Thankful

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

-- Albert Einstein

Cliff Island Blues

When that plane touches down on the ground in Nashville
you'll hear it on the news.
Come 9:05 tomorrow night
we'll have the Cliff Island Blues.

There's a big difference sitting at the Power Point
and your feet can't find your shoes.
Come Monday morning when I put on my heels for work,
then I'll have the Cliff Island Blues.

Gourmet meals flavored with garlic
and the dishwashing cleaning crews,
Beats a Happy Meal eaten at my desk anyday.
It's enough to give me the Cliff Island Blues.

The island transport, feeling the breeze off the ferry
and hearing the seagulls mews
Beats rush hour traffic, a $5.00 gallon of gas
MAN, I've got the Cliff Island Blues.

When the airliner crosses over that Mason Dixon line,
we'll have a bit of a clue.
Toto, we ain't close to Portland no mo'
We've officially got the Cliff Island Blues.

Redemption

Five years ago I looked out across Casco Bay to the mainland we left behind. We were alone on an island in the middle of the Atlantic. My little one was only 5 years old. I was broken from the end of my marriage and it’s aftermath that was as rocky as the shores we walked upon each day. The shell shock had started to wear off but barely. Recently I found a photo from that trip and if it looked as if we were holding on to each other for dear life – it’s because we were.

That week we watched sunsets, enjoyed the company of loving and supportive friends and started to make our way in the world again. It had been a long and lonely winter.

Five years forward, I find myself looking out across Casco Bay again – this time on a different island, some friends the same with new ones picked up along the way and the shores are even rockier. But this time out I can navigate them. Bravely climb on them and welcoming whatever the rising tide brings to us. I’m 40 now (for one more day) and my beautiful girl is 9. We have both grown tremendously both in body, heart and soul.

So it’s fitting that we return here in the safety of treasured friends, to the beauty of a place that accepts me and lets me be anyway I need to be.

Turning 40 was more than a major milestone in my life this last year – I have used the year as a talisman of what direction my life would turn towards to navigate the rest of my days. It has been a lovely year. A year of destinations, music, continuing support of family and friends – both new and old and the constant connection and reconnection and the gifts they all continue to bestow on me. I am so blessed in my life. It’s also been a year of trying new things – I learned how to knit (!!), meeting goals and exceeding the hard expectations I have set for myself. And finally, not being so hard on myself as a parent going alone. I can do it – it has been done by so many before me and as long as we communicate and back each other up – we can do anything.

Most importantly, I have learned that it’s okay to let go and love again. The hardest lesson about love this time around is opening yourself up to even allowing someone to love you back and not second guessing and chasing away all those old ghosts that want to hang around.

Last night I sat on the porch alone and I listened to the waves hitting the rocks, felt the breeze giving me a chill, watched the beacon cycle from a distant lighthouse and had the entire evening sky ablaze with stars shining directly over my head. I didn’t feel alone – I felt redeemed – I feel like my life has come full circle.

Along the Road

Halloween Night 2003. Murray Lane, Brentwood, Tennessee. The last time I ever heard my father's voice. Every time I drive on that part of the road where I remembered talking to him - especially if it's dark like it was that night - I get this tiny ache for him.

My little one and I were on the way home from trick or treating with friends and we were discussing via phone call with him our upcoming visit to the mountains with my college roommates. On our return home to the mid-state we were going to stop and spend the day with him in Knoxville. He talked to KK too and he always had this glee in his voice when he talked about her or to her. He would lose it and get so tickled when I told him about her escapades and the latest and greatest accomplishment she had mastered.

I always liked to think that he had once felt that way about me. I had spent my lifetime trying to get his attention and get him to notice me or do something with me. When KK was born I stopped chasing him - I could feel his love just by the happiness he showed by her being in his life. The way he would light up when he held her gave me all the daddy I needed. I had finally done something that he was proud of. I didn't have to chase him anymore.

Had I known that it was the last time I would ever speak to him - would I have said anything different - told him how much I loved him and how sorry I was for the emotional distance we had between us for so long? I can honestly say now that all of those years I thought it was his fault alone - but now I can say that it was my fault also.

We were having breakfast when I got the phone call from my mother. After I hung up the phone I quickly sat down and turned my face away from my friends to absorb the blow - I was in shock - I could not cry. Any lingering anger or disappointment that I was carrying around with me towards him quickly dissipated and left my body. I can't explain it any other way - the animosity and unspoken words (words that I would never have been able to say to him anyway) I felt died that day with him and freed me from carrying it around with me any longer. At least on that Saturday night, he may have been happy knowing he was going to see KK the next day. I have to hope that.

That night while waiting on my sisters to arrive the next day - my girlfriends built a bonfire in the fire pit. Not only was it extremely cathartic but it enabled me to have a quiet place to grieve alone away from everyone. I was able to send up some silent goodbyes to my father with a final admonition for God to forever take care of him. I will never forget or be able to convey the gratitude for the gift of friendship that my friends gave me that night.

I won't say that the next three days were the saddest of my life but this occurred during the saddest period I have ever experienced in my life. With Father's Day being right around the corner, those poignant reminders are everywhere. Not only this national day to celebrate the bonds of fatherhood, but his birthday follows closely on it's heels the week after. Always on the perimeter, but this time of year is just a two week time period in June when he is constantly at the forefront of my mind.

And my weekly drive across Murray Lane, the ache is still fresh and feels the same. The memory of that last phone call with him is always there waiting for me. No more chasing.

Love Your Path--Paulo Coelho

1. The path begins at a crossroads. There you can stop and think what direction you want to take. But don’t spend too much time thinking or you’ll never leave the spot. Ask yourself the classic Carlos Castaneda question: Which of these paths has a heart? (…)

2. The path doesn’t last forever. It’s a blessing to travel the path for some time, but one day it will come to an end, so be prepared to take leave of it at any moment. (…)

3. Honor your path. It was your choice, your decision, and just as you respect the ground you step on, that ground will respect your feet. Always do what’s best to conserve and keep your path and it will do the same for you.

4. Be well-equipped. Carry a small rake, a spade, a penknife. Understand that penknives are no use for dry leaves, and rakes are useless for herbs that are deep-rooted. Know what tool to use at each moment. And take care of your tools, because they’re your best allies.

5. The path goes forward and backward. At times you have to go back because something was lost, or a message to be delivered was forgotten in your pocket. A well tended path enables you to go back without any great problem.

6. Take care of the path before you take care of what’s around you. Attention and concentration are fundamental. Don’t be distracted by the dry leaves at the edges. Use your energy to tend and conserve the ground that accepts your steps.

7. Be patient. Sometimes the same tasks have to be repeated, like tearing up weeds or closing holes that appear after unexpected rain. Don’t let that annoy you; it’s part of the journey. Even though you’re tired, even though certain tasks are repeated so often, be patient.

8. Paths cross. People can tell you what the weather is like elsewhere. Listen to advice, but make your own decisions. You’re responsible for the path entrusted to you.

9. Nature follows its own rules. You have to be prepared for sudden changes in the fall, slippery ice in winter, the temptations of flowers in spring, thirst and showers in the summer. Make the most of each of these seasons, and don’t complain about their characteristics.

10. Make your path a mirror of yourself. By no means let yourself be influenced by the way others care for their paths. You have your own soul to listen to, and the birds to whisper translations of what your soul is saying. (…)

11. Love your path. Without this, nothing makes any sense.

Finding Girl Power at the T-Ball Field

Three years ago when my daughter expressed the interest to play T-Ball, we approached it like we do anything else: sign up, buy the proper equipment (in this case pink gloves, pink batting helmets and pink "Girl Power" bats) and show up at the appointed time for practice.

I'll never forget how excited she was to be a part of a team. At the same time it was a new venture for us out in the world of our little community full of perfect families, 2.5 kids, perfunctory Yellow Lab and a fleet of SUVs in the driveway.

As we walked to the field, I began assessing the situation. There was a group of rail thin Stepford Moms huddled in deep discussion on the bleachers and another mom dressed in work clothes in the dugout. I headed straight for the dugout and took my place on the bench. The other mom and I introduced ourselves pointed our girls and began to watch practice. Soon we began trading personal statistics. Yes, it's our only child. School info, where do you work, what do you do? And then I sheepishly mumbled something about being divorced. She said "I am too" in such an off-handed way like it was nothing to be ashamed of and I remember sitting up and thinking maybe this was not going to be so hard after all. I instantly dropped the feeling that "I am the only one" in this situation. I wasn't.

In fact, meeting her totally turned my life around. I was instantly impressed with her. She was straightforward, fun to talk to, beautiful and self-assured. Her bravada and self-confidence was something I soon began trying on for myself again.

A few games and shared bags of popcorn later (and crush on the drop dead gorgeous with perfect abs t-ball coach) - it was official. I had a new friend. Which was to me the greatest gift at this point in my life.

What started out as emails with logistics about the night's game quickly evolved into back and forth one-liners about life and sharing the fruits of our goggle-stalking efforts on said coach.

When X came to one of the games and was acting in a threatening manner, my older sister sat on one side of me and my new friend sat on the other side to protect me. They quietly said things under their breath to me and each other in response to things he would say to me and it got me through what was an uncomfortable hour. I will never forget that day either. Her simple gesture provided me with a different kind of "Girl Power" and I don't think she even had a clue.

I guess he didn't make a good impression on her, because in the months to come she was my only friend who gently quit the hand holding and bluntly told me I needed to get over him and get on with my life. She was right. She was not there during the early days of my separation when I was crushed, scared and hurt. And I'm glad she didn't see me that way. My other friends I think were afraid I was too fragile to have that talk with me. But not her. I don't think I'll ever be able to express the gratitude I feel that she had the grace and fortitude to do it. I know it wasn't a big deal to her either - but her "get over it" speech or email more like was extremely eye-opening for me.

One Christmas we could share the tiny sadness we felt putting out presents on Christmas Eve by ourselves. Last Christmas we could acknowledge that it wasn't as bad as the year before. Not many people could understand exactly how that feels. But she does. She's my one friend I can measure my single parent status by without feeling totally insecure.

Three years later, our daughter's no longer play in the same league. But Tiffany and I do. We now share vacations together, trade books to read, and numerous daily emails (she even taught me how to text). She has even pulled me into her circle of friends as a push from behind to get me "out there" again.

Signing up for t-ball season was a turning point in our new lives. I know that sounds so silly to say - I mean who knows if it means a life-long love of sports for my daughter or not. But it provided me with a new best friend and confidante. Lucky, lucky me.

A Mile in My Shoes

It was raining this morning when I left for my daily walk. A light, cool sprinkle that actually felt refreshing on my shoulders. I added a hat to my attire to keep the drops out of my face and closed the door behind me. The first part of my walk I like to greet the day...a visual headcount of where things stand. Weather. Check. Birds singing. Check. Clouds/blue skies? Check.

Some mornings I wish I were listening to my favorite iTunes, but most mornings I'm content listening to the birds tend to their business of the day. I try to imagine sometimes what they must be saying to their chicks. Wake Up! Clean up your nest! Quit poking your brother! Brush your beak.

After I amuse myself with this for a few minutes, my thoughts quickly turn more interpersonal and over the past month I have found that this new walking early in the morning is working great for me. This internal conversation with myself ranges from the simplest thoughts to conversations I want to have with people to some lofty goals I am setting for myself.

The village of River Rest has quickly transformed, for the spring anyway, into my own personal Dogwood Trail. I have tracked the progress of many of the trees along my route and have decided that this spring the pink dogwoods are gorgeous and the white ones seem a bit confused by the unspringlike weather. They are still beautiful nevertheless and I am thankful that they line the path every morning.

Another great thing about getting up so early and getting out in the day is that you see and hear things that get lost once the rest of the world wakes up and emerges. The color and of the morning sky is the best kept secret especially in those moments that the sun hasn't yet hit to turn the sky that brilliant blue or give a bit of warmth to the overcast clouds... .

So once I give my thanks and get my nature fix, this inner dialogue quickly turns to me. It's the cheapest form of therapy one could experience! The endorphins act as a mighty healer to any anxiety or worry you are carrying around. I have found myself pushing thoughts around and figuring out solutions or coming to an acceptance with something without having to say a word to anyone else.

Five years ago, my sister's friend Carol gave me the best advice on being separated. She said "You have to walk - it will solve so many of your problems." And now five years later, in retrospect, I know that she was so right. Temporarily staying with my mom back in those days, I started walking every morning. My little one could sleep with mom in the next room and I would jump out of bed and just follow where my feet would take me. It was aimless then believe me and I wasn't able to appreciate the birds, the color of the sky or the dogwoods then. I wonder how did I even navigate myself around in those days much less take care of my child. I can laugh about it now. After about a month of walking my eyes must have opened somewhat, I walked past a For Sale sign in the condos nearby. I closed on it two months later and we had a home again. A start. A new beginning.

This last resurgence, I started taking walking more seriously. I keep a daily log in an online catalog of how far I walk each day. I increase it by a .5 mile each week. My body is waking me up at 4:30 and sometimes 5:00 as if to say - get up, get going, it's time to go! My inner dialogue has mapped out some big plans for me: climbing Mt. LeConte (5 3/4 mile hike - sometimes steep) and which trail I want to take (Alum Cave Trail), training in the next year for the Country Music 1/2 Marathon (so cool to think about for this Nashville Girl and registration is open now) and seriously contemplating getting a breast reduction. WOW!

Carol was so right and when she crosses my mind I send up a silent prayer of thanks to her. The past five years has been a journey of a tiny baby steps, thousands of tears, many blind leaps of faith, rights and wrongs, self-doubt and the joy at discovering I no longer feel guilty to laugh again.

I thank her because I realize every morning when I take off my tennis shoes, that walking hasn't just taken me a mile or two around what my little one calls our village. It's not something to tick of my list of things to do. I'm smiling when I get to work each day = I feel so great. I have arrived at home, yes, but to a new destination I never dreamed I would experience. A new place I've discovered inside of me. One of accomplishment, contentment and happiness.

“Courage is being scared to death… and saddling up anyway!”

—John Wayne

Pop Fly

Had to share this proud parental moment: Katie had a softball game Tuesday night - I was there for the first 30 minutes of the game and had to leave for class. While in class, I noted on my cell phone's caller ID that my Mom called me three times, afraid it might be an emergency with Katie or Grandmother, I frantically dialed her; however, when she answered she shared with me the sweetest news ... .

During the last inning of the game, Katie went up for a pop fly and came down with the ball! Not only that it ended the game preventing the other team from winning!!! It was her first catch like that. EVER! Mom said the look on her face was priceless. Everyone on the field hugged her and the parents in the stands went crazy! The coaches gave her the game ball (HUGE, HUGE, BIG DEAL TO KIDS).

It was such a great moment for her - so I was extremely proud - but felt terrible for missing it!!!!! I called my mom again on the drive home and told her how conflicted I felt: so proud for her and awful for missing it. Mom reminded that of course there will be many more games and other clutch plays - she also reminded me of the many things I do to keep her safe and happy. I thanked her for being there for Katie that night and sharing in the excitement. I also silently reflected to myself - I learned all these things from my mom. Sure, I'll be front row center at the dance recitals, kindergarden graduations and school productions, but these small unexpected moments in life are just as important and special as the major milestones.

I went to pick her up at my sister's after class and she was fast asleep. I stood in the doorway and realized that this was my special moment as her mom - the quiet moments that can never be replaced - knowing your child is safe and healthy - all alone to absorb it and so thankful she had the opportunity to have that experience.

I melted when I looked in her sleeping.The game ball was lying on the pillow right next to her.

Gentlemen, Step Off!

A recent Tuesday evening found me in the front row of the Nashville Opera chorus rehearsal for their upcoming production of "Il trovatore." I wasn't rehearsing I was observing. I felt like a visible fly on ze wall. Actually, I was sitting with 16 of my MLAS classmates and I felt as if we were a group of lab mice being observed behind some invisible glass. Our chairs jutted out into the open space like a peninsula almost touching the invisible stage.

On this particular evening I expected to hear the chorus rehearse as in sing, but alas, we were in for a wonderful treat. A fight coordinator strolled to the front of the room, sword in hand and was introduced to his new recruits.

The band of gypsies were assembled with gleaming (faux) swords eager to receive instruction. To see these performers in street clothes took me a bit aback. They represented an assortment of fellows you would see at your basic office picnic. Wearing khaki's, jeans, button-downs, loafers, black turtlenecks, hoodies and their feet shod in Eastlanders, loafers and a few sported tennis shoes. They were in essence a bunch of guys who could pass as any guy - because they were "every man" and I didn't quite expect that. As I sized each of them up I imagined what their chosen professions might be: accountant, academic, minister, analyst, salesman - not the wooly rag tag bunch of gypsies (or metrosexuals) I was anticipating.

The fight coordinator put them through their paces and cued up the chorus on his iPod, which again was another surprise. I absolutely loved this modern touch of hearing Verdi's rich composition blair out of a miniscule iPod system.

As they mimic the fight coordinator's moves, I start to notice that some of them are sporting the shaved head (bald) with goatee or soul patch which has become popular of late (I personally HATE this look). Then I notice more of them have heavy facial hair - surely to play the part of this 19th century opera. Snaps to them for having fun and getting into their character as a strictly volunteer chorus - what dedication and love for their art.

I'm starting to feel more comfortable and not on display - the chorus for the most part is ignoring us. I don't feel as self-conscious. I start to look around the room more and find I'm no longer afraid to turn my head and look at the director.

I'm distracted by the sword fight from so many different side shows playing out:

• An opera diva wannabe (real name Amber) wearing a too short sweater dress, tights and knee boots vamps off to the side - I wonder is she the maid Ines or maybe Azucena?
• I suspect Talmadge in the front row of the sword practice was in an MLAS film class with some of us - how did he get here I wonder? Talmadge, who knew?
• The fight coordinator is wearing a t-shirt with a skull and crossed swords below it. He is very slight, smooth in his moves and has a very tiny, little paunch that adds a little panache.
• The men are all wearing large green nametags so the fight coordinator can talk to them.
• Amy, the rehearsal pianist, is also the official shusher.

The manly sword fight ensues - the men are wielding these masculine symbols - some like a golf club, some of their first tries a bit Stooge-like. I personally can't wait to hear the swords clashing.

The gypsies have names like Joey, Steven, Derek, Chad, Bill, Ed, Howard, Steve, Billy, Joel (hey Billy Joel - ha! how my observational mind wanders), Dave, Carl and I think to myself - a gypsy named Carl!!!??!!! I would love to know the back story of each of these modern day gypsies and what journey brought them to the Nashville Opera. Finally, in the back row - I spot a nametag of Geren - finally someone with a gypsy worthy name!

Of course, the one guy who has been acting theatrically and silently pontificating to himself can hardly lift his sword and he is also standing in the make-believe fire and he will not get out. Some of the men lean into their overheard thrust like they are going to take off and soar throught the air behind it like a superhero.

Talmadge takes his thrust very seriously, Billy missed the last lift. As I'm analyzing each one, a train whistle blows outside from Radnor Yards as it passes the industrial park the Nashville Opera calls home. An outside, but proud reminder to me how evolved my hometown has become - that we have our very own regional opera company - is something so special for our arts community.

The fight coordinator tells his band of gypsies "We will not stab you!" Now they are going to sing with their new fancy sword work. The first chorus they sing blew me away! These baritone, tenor and bass(?) voices were so intense and they were very well rehearsed. The chorus surprised me so much that I felt as if a brass line of trombones, tubas, trumpets and french horns just turned to the grand stand away from the back field into a company front formation and blasted away the stands. This took me by such pleasant surprise.

The nuns (ladies of the opera chorus) entered and the men are then divided into "Manrico men" and "di Luna guys." Geren who looks like a gypsy is a "di Luna man".

I get the same giggles that I did from the men by reading the names of the nuns - Barbara, Della, Therese, Jan, Fran, Amber (so not a diva) and Karen. In all fairness to the ladies, I assign them professions also. They could easily be: bank teller, school teacher, grandmother, data entry clerk, soccer mom and I notice that not many of them are young women.

The fight coordinator is busy staging these new scene. He gleefully says "Let's kill a gypsy" and bends over backward with an evil, echoing laugh.

The room stops for a moment as the diva of the opera enters the rehearsal room stage right(?). She is gorgeous with shoulder length silky black hair and big soulful eyes. I cannot wait to hear her sing. I also notice that the principals sit in padded, comfortable chairs and the chorus sits in cold, folding chairs like us lab rats.

More principal buzz in the air of the rehearsal room. Manrico and Gus (di Luna man) steps into the rehearsal. di Luna is not present and is summoned by the director. I am so impressed with the director's patience and professionalism at this point. He summons his assistant to call the missing Lester, which she does in front of the entire company. Everyone quietly pauses and pretends not to listen. As this is going down, the director announces in a very loud voice "Manrico men, step off!"

Finally from the back of the room, the maestro sitting on the raised platform at the front of the stage speaks and commands the entire room. He speaks very (pause) eloquently "Guys and ladies, when you aren't thinking about it, the 8th becomes a 16th." The chorus sings it again and takes direction well.

Lester, aka Elvis, aka Count di Luna enters the building. I cannot wait to see his entrance on the stage at TPAC.

As the fight coordinator arranges for Carl the gypsy to get sliced the propmaster scurries around in a dirty yellow peasant skirt, brown twinset, knitted scarf and backless scuffy mocs and hands out weapons to the principals. Gus, the di Luna man, moves swarthily across the stage to slice Carl and I am starting to inwardly purr until bummer - I see he wears a wedding band.

The fight coordinator assigns the most excellent ending sword poses to be taken as the curtain drops - I take a snapshot in my mind because I can't wait to see them at the performance. I see lots of theatre i.e. acting in this rehearsal and am impressed as much by the character and seriousness of the chorus as I am of the principals.

The Fight Coordinator is setting a new scene and as he is busy staging the skirmish between the guards and the gypsies, everyone is milling about, nuns/gypsy women are playing cups on the floor and the buzz of their murmured conversations fill the air. However, when it is time to hit their marks and be on - the energy I sense from the chorus is overwhelming and the vocals feels as if it could knock you over.

The Fight Coordinator makes reference to the movie "Princess Bride" and receives many enthusiastic answers. I wonder where on earth did they find this guy? The Tennessee Renaissance Festival in Triune? West End Park with the medieval weekend jousters? I would love to see his business card.

The director announces "One more time. Gentlemen, Step Off!" This is my new favorite phrase. They boisterously sing the Anvil Chorus and as I listen to their rousing voices I try to envision what color the color of their voices would be? Brassy? Copper?

And before you know it - my time at the rehearsal is over and I leave this 19th century world with a modern day twist and I head for home in the night wondering what kind of chorus member I would be and if so? What color would my voice be?

Once you choose hope, anything's possible.

--Christopher Reeve

Going Back to the Big Easy

Our return to New Orleans was wonderful. Weather was full-blown spring - we ate at many great restaurants (Cafe Giovanni that features the opera singers not one of them, but my sister knows the Chef so maybe next trip). Rode the street car and browsed in the French Market, watched the cargo ships on the Mississippi with KK and had tea at the Ritz Carlton, saw my sister's new digs across from Commander's Palace and stayed in a very nice boutique hotel - the Lafayette Hotel - it was what a visit to New Orleans should be.

The highlight for me was breakfast one morning at Camellia Grill - the best Western omelet my mouth has ever tasted followed by a slow ride up St. Charles in the street car past all the blooming azaleas and dogwood trees, not to mention beads still hanging precariously tossed too high for any Mardi Gras revelers to retrieve.

We also saw the sobering rebuilding process after Katrina - the middle class and upper crust neighborhoods are clearing lots and rebuilding, FEMA trailers are everywhere, but the poor side of town stands still with green moss growing on the roofs of the decaying buildings. In every neighborhood, the houses still standing wear the X's and messages spray painted on the sides by the National Guard like a badge of honor denoting if anyone or pets were still in the house or had been removed. Luckily, my sister lived across Lake Ponchatrain when the storm hit, but every home she had ever owned in New Orleans was damaged or gone. So, so sad.

Touched by An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

-- Maya Angelou

Tough Enough!

X is coming into town and I need to have a pep talk with myself. I'm feeling these impercieved slights from everyone - but probably just feeling vulnerable I guess. My psyche loves to play tricks on me in a self-help effort to toughen it's exterior up.

Let's see ... how many lobs have I dodged since Saturday - 3 or is it 4 now at my last count? Funny thing is they have no idea that the pebbles of conversation tossed my way turned into heavy boulders before I caught them.

I guess everyone thinks I'm no longer this fragile shell of a person walking around and can handle life and whatever punches - high or low that come my way. So that's a good thing. Some of them are totally unintentional. Some of them are friends I respect who have the best intentions but have perhaps not lived through anything truly challenging yet and have no idea. I'm glad for them.

One friend choked back on her words about how a weird roommate we shared came from a "broken" home - I could see she could tell she stepped in it. Another much respected friend said that his nephew was the "success story of the family" because he had done so well for himself in his undergraduate studies and college recruitment in spite of his parents' divorce. I felt like the success was not in overcoming his father's marital strife, but in believing in himself. Their divorce really had nothing to do with it - he's a very smart kid.

The ones that hurt the most are from those whom I'm going to name-call as judgmental and hold a much over-elevated level of self-importance. I would love to tell them to get down off their f**king high horses and get over themselves. I have to ignore those comments to get through the humilation, maybe I'm stronger than I think, but how I would love to revert to my old juvenile tricks and knee jerk react to them and tell them off. Say things like "If I wanted to continue to be made to feel bad about myself and feel like a loser I would have remained married to X." I can't say it outloud to them, but I can write it down here and get it off my chest. Do I feel better? No, well maybe a little.

Why, when I'm criticized, does it always come down to me doubting my self-worth? That feeling of not being good enough for anyone.

It's a good place to be in that I can recognize this, confront it and try to deal with it; however, my inner dialogue will not shut up in this conversation with myself. I know that I'm tough enough, I have proved it to myself and to everyone around me.

The Dark Side of the Moon

Valentine's Day Wisdom

What Most Valentine's Day Cards ... Won't Tell You About Your Heart!

Your heart is a muscle roughly the size of your fist,

But the trouble with fists is that they don't hold very much (especially when clinched).

To hold more of this incredible world in your hands

Unfurl your fingers (like a flag or flower).

To hold more in your heart

Just keep it

Open.

Take Cover Immediately

Recitative: Last night during the final half hour of my MLAS course, life imitated art in an extremely surreal manner. We were in the midst of discussing and dissecting the hilarious chaos in the final scene of Act I in Rossini's "The Barber of Seville" when the campus tornado siren started it's eerie cry in the night. The entire class quickly evacuated into a stairwell and then proceeded to be further evacuated to the basement below Ingram Performance Hall.

Our prof said to imagine the popular chorus from this opera playing in the background as we stood in the stairwell. With that planted in my mind many of the moments to come would have coincided with superb comedic timing to this delightful Rossini chorus.

Cantabile: At first, our class of adult grad students we were the only ones seeking safe shelter, but were quickly joined by aloof, but albeit younger students, incredulous profs and a few walkie-talkie toting maintenance workers. It was an intriguing, if vanilla, peek at the underground behind the scenes world of the Blair School of Music.

Our evacuated state hiliarously reminded me of the scene we were discussing in "The Barber of Seville" . The cast was showcased on a split stage in what seemed to be the orchestra pit while the star ensemble sang a sextet layered above on the mainstage. The group was moving furniture and perhaps stealing it out of Bartolo's house, talking amongst themselves like they were at a fraternity mixer.

Cabaletta: A sign taped haphazardly to the wall pointed down the hall to the Blair Opera Costume Shop (more than a few of us wanted to be adventurous). Chairs were stacked to the ceiling, the duct work and plumbing hung above our tired heads. It was warm, but about to get warmer when a group joined us of tsarist-era Russians whose "Fiddler on the Roof" dress rehearsal was cut short. A crying peasant went hurtling past and collapsed on the floor in tears of real fear. Many were quick to comfort her. An Asian Hasidic Jew took a post on the wall next to one of my classmates joined by another young man with extremely bad fake facial hair (at least close up it looked hideous).

A few of us adult geeks talked of our addiction to online scrabble. For the most part, the voices were boisterous and appreciative of the much needed safety precaution. I had wanted some excitement since I was missing Mardi Gras on this evening, but didn't expect anything quite like this.

It wasn't until my dark and windy drive south on Hillsboro Road did I receive the campus-wide text message to take cover immediately. It was a tad too late for that, but it made me pause to think of the calm I felt in the midst of the Blair's basement chaos. I was surrounded by my friends and I felt so incredibly relaxed and safe.

After I arrived home our county tornado siren again interrupted the night and it sounded like it was located right across the street. We took cover immediately upon learning we were in the path of yet another storm.

Another mini-chaotic scene ensued as we rushed to get pillows, blankets, a flashlight that didn't work, a hyper dachshund, American Girl Dolls, Chewy (my daughter's beloved stuffed animal) and Victoria the hermit crab and ourselves into our safest interior space (in this case a tiny half bath). I held my daughter and shaking puppy tight as the wind whistled and the meterologists tried to outsing the storm with their many warnings. This was a new kind of safe for me, wrapped in the love for my child and presence of peace among my friends.

What Matters Most

Tonight we were the only car on the road. Everyone else was tucked safely in their homes, positioned in front of the television watching the Superbowl. ½ tuned into the frenzy of 2008 and ½ tuned out. By the time I sat down during the 4th quarter and watched the end of the game – I had claimed the team I was rooting for. It didn’t really matter this year, other things, real things mattered more.

I spent Friday night at home with my daughter and Saturday morning running errands with my sister. Put my feet up for a few minutes in the afternoon before visiting with and kissing my sweet grandmother. Saturday evening we celebrated the 40th birthday of a good friend. Sunday morning my mom stopped by on her walk and we all acted silly with the dog. Went to church, talked on the phone with one of my best friends to check in on each other and asked how to make her special casserole. Cooked dinner for a sick friend, delivered it with a smile, but cried a few prayerful tears for her on the way home. Ended the evening writing in my journal to yellow lamp light and finished an assignment with snoring puppy and snoozing 8 year old wonder lying sweetly beside me.

I am so blessed and my life is so full - the Superbowl seems so inconsequential

Disclaimer: (However, I must admit I am THRILLED that Eli Manning and the New York Giants beat the Patriots!!!! – SEC baby)! Belichick is a baby - sad to see a grown man be SUCH a poor loser.

Throw in a Little Hope for Good Measure

"Don't you see, Hook? You will never win. Not as long as there's faith, trust, and pixie dust."

-- Jane, Return to Neverland

Is it the lack of sunlight touching my face? Or is it the January doldrums? For whatever reason I have hit the negative wall face first. I feel so much anxiety I could scream silently in the midst of this cube farm I sit in each day. I trolled through my pictures looking for something to bring me up into the blue and I found this photo I took in the Smokies at Elkmont Campground - a monarch butterfly about to take flight.

This week my daughter got sick - nothing serious - but enough to warrant being home and resting for a few days. When I returned to work - I felt like the worst mom ever. Why is it when she gets sick do I feel like a failure as a mom? It's not that I can't protect her from catching a germ. It's that I feel so alone - really like KK and me against the world - I have help and I have support and my girlfriends all call to check on her, but when you are up at 4:00am and you cannot go back to sleep for fear you will sleep through your alarm - it is so isolating.

I've been called a Pollyanna - sometimes it makes me smile and be happy that I can gloss through life without being bogged down and other times it makes me angry that someone would make fun of me for that. Maybe the Lost Boys of Neverland have got something there...Maybe being Pollyanna is how I have survived - it's hard for me to hear negative things - it stresses me out. I have to put it out of my mind like a child putting her hands over her ears for things she doesn't want to hear.

The past few days have been hard - I've beat up A LOT on myself for my failings in life - and today I can't shake it - I've simply prayed for God to put his arms around us both and provide his guidance and protection - that simple faith is all that has given me hope today - and if pixie dust works - I wish someone would sprinkle some of that on me too.

Good Tidings

fortune(fôr'chen)

noun

1.
a. The chance happening of fortunate or adverse events; luck.
b. fortune(s) The turns of luck in the course of one's life.
c. Success, especially when at least partially resulting from luck.

2.
a. Fate; destiny: told my fortune with tarot cards.
b. A foretelling of one's destiny.

Someone tossed me a fortune cookie today and hidden inside was this lovely message. I jumped on the good tidings it brought to me. It could mean many things - a new friend, boyfriend, co-worker - instead of jump to conclusions I'm just going to keep it in my pocket - think positive and see who the relationship brings to my acquaintance.

For full disclosure - I got this fortune too - but it didn't get my hopes up quite like the one above - but it did make me giggle.

It's like totally Scrabulous!

So a friend on Facebook got me hooked on this online scrabble game and I'm totally hooked. It's highly addictive. I can totally understand how people get hooked onto the online betting schemes; however, scrabble is so not worth losing cold, hard $$ over. I haven't been into a computer game like since I played Tetris on a Mac during lunch break while working at DuPont as a technical writer. It's fun - try it- I may even be gaining back some lost brain cells that have been obliterated through parenthood. It's Scrabulous. I actually feel intelligent again. Who knew scrabble could be so fun??!!??

My Must See TV

My TV viewing habits - PBS, Reality, High School Drama, Comedy - What does this say about me?

Sunday - Masterpiece Theatre - The Complete Jane Austen - Masterpiece Theatre - always a favorite since my days working Master Control at a local PBS station. But now to celebrate my favorite writer with her own series. My heart is happy on Sunday nights.

Monday - Nothing There is nothing I MUST see on Monday nights - I would rather read but this semester I will be finishing my reading assignments on Monday evenings for my Tuesday evening class.

Tuesday - The Real Housewives of Orange County This show is almost like watching a trainwreck but I can't look away. Now after 3 season I even care about what happens to some of them. It's fun to see how the other half lives and see that reality underscores money not being able to buy your happiness.

Wednesday - Project Runway 4 - This is one reality show where you actually have to have mad skills to advance. No America voted, but really talented judges who do have something to say. For me it's not even about the fashion - it's being wowed by the creativity that walks down the runway. My mom used to sew everything for us - we had the most beautiful clothes you could imagine all for under $1.99.

Thursday - ER - I love this show. Period. Abby. Luca. Pratt. Nuff said.

Friday - Friday Night Lights - Great acting by all involved. Riggins, Coach Eric, his wife, these characters remind me of people who really do exist and live for the big lights on Friday Night.

Saturday - Saturday Night Live (if I can stay awake) - when I was a little girl I got to stay awake for the opening scene and a few following skits with my sister Dawn and her boyfriend Billy, I thought I was a big shot. I saw the Killer Bees, Rosanne Roseanna Danna up close and personal. This show will always be special because of that memory.

I Lost My Man, Cause I'm a Titans Fan (Inspired by a true story)

When we started dating
You could find him in the front row.
He escorted me every week to O'Charley's
So I could attend the Jeff Fisher Show.

To win my hand he became a fan too.
He learned all the plays.
He wore Titans merchandise proudly.
And He never missed a game.

But I quickly found out it was only a ruse.
So he could win my heart.
He found out that he was at the end of the line.
Of Vince, Kyle, and Keith whose stats I could impart.

Chorus:

He bought me a headset so I could listen
To Mike Keith pre, during and post game.
But he drew the line on Wednesdays
When I listened to 104.5 the Zone and John McClain.

Yes, I lost my Man, `Cause I'm a Tennessee Titans Fan.

He only lasted through two seasons.

He began grumbling on the Titans shuttle.

He lost his spark and soon.

His high step faded from doing the Cupid Shuffle.

No one comes between me and the Titans
I thought as I watch Coach Fisher with glee.

I love seeing the players expressions.

Through the binoculars my ex-boyfriend gave me.

Our love affair ended last January.

He packed up and moved away.

We might still be together.

But I tune in to Plaster, Willy and Darren every day.

Chorus:
He bought me a headset so I could listen
To Mike Keith pre, during and post game.
But he drew the line on Wednesdays
When I listened to 104.5 the Zone and John McClain.
Yes, I lost my Man, `Cause I'm a Tennessee Titans Fan.

I wrote this song in honor of mom, Linda "Jazzy" Langley - a huge Tennessee Titans fan, whose boyfriend upon breaking up with her - gave her love of the game and the Titans as one of the reasons for the break-up - before he moved out of state. He also couldn't believe that she - "A woman" would listen to sports talk radio "every day."

What a waste of a whole season of tickets taking HIM to the game.