pulled myself together, retrieved Mr. Smith's microphone, wound it through his zillion-dollar suit jacket and clipped it on his tie. I stood next to him until I received the appropriate cue, then gestured for him to enter the "set" to join our host on the air. Everything was going smoothly. A senior VP patted me on the back.<br />
<br />
I noticed that the merchandising representative I had befriended was talking cheerfully with the three guests who had entered just before Emmitt. They laughed together, and she motioned for me to come over. As I walked toward them, she was called away to handle a business issue, and I was alone with the feisty grandmother and her friends. <br />
<br />
I introduced myself as best I could without disrupting the show, speaking in an exaggerated whisper to be heard over the din of the filling stadium. The man and woman shook my hand, but neither offered a name. The older woman continued to bob up and down quietly exclaiming, seemingly to herself, "that's my boy! That's my boy!"<br />
<br />
I inquired of the well-dressed man as to the woman's association with Mr. Smith, to which he replied, "she's his momma." I turned to look over my shoulder. Emmitt waved at the woman, and she clasped her hands over her heart as if she would faint. Tears were filling her eyes. An epiphany hit me like an out-of-control train. <br />
<br />
I pressed the button that allowed me to speak to Gerry and quickly informed him that I had Emmitt Smith's mother standing by. Gerry, who always loved to fly by the seat of his pants in the midst of a show, didn't think twice. He conveyed the message directly to our host, who became animated and motioned for the woman to join himself and Emmitt on set. Naturally, she was thrilled to do so. She rushed over as quickly as her feet could carry her (which was much quicker than I thought possible) and threw her arms around Emmitt who gave her a good squeeze and proceeded to cast me a death glance over her shaking shoulders. His look told me everything. This was NOT his mother. <br />
<br />
I looked behind me at the young couple. They were smiling and waving at the woman like proud parents. They showed no signs of embarrassment over the announcement our host had just made, declaring this woman Emmitt Smith's mother. I was befuddled, stricken and sure I was about to lose my job. But, there is no professional in the world as calm under strange and confusing circumstances as Emmitt Smith. He informed our host that this was not his mother, but that she may as well be....she was like his SECOND mother. He said that the woman was known by the Cowboys organization as the "super fan". She had been to every home game since before he had been a part of the team. She showed up every summer at training camp. She was at every parade. She had accumulated all of the signatures on her jersey by way of persistent attendance...not by being the mother of a player. But, Emmitt treated her like family, just the same. He knew her by her first name, which escapes me now.<br />
<br />
The minutes while the woman remained on camera felt like hours. The combination of increased adrenaline and excessive heat I was suffering threatened to knock my legs out from under me, but I held on to what little composure I had left. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. And, then it was time for me to remove the microphone from Emmitt. The moment startled me. I was busy planning what I would do once I was banned from television production forever when the hulking mass of sweet-smelling, silk-clad football legend materialized before me again.<br />
<br />
"What the hell was that?" he demanded.<br />
<br />
I didn't stutter which surprises me still. <br />
<br />
"She said she was your mother, sir," I replied. <br />
<br />
He looked down at me blankly for a moment, as if maybe he had heard me incorrectly, then he laughed.<br />
<br />
"That is SO not my momma....sure as hell, she is not my momma!" If he was angry, he was hiding it well. He couldn't stop laughing. When the moment finally passed, he dropped his forehead into his well-manicured hand for a moment, and shook it. Then, he looked me in the eye, and patted my shoulder.<br />
<br />
Then, he was gone. I had no idea how to react. Before I knew it, we were taking a short break, and the host was yelling at me. I was in a daze. It was Gerry's voice that snapped me out of my reverie. He was giggling.<br />
<br />
"That'll probably be the best moment of the night, kid. Next time, ask for her driver's license. But, no harm done." <br />
<br />
I was still convinced of my inevitable firing until I saw the senior VP that had patted me on the back, drunk in the VIP suite hallway later in the evening. I had just endured the crew dinner hour in Jerry Jones' massive, luxury dining hall, during which I ate literally nothing. I was thinking of vomiting out of mortification, when she clapped me on the shoulder and slurred cheerfully, "good job tah-night, kid." <br />
<br />
Forgotten already. <br />
<br />
I slumped against the wall of the hallway, lost in the lesson that was slowly and laboriously forming in my head. I have to relearn it now and again, but for the most part, it has stuck with me over the years and helped me to endure the oddities of a business like no other.<br />
<br />
Whatever IT is, it is NOT the end of the world. Emmitt Smith suffered losses in his illustrious career, but that didn't make him any less of an outstanding player. If he had given up every time he fumbled, the NFL would be without one of its all time greatest rushers and ambassadors of the sport. <br />
<br />
I think about Mr. Smith and that lesson all the time. And, hell, if you turn the whole thing over on its head, I gave one dedicated super fan the most glorious experience any Cowboys die-hard could ask for...to be mistaken for Emmitt Smith's mother on live television, in front of millions of viewers. <br />
<br />
It's all about perspective, I suppose.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-40564984288002480332011-07-26T14:41:00.000-07:002011-11-29T05:46:21.149-08:00Jack goes alone....*I am choosing to repost this blog today because this story so succinctly encapsulates Jack's latest journey and his fearless approach to moving forward, even when it means going alone. There is supplemental material at the end of this post.<br />
<br />
My grandfather-in-law is 87 years-old. If you count only the years of lucid cognition and possible recall, he has, at minimum, 77 years worth of stories, anecdotes and ponderances to share. And, in his twilight years, he is still happy to have a captive audience...a room full of friends and family works just fine. His heartfelt recollections always enthrall. I'm not sure I know a single individual who has seen or done more in his or her lifetime, so now and again, I hope to bring you a snippet from his verbal history. His name is Jack, and that is what my husband has always called him. It has recently been revealed that this was at Jack's own request. He was not Grandpa, Papa or Pops. Just Jack - as unique in his choice of patriarchal title as in his very identity. A true blessing of a man. <br />
<br />
This is how Jack enlisted in the Navy, as best I can recount it.<br />
<br />
There was only one high school in Shelby County, Alabama, and it was aptly named Shelby County High School. It was war time, World War II to be exact, and military recruiters were common visitors to high school campuses. At Shelby County High School, the most frequent guest was a U.S. Navy recruiter. He stopped in fairly often to take a van full of eager future soldiers out for ice cream. He'd buy them a cone and tell them about the pride and joy found in serving one's country. They would listen intently and spend the ride home discussing which branch of the military they thought they might like best. <br />
<br />
The youngest of those boys was a fellow named Jack. A high school graduate at just 17, Jack was enthused about signing up to serve his country. On one of the trips to town with the Navy recruiter, Jack and his friends made a plan. They would all meet the recruiter at City Hall a few days later to make the short trip with him to Birmingham...the city where they would have their physical check-ups, sign on the dotted line, and get their marching orders. There was safety in numbers. As long as they were together, there was no need to fear. <br />
<br />
When the day came to join the Navy recruiter at City Hall, Jack was prompt and prepared. The recruiter shook his hand and welcomed him to the brotherhood. Then, they waited. They waited, and they waited, and the waited some more. The Navy recruiter looked at his watch. If they were going to make the trip, they would need to get going. They were Birmingham bound, and it appeared, Jack would be the only passenger. <br />
<br />
Doubtless, the Navy recruiter expected Jack to turn tail and head back home. But spry then as he is today, Jack's simple response was, "well...let's go then."<br />
<br />
At the recruitment station in Birmingham, the boys were ordered to "fall in" alphabetically as best they could. They were each issued a basic, hurried physical check-up, then handed their orders. Jack had befriended the young man whose last name came just before his, so despite his abandonment back in Shelby County, he would not be headed for Corpus Christi, Texas alone. No quicker than he could think, blink or wink, Jack was on a southbound train, en route to the Lonestar State, on the verge of the greatest adventure he had ever known. And, he could already account for one lifelong friend.<br />
<br />
Jack eventually found himself in the South Pacific...a member of an elite group of night fliers called the "Black Cats". He keeps in close contact with many of his Navy buddies, though they are scattered across the United States. Some of them have already passed on, but they are well-remembered by those who survive them. Jack and his lovely, red-headed wife Eleanor made frequent trips to Naval reunions over the years...keeping the memories and friendships alive that were born in the midst of so much turmoil. Jack has been lucky. His "family" stretches from coast to coast....from sea to shining sea. <br />
<br />
Whether Jack's Shelby County buddies ever found their way to a recruitment center or not, I do not know. But, I do know that Jack would not begrudge them their decisions one way or another. When Jack arrived at City Hall that warm, late spring day he had already made up his mind to go, independent of his friends. To use his exact words: "They weren't ready yet. I was ready." <br />
<br />
May we all, at one time or another, be so self-assured and fearless in the face of a tremendous challenge as that. Jack faces many challenges nowadays as well, but his approach is still the same: set a course and sail it. There are simply no two ways about it.<br />
<br />
*Jack embarked on one of his greatest journeys this morning, when he left this world behind for good...though his memory and spirit will remain here with those of us who knew and loved him, even for a short time. Always fearless, Jack has known for quite some time that this date was approaching. Somewhere deep within his soul, he circled that day on his calendar and confirmed directly with God his travel plans and itinerary. God approved, but this time, He informed Jack, that while he may be plotting a solo course, he would not be alone at his send off. He would be surrounded by the family that loved and respected him so much.<br />
<br />
Such was the case this morning. Today, this world lost a husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle and hero. Whatever your idea of Heaven may be, Jack is there - with a freshly packed pipe, a fifth of Jack Daniels and accompanied by his beloved four-legged gal pal, Katie, who went before him. He will reunite with many of the fellows he served his country alongside, and they will undoubtedly share stories...laughing until their eyes fill with happy tears. He'll hug his momma and daddy again. He can cast aside that three-footed cane he never liked much. His back won't hurt anymore. There will be no more surgeries. No more physical therapy.<br />
<br />
Jack, because I know you can see, hear and feel what we here below are sending up your way, know that you touched not only my life with your kindness, wit and generosity but the lives of everyone I brought in contact with you. My dad wants you to know you were one of his great heroes. He has said as much to me at least a dozen times. And, I promise - Matt and I will pick your grapefruit faithfully, even the ones on the highest branches. Or, maybe you could toss 'em down to us. If you're not too busy. The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-232207988889824432011-07-20T14:11:00.000-07:002011-07-20T14:11:49.818-07:00The Sand DancersSince recently relocating to the beach, I have taken on some new habits. I've scaled back my vaccuming, begun downloading classical music and changed my diet to no longer include seafood. I also drink more. Alcohol - not water. The beach culture seems to demand it. <br />
<br />
I've also taken to running on the beach every morning, which was quite a task to start. After two weeks of groaning every time my alarm went of at 6 a.m., sitting up and promptly resetting it for forty minutes later, I finally dragged myself from my cool, comfy t-shirt sheets and donned my running shoes. (after brushing my teeth, of course!) 5 days in, I was hooked.<br />
<br />
The beach looks so much different in the morning than it does at any other time of day. The light is soft, making the grooves in the powdery sand difficult to navigate. The hard, packed sand is littered with tiny, sparkling shells, and the birds govern the shallows, unafraid, in the absence of children building sand castles and middle-aged men and women sipping wine coolers, toes dug into the sand, lounging under colorful umbrellas. Even when the ocean seems excited, and the waves crash loudly, heralding a pending thunder storm, the tone is serene. It's just me, the herons, the saltwater and a couple of men in cut-off t-shirts fishing.<br />
<br />
Except for Tuesday. On Tuesday, there was a strange crisp quality to the air, unusual for mid-July in Florida. The temperature might not have been cooler than the day before, but there was a starchy energy hanging in the early morning breeze, and it invigorated my steps. I hit the sand with gusto, my eyes fixed on the northern horizon. I ran steadily, propelled forward by brisk cello concertos performed by Yo-Yo Ma. I was making excellent time, so I took on an extra half-mile, just for the giggle of it, turning around only when I thought my lungs might give out. <br />
<br />
I allowed myself a quarter-mile walk to give my heart a chance to slow and my mind a moment to wander. Running on the beach is a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, I am surrounded by beauty everywhere I look. On the other, I dare not look around too much, or I will fall in a hole left by an eager child construction worker or slip on a slimey piece of seaweed left to thwart me by the tide. I spend more time looking at the ground than I would like which is why my walk breaks have come to mean so much. During those quarter-miles, I spot dolphins. I see love messages drawn in the sand by starry-eyed teenagers. I watch pelicans plunge into the water in pursuit of breakfast, and one time, I am sure I identified a shark. I often look up at the moon, still shining brightly as the sun's low light slowly begins to take over. Those quarter-miles are magical, but never more so than Tuesday.<br />
<br />
Thanks to my extra half mile, I found myself walking past a public beach access area I had only encountered a couple of times before. A man and woman were walking through the powdery sand toward the water from the parking lot. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties, both adorned in casual beach attire - a t-shirt and khaki shorts for him...a sun-dress for her. They held hands and looked at each other dreamily now and again as they walked. I slowed my pace to better observe them and to keep from running them over. They seemed so involved with each other, they would never have seen me coming.<br />
<br />
In my mind, I promptly named them and began composing their love story. His name was Marshall. He had been in a doomed relationship in his mid-twenties and had sworn off love forever thereafter. He became a truck driver, and found his fulfillment in the many acquaintances he made on his travels, rather than in the arms of a committed mate. Her name was Shirley. She was a server and bartender at one of the many beach establishments close-by. She had spent her whole life searching for the "one" until the day that Marshall stopped into her bar after dropping a truckload of beer at the tiny, beachside supermarket down the road. It wasn't love at first sight, but they became friends and email buddies. Marshall would stop by the bar each time he made his beer deliveries, a route he found he was beginning to request more and more frequently. Shirley would eagerly anticipate his visits, even investing in her first eyelash curler which she had the woman at the make-up counter show her how to use. <br />
<br />
One hot, muggy Monday, Marshall realized that his visit to the beach would be followed by a couple of days off. His supervisor offered him a complimentary night's stay at a beach hotel, a reward for his prompt deliveries and well-reviewed service to customers. With a strange sort of intuitive certainty, Marshall refused. He made his normal delivery to the tiny, beachside supermarket that day, but he did not go directly to visit Shirley. Instead, he found a barbershop and invested in a professional shave. He proceeded to a nearby florist where he ordered eleven pink carnations and one red rose. He purchased a pack of gum, a bottle of red wine recommended to him by a clerk at Publix, and a can of Axe Body Spray which he used liberally, both on his body and in the cab of his truck.<br />
<br />
At precisely 4 p.m., Marshall arrived at Shirley's bar, flowers in hand, a sheepish grin plastered across his face. Shirley looked up from the drink she was pouring, and beamed at him, her lovely curled lashes rapidly beating back tears. <br />
<br />
Shirley's manager ended her shift early that day. The details that follow belong only to the storied couple, but, perhaps needless to say, their evening's escapades never led to sleep. They sat on Shirley's porch in the wee hours of the morning, enjoying black coffee and a gentle rainstorm that led to a cooler, dryer morning than Shirley could remember in mid-July. They decided to walk to the beach and take in the colors of the sunrise, and the serenity of the quiet, constant ocean. <br />
<br />
As they walked toward the water, they saw no one....noticed nothing...and felt everything. <br />
<br />
As I watched, Marshall stopped at the place where the soft sand becomes damp and packed. He turned to Shirley, took her other hand in his, and swept her into a waltz. They danced there before me, Yo-Yo Ma providing their soundtrack, though they could hear only the music in their heads. I suddenly felt ashamed for intruding upon their tender moment. I turned my gaze back to the ground that lay ahead of me, and quickened my pace. <br />
<br />
I turned to look over my shoulder once when I had put roughly a half mile between us. They were no longer dancing, but they stood holding each other, staring out at the water, oblivious to the world around them.<br />
<br />
I took a moment to thank the universe for reminding me to escape once in a while. Being constantly alert and attentive to one's surroundings may be the avenue to great successes, but it seems to me, letting it all just slip away now and again, whether in a lover's embrace or simply alone, enveloped in nature's unmatched beauty, may, in fact, be the avenue to enlightenment.The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-76897846341979014832011-07-19T13:45:00.000-07:002011-07-19T13:45:38.722-07:00Begin, be bold, and by god, don't drop the camera....<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise." ~Horace</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I received this quote in an email from a friend today. She wanted to know what I thought it meant. I happen to prize my ability to analyze cryptic, antiquated phrases of wisdom, so I took a stab at it and sent it back to her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By my interpretation, Horace, who served in the Roman army before becoming well known for his lyric poetry, probably uttered this phrase in reference to battle. One might reconsider the idea of running at another man, full throttle, spear in hand, shield at the ready, if one took a moment to mull it over first. But, without soldiers who are willing to act bravely without regard for the potential consequences, advances in military strategy would never be made, and larger, stronger armies would be guaranteed the win time after time. That is not to say that one should act with little or no consideration for consequences in every situation, and I am pretty sure that is not what Horace was saying. The idea is more or less that when one is unsure about taking an action, the better move is not to shy away, but to move forward boldly and reap the benefits of greater wisdom, for better or for worse, on the other side. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And by that token, I took a high definition video camera (which does not belong to me) up a ropes course. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On my television show, we like to feature the unusual and really get a kick out of putting ourselves in awkward and some times mildly dangerous situations. In the past, I have been a mermaid, gone swimming with manatees, helped to build a house out of a shipping crate and flown a tiny, single-engine airplane on a windy afternoon. (The wisdom I gleaned from that experience had more to do with Dramamine than anything else...) For this particular adventure, my co-host and I would be climbing a thirty-six foot ropes course recently erected at the Museum of Science and Industry in Tampa. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The course itself was only a little bit daunting. Plus, we were wearing harnesses, so should a rope give way, we need only hope the harness wouldn't do the same. We scaled the structure and proceeded to dangle high above the concrete slab below with considerable ease. Aside from the sweat dribbling down my forehead and into my eyes, the conditions were acceptable. Hot but dry. Jerome's only complaint was rope burns. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We descended and our producer presented me with a request - since I was already dressed for the occassion, wearing closed-toed shoes and perspiring profusely, would I mind being the one to take the camera back up for some close-ups? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Consideration might have stalled me. Boldness compelled me forward. The course attendant wound my harness through the camera strap, and I was back on my way up the structure, clutching my mechanical ward as if my life depended on it. And it did. Because if I dropped it, my life insurance policy would be required to cover the cost. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I followed Jerome through the maze of ropes and platforms like a running back en route to score. I dodged enthusiastic children, the camera tucked under my arm as securely as I could make it, sweating anew, not from heat but from fear. I directed him where to step and when...where to cross and how many times...when to climb and when to stand...all the while endeavoring to adjust my harness, control the camera and not fall 36 feet to my inevitable broken collarbone or worse, broken lens. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When my feet finally touched the ground again and I was able to relinquish my charge to Lisa, I had an epiphany. While I was suspended in the air with the camera, I could think of nothing but the task at hand. I was not considering what I would eat for dinner. I was not thinking about shoes or coffee or my latest personal dramas. I was thinking about shooting good video and not tumbling off a rope or riser. My focus was laser-sharp, and my mind was fully committed. I was as much a machine as the camera in my arms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After some lengthy follow-up consideration, I have come to the conclusion that my experience exemplifies Horace's aforementioned principle. I acted out of duty, bold in the face of possible disaster, and what I took away was a greater understanding of my own capacity to succeed under pressure. Several past examples of this same conclusion have risen to memory since my time on the ropes concluded. My history contains many a super-hero moment in the face of intense stress, and I am thankful to find my impulsive response to fear is valor and unilateral commitment to a task. My greater wisdom is that of my character - and a better appreciation for what I'm made of.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now, this conclusion is not compelling me to jump out of an airplane, swim with Great White Sharks or take off all my clothes in a public place, but it does make me feel much better about my chances against a burgular or a rabid raccoon. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And, if my interpretation of Horace's immortal words is off base and all of this analysis turns out to be a waste of valuable brain space and energy, by golley, at least I didn't drop that camera.</span>The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1819880519203718423.post-70815203145034679342011-07-18T14:15:00.000-07:002011-07-18T14:15:29.032-07:00The clear, blue sea, a tiny eagle, and me....It seems, June is the perfect time of year to visit the Turks and Caicos. Located near the islands of Cuba, Haiti and the Dominican Republic, the Turks and Caicos are a British-controlled island chain nestled in the sublimely aqua hued waters of the Atlantic (not the Caribbean, as many believe). On the whole, "TCI", as the "belongers" call it, is famous for conch. At almost every eating establishment on the most developed island of the bunch, Providenciales, conch can be purchased in whatever preparation the diner most desires. Fritters, ceviche...flat out raw...you name it. If you can think of it, the kitchen can make it a reality. And, the excess of conch preparation leaves a variety of abandoned conch homes - the beautiful white, tubular shells that litter the white, sugary beaches. They are up for grabs, and finding a perfect one to take home as a souvenir is part of what compelled my husband and I to make a potentially fatal journey along the southern Provo coast one hot, sunny (thankfully!) afternoon.<br />
<br />
Having been advised by a couple of fellow tourists to visit the watering hole "Horse Eye Jack's" on the opposite end of the island from our resort, Matt and I summoned a cab which transported us roughly seven miles, and charged us $30 U.S. for the one-way trip. Appalled, we settled in for some reasonably priced, especially well-muddled mojitoes prepared by the bar manager/lone server, Glen, who informed us that he had quit over two weeks earlier, but continued to find his name on the work schedule. And, so he continued to manage, and serve and muddle daily. Glen also brought me a t-shirt which I purchased for my father, along with some delightful fried plantains. Our surroundings were lovely. There were palm trees, blue sky, a rich spearamint colored ocean, and hammocks. <br />
<br />
Perhaps it was the second mojito or maybe the euphoria of the panorama which compelled us to make the decision, but one way or another, we agreed that paying another $30 for a taxi was ridiculous. Being able-bodied individuals, we saw no reason why we couldn't walk the seven mile stretch back to our resort. After all, we had checked the map issued to us by our concierge, and the journey would simply consist of mile after mile of soft, white sand. No problem. We had no dinner reservations. We had no appointments scheduled. It just made perfect sense. (after 2 mojitoes....)<br />
<br />
We set out on our trek by walking down a little flight of wooden stairs at the back of the bar, and heading what I am pretty sure was West toward a little band of local children playing in the water. They splashed and called out greetings to us as we passed. We waved. About 50 yards on, we encountered our first obstacle. On the ground, there rested hundreds of potential gifts for happy travelers - it was an empty conch shell graveyard, and had come to plunder it. However, the crime would come at a high cost, for in the air, there swarmed no less than 40 million large, angry flies. We crouched low to try to avoid them, but near the uninhabited shells, they buzzed in greater multitude. Matt found a shell that was a passable souvenir, and we tightened our lips and muscled through the winged mob. <br />
<br />
When the last fly had been left in our wake, we breathed a great sigh of relief. All would be well from here. We strolled onward. We even held hands. <br />
<br />
But, the serenity was pierced again when our beach tapered off into a long rock jetty, quite clearly constructed by human hands out of enormous black, prickly stones. We stood silent for a moment, looking at our obstacle and considering the possibilities. My first thought was to turn around. Matt mentioned the flies. I grimaced. Matt climbed to the top of the jetty and looked over. On the other side, there was a lagoon, he told me, and it appeared to belong to the gigantic house which overlooked it. <br />
<br />
I climbed up to where Matt stood surveying the challenging terrain. As we mulled over the idea of swimming through someone's backyard, our attention was drawn to a noise which sounded from high in the tallest tower of the enormous house. (we later decided the house most likely belonged to Bruce Willis.) There was a figure watching us, and apparently, also moving furniture. We froze, as if our absence of movement would render us invisible. (remember those 2 mojitoes?) The figure scraped another piece of furniture across the floor. We conceded that if we were going to be reported, it might be better to cross quickly than to continue standing, waiting for the police to arrive. And, who knows what goes on in a TCI jail cell? I don't. Neither does Matt. Thank goodness.<br />
<br />
And, so, we swam. Matt went first, holding my cherry print tote I had made just for the trip over his head, gliding across the water using just one arm. The contents of the tote were as follows: one IPhone, one relatively base model piece of junk phone which does virtually nothing and I like it that way, some cash, a credit card, a camera rendered useless by my having dropped it in the water after kayaking the day prior, the shirt I had purchased for my dad and our prized conch shell. Had it fallen in the water, I would have lived. But, Matt would not have - his IPhone has a name. It is his mistress, and we call her Penelope.<br />
<br />
Standing on the lowest tier of the second rock jetty which enclosed the small, private lagoon, we congratulated ourselves. Flies and an unexpected swim might have dampened our clothes, but not our spirits! We waved at the figure in the tower and shouted something about not being paparazzi and to tell Bruce we meant him no harm. We proceeded over the second jetty and stood aghast.<br />
<br />
There was a beach, but it was so far away, it was barely visible to the naked eye. What stood between was a continuous jagged cliff that extended downward into roughly 3 feet of water, intermittently peppered with cement docks. Houses, or at the very least, their backyards, stretched to the edges of the cliffs above which were labeled at various intervals with signs reading "Keep Out" or "No Trespassing". I turned to look behind us. We had two choices and neither was particularily appealling. We could take on the lagoon and the flies once again only to pay $30 for the cab ride we thought we wouldn't have to take....or, we could traverse the unknown shallows below the cliffs and hope for the best. We chose the shallows.<br />
<br />
We moved forward carefully at first, finding that it was much easier to walk with our flip-flops in our hands rather than on our feet. Matt held my cherry tote above the water, quite obviously petrified of losing Penelope somewhere along the journey. We moved at a steady pace, together, chatting as if we weren't walking on reefs, in the ocean,with giant rocks above our heads. It wasn't really all that bad until we encountered a dock too high for us to easily climb over, and too long to go around. There was a steep drop off about ten feet out into the ocean, and Matt was not keen on our swimming through it to circumvent the structure. I didn't know why then. I do now. More on that shortly. <br />
<br />
The only option with the dock was to try to climb over it, so we found the lowest point along the slope and made a plan. Matt would hoist himself up on top, then help to pull me up. Even at the lowest point, the top of the dock was at eye level for me, and there was no way my meager arm strength was going to be enough to lift me over. We figured this was just another minor blip in our nautical passage until the tiny eagle that sat atop the nearest waterfront house began his descent. <br />
<br />
First, he called out, seeminly in warning. To whom, we did not know, but the hot mid-day sun had taken its toll on our mental clarity (the mojitoes has TOTALLY worn off), and we were both pretty sure he was beckoning to his rich, eccentric owner who was going to come running out of the house dressed in overalls, weilding a shotgun and cursing at us in another language like a witch doctor. It should also be noted that I am not sure the bird was a tiny eagle. Again, that was all my brain could come up with in the moment - I'm sure he was a hawk or perhaps a falcon. Or, hell, a tiny eagle. Who knows what he was, but he was angry. He swooped down toward Matt's head. My poor husband was a sitting duck on top of that concrete dock, crouching down and covering his head with my cherry tote. I too ducked, although my feet were still in the water, and I posed less of a threat to whomever the tiny eagle was protecting. Looking back, it was probably a nest, not a looney old man. <br />
<br />
Still ducking, Matt reached out his arm for me to grab. I took hold with all my might, pressing into the top of the dock with the other arm and flailing my legs to find a foot-hold along the side of the structure. The bird swooped again, and my grip on Matt's arm slipped. I fell toward the water, slicing my big toe open in the process, and scratching my shin into tiny ribbons of flesh. I began bleeding profusely and loudly uttered a few choice curse words as I once again endeavored to scale the dock. This time, I was successful, and Matt and I managed to jump off the other side without breaking our necks or ankles. The bird took its leave, content that we were going away and no longer threatening its old wizard master.<br />
<br />
Matt took a moment to survey the damage to my toe and shin. The toe was submerged, so the salt water immediately began to impart its healing powers, but the shin wound was extolling multiple tiny rivulets of blood into the Atlantic. But, no matter what, there was no turning back. Neither of us could think of anything worse than battling the dock and the tiny eagle again, so we proceeded forward, quieter and much less optimistic.<br />
<br />
Frustrated, I put a bit of distance between myself and my husband. Upon arriving on the other side of the dock, I decided that I would not allow this afternoon to be a waste. I would move as quickly as my legs would carry me, and at the very least, get a decent glute workout for my trouble. About 50 yards ahead of Matt and three-quarters of a mile from the much longed-for beach, I made a new friend. Stopping for a moment to catch my breath, I look over my shoulder at Matt then down at the water to find that I was being followed by something long, brownish-grey, and adorned with a familiar, menacing fin. It swam parallel to me about five feet away, itself measuring roughly four feet nose to tail. I took a deep breath and farmed the recesses of my brain for some stored away safety information.<br />
<br />
What to do when one encounters a shark in the water. Punch it in the nose. Poke its eyes. Get the "f%&k" out of the water. The last of these was not an option, and I was not willing to get close enough to the beast to punch or poke it. Instead, I started yelling to Matt and beating my flip-flops in the water. <br />
<br />
Still roughly 30 yards away, Matt was unsure that I had, in fact, encountered a shark. He questioned why a shark would be interested me in the first place, to which I quite calmly replied that I had been bleeding for about twenty minutes, and sharks can smell blood from a mile away. He remained unconvinced until the distance between us was nearly 10 yards, and he could see the signature fin himself. He arrived at my side and invited me to put one foot in his hands so that he could toss me onto the lowest overhanging rock. I did this, and successfully latched on to the cliff, leaving Matt alone in the water with our new adversary. <br />
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The shark seemed uninterested in Matt. We waited about ten minutes until it appeared the shark had made a permanent retreat, then Matt lifted me back into the water. If I had been moving fast before, my pace somehow doubled for the remainder of the walk, the only exception being the moments when I stopped to survey the surface of the water and bang my flip-flops a couple of times, just for good measure.<br />
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When we reached the beach, we had only moments to celebrate before we were once again presented with a problem. About half a mile up, there were two dogs chasing each other across the sand, seemingly playing. However, given the direction the day had taken, we were unwilling to accept the scenario at face value. Plus, we had been warned that the island was home to many a wild dog, and they were known to be vicious on occassion. We stopped, gathered handfuls of rocks, and silently proceeded. The mood had become somber. I think we were both questioning all of our decisions...not just from the day, but throughout our lives in general. It was like staring down death if death was a playful black laborador.<br />
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We were still travelling behind houses, but we no longer cared whether we were trespassing. However, the vegetation beyond the beach was thick and brambly, so we decided that it was safer to approach the dogs than to potentially take on a snake or poisonous shrub. The dogs never approached us, and it become clear from still a reasonable distance that they belonged to humans who were swimming next to a very familiar looking rock jetty. The rock formation no longer frightened me. Like a wounded solider facing down gunfire, I was less afraid, having overcome a similar obstacle already. As compared to a shark, a sharp cement wall and an angry, tiny alert eagle, a rock jetty was nothing. It was nothing, until we stood atop it. <br />
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We were not standing on a makeshift fence marking a millionaire's property. We had reached the marina, and this was the wall of a boat channel.<br />
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Having remained calm all day, even when facing down the curious shark, I felt I was due for a bit of panic. I began repeating over and over at high volumes that I was not going to swim the channel. No way. No how. No thank you. Have a nice day. But, I was not in charge of that decision. Unwilling to try to cut a path through the bramble or ask nicely whether a kindly gardener would allow us to pass through someone's backyard, Matt plowed forward into the water, cherry tote above his head, and me seething, ankle deep in my greatest challenge yet. My pulse began to quicken. I felt sick to my stomach. Do you know what lives in boat channels? I do. Sharks. Bigger ones than what I had already encountered. They feed off of the chum tossed overboard by fisherman arriving back home from a day on the job. And, I am a weak swimmer at best.<br />
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I took a deep breath, cleared my head of all thoughts (except those of death by shark attack) and plunged forward. I paddled feverishly, gasping and splashing like an injured animal, until I fainlty heard Matt's voice above the cacaphony of my own terror. Put your feet down, he urged me. I tried, but my knees touched bottom first. I had made it across.<br />
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The story become much less exciting from here. We located a road a short distance from the West side of the marina channel and walked about a mile to a little coffee shop where the kind and compassionate owner called us a cab. (yup...after all that....) However, we had made it half way, so our cab ride was half the price, and our driver thoroughly enjoyed our story which we stepped on each other continually to tell in exact, exhausting detail. <br />
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After informing us that our greatest danger was actually the dogs ("if dey be wild, man, dey rip you up!") our driver, who called himself "Sir Charles", chuckled to himself and smiled at us in the rearview mirror. He shook his head sympathetically. When we arrived at our resort tired, hungry and in desperate need of alcohol, he took our payment, shook our hands and said only this.<br />
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"Welcome to TCI, my friends. Welcome to TCI."The Sagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10151664608985163926noreply@blogger.com4