Christmas Present: Rewrapped

I always loved Christmas, but it let me down. No matter how hard I tried to bend it and shape it and wrap it up tight, I could never make the season as good in reality as how I imagined it to be. The hype and images on TV of happy couples who bought each other Lexus' tied up in gigantic red bows didn't help. 

Many of my Christmas' past were filled with anxiety and disappointment as I tried to control every nuance. During the holiday my compulsion to give, give, give and to please others in hopes of getting a desired response kicked into high gear. Each year, I'd make myself crazy with the expectation to create the perfect, fairy tale holiday. Of course, Christmas never panned out as I hoped. But then, due to an unlikely turn of events, I was given a chance to shift my perception.

One of the many surprises found
on Christmas morning, 2011.

  In 2011 I was newly divorced, and settling into a new house and a new life. At last, I thought I could create the Christmas I always wanted with a big tree in the foyer and all the trimmings. But then reality crashed in.

My son, Jack (age 9), would be at his father's on Christmas morning. For the first time in his life, I wouldn't be peering around the corner of the living room when he woke up and discovered what Santa left under the tree. I was going to be alone on Christmas Day. I became frantic with the thought. How would I make it through the holidays?

Then, I hatched a great idea. The best way to set aside one's problems was to help someone else, right? I would throw myself into helping others and forget about my own troubles. I called the local community kitchen and generously offered to help cook.
   "I'm sorry," the volunteer coordinator said. "The holidays are already covered. Try back in January."

As it turned out from Thanksgiving through New Years every church, synagogue, Girl Scout troop and Kiwanis Club in town queues up to cook turkey and dressing for the homeless. Well,  I wanted to give and by God, I'd give!

So, I hatched a second idea: I'd work with a group that was already signed up to serve at the kitchen. But there was just one problem: I wasn't a card-carrying member of any church or civic organization. Once again I applied my I-will-not-take-no-for-an-answer attitude and formulated a brilliant plan.

Some of my friends attended a nearby Episcopal church that frequently served meals at the shelter. So one Sunday morning, I put on a skirt and panty hose and attended mass with them. (I was raised Catholic, so I easily pass for Episcopal.)

After the service, while my friends were enjoying fellowship and coffee, I sneaked into the community center and scrawled my name on their volunteer sign-up sheet. No one was the wiser.

The day to volunteer rolled around and I served turkey and dressing and all the trimmings with my new Episcopal friends. While I doled out mashed potatoes, green beans and rolls to the down-on-their-luckers, I tried my best to generate compassion for each and every soul. Seeing their smiles of appreciation, I felt humbled. I realized I really did have a lot for which to be grateful.

Sure my Christmas wasn't going to be ideal, but at least I had a home. I had a family. I had plenty of food and clothes and everything I wanted. The experience left me feeling so good that after we cleaned the pots and pans and put the cafeteria back in order, I asked the cook who managed the kitchen if I could help prepare meals on a regular basis. He said sure and I walked away feeling a little better about my life.

The following Monday, I showed up to help serve the noon meal. I quickly learned my way around the industrial dishwasher and the pantry. The chef seemed to genuinely appreciate my help. Later that day, as I strolled out of the kitchen humming Kumbaya, the volunteer coordinator cornered me.

   "You're not on the list," he said.

    "Oh, well ... I just thought you needed help ... The cook said ..." I replied.

    "The cook doesn't schedule volunteers!" he said. "We have groups that sign up. It's all planned out for months. You have to be on the list, and you're not on the list!"

   "Oh, okay," I said. I could feel my face flush with humiliation. "I was only trying to help—"

   "I have your number," the coordinator said flatly. "I'll call you if I need you."

 I walked away quickly so he couldn't see me cry. I had just been fired as a volunteer at a soup kitchen! I was such a big loser that even a homeless shelter didn't want my help.

As I drove home, my embarrassment became anger when I thought of how I'd been treated by the hapless volunteer coordinator. What an idiot! What in ingrate! How dare he dismiss me like that!

At home my anger and shame turned inward as I threw myself an enormous pity party. I forgot all about the women and men lived on the streets. I sat in my nice warm house and sobbed, not for them, but for myself. I didn't think about the hardships the homeless faced everyday and how lonely they must feel. All I could think about was myself. What was wrong with me?! I was all alone. Poor, poor me! Rejected again—and by a homeless shelter no less!

I wish I could tell you that I had a revelation right then and there. I wish I could tell you that in that moment of pure self-pity I had a break-through, an insight, a glimpse of clarity shining through, but I did not. I spent the rest of that day feeling weak and raw and burned out. Then I made it worse.

I looked at my Christmas tree and noticed the lack of gifts beneath it. It was so bare and pathetic. I moped around the house thinking about how I wasn't going to get a single Christmas gift that year. How my parents were dead and my sisters and I didn't exchange gifts anymore because we're grown up people and we called a truce on gift giving years ago. I wallowed in feeling forgotten for quite a while.

After a while I grew bored with my self pity and I called my friend Charlotte. I was still hurt and outraged when I related to her what happened with the volunteer coordinator. I was ready to be surrounded in the snug and sticky blanket of commiseration. But Charlotte did the most remarkable thing: She laughed.

And then—remarkably—I saw how ridiculous I had been and I began to laugh too. A tiny glimmer of light crept in as I was able to laugh at myself for being fired from the soup kitchen.

"Maybe he did you a favor," Charlotte said. "Maybe that's not what you're supposed to be doing right now. Maybe you should be focusing on yourself."

Charlotte's insight reminded me of a Buddhist saying, "My enemy is my greatest teacher." Certainly the volunteer coordinator was not my foe, but I had been thinking a lot of not-so-nice thoughts about him. And yet,  maybe I had gotten it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he did do me a favor rather than an injustice.

When I hung up the phone, I saw there were dishes piled up in the sink. I'd been too busy doing dishes at the soup kitchen to wash my own. After I filled the dishwasher, I swept the crumbs up off the floor. Then I wiped down the stove and the countertops. I made myself a nice lunch of tomato soup and popcorn, just like my mom used to make for me.

The next day, I felt good enough to change out of my sweat pants and go shopping for Christmas gifts for my son as well as for some children I didn't know whose names I gathered from a local Angel Tree. I even bought a very small gift for my ex-husband. I wrapped the gifts and placed them under my tree.

As the days ticked down to December 25, whenever I felt anxiety's twinge, I memorized favorite Buddhist prayers or repeated a simple mantra. I called my sisters. I sent a quick text to a friend. I took long, hot bubble baths and read while I soaked in the tub. Somehow I made it to December 24. And along the way, while focusing on the tasks at hand and not on some made-up fantasy, I swallowed my pride and called my ex-husband and asked him for a very special gift.

"Would it be too weird if I slept in Jack's room on Christmas Eve?" I asked. "I don't want this to be awkward, but I really want to be there when he wakes up."

My ex gave it some thought and agreed it would be okay. Jack was thrilled that Mom was coming for a Christmas Eve slumber party. That night, after attending midnight mass, I tiptoed into Jack's room, set aside my expectations and resentments and climbed up onto the top bunk. It wasn't ideal, but it was Christmas.

That season, for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to let go, not just of a relationship or an outcome, but what it means to let go—really let go—of a long-held ideal.

 Today, I look back on that holiday season as one of—if not the—best of my life. Christmas did not go down at all in the way I envisioned it. It was messy and icky and there was not a new car in my driveway on Christmas morning.  And yet I discovered (much like Dr. Seuss' Grinch) that Christmas didn't need to be this way or that to be celebrated. On a broader level, I found that other people didn't have to do this or that for me to be happy. Although it was not easy to accept, I also learned that after spending so much time and effort to "fix" other people, the one person who really needed to be fixed was me.

P.S.: This year (2015) my life is so different. Jack is 13 and happy and healthy.We have welcomed Jason into our lives and we have forged a little family of our own understanding. And yes, miracle of miracles, we will all celebrate Christmas morning with Jack's Dad.

Four years ago, in my wildest Christmas fantasies, I could not have imagined the real happiness I have in my life today. No, my life is not perfect. Thank God, it's not perfect! For that shiny, always-just-beyond-my-grasp ideal could not be nearly as interesting and gratifying as the messy, awkward, funny, ever-changing life I now enjoy. Looking back now, I wouldn't change a thing.

Mind Over Malted Milk Balls

This year, for the first Halloween since he could walk, Jack did not trick or treat. When he was little, my son and I spent months planning his Halloween costume, tracking down the appropriate light saber, mask, sword, hat, or —in 2006, the Year of the Ninja Turtles — shell. But this year, my teenager didn’t go door to door shaking down our neighbors for Kit Kats and Nerds. The change was not so much a sign of his impending maturity as it was due to the pouring rain (and the fact he was grounded.) None-the-less it was the first year that we broke from tradition ... and I felt the pangs of detachment.

It seems like over night, Jack transformed
from cuddly tiger ...

All things change. All things fade away. It was a bittersweet night — even for this Heath Bar fan.

So rather than gather the candy, for the first time in his life, Jack was the person at the door giving away the loot. Of course, there weren’t many sodden children rapping at our door on this damp Hallow’s Eve. To compensate, Jack dumped handfuls of miniature candy bars, Sweet Tarts and Randoms into the waiting sacks of the children who plaintively called, “Trick or Treat!” By 8:15 p.m. even the most stalwart candy fiend was at home donning dry socks. With a deficit of candy-beggars, Jack was left with the mother-lode of primo assorted treats.

Now some parents might fret that their child would gorge himself on this sugar-filled, calorie laden loot, but candy has never been Jack’s thing. Don’t get me wrong, he loves the stuff, but after a few pieces, he loses interest. Case in point, before filling the big purple Jack-o-Lantern we use to hand out candy, I had to dump out last year’s left overs — and I’m not talking Mary Jane’s and banana taffy.

But while Jack can tentatively graze on Kit Kats and M&Ms and make them last 365 days, I am not quite so disciplined. And the problem is this: While he’s off at school, I’m left alone with dozens of tiny Reese Cup sirens calling my name.

Until a few years ago, I hadn't paid much attention to what I ate or why I ate it. I knew, like most people, I consumed more food when I was upset or stressed out.  Mashed potatoes, cheese-laden casseroles and Velveeta dip with chips are my comfort-foods-of-choice.

... to webcasting Super Hero ...

Then I attended my first retreat at Magnolia Village, Thich Nhat Hanh's monastery in Mississippi. When dinner time rolled around, I was instructed that we would eat in Noble Silence.  There was absolutely no talking during the meal. The full focus was on the food, how it looked and smelled and tasted. This concentration also encouraged us to generate gratefulness for the food and to contemplate how the rice, the tofu, the vegetables and herbs, the bread, the peanut butter, etc. came to your plate. We had time to contemplate the connectedness we shared.

This practice encouraged me to look beyond the food on my plate and acknowledge all the many people and actions involved directly and indirectly in the creation of the meal: The farmer who planted the seed, the harvester, processor, and merchant who sold the ingredients to the food manufacturer, the truck driver who delivered the food to the grocery store, the clerk at the store shelved the food, the check-out girl rang it up, and the bag boy placed it in a plastic bag. Every one of those people was supported by, and supports, others and each generates karma (actions that affect others). The ripples move outward infinitely. It's quite boggling when you start to consider it all.

By contrast, mindless eating not only makes my body flabby, but also makes my sense of compassion and connectedness soft, too.

When I'm scarfing down a meal on the fly or even when sitting at my table at home talking and laughing with family or friends, I don't think about all the people and processes responsible for the food I enjoy. I certainly don't stop to consider how fortunate I am to have this food to nourish my body and mind when I am rushing through lunch to get back to work.

The practice of mindfulness requires that I slow down and consider my intentions and actions. For example, when Thich Nhat Hahn drinks a cup of tea, he takes hours! (You do not want to invite him for breakfast if you're running late to school.) It seems impractical to our Western hurry-up-let's-go mentality to eat and drink this way, but it is actually a beautiful form of meditation that helps generate awareness and appreciation for all of life.

... to zombie killing teen, Carl Grimes.

Since becoming more aware of what I'm eating and why, I feel healthier physically and spiritually. Sure, I do indulge in treats from time to time. I don't eat mindfully every meal of everyday, but it is an aspiration to do so whenever possible.

So although, right now, I'm all alone in the house and there's a big bowl of Heath Bars, Sweet Tarts, Kit Kats, Almond Joys, Reese Cups and malted milk balls (which I don't particularly like) on my coffee table, I have no intention of gorging myself. If I do choose to have one —or two— I will savor each treat and silently thank all those good folks at M&M Mars, Hershey and Wonka. And I'll be grateful to my neighbors for staying home on a wet Halloween night ... and to my son for growing up — but not out of — of the traditions we hold dear.

No Good Deed

Vulcan Trail, a beautiful, tranquil spot
for a walk — or a nap.

Just as quietly as it descended, summer's heat has relinquished here in the sunny South. It is as though someone flipped off the the humidity switch and suddenly, there is relief!

At 8 a.m., the cool morning air felt chilly when I stepped outside for my daily two mile hike. During the sweltering summer months, I find myself getting out earlier and earlier to beat the oppressive heat, but today there was no need to rush.

I walk this trail so frequently that I have made friends with the other regulars. There's The Cocoon Boys (three old men) who walk together each morning with two white dogs; Happy Walking Dude, a former athlete turned artist and art professor; and Jogger Lady, who inspires me as she runs up and down the hill every day.  We don't really know one another, but we always smile and wave, exchanging morning greetings and occasionally stopping to chat.

Today, as I reached the crest of the hill, I saw a person on the trail who I had never seen before. He was — in fact — lying in the trail. As I approached, I could discern than it was a man dressed in old, dirty clothes. He was curled in a fetal position in the middle of the paved trail road. (The Vulcan Trail is a paved road that was once a railway for Red Mountain mining.)

I immediately stopped and used my phone to call 9-11.


As I waited for the emergency crew, the Happy Walking Dude art professor walked up. He was ending his daily loop and said he had seen the old man lying in the trail too. He recognized him as a homeless person who "lived" in the area. He said he had asked him if he was OK and then kept walking.

"Oh, gosh," I said. "I called the paramedics. Maybe I shouldn't have done that?"
"No," Happy Walking Dude assured me. "You did the right thing."

HWD went on his way and I waited for the ambulance and fire truck and police. They all arrived in short order. I directed them up the hill (the road is wide enough to drive through) and hiked along ahead, showing them the way. I thought they'd scoop up the old man, place him on a gurney, start an IV, give him oxygen, and whisk him away to the ER. But within a few moments after the emergency workers approached, the man who I thought was collapsed in the trial got up and limped down the hill.

"We see this guy all the time," the policeman said. "He will just go to sleep anywhere."

"Are you OK?" an EMT asked me. "Did he scare you?"

"No," I said. "I just felt so bad for the guy ... Seeing him makes my heart hurt."

I watched the old man shuffle away, his slumber interrupted by a well-meaning woman, a fire truck, EMT and police team. He looked to be in his 70s, but he was so dirty and unkempt, it was hard to discern his age. He certainly appeared to be in need of medical assistance, but he waved off the guys with the stretcher and ambled down the hill. I felt so bad for him and there was nothing I could do. But beyond that, I felt ashamed.

In truth, the homeless man did scare me. I was so fearful that I hadn't approached him and asked if he needed help. I just assumed that because he was lying in the middle of the path, he needed help — and wanted help. And I was wrong.

"I'm sorry I brought you out here for nothing," I said to the emergency workers. "I thought that man needed help. Can't you take him to the local shelter?"

"He's not interested," said the EMT. "You can't help someone who doesn't want help."

The trucks turned around and slowly rumbled down the mountain. I walked home with a very unsettled feeling in my heart. I should have felt relieved when the old man got up and limped away, but I didn't. There was a part of me that was embarrassed I had called for help when he really wasn't dying or hurt. I felt foolish for assuming the man was mortally wounded or something.

I also felt bad that I had inconvenienced the emergency crew and brought them out when they weren't really needed. I certainly didn't mean to cry wolf. Was I supposed to just walk by an old man lying in the trail? Other people did. Maybe they were wiser than me. Maybe they saw the truth: That the man just wanted to sleep. And I had taken from him the one solace he could find on this cool, beautiful, clear fall morning. All he wanted to do was sleep and this stupid (but well-meaning) woman called the cops and the EMTs who shooed him on his way!

I felt twenty different types of crappy over the whole situation. But feeling crappy doesn't do anyone any good. If I really wanted to do something helpful I should get off my ass and volunteer at a shelter or donate money or food or clothes or do something useful. I felt like a dilettante calling 911 on my iPhone and demanding that the authorities clean this man up and making him better — as if I really knew better than the old man did what it was he needed! Ugh.

"You can't help someone who doesn't want help," the EMT said. And he was so very right.

How many times in my life have I foisted my idea of help onto someone when they didn't feel they needed or wanted my brand of help? Just because it makes me feel better to see someone get help, doesn't mean I'm actually helping that person. I might be making it worse. And yet, I don't want to be the person who blindly walks past the homeless man lying in the trail and doesn't do a thing. Of course, I also don't want to be the one who foolishly calls 9-11 for someone who just wants to sleep in the street. Sometimes it's just hard to know what to do. Either way, my heart aches.

The Best Souvenir: Avventura Italiana Parte Quattro

Vacation re-entry is a bitch.

I'm not talking about jet lag. I mean the difficulty readjusting to my "normal" life after spending14 days disengaged from my everyday concerns.For the first few days after we returned from Italy, I woke up and had to remember just exactly where I was. There was a slight sense of disappointment when I'd realize that I was back in my own bed, in my own room, my own house. Traveling to Italy was fun and exciting and, well, a true vacation from my "regular" life. Not that my regular life is bad, but during those 14 glorious vacation days I was able to literally (and figuratively) unplug in a way that I rarely do at home.

The main reason our vacation was so idyllic was not because of what I packed and carried along with me, but because of what I left behind. 

Travel can bring out my fears ...

I made a conscious effort to travel light—only the two allowed carry-on bags. But I also determined to not take my laptop. It's hard for a freelancer to lay down her work and walk away for two weeks. Not working means not getting paid for said not-work. Sure, I tried to line up as many projects as I could for before and after the trip, but during those two weeks, I didn't do a smidgeon of work (at least not the kind that provides monetary compensation. A writer is always working, after all.)

So I intentionally left behind my laptop and I also deliberately resigned my fears about not working, not making money while I was in Italy for two weeks. That was not easy.

Of the "things" I carry with me, fear is my heaviest, most cumbersome, exhausting possession. In fact, fear has kept me grounded for many years, and not because I have a thing about heights or planes crashing. No. I fear that if I am not working the world (as I know it) might end. Funny thing though, no matter how hard I've worked, I've never felt I have "enough" to be secure.

In the days when I worked in marketing for Turner Network Television, I made a nice salary. I was single, had no car payment or mortgage, no kids, no commitments at all. And still I felt I didn't have "enough" to be financially secure. I was always balancing precariously on the tightrope of fiscal uncertainty. Why?

... or my child-like sense of wonder.

In 1995, when I quit my well-paying job at Turner and thrust myself into the great unknown I traveled for three months and drafted off my savings. When returned to Atlanta, I began to freelance as a copywriter and that's pretty much what I have done for the past 20 years. Sure there were a few short-lived stints where I held full-time jobs, but mostly I've managed to stay afloat by cobbling together a living together as a free agent, taking whatever assignments come my way.

Some days I'm busier than others. I'm not very good (read: lazy) at "networking" so I don't tend to cultivate a lot of new clients. The ones I have are all gained by good ol' word of mouth. Some days I really do not know where my next mortgage payment will come from. But finally after a cumulative 20 years of freelancing, I'm finally learning to lean into the unknown and be okay with it.

While I was in Italy, I took things as they came. We had an itinerary and a schedule of when we needed to be in one city or another, but I really didn't know what would happen going from Point A to Point B. There were lots of stops along the way for gelato, and a good amount of time spent just ambling through ancient, cobblestone streets. We didn't see the inside lot of famous basilicas, but we did wander around the little neighborhood churches with our mouths agape at the tremendous beauty and grandeur of even the most minor feat of Italian architecture. And I didn't scrimp or worry (too much) about what we were spending along the way. I wasn't foolish with our euros, but I didn't fret over every purchase — which I sometimes do at home, if I'm really, really anxious. (And, honestly, that happens more than I care to admit.)

The truth is this: Life becomes easier when I realize that I am the author of my fears, frustrations and anxieties. And as the author of these maladies, I can simply refuse to pick up the pen and write them. Or better, I can write a new script for myself. 

Instead of being fearful about not having enough, I can be so, so grateful about ALL that I have. When I'm not pinning the blame for my unhappiness on someone else, I am free to decide to be happy, or at least satisfied. That's huge.

Earlier on in our trip, we stayed in a 14th century apartment in a farmhouse in the Tuscan countryside about an hour south of Bologna. It was a gorgeous setting and we loved it there. Our hosts were an American woman, Jayne, and her Italian husband, Francesco. They were incredibly generous and hospitable. As we cooked dinners together, Jayne taught me about life in Italy.

On our last night there, as we sat around their table having eaten way too much pasta, roasted chicken and anchovies wrapped in fried sage leaves, Jayne shared a saying that summed up my trip: panta rhei. It's an ancient Greek phrase that literally translated means "everything flows."

For Jack, pante rhei comes naturally.

Depending upon how you interpret it, panta rhei can mean "go with the flow" or let go of a fixed idea or outcome; or it can imply impermanence, as in everything flows, all things change, nothing is ever the same from one moment to the next, even though we think it is, or — often — want it to remain static. I rather like the combination of the meanings (both of which are quite Buddhist.)

Panta rhei! All things change! All things flow. Might as well go with it, because to not go with the stream means constantly fighting against reality. And that's the one thing that will always make me nuts. So to me panta rhei means embrace what IS because what IS is pretty darned good.

For the remainder of my time in Italy, I embraced the spirit of panta rhei. I let go of my idea of how our vacation was supposed to unfold and allowed myself to enjoy what was happening. I ate a lot o' gelato with the realization that I would never again have that exact moment in time with my son and my honey.

After 14 days in Italy, my suitcase was a bit fuller then I left home. I bought a few souvenirs along the way: glass beads in Venice, a bright colored scarf, and a linen dress in Sorrento. But the best memento of the entire two week excursion was that simple phrase: panta rhei.

Now that I've been back home for a few weeks, it's easy to start stressing over work (or the lack thereof), and bills to be paid and all those "regular life" concerns. But when I wake up each morning and realize that I am not in Sorrento or Ischia or Tuscany, I try to also recall panta rhei and vow to take life as it comes.

Don't Super-Size Me: Adventures in Itay, Part 3

On our third day in Italy, we hopped a local train from Bologna to Venice. About an hour an a half later, we were greeted by the Grand Canal. Amazing. Jason and I were thrilled to finally be in Venice, but as we stood there taking in the famous city, I began to realize that the guide books we'd brought with us were hardly a match for its reality. A seeming endless stream of tourists surged towards the bridge towards a proliferation of souvenir stands.

Honestly, I was a little disappointed. Jack, however, was in heaven. Not only were there rows and rows of cheap bling, but before us loomed the ultimate sign of Western civilization: The Golden Arches. I could not believe that the zoning commission of Venice would allow fast food in this historic city, but there was McDonald's in all its American super-size-me glory.

"Mom, can I get chicken nuggets?" Jack asked.

A gondola ride is classic Venice ...

"No!" I cried. "Not here! Not in Venice! You are NOT eating at McDonald's in Venice!"

Jack shrugged and stuck out his bottom lip in complaint. I thought that was that.

Soon, we were lost in the maze that is Venice. We became tangled in the Jewish Ghetto while seeking a specific gondolier about whom I had read excellent reviews. At noon, we decided to set aside our quest for "Luca" the 4-star TripAdvisor guide and found a bakery that served all sorts of sandwiches and pastries. There was prosciutto, arugula, tomato, mozzarella, and salami sandwiches, and pizzas and salads, all beautiful, fresh and remarkably cheap. But nothing in the shop appealed to Jack. He begrudgingly selected a pastry. I heard myself saying sharply, "Eat your doughnut!" as if I were commanding my child to consume liver.

... McDonald's is not!

Having fortified ourselves with bread, cheese and cured meat, Jason and I were ready to embark on the two mile trek to St. Mark's Square. Jack, hungry for more souvenir stands, insisted he was good to go and off we went.

Venice is an enchanting city. There is no doubt about that. It is simply an amazing and beautiful collection of architectural wonders. But what the guide books fail to mention is that there are very few discernible street signs and the path from to St. Mark's (despite the fact that it is the main attraction here) is not well marked. It is easy to take a wrong turn and end up walking a long way only to find you're at a dead end and —if you took one more step — you'd be quite soaked canal brine.

Although we had a map, our trajectory was less than on target. We wended our way through the markets and past the lovely piazzas and apartments following our fellow pilgrims, some of whom were equally as clueless as we were, and therefore also very lost.

Jack learns his first Italian phrase in a Poggio,
a little Tuscan restaurant:
"Pizza Quattro Formaggio" per favore!

The other thing that guidebooks fail to mention about this city of intrigue and beauty is that — in mid-June — it is hot, really hot, with morning temperatures climbing into the 90s. Walking through the city at mid-day is not exactly the romantic stroll one might imagine when one thinks of Venice. And there we were, sweating our butts off, lost and a bit less than joyous at this point in our vacation.

We needed a break, so we hailed a striped-shirt boatman and climbed aboard his gondola. The ride through Venice's canals perked us up. It was, after all, a must-do in Venice and one of those experiences that you really can't have anywhere else. Gliding along the water between the age-old buildings, there were times when I could just look up and watch blue sky floating by with a sense of peace that is most definitely the reason why people love to ride in gondolas. 

With our tour of the canals complete, we picked up the pilgrimage trail and — despite some set-backs —finally arrived at St. Mark's Square. After traversing the rat maze of Venice, entering the famous plaza felt like a victory.

St. Mark's was indeed grander than any guidebook or photo promised. The scale is boggling to the mind. How in the world did they create these monuments? The impossible detail of the statuary perched high, high on the eaves of the great church are that much more impressive in person.

The further south you go ... the larger the pizza.

We gawked for a long time and took numerous photos before finding a nearby gelato stand to celebrate. But, for Jack, seeing the wondrous church and eating (average, tourist-price) gelato was less thrilling.

We all were hot and tired, but now he was hungry and only one thing would do. As we tracked back through the cobbled streets of Venice, he saw the (McDonald's) sign he was looking for. (Damn those Golden Arches!)

"Ple-ease, Mom," he said. "Can I go to McDonald's?"

After months of planning, we were in Italy on vacation, and I didn't want to spend my time here at odds with my son because he wanted over-priced nugget-shaped chicken.

Ronald McDonald (that sly Siren) led us back through the old city. It was mid-afternoon and very humid. We seemed to walk in circles, but on we trudged, over bridges and past shops selling glassware and t-shirts. While our fellow tourists cruised to Murano to tour the glass factories, our destination was not even remotely Italian. How does this happen? How is did I end up in Venice, ordering chicken nuggets and french fries? In the city that is a true wonder of the world, how in the world did I end up here?

They say that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In the same way, the journey of a thousand chicken nuggets began with one desperate drive-through, long, long ago ...

Jack's enthusiasm matches the circumference
of his dinner!

I remember it well, actually, although it may not have been the first time I rounded the drive-thru to appease my child, this was certainly one that registered in my mind. Jack was 20 months old and we were moving from Grantville, Ga. to Birmingham, Ala. In our state of betwixt and between, I gave into convenience. One afternoon, rather than make my young son wait for a homemade dinner, I went through the Wendy's drive-thru and ordered up chicken nuggets.

Prior to this event, Jack ate all types of food: risoto, avocado, pasta, mashed potatoes, quiche ... you name it. But once he wrapped his mouth around a crunchy, salty, fried chicken nugget, that was that.

I'm sure we gave into convenience a lot in those months as we were slowly moved from Georgia to Alabama. The path of least resistance was littered with Happy Meal toys before we said final good-bye to our antebellum farmhouse. There would be no turning back for Jack who realized that, although the world as he knew it was changing, he could control one aspect of his life: What he did or did not eat.

Now here we were, more than ten years, later trudging through Venice towards McDonald's because it was easier than saying "no." This wasn't Jack's fault, of course. He didn't drive himself to McDonald's and Wendy's and Popeyes all these years. I knew where the problem began ... and —at last — I knew were it would end: With me.

To my amazement, by the end of our 14 day
vacation, Jack tried fried squid —
without being bribed or coerced.

"This is IT!" I heard myself growl, as we turned yet another corner only to find that we still had blocks and blocks to go before finding the mythical McDonald's of Venice. "You are not eating at another McDonald's as long as we are in Italy! You have to find other things to eat here besides chicken nuggets! I'm done!"

Jack had his Happy Meal that day, but it was a turning point for us all. As we continued our vacation across Italy, we encountered McDonald's in Bologna, LaSpezia and Naples, but Jack's requests ceased. He even found a new love: Pizza Quattro Formaggio, which is pizza with cheese only, no salsa di pomodoro  (tomato sauce.) Towards the end of our trip, he even tried fried squid and grilled fish.

Now that we're back home, I can't say that Jack has set aside his picky eating habits altogether, but I came to a new understanding that day in Venice. My frustration was not with Jack, or fast food. It was with myself for giving into a request that I knew wasn't very healthy for my child — just because it was easier.

Somewhere in Germany or Switzerland or Croatia there are tourists who —if they look very closely in the background of their Venice selfies— can see a hot, tired middle-aged Mom having a full-blown melt down about her child's eating habits. Most people who visit Venice return with fond memories of romantic gondola rides and tours of that incredible basilica. For me, Venice will always be the place that put the "I'm through" in drive thru and where the "crocchette di pollo" hit the road.

Stuck in Manarola (Avventura Italiana Parte Due)

By train, the ride to Manarola takes all of 10 minutes from the nearest major city, La Spezia. After being hurtled through dark railway tunnels, you emerge. The first sight of bright sunlight and sparkling Mediterranean blue sea is, in a word, breathtaking. It as as though you've been blind all your life and suddenly have sight. The moment I first saw the sea, an involuntary cry rose from my throat. The water was so impossibly blue — and yet, there it is.

In fact, The Cinque Terre (The Five Lands) is a feat of impossibility made possible. The cities have literally been built within the steep cliffs and mountains, precariously set beside the sea. The terracotta buildings are painted bright shades of blue, yellow, red, pink and green and they look like a doll village, something so precious it could not possibly be functional, but it is and has been for centuries. The cities are a testament to Italian determination, aesthetic and love of beauty. Who else would imagine to carve vineyards into mountains and wrest lemon groves from arid ground? The word "terre" holds deeper meaning when you appreciate the terraced gardens that rise to the very tops of mountains that touch the clouds. And to think that all this was accomplished long ago, without benefit of technology or even electricity, for that matter.

Manarola was to be the first stop of our tour of these five precious villages. We arrived on Monday evening and planned to commute the next day to at least two of her sisters — Corniglia and Vernazza — by train or ferry. Having only about 24 hours to explore these wonders, we thought we were being conservative to restrict ourselves to three. But Mother Nature and the Italian Rail Workers Union had other plans in mind for us.

One of the charms of the Cinque Terre towns is that there is no car traffic. Motor vehicle use is extremely limited and is only a few towns are even accessible by car. The roads are perilously narrow and steep, precluding only the most skillful, stalwart drivers. Buses are limited as well. So the train and ferry systems are the way to go, and (normally) these modes of transportation are ideal given the terrain and the port access. But on Tuesday, as we rose early to make the most of our day, we discovered that our two transportation options had been eliminated.




Italy enjoys many customs. On Tuesday we were introduced to the common practice called transportation strikes. The various unions actually schedule their strikes with the Minister of Transportation, so Italians know to check with the proper authorities before they schedule their flights and buy their train tickets. But for ignorant Americanos, the concept of the Italian train strike was introduced at the window of the ticket office as we tried to buy our tickets to Corniglia.

"There's a strike," the lady behind the counter said flatly. "No trains are running right now. Maybe later. We don't know for sure. It's a national strike."

"Do you have any idea when the next train will come?" I asked, dumbly. (Maybe she hadn't understood me??)

"No," said the lady. "You'll have to just come back later. Try later."

She smiled and shrugged a little. She made no apologies and none was needed, really. Train strikes happen all the time in Italy. We could have consulted the Ministry of Transportation website before venturing out. But we're silly Americans who expect to show up and have something work as advertised! (Note: The woman was not the least bit sarcastic or rude. In fact, she was extraordinarily nice given the number of travelers who asked her the same question over and over again that day. Honestly, I was impressed with her sense of compassionate detachment.)

We walked back through the tunnel that lead from the station to the town. During WW II, this tunnel was used as refuge from airstrikes. Today, we welcomed its coolness and shade.

We headed to the ferry stand only to discover that the sea was too rough for the boat to come into the crude port. (We marveled at how they navigated into the simple, rock enclosed harbor even in the best conditions.)

Just like that, our plans changed. There would be no town-hopping that day. The trails between the cities were steep and long. It was a difficult two and half hour hike from Manarola to Corniglia. And even if we made it to Corniglia with our belongings, we would be in the same predicament with respect to the train. 

We walked around the little town, checking out the various shops that sold cheap limoncello and overpriced hiking gear. We climbed up into the vineyards until we conceded to the steepness of the path and turned back to seek out yet another gelato. (The answer to just about any predicament in Italy involves having a gelato. And in Italy, there's a gelateria on every block.)

At first, I wanted to be disappointed. After all, we had spent a lot of time and money getting to The Cinque Terre and now we couldn't even see most of it! Plus, I had spent months gazing at images of the five towns and learning the distinctions between them. I wanted to be angry or frustrated or upset, but oddly I could not muster the enthusiasm for any negative emotion in this beautiful place. As soon as I heard myself say, "Looks like we're stuck in Manarola!" I had to laugh. "We're stuck in Manarola. Poor, poor us!"

To be stuck in Manarola means to be stranded in a place surrounded by incredible beauty, both man made and natural. To be stuck in Manarola means to be out of options in a town that boasts some of the best slices of pizza and focaccia for three bucks a slice. To be stuck in Manarola means to abandon your idea of how things might have been if you got your way in one of the most gorgeous settings in the world, surrounded by the bluest water you've ever seen. To be stuck in Manarola is a blessing. We should all be so lucky as to be stuck in Manarola.

We lunched on the excellent focaccia and purchased biscotti and water and took a stroll to the path called "Via dell Amore." This path leads to the town of Riomaggiore, but due to a landslide in 2012, the trail was closed and has yet to open. We walked a short distance and found the path barred with a fence. Stuck again? Hardly.

There was an empty shop (once the last stop for gelato) along the closed pathway. Tables and chairs remained on the covered veranda overlooking the blue, blue Mediterranean. We marveled at the view. The train ran directly below us, and we were with a few blocks of the station. This was the perfect vantage point to watch for the errant trains.  I retrieved a deck of playing cards from my backpack, and we settled in for a game of Gin a' fresco beside one of the most amazingly gorgeous vistas in the world. We were stuck in Manarola. Thank God! We were stuck in Manarola! As we munched Italian cookies, I pinched myself to make sure it was real. How could I be so incredibly fortunate to be with my family in this beautiful place?

I was dealing out our second hand when we heard a rumble beneath us. It took a minute to register what was happening. The train! We watched as it pulled into the station. It was heading to Levanto, the furthest stop on the line. But this meant that it would pendulum back south through Manarola on its return trip to La Spezia (and the parking lot where we left our rental). I regretted that we had to break up our card game, pack up our things and go, but we weren't sure when another south-bound train would come through. We had to hop aboard this one while we could.

In the end, I was grateful for the train strike. All of my planning and hours of TripAdvisor perusing could not have landed us in this idyllic spot, playing Gin with the Mediterranean as the backdrop. If the trains had been running, we would be trekking around one of the other pretty little towns, but we would not have paused to have this time together.

As we boarded the train and I gazed out at that gorgeous sea, I tucked away a most valuable lesson: Sometimes the things that go "wrong" are what yield your most cherished experiences.

Dritto! Dritto! Dritto! (Avventura Italiana Parte Uno)

Dritto!

More than a year ago, I began a very specific journey. I write a lot about my spiritual journey in this blog, but this was literal travel, a vacation to Italy to be exact.

In 2013, Jason and I began dreaming of traveling to Italy. We had just returned from a trip to San Diego where we spent two nights at hotel near the marina and woke up to the charm of sailboats and seabirds outside our windows. This experience put me in mind of the Amalfi Coast — a place I had only read about or seen on TV travel shows. The intense blue of the Mediterranean, the food, the warmth of the Italian culture, the centuries-old art and architecture all captured my imagination. Jason had always wanted to travel to Italy, too. We began saving our money. It was as if Italy invited and we accepted.

In 2015, plans took shape after the first of the year. With six months until our travel date we spent hours researching flights, accommodations and activities. We studied maps and airfares. Should we go to Florence? Rome? The island of Ischia became a destination, while Rome, Naples and Florence dropped off our list. Honestly, we didn't know much about the places we were going. We simply followed our instincts and a handful of friendly recommendations.

I don't know how many hours Jason and I logged planning our 14 day vacation, googling various Italian cities, train schedules, ferry routes, hotels, restaurants ...  It became my hobby and my part-time occupation. I vowed to learn as much as possible about the nuances of travel in Italy so that — once we were there — I could relax. And that is exactly what happened.

Dritto?

Our journey of 10,000 miles (round trip) began long before we boarded our flight. Indeed, this journey began long before I even heard of the Amalfi Coast or Buffalo mozzarella. This journey began on the day I was born and I've been moving ever so slowly towards this point, to this very instant in time when the world opened up me and provided this opportunity. This is not the same as"destiny." No. I don't believe in destiny or pre-destiny. I have made myriad choices along the way each one of which has delivered me to this exact spot on the map at this juncture in time.

Philosopher Eckhert Tolle says we create the experience we are having. I think this is true on several levels. First, to get to the point in my life where I can take two weeks off to travel to Italy with my honey and my son, a lot of creating had to occur. I worked my ass off towards this goal, to be exact.

But once I am having an experience —any experience — it is up to me to interpret it in a way that is healthy and beneficial to me or no matter where I go or what I do, I will miserable. Even in a vacation paradise, I can choose to be satisfied or disgruntled with my circumstances.

At one point on our trip, we were driving through the Tuscan countryside returning from an overnight excursion to the Cinque Terre. We followed the driving instructions we were given by our Tuscan host, but somehow we failed to see (and turn at) the sign to Piancaldoli and we drove instead through mountainous twists and turns to Firenzoula.

Upon reaching the town, we stopped at a tobaccoria for directions. The owner, who spoke little English, understood our problem and knew our destination. With great inflection she instructed us to turn left at the grocery store and then go "dritto! dritto! dritto!" She motioned straight ahead. (Dritto means "straight" in Italian.)

And so we proceeded at the turn to drive "dritto" up the curving hills and down the dipping, winding valleys always traveling dritto! dritto! dritto! although a compass would have argued the straightness of our trajectory.

Faithful to the shop owner's instruction, after miles of driving "dritto" we were about to give up hope of finding our home in Piancaldoli when the promised signage appeared. Relieved, we began to laugh. If you have to be lost any place in the world, being lost in the mountains between Florence and Bologna is about as good a place as any. In fact, we were never really lost. We just didn't know where we were.

And so it is with any journey. Sometimes we don't recognize the landmarks, or feel we've encountered unfamiliar turf, but in fact, we are right where we are supposed to be. We aren't lost, we just don't know where we are. And if we continue "dritto! dritto! dritto!" we will get home — eventually.

Love & Turtles

Our pet turtle went from this ...

Three years ago in mid-May, Jason and I took our first vacation together as a couple. We drove down to Seacrest Beach, just east of Seaside along the Florida Gulf Coast and settled into a little condo right on the ocean for three nights. It was one of those romantic weekends that seals the deal, so to speak.

One evening, as the sun set and splashed golden radiance across the clouds, we sat in the sand and said our "I love you's" for the first time. It's one of those moments that I keep int the jewel box of my mind and take out when things are difficult, which sometimes, of course, they are ... because life, by it's nature, is difficult. It was a sweet moment. A moment captured on the waves and air and light and carried off into the four corners of the world on the relentless tide. Ah ... new love!

The weekend progressed and the disparate narratives of our lives began to weave together. Like many couples high on the first blush of true love, we sealed our commitment to each other with ... a pet. Some might choose a dog or cat (that came later), but our first co-parenting effort was, in fact, a turtle.

... to this, in three years!

On Sunday, as we departed the beach, we made one last stop at at surf shop to buy a souvenir for my (then 10 year old) son, Jack. I was considering a new boogie board or a t-shirt, but at the store's entrance was a large aquarium tank teaming with bright green tiny turtles. They were Yellow-Bellied Sliders, aquatic turtles, indigenous to the Southeast.

Jason and I were captivated by the little guys. We watched in delight as a store clerk fed small nuggets of turtle chow to them as they rose to the surface with their mouth agape like babies birds.

Ten minutes later we were on the road, heading back to Birmingham with a tiny green turtle approximately 2 inches in diameter. Our love was now complete.

Jack was delighted by his new pet. We purchased a 10 gallon tank, and a installed a rock for the turtle. When we plied him with his food, he rose to the surface and snapped it from our fingers. We named him Jaws.

Eighteen months later, Jaws, the miniscule amphibious turtle, had outgrown his 10 gallon tank. By now, we had added a basking lamp, a water heater and a filter pump. We were in deep with Jaws when we learned the truth: this tiny turtle would keep growing and — with a lifespan of 30 years in captivity— he would probably outlive us (well, at least me). But he was our turtle, so we bought a 30 gallon tank. Jaws continued to grow.  Now, with a shell of more than 8 inches in diameter, a quick google produced the reason: Jaws was actually Jaws-ina. Female Yellow Belly Sliders can reach 11-inches.

Happy turtle.

As much as we liked our dear turtle, we realized we could not continue to keep her once she outgrew the 30 gallon tank. We live in an urban area. Building a pond in our backyard was not a possibility and the maintenance of her tank was an almost weekly affair (you cannot litter-box-train a turtle.)

Turtles are cold-blooded creatures who hibernate in the cool months when in the wild. Since Jaws was allowed to grow year-round, she was already nearly full-size at the tender age of 2. Even in the larger tank, she seemed bored. She basked on her rock most of the day, and snapped up her turtle chow in the morning and night, still taking the sticks from our fingers. Her biggest fan was our cat, Pip, who learned that turtle chow was more delicious that her own kibble. She would cry until we fed Jaws — no doubt adding to her turtle girth. Pip the Cat was an enabler of the highest order.

We watched Jawsina grow through another winter and vowed that we must find her a new home once the weather warmed. Surely there was a nice pond nearby that could accommodate a healthy turtle! But this proved not so easy.

The only ponds near us were at the Botanical Gardens, which already had its share of turtles and didn't exactly smile on people freeing their pets in the pool. I called the zoo but got no response. Thankfully, the compassionate souls at Ed's Pet World offered to take our Jawsy and let her live in the pond they've created in their store for just that purpose. They sell turtles (and snakes and exotic birds and even hedgehogs) and apparently we weren't the first family to have a critter outgrow his/her second tank.

Three years after our love inspired the adoption of a little green turtle, our love inspired the freeing of a rather large one. I suppose that's the nature of true love. It grows and you tend it and sometimes you have to expand yourself in ways you didn't expect and open your heart to make room for it all.
 
It was a bittersweet day when Jack, Jason and I surrendered our beloved Jawsina to Ed's Pet World. But she will be much happier there. Ed's is like a half-way-house for turtles who need to make the transition from household pet back into their natural habitat. They get acclimated in a pool where they can cavort with other turtles and learn to eat things other that turtle chow. Eventually, Jawsina will be adopted by someone who has a private pond. Maybe she'll even find turtle love and have a family of her own. I hope so.

There's A Story Behind Every Story

"Beside Herself," by KC is one of the Homefront paintings
featured True and Constant Friends

I am forever fascinated with how events in life unfold. We just don't know the outcome of any given interaction, or how many people's lives will be harmed or helped.

Two years ago, on a Friday night, Jason and I went out for a bite to eat at a neighborhood restaurant called The Little Donkey. The place had recently opened and it was packed. After the cheerful seating hostess informed us of our wait time (45 minutes) we elbowed our way to an already very crowded bar to order drinks and bide our time. But before we could get the bartender's attention, J's phone vibrated and he stepped outside to take a call from the hospital where he just ended a shift.

At the time, I was holding down a full-time gig as editor for a group of monthly community magazines. By editor I mean I was a one man band. I was exhausted by the relentless churn of content. That night, I had fully intended to relax and take the night off from my reporter/community liaison/editor/art director responsibilities. I wanted a Corona and some queso fundido and a mountain of tortilla chips. But when the bartender brought me my beer, my plan was foiled.

"Have a seat next to my two favorite ladies!" said the bartender, pointing to one lone bar stool next to two older ladies who were already enjoying their margaritas and fish tacos. "Meet Thelma and Louise!"

We all laughed and I sat down. What else could I do? In quick order "Louise" asked me what I did for a living, and when I told her, she said, "You should interview Ann (Thelma) she's got a great story!"

Oh, lord, I thought, here it goes. Everyone has a story! Great. Believe me, as a community editor, I had heard some really awful "great" stories.

As it turned out, Ann did have a great story. One of the best I've heard. Ann, age 70, started an art therapy program for Birmingham's homeless community at a downtown church. She then helped the artists sell their work to create an income. She invited me to come down to Church of Reconciler to check it out.

So much for my night off. I knew a great story when I heard one. It was a story of redemption and of second chances. It was all about the underdoggiest of underdogs (the homeless), and I have always a sucker for the underdog.

We chatted for the rest of the evening and a few weeks later, I had a feature story written and photos for the cover of the April magazine.

I went out for a beer and tacos ... made a friend and wrote a story. And that sounds like a pretty good deal and enough of a story behind the story to suffice, but there's more.

A year ago in April, I pulled jury duty for the first time in my American life. While I cooled my heels in the jury waiting room, Kelley Paul's name appeared on my phone. Kelley's book proposal had been recently been accepted by Hachette Publishing and she was working feverishly to meet the impending deadlines. At Kelley's request, our five college friends and I had all contributed stories to the book about our mothers and grandmothers. The book was to be a tribute to our friendship and to the powerful women who shaped our lives. Of course, I liked the sense of karma of it all.

"I need your advice on artwork for the book,"Kelley said. "I know you know people in that world and I wondered if you might have some idea of who I could contact."

As it turns out the publisher required Kelley to supply not just the stories for the book, but all of the content, including the art. She wanted to include paintings of a feminine nature. She needed a dozen pieces — and she had to pay for them. Original artwork does not come cheap — typically.

I contemplated options. I called a gallery owner and pitched the idea of including her artists in my friend's book. "It will be great exposure," I told her. But that idea didn't fly. For one thing, not many artists have a body of work just sitting around and if they did, they —working artists anyway — would require full buy-out for the rights to publish their work. That would costs thousands.

The solution popped into my head. I googled, "homeless women artwork," and found Homefront Artspace. Within a few minutes of looking at the samples of the paintings and drawings I knew I'd found the right art source for Kelley's book. Even if these paintings had not been created by women who have sought refuge at Homefront due to domestic abuse or financial hardships, the images would have been perfect for her book. And what amazing serendipity that in one stroke lives could be improved and my friend's book completed!

Now (just a year later) on Sunday night, this beautiful artwork will be on display at the National Art Club in New York. Homefront will receive the proceeds when the pieces are auctioned off during my friend's swanky book signing.

In a wild stroke of karma (cause and effect), there are women in New Jersey (who I have never met) who will benefit because I happened to sit down on a lone bar stool on a Friday night. You just never know where a story will lead ...

A New Take On Old Friends

In a few weeks, my friend Kelley's book will be published. It is (in part) about the 30+ year friendship we've enjoyed. When developing the book, Kelley asked me and our five close college pals to contribute stories about the women who've influenced our lives. The outcome is a lovely collection of essays and artwork that illuminates the powerful karma our relationships —especially our friendships —have on our lives. 

In fact, there's quantitative and qualitative data on the health benefits that women reap from their "true and constant friends." A report released in 2001 from the Harvard Medical School Nurses' Health Study found that "the more friends women had, the less likely they were to develop physical impairments as they aged, and the more likely they were to be leading a joyful life. In fact, the results were so significant, the researchers concluded, that not having close friends or confidants was as detrimental to your health as smoking or carrying extra weight."

True & Constant Friends

So it turns out that my friends aren't just fun distractions from my work and family responsibilities, they are actually good for me! Well .. honestly, I knew that before the researchers at Harvard.

I also know that relationships are important to my spiritual and emotional well-being. Women, in general terms, define ourselves by our relationships ... so with that in mind I suppose I have been provided a virtual Websters of meaning in my life. 

I am fortunate to have a number of good friends from various areas of my life. Staying in touch with them is important to me, but not for the sake of nostalgia. Frankly, there are a lot of times in my life (including some of my college years ) that I would really rather not ever revisit. I honestly don't want to be reminded that I used to drink too much or wear blue eye shadow or fancy myself as a punk rocker. I don't get together with my friends to reminisce about who I was. No thanks. Staying in touch with these women is important because I need to be who I am. And when I'm with my best friends, I am reminded of the best parts of myself, what is essential to me. 

In my girlfriends (including my sisters), I see reflections of my greatest strengths and weaknesses. These are the women with whom I identify, and who I've gotten to know over and over again throughout the years. We have been — and still are —growing up together. No, I don't want to jump in the way-back machine when we're together. Rather, these are the people with whom I want to be most real and present. Yes, we share history, but we also share the present moment and that's I value most today.

Lesson of the Week: Befriend the Tigers

Lessons are given to us all the time. Maybe it's just that I'm aware of some theme or issue and everything becomes relevant, but lately my lessons have been more of the hit-me-over-the-head kind. I know I can be rather dense at times, but honestly sometimes I think God or karma or the Universe or whatever has really got my number. This is good. I need to be called up on a regular basis and have things explained to me in the simplest terms possible.
   Recently, the lesson I received was "remain in the present."
   I'm on the list for several daily or weekly inspirational meditations and it's weeks like these when the messages from this disparate authors (a Catholic priest and a Buddhist nun) jive up as if they were conferring with one another. Then, as I need more affirmation, I turn to the pages of my three secular daily meditation books, I'll be damned if those books don't start in on staying present as well.
   So fine. I get it. I needed to remain in the present because my run-away thoughts keep making me miserable. And I have to admit that as soon as I redoubled my efforts to be happy with my life exactly as it is, I do feel happier.
   And although I know being anxious is borrowing from the future, I can't help it. I suppose most people feel that wave of uncertainty from time to time. But I am especially anxious when making decisions these days and that's odd for a woman who has been extraordinarily decisive for most of her life. Remaining in the present helps relieve the anxiety. But what helps me most to stay in the present is realizing that my feelings of anxiety are actually positive, not negative.

   Daniel Smith published an excellent opinion piece on anxiety in the New York Times recently. Its title: The Anxious Idiot. For him, anxiety is expressed as doing nothing to aid his afflictive, fearful feelings. He shuts down, finds himself stuck. And that is when self-awareness works best—when I'm stuck and I can no longer run away from whatever it is that's causing my discomfort. 

   Before you start thinking I've lost my PollyAnna mind, think about it. Anxiety, anger, fear and sorrow are signals that something in my life is out of balance. These adverse emotions are beacons—like the Bat Signal—that shine an irrefutable light on what's going on in my life. So when a feeling of uncertainty rises up inside,  instead of setting aside my anxiety by distracting myself with other thoughts or projects or people or a margarita sans salt, I need to sit and consider what it is that's actually making me anxious. Yes, easier said than done.
   For anyone who is interested in getting to the root of anxiety, Vietnamese Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh has some beautiful meditations on how to go about it. He is so gentle with these emotions that his words are like those we use to comfort a tiny infant. And indeed, these are childish emotions, emotions learned in childhood and bent out of the fears of childhood, fears such as abandonment, loss, neediness, lack of attention.

Jack befriends a baby tiger at the Little Zoo That Could
in Gulf Shores, Ala., July, 2011.

    I am trying to be more gentle with my fears and anxieties. Instead of sweeping them aside, I gather them up, swaddle them in the warmth of compassion by trying to remember back to the point in time when I first felt that same feeling (which by no small coincidence is most often during childhood.) Then I listen to what those feelings are trying to tell me. Usually it's some variation on the theme of, "I'm scared my life is not turning out as I planned." To which now—with the help of Buddhist practice and study—I can say, "Good! Because your plan pretty much sucked and there's something so much better out there than your pea brain could ever imagine—if you stop planning, let go of the future and just focus on making choices that are healthy for you."
   As I was writing this essay, I received another related message. This time it was my weekly email from the Tibetan Buddhist nun Pema Chodron. Here's what she shared:

   "There is a story of a woman running away from tigers. She runs and runs, and the tigers are getting closer and closer. When she comes to the edge of a cliff, she sees some vines there, so she climbs down and holds on to the vines. Looking down, she sees that there are tigers below her as well. She then notices that a mouse is gnawing away at the vine to which she is clinging. She also sees a beautiful little bunch of strawberries close to her, growing out of a clump of grass. She looks up and she looks down. She looks at the mouse. Then she just takes a strawberry, puts it in her mouth, and enjoys it thoroughly.

Tigers above, tigers below. This is actually the predicament that we are always in, in terms of our birth and death. Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life, it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life."

What I Learned From A Baptist Bishop

I didn't know who Bishop Calvin Woods was when my client called and asked me to write a video script celebrating his accomplishments. The video was for a series called History in Motion and is part of an award presented each year by Regions Bank during Black History Month. 

I set up an interview time, and on Tuesday afternoon, we met. Bishop Woods grinned when he saw me, and his smile was infectious. Although I extended my hand to him as I introduced myself, that sort of greeting seemed far too formal. At once, we hugged and laughed. I felt an immediate affinity for this 80-year old man who was clearly so full of love and joy.

Proof of Bishop Woods work in the 60s:
Jack and his friend TJ in 2006. They
met in preschool at age 2.5 and are still
best friends today. 

Sitting across a conference table, Woods' story quickly unfolded. He was a leader in the Alabama Christian Movement for Equal Rights, which was started by Rev. Shuttlesworth. Many people know of Calvin's older brother Rev. Abraham Woods, who served as the president of the Birmingham chapter of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. (A street in downtown Birmingham bears his name.) But Calvin, who began to preach at age 19, was right in there too. In 1958, he was arrested for encouraging his congregation to boycott riding buses in Birmingham. In 1963, he was beaten, arrested and hauled off to jail for sitting at a whites-only lunch counter. Later that year, he delivered a list of conditions from ACMER to city hall, and helped negotiate the integration of Birmingham's white business sector.

By 1966, Birmingham was still one of the 10 most segregated cities in the country. Dr. Martin Luther King tapped Calvin Woods as one of ten SCLC City Conveners in the nation. As such, he helped educate Birmingham ministers in the practices of non-violent protest. (But make no mistake, Woods was not—and is not—a passive man.)

Throughout his interview, Bishop Woods attributed his life and accomplishments to God. This wasn't an act of feigned religiousity or humility. I can't even begin to explain what it was like to sit across from a human being who is so genuine and loving and unselfconscious. This man has seen and experienced things in his lifetime that should have left him bitter and shaken — or at least resentful and jaded. Instead he exuded a confidence and presence that contained both the wisdom of ages and childlike wonder. (When he told me he had visions of Jesus and speaks with angels on a regular basis, I believed him.)

In 1963, when Woods was doing hard labor for his "crime," I was an infant, not even a year old in Little Rock, Ark. (the scene of hotly contested desegregation at Central High School.) I was blissfully ignorant of the lives being risked — and lost — in the name of equanimity, not just for people of a certain color, but for everyone. I am still wrapping my head around the incredible feats of bravery and perseverance performed by the men and women who led and supported the Civil Rights Movement.  The fact that I grew up in a different world, a world were I am hardly aware of the sacrifices that were made back then, is a testament to what was accomplished.

Sure, our world is far from perfect. Since its beginnings, mankind has —for the most part — resolved its problems through force and violence. But something in our collective karma changed when those young men and women sat down at a lunch counter and asked to be served. Our primal responses shifted when children locked arms, ignoring the jeers and hateful words and worse being thrown at them as they marched through the streets of downtown Birmingham. Dr. King knew that non-reaction was a shield and a sword. And in a very definitive way, these non-violent protesters changed the world with ... peace. And the world watched (through the miracle of broadcast TV) and saw a truth that was so undeniable that centuries of fear and hatred were finally brought to light.

"We had no idea we would make an impact in the world," Woods said at the end of the interview. "But our work is never over. You can’t stop talking about love and faith and prayer." 

Despite the terrible violence in Paris this past month, the world my son Jack is growing up in is a still more peaceful, loving world because of the wisdom of Dr. King, Bishop Woods and all those who met hatred with love and compassion. But in the words of the good Bishop, "Our work is never over."