I Have Nothing to Wear!

On a dismal, rainy afternoon, I took Rose out to the salon for a pedicure, just us girls. We walked in and the manicurist told us to choose a color while we wait our turn. We both carefully scanned the wall display, picking up one, shaking it and putting it back. We did this at least a dozen times each before settling on our respective colors. I chose a darker pink with purple tones to it – thinking that the color was something fresh. It was one I haven’t tried before and I had nothing like it at home. Rose chose a florescent orange. To be clear, I’m not talking orange with pink highlights, or peach that looks a little orange. This orange was ORANGE. It was a bright, electric looking color that was so neon it was self-illuminating. The manicurist did a full double take when Rose handed her the bottle. “You want this color on your nails?” Rose looked at the small woman confidently. With her deep dimples and big brown eyes, she smiled. “Yep!” “On your fingernails too?” “Yes please!” Rose didn’t question her decision for a second and was unshaken by the manicurist’s hesitation. Nor did she feel it necessary to justify her color selection. She was almost giddy all the way to the chair and throughout our entire mani-pedi. We talked about the program that was being broadcast on the salon’s large flat screens and our upcoming plans for Spring Break. When Rose had been adorned with the awkwardly large and very floppy, disposable flip-flops, I couldn’t help myself anymore- I wanted to ask; “What is up with that color?!” Watching her from my foot soaking perch as she carefully stepped with unnecessarily large steps towards the manicure station, I finally spoke up; “That’s a great color Rose..” I said in the most leading way I could, hoping for an insightful response. “I know, right!” “It sort of looks like the same shade as your basketball…” I said again, setting her up for the answer I was anticipating-no such luck. “Oh! It does!” Rose said noticing the coincidence as she admired the glosses tips of her drying fingers. What was her motivation? What made her chose such an unlikely shade? Was it to purposely be different? Did she just like it? Whatever her reasoning was, she remained happy with her choice, without regard to the questioning glances of patrons and staff. The whole thing made me wonder why I was so quick to establish my deciding logic. I’ve never really been one to care about what other people thought. I’ve never been trendy or stylish by Fashion Week standards. I care what I think, so I elaborated on my color choice. What color would I have chosen if I let go of all those reasons and justifications and just chose? In almost every circumstance, an informed decision is the best kind. Careful thought and deliberation are absolutely necessary for every fork in your road. But sometimes- forget the fork and do it all hands on with a big, dimply smile. On a rainy day, go with a color just because, listen to a song without thinking, spend the entire afternoon watching the tiny drops of water bounce off the window or go jump in a puddle. Be what makes you happy and stay blissfully unaware of anyone who questions your sanity. AND, if you happen across an old bearded man, throwing down a break-dancing challenge to a group of cardboard and boom-box toting youngsters… stop and cheer him on without wondering what he is thinking or where he learned to dance. On that grey, wet afternoon I learned something priceless from my fearless daughter. Not all decisions in life are metaphoric forks in your road. Sometimes the only decision you need to make is to stop making decisions all the time. Get off the road for a minute and run through the sprinklers. When your little, parents make a lot of decisions for you. When you’re a grown up, the path before you isn’t so simple and it forks in a million different directions. Don’t forget to seek out the whimsical you. My whimsy is wearing bright orange nail polish. No wonder our future is so bright!

God Bless

My Great-Grandmother always demonstrated compassion for peddlers, panhandlers, hobos, transients- the homeless. There are those who say not give “them” money because it will be spent on drugs or alcohol. Others say that pleading for help, money or work while standing on the street corner with a cardboard sign is an elaborate con. My Great-Grandmother used to say; “That man could be Jesus. Jesus will return, no one knows when and no one knows what he might look like.” There is a man, wrinkled and tanned from constant exposure to the elements. His hair is matted without definitive color. There is no way to know if it’s dark and streaked with grey, or if it’s grey with defiant threads of dark. He doesn’t try to hide his face in shame. He looks at you, past you. No one makes eye contact with him, but his expression is humble. His clothes are faded, shapeless and layered. He holds a tattered sign made from the side of a box-it says; “Disabled Veteran, Anything Helps, God Bless.” This time, don’t look away. Look at him. Can you picture a younger version? Maybe he was among the drafted-torn from his mother’s arms and his high school sweet heart to become a soldier. After the war, the Veterans were spit upon, cursed and shunned out of controversy and confusion, but then what? Where did he go? What loss must he have suffered to be standing next to the intersection, holding his sign with cracked and bleeding hands? Could my Great Grandma be right? Could this really be the face of Christ? The man who suffered and died for our sins, weathered, neglected and hungry. I would respectfully disagree, but that might be hasty. It’s easy enough to see that Christ’s perfect love exists in the charity bestowed upon the disabled veteran. However, my Great Grandma, might have been asking me, all of us to look for Jesus, really look. Jesus said that with God, all things were possible, but HE didn’t heal every sick man, woman and child. HE didn’t sit next to all the thieves, nor did HE stand up for every immoral woman. I may not be able to work miracles as Christ did,and I can't end wars, world hunger or poverty, but I can bring a nourishing pot of soup to someone who is sick. I can embrace someone who is crying, empower someone who is frightened and offer a disabled veteran a warm coat and a full belly. We all can. We just need to be reminded that it only takes one person, doing one thing. So look, because Great Grandma was right. The manifestation of Christ’s love is there. He sits in the park, weak with his ailments, hunger and sorrow. Without the strength to stand, he holds a styrofoam cup he found in the garbage and meekly asks for spare change. He has nothing to give but says; “God Bless” for every penny he is given. You will never know when, or what it will look like but it’s there because HE has given it to you to give.

100 Years and Just One More Chapter, Dad

In my day, books were these cool things with pages. They took space, but they were an attractive use of the space they occupied. Books are amazing. I’m not saying that E-Readers are sabotaging the magic of the written word. I’m an environmentalist and hey-my kids like anything electronic, so that’s something. Over a dozen years ago I visited Margaret Mitchell’s basement apartment in Atlanta. Ms. Mitchell set out to write the “greatest loves story of all times” and she did. In her tiny apartment, every surface was stacked with what looked like hundreds, if not thousands of pages. How many drafts? How many hours? How much love did she pour into every idea, character and composition before Gone With the Wind was finished? What alternate universe exists for Scarlet and Melanie, hidden in that apartment whether written and discarded or dreamed of and misplaced? It’s my opinion that there never has been, nor will be another love story like Gone With the Wind; a love born from competition, while another unfolds, unexpectedly and without warning. A selfish, naïve young woman, forced by circumstance into sacrifice and service. Is it at all possible that when Margaret Mitchell wrote Rhett’s famous farewell, she knew that she would be immortal? Tolstov, Hugo, Dickens, Alcott, all immortal. Over 100 years ago, they had an idea, they dreamed of a place, they developed characters that we treasure and created stories we will never forget. They poured it all out on paper, page after page and stack after stack and they knew it was special. I don’t know if they knew how special. They will live forever. We know these pieces of literary history, we all do. We’ve been to those places, we’ve met those characters. We laughed. We cried. Our hearts raced with anticipation and we’ve gasped with surprise.

Here’s my point; I hope, really hope, that our children get to visit those places. Is it just me, or is it really difficult to get children excited about reading? Maybe I just get too excited about reading. I remember spending entire nights immersed in a good book. Granted, I didn’t read a lot of classics, but I read nearly a book a day. My dad would come down and say; “Lights out”, usually more than once because I hardly realized he was there. “Just one more chapter dad!” He’d come down one more time, sometimes two, but he never forced me to put a book down and turn out the lights. I love him for that! I’d read scary stories, love stories, sad stories, intense stories, I couldn’t get enough. Clearly, I love to write, but creativity like that of the real literary geniuses, comes once in a 100 years-if that. I just hope that I have enough time to read all the great pieces, before the last 100 years is up!

Stolen Hearts and Doggy Farts

I wonder why dogs are such excellent judges of character. It’s hard to believe that one’s true identity becomes transparent when smelling their behind- I’m not a professional by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t think that’s it. I think that’s just how dogs figure out who’s been doing what on whose territory. It’s my understanding that dogs communicate with one another through postures. Subtleties say a lot; ears back, tail up, but there are also obvious stances like pouncing, lying down or rolling over. Every breed of dog, domesticated or stray, even wolves share this body language. Do they have our body language figured out as well? We don’t have big ears that perk up with curiosity and I’ve never seen anyone submissively roll over and expose their belly. I have two large mutts. One we adopted as a puppy from an unexpected litter, and the other we rescued from a foster program a few months later. After introducing the two, playful puppy and frightened rescue, dad had to take the rescue to the local shelter for shots and licensing. Oh how that puppy cried when he was left on the other side of the door! Just one afternoon and the two were inseparable. That high energy, into everything puppy sat by the door and whimpered until daddy returned with his new pack member.

Is that the same loyalty that bonds us with our pets? Human beings are an amazing species, but I don’t think we are spiritually in-tuned enough to choose our animal companions. I think we all know that they choose us. They guard us, cuddled us, play with us, keep us fit, make us laugh, they forgive us when we fall short, it’s unconditional love- whether we deserve it or not. How do they choose us? How can they tell my tired, slumped shoulders, from someone else’s? When my jaw is tensed up with my lousy temperament, why don’t they avoid me or get defensive like everyone else? My impression is that my heart pounds just as much when I’m angry as it does when I’m scared, but somehow my dogs know the difference and it has nothing to do with how the back of my pants smell. Call it an aura, electromagnetism or sixth-sense, animals know that who we are outweighs what we do-which might make them smarter than us. We label people; adults and children a like – high maintenance, trouble makers, slow, criminals, push-overs, poor-sports, etc. People are quick to define one another by how they act or react. Regardless of how an animal senses these things, there is something noble in their discernment. Don’t get me wrong, even the most amazing creatures have their, let’s say “quirks”. For years, the man of my house was my dog, Skyler. He would tuck me in at night, lay near me until I fell asleep, and then sleep in the doorway of my bedroom. I couldn’t ever close the door, because he knew how to open it, and for whatever reason, he insisted it stayed that way. Whenever I was depressed or sad, Skyler would put his head under my hand, or my arm and stick his sweet face in mine. He had unfailing patience for sticky hands in his fur, toddlers pulling his tail, or babies grabbing his face. I never had to look for him because he was always by my side. BUT- Skyler did not like other dogs. I always had to be very careful when we were out and about, because if another dog crossed our path, Skyler would act aggressively. That was his thing, for my hundreds of things. Skyler did that one thing. We modified our routine and eventually practiced some solicialization skills, but overall, he was never really fond of other dogs. Still, I wouldn’t change one thing about who he was- I loved him, just like he taught me to. In all reality, when it comes to obedience training, or “puppy-garten” – as they called it; I think that animals just let us think that we are training them. What they are actually doing is teaching us something, leading us by example. My dogs say to love unconditionally, be loyal, remember all the amazing things about your people, quickly forget their mistakes and play often. (Also- my dog says that the mailman should mind his own business! What’s he doing! What! What! What! Why does he have to be bringing all those things that stress out his people! Hey! He means it! Hey! Hey!) When the right pet chooses you, it’s like finding a piece of your soul that you didn’t know existed. They don’t just find that piece, that piece is who they are. When they pass away, they leave that piece with you, in a very special place that’s very hard to describe. It’s the same place that random smiles come from, the place where seemingly benign objects remind you of something precious, it’s that place where happy tears gather with fond memories. They don’t often times outlive you. They will break your heart when they go. Most of all, they are rarely “perfect”, but let an animal chose you and your life will forever be changed for the better.

44,000,000 Ways to Heal

I have heard, read and watched a lot of amazing stories about forgiveness. A Google Search on the topic yields 44,000,000 results in less than half of a second. On the cross, Jesus Christ said of his crucifiers; “Father, forgive them – they know not what they do.” The Dalai Lama, in exile, forgives the Chinese government for the imprisonment and slaughter of over 112,000 Tibetans. Everyday, locally, no matter where you live, no matter the socio-economic class, religion, or sexuality, the most horrific acts are forgiven by the victims and their families.

On the other end of the spectrum, are families divided – perhaps by divorce, altercation, disappointment or misunderstanding. I’m not preaching forgiveness from a perfect pedestal of unconditional love for my fellow man; my personal struggle to be forgiving includes someday, possibly, being able to pray for the strength to forgive. I simply want to point out that in the face of potentially 44,000,000 unbelievable stories about forgiveness, my feud, all feuds, are stupid. Holding onto your hurt and everything that comes with it means leaving your wound open. You aren’t unable to heal; you are refusing to heal in hopes that exposing your wound will serve as vengeance. I promise it doesn’t. I’ve never done a Google search for the benefits of holding a grudge, because I’m willing to bet that the only thing that comes up is 44,000,000 reasons to let go. I am humbled by all those local stories of forgiveness and I imagine those victims to be spiritual giants. I have been hurt, in a lot of ways. My heart has been broken more times than I care to rehash, but I don’t want to live with those wounds and neither should you. I am blessed beyond warrant and it’s foolish for me, or anyone else, to dwell in anything but happiness and love. I can’t begin to give you advice on who to forgive, or when. I’d tell you where to start, but I think you already know the answer. In the mean time fill yourself with light, surround yourself in joy, act in kindness, always be honest and know that you have already been forgiven.

It's not in the news, because it isn't news.

Years ago, I begged for media coverage of about a small school of the Deaf,fundraising by nickels and dimes to build a playground. I thought it was such a sweet story; a student body of less than 100,determined to raise almost $200,000. Those kids literally brought in their piggy banks while ambitiously tackling every fundraising opportunity presented to them- and they did it with bright, happy smiles. I thought to myself; "Why isn't this news?" Two years later, when the funds were finally raised, the kids were promised that when they returned to school after their Summer break, their hard earned playground would be there to great them. The playground was in fact finished with three days to spare, but the unthinkable happened the night the construction crew left; vandalism. Administrators, teachers and staff arrived the next morning to find profanity and graffiti painted all over the brand new equipment. The merry-go-round hadn't been twirled, the swings hadn't yet swung, the children hadn't even seen the fruits of their labor, before it was so horribly defaced. At that point, the news crews came in droves. "This is what people want." I thought, "The scary, heartbreaking stories that make you feel like there is no reason to trust or hope." Well, shortly after the first report aired, people, strangers showed up with rags and cleaners. Too many to count; group after group, neighbors, community members- people who had no idea who these children were showed up and scrubbed their playground equipment in the hot August sun. For the next two days they scrubbed, wiped and treated the slides, the wheelchair ramps and the brail alphabet games. The playground was ready, shiny and new when the kids arrived for their first day of school. All they saw was a real recess with climbers, tunnels,spinners - everything they asked for. Today, one might notice traces of blue spray paint here or there, but those faded marks no longer represent the vandalism that broke our hearts that August morning. Now, we see wounds healed by the kindness and compassion of strangers. The power of humanity to protect, nurture and love one another. Yes, there were news stories about the volunteers who slaved away for hours and days, but for a long time, I wondered why the media was only interested in the worst part of our playground adventure. I know people often complain that the news typically only reports on the worst and scariest happenings, but I’ve developed another theory. Maybe the good parts aren’t news worthy because good things happen every day, in so many places. It's nothing new to report. We might not often times hear news anchors sharing stories like: • “Busy Executive Buys Lunch for Transient on His Way Back to the Office” • "Neighbors Provide Coats for Poverty Stricken Family” • “Man Stops on Highway to Help Teen Change Tire” • “Grieving Children Embraced by Community Volunteers” • “Soldiers Collect Toys and Candy for Children of War Torn Villages” • “Child Befriends Lonely Widow” But I think we all know that these things are happening right this very second, where we live and all over the world. If you need to be reminded that love prevails, don’t go looking for it in the news paper. Instead, collect some blankets for those without beds, make some soup for someone recovering from an illness, or help your neighbor shovel his driveway- find some way to serve. “I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” ― Rabindranath Tagore

Dance Like Your Painting and Live Like Your Dancing

Do what makes you happy, and be happy with what you are doing. There is always something to be grateful for, and that gratitude can go a long ways towards brightening your outlook and making everyday a good day. When I was a dancer, I loved performing. It was like I painted the most beautiful elements of my life on canvas and it’s finally time to unveil it. I could take the time to start writing and practicing choreography again, but these days, there is just too much joy to be had dancing with a baby in my arms and a preteen rolling his eyes at me. It’s the perfect stage for me. It makes me happy. In fact, turning the music up loud and dancing with my kids is such thrill; just thinking about it makes me happy. I feel like I painted breath taking images every time I laid in the euphoria that follows child birth. When I look into that tiny face, with all its tiny features, tiny fingers, tiny toes, a whole new world looks back at me and it smells celestial. With the birth of second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth child, my canvas has become more and more glorious. It’s ever changing and there aren’t words to describe how awesome it is. I don’t feel like I have lost anything as my life has changed from ski-bum, to dancer, to paralegal, to mom each stage has brought with it, a rich quality and nothing surpasses the wealth of my family. I think it’s important to confess here that I have not been immune to the fog of postpartum depression. In fact, at times, dancing saved from the baby blues. I strongly encourage any mother, at any stage to do something that is just for them. I know how hard it is, but as moms, as women, you have to take care of yourself first. You can only give so much and it must be replenished. If you believe you can be rejuvenated you will be rejuvenated. If you have faith that our Father in Heaven can give you strength, he will. If you accept and acknowledge your feelings, you will find support, compassion and love. You will make friends who have thought the things you thought, who have been in that fog that you’re in and can help you find a way out. Look at what you are painting because it’s beautiful. No matter how you paint it. If you are dancing, singing, writing or literally painting, your life is beautiful because you make it that way. Be happy.