There I Am

I have been toying with this blog for a while. I had the moment that ignited it about 10 days ago but the tug of war in my brain continues. Nothing makes me angrier than asking myself a question I cannot definitively answer.

You can say what you will about life and death, where we go after we die, and if we come back to this earth. I know everyone has their opinions on this and no need to go into my beliefs now. Rather than picking apart what lies beyond this life, I have been thinking about the string of moments that make up THIS one. Most are good, some are bad, and some are like a homecoming.... a ping...a prick that makes my whole body feel warm with pens and needles that pulse though my almost 6 foot tall frame. Why do we have these moments? I began to think about the instant recently when one of these moments happened to me.

I had finished cardio at the Y and decided I was homesick for a part of me. Funny how we are so ready to create boxes for ourselves and guard those boxes: boxes of who we are now, who we were then, boxes of the "things” that defined us- like the thick black permanent marker we used to trace around our hands when we were little, step back and say,"there I am."

As I reluctantly went to the front desk and asked for a basketball, I was nervous. What if I did not fit into this box anymore? What if that part of me was gone? Could I handle that? Who would I be with that box gone? I reached for the ball. In my hands, I palmed it with my larger-than-is-normal female grip and walked up the narrow flight of stairs to the gym. I opened the door to the gorgeous wooden floors gleaming with a Sunday morning, not a soul around. Perfection. I was instantly back to 8th grade, in my school uniform during lunch break and study halls when I craved and treasured being in that gym alone. I found comfort knowing that the only sounds made would be coming from me: a bounce of the ball, swish of the ball through the net, the occasional screech of shoes, and my own breath.

I had not really touched a ball since high school. I knew better than to start shooting behind the arc. I went right under the goal itself and began the plate drill, looking straight up at the goal, aligning my toe to my knee to my elbow, releasing the ball as if to reach over the rim and grab it, following through. Coach would have been proud. Swish. First shot in. Promising. I repeated this over and over, all the while moving backward, out of the paint and into the places on the court I once called mine. Before I knew it, I was giddy and in disbelief. Swish. Swish again. Again. I was bounding about the court, one shot after another. I could not get the ball out of my hands fast enough. There must be a catch. I would miss soon. But I didn’t. Luckily, no one walked by to see this 30 years old woman laughing and running about like a toddler. It was as if no time had passed at all. I was filled with an adrenaline and amazement for some bigger force. How could this be? Was all of this muscle memory? Could this explain it? My body was on fire and I felt true and total happiness that I had not felt in years. I made a connection with, of all things, me.

Many would say that basketball for me was a talent and so, as I was shooting, watching the ball go in over and over, I began to say “thank you” for this talent. Because talents don’t leave us, they don’t rust or atrophy. Not ever. If we are lucky, we come across them early in life and because they make us feel so “at home” in our foreign selves, we have a natural inclination to develop them, work at them, though often not considering it work. We take full advantage of talents because we want to. And if we choose to put them down, we can pick them back up again.

I was lucky. I had a blessed childhood, given every opportunity to seek out my talents, find them, and make them a part of my daily existence. Then I grew up and left some of them behind and wondered where such a void came from, why I was not happy, wondering where “I” went. If I drew around my hand today, can I still step back and say, “there I am”?

A “natural aptitude or skill.” This is how talent is defined. The use of the word natural is perfectly accurate. Our natural selves at work in the best way. Talents are connections to “home”- from where we came and to where we return again, God’s personal stamp, His calling card that says, “Life will not be easy, honey, but I will give you a way to connect to Me, to feel whole, to feel like every part of you is alive and doing that which you were created to do this time around. Enjoy.”

To All The Mothers

I miss my mama today and was thinking about what mothers are and do and though I may never experience it myself, I can still marvel.
So I am thinking of you today and the job you awoke with....the one that has no time card and no vacation.
Still, I think it may just be the greatest job in the world.
There are no perks quite like a child's love for her mother.


Mother is the bank where we deposit all our hurts and worries.
Where we may write checks even though we are overdrawn.
Mother is the endless flow of currency whether we are near or far from home.
Mother is security. A vault that has no lock.
Mother is forgiveness for things we don't even know we've done.
And where she is is home.

The Long Trip Outside Of Ourselves

I was standing in line at the drug store. The line was growing rapidly and naturally, only one person was behind the counter. I watched an older woman, swimming in her bright pink sweater, slowly maneuver her walker up to the check out. I could feel the woman behind me, every exaggerated breath and tap of her foot. Her constant sighs and not so subtle "come on!" let everyone know how deterred she was, that her day was more important than anyone else's and that this old woman was the worst kind of inconvenience. Now normally, I might have been more inclined to air on the side of anxious woman behind me, of wanting to pay for my things and get gone. But today something changed.

I have been reading a book called "An Altar in the World" and it carries the message that God and Goodness lie outside the walls of the church. And if you are willing to look for the good in situations, even the jackass that cuts you off and shoots you the bird, you can find the holiness of that moment. Clearly, this requires work on my part. I have been flipped off many times and this has never made me think of a holy moment. In fact, in times like that I typically curse God and ask why He is punishing me. But this book says consider the person. Really stop. Be calm. Look. Listen. Observe. Consider.

I knew that this woman lived around the corner in the retirement home. That she probably was once a wife but has lived the better part of her life without her husband. That she is a mother and her kids have all grown up and moved away. That the makeup she was wearing was a well thought-out effort and one that took much of her morning as she tried to construct her day, looking for reasons to get outside, to feel the sunshine, maybe even the kindness of a stranger. Anything to feel useful. Purpose.

I processed this. I fell into her story and suddenly I saw her. I felt a kind of calm come over me. I walked up behind her as she was rummaging in her bag, dissecting the receipt and occasionally asking the woman behind the counter questions- just to have a verbal exchange. Because she probably has not said much today to anyone nor anyone else to her. And the new makeup she was buying was her reason to get up tomorrow and try something new, so she can go around the corner again.

She apologized for taking too long. I said, "Don't worry about it. Can I walk you out? The door is heavy." "That would be lovely," she said and she smiled the most pure smile.

I was not anxious. I was not rushed or harried. I was completely disarmed and what was left of me was as raw and authentic as her smile. And the only work it required of me was to pay attention.

I saw her. I considered her. And I have learned that God is in the moments we decide to get outside of ourselves.

Why the ER is scarier than the accident that landed you there.

I was one of those kids...I never got sick. Not ever. Think about Paula Dean and how she cooks. Now think of the opposite. That was my mother. The house of nuts and berries. Perfect example? I can honestly say that I never once had fried food growing up in my house in Tennessee and I don't think I ever even baked cookies with my mom. Not many can say that her childhood never held the memory of baking ooey-gooey cookies with her mother, eating the dough from the bowl and licking the spoon but that was me. Back to the point at hand, this virtual sans fat & sugar, uber vegetable-driven childhood-existence kept me very healthy. Thank you, mom. I forgive you for the no cookie memory. We did have neighbors.

I was never at the doctor and never at the hospital. My view of the ER was a bit skewed. The ER is where you went when you were in a car accident or you swallowed drain cleaner. But I found out this week, the ER is all about a game plan.

We were working in Dallas at a convention and my producer was running around getting all set up for our four days of non-stop work. She has a propensity to 'do it all' and she does it well (when she does not hurt herself). As she went to cut a piece of fabric, I watched her wince and grab quickly for her index finger. A millisecond of seeing the gash that was now spilling blood was enough for my gut voice to sound off...."Oh shit. That's bad. She needs stitches. She has to go to the emergency room....now".

Have you ever felt the shift? When the role you play and the role of a friend or family member plays switches, right then. Boom. It is almost like a betrayal. You know your role. You have defined and mastered it for years. It is comfortable. And then suddenly... click. Now you are no longer cared for and protected by this person but you are taking care of her. You are in charge. Reversal. I was not ready. I wanted to press pause. She always took care of me. But I saw that blood. I saw her face. It was like being promoted to a job I didn't want but knew deep down I was qualified for.

One of her best qualities is being stubborn as hell and for an hour she had the hotel staff shuttling in linen napkins to stop the bleeding. Then my click happened. "Nope. You are going", I said, "and I am going with you". "No way", she said, "We will be there till 3 in the morning. We have to work tonight and we have to start shooting at 6:30 tomorrow. I will be fine." Oh, how I love it when she uses the word "fine". Hilarious.

It was 6pm and off we went....on the cab ride to the ER I decided to concoct a game plan. We had to have a story. I devised the following: To tell everyone there that she was a National Award Winner and was being honored at 8:30pm at the hotel and had to deliver a speech to a crowd of 600 people (including the family that had been flown in from all over the country that day). Nice.

Skipping over the amazingly great staff, almost pleasant experience, and watching her get six stitches, I can say that I had her back to the hotel in an hour and a half.

Role reversal official- not for good, but till next time.

It's About Time

When the tank gets low, you fill it. Simple enough.

But I find myself examining why my tank is so low. I am speaking of the emotional tank, by the way. I live in New York City- no car in this mix. But hovering on E is my emotional gauge. Funny thing is, I know words float,they rise to the surface, bringing with them all that weighs heavy inside. They have the power to raise the fuel line. How many times can I have this epiphany before I actually understand it (and do something about it)? I must be going for a record. So here I go again. Time to jump back in the very scary yet incredibly therapeutic waters.

Splash.

New York grows bigger, taller, and more powerful each day. It is always one step ahead of me, the ultimate reality check. Each time I have a small victory I am dwarfed by its size, scope, and strength. One might think it would wear too much upon the soul and eventually cause departure but I must have that gene: stupidity or love of challenge/rejection- I cannot decide which. I stay here. I cannot be anywhere else and I am not sure I could be me anywhere else.

I miss being in front of the camera. I love being behind it. I have wonderful friends. I don’t see them as often as I should. I have work for now. I am scared to death about the future. I don’t want to grow up. I am older than I should be.

Splash.

Sucks

Breaking Up- The Instruction Manual for the Pathetic

1-Learn to master the fetal position. If you wind up tightly enough, you can keep yourself warm. Sad.

2-Distract yourself- call EVERYONE you know, even people you don't necessarily like. Make plans. Drink heavily.

3-Step away from the computer. The temptation to send e-mails to your heart breaker is too powerful. Don't do it. No ma'am.

4-Stare at the wall and chant 'Nam-myoho-renge-kyo' till one of 2 things happens:

a) You become one with your inner self and feel a power and strength you did not know you possessed

or

b)you realize how incredibly stupid you sound and probably look, that this chanting stuff is bull and you start laughing hysterically.

5-Eat copious amounts of peanut butter (crunchy only- creamy is not efficacious for some reason).

6- CRY (best to apply the fetal position technique outlined in #1)

7-Moments you feel like you are going to fall apart, think of how hurt you are, let the hurt turn to anger- find a tennis racket and beat the hell out of your living room couch. Then call your therapist.

8-Watch 'Moonstruck' and tell yourself to 'snap out of it'

9-Listen to Enya...or gangsta rap- and do interpretive dance around your apartment. Yeah, I know, but it works.

10-Know that it will get better. It has to. You WILL be okay.

IKEA

I must be the last person on earth to experience this kind of humility- this kind of frustration: IKEA. I bet it is lovely- never been there myself, but it must be divine enough to persuade one to buy MANY pieces and take them home. Then the insanity ensues. I have never felt so stupid. You know they say your brain works in different ways? Math, Language- we all have our forte' but IKEA....I call it the company of the mute, plotless comic book (oh, I left out 'instructional')- it is an 'instructional' plotless comic book. Only one little dude that appears in a single drawing. The rest of the book is pictures of screws and holes and arrows pointing to things it knows you are not understanding because NO ONE CAN and let's not gloss over the fact that there is not one single word in the entire 'instruction' book. Not one. NO words. Why would we need words in an instruction manual? The Swedish apparently don't use them. We don't need them either. Let's have some meat balls.

And might I just say, my schlep to help my friend put her new pieces together was not all that successful. And the wine did not help our mental potency . It did, however, help the time pass with laughter.