The Ghost of Christmas Spirit Lost & Found

Our son Henry is a joyful boy.  He's been known to sail through the house saying, "I'm expressing my joy!" 

Like all kids, he has been excited for Christmas weeks. His joy factor is even more elevated.

He's turning ten years-old on January 6th.

He is on the delicate cusp of leaving the tender parts of childhood permanently behind in the coming years.

He hasn't asked me if Santa is real or not, though I have suspected he might have some suspicions, considering he's a 4th grader now. 

However, if he does, he hasn't let on to any of us. 

The other night at the dinner table, I asked him, as I have successfully several times already this season, a casual question about a item on his Christmas list.

"Really Mom?" he grinned winkingly. "Why do want to know? Mmmm? Doesn't Santa know?"

I was being busted. 

I felt my heart sink. "It's over," I thought. "My youngest child officially knows." Sigh... 

The door to this childhood chapter is about to slam shut like a door in the opening credits of Get Smart. 

"Don't crack, Alix! Poker face! Poker face!" went my mental mild panic.

He was waiting for an answer, so I nonchalantly offered, "Yes... of course Santa knows, I was just curious."

Not my best work. 

A moment later, Henry's eyes were downcast.  His head in his hands. He'd ceased eating.

When I asked him what was wrong, he quietly said, "Nothing."

His big grin be done gone.

"Something must be wrong, please tell me." 

He wouldn't.  We go around like this a few more times.

Then, no longer able to fight it, he started to cry.

Henry doesn't cry often so when he does, it's a meaningful act.  I pay extra attention.

Plus, I want our son to know that he's safe to express and articulate his feelings.

I went to him and he wrapped his strong, but still little kid arms tightly around my neck.

Turns out he'd asked his twelve year-old sister and she let it slip.  I wasn't upset with her.  This is how the Christmas cookie often crumbles. 

Besides, she didn't want to lie to him.

"I wish I didn't know," he said, sounding heartbroken.

He didn't mention presents or how this new intel will impact his gift-getting logistics from now on if Santa is out of the picture.

His tears were grief tears.  He was mourning the death of Christmas magic.  

I knew immediately I had to find a way to recover this situation for him -- and fast.  But how? I had  nothing.  I took a deep breath and hoped that if I started talking, something would come.

"Henry," I began, "Santa Claus as you understand him may not be real, but the spirit of Christmas is very real."

He released his arms from my neck and sat back to listen.

"Santa Claus is another name for St. Nicholas.  He was a real person who lived over fifteen-hundred years ago and when he died, he became the patron saint of giving and generosity."

"It is his spirit that inspires millions of people to give to each other on Christmas in honor of the birth of baby Jesus."

As I spoke to Henry, I suddenly felt the Christmas spirit ignite within more than had in a long time. Years, in fact.

I had never spent a lot of considering St. Nicholas before that moment.  Scholar of Saints I am not, but this felt like the right answer for our family. 

Relief washed over Henry's face.  He embraced me again, joyfully this time.

"Thank you for restoring my Christmas spirit, Mommy!  I feel so much better now."

Like that, our magic was back. 

And all was well once again...

In a new, very merry, Christmas paradigm.




*This was story published with Henry's permission.

"What All Children Know"

I am working to organize my new office on our recently renovated third floor. It's been slow going.  In fact, it looks like a small U-Haul storage facility threw up in here.

I just found a black moleskin notebook in a box from our old house which a few years ago, I used to carry with me everywhere. 

Not only and I'm an innate archivist, I am a Junior Varsity record keeper.  I think this is an off-shoot of being a writer.

What's in this notebook?  

Well, notes; everything from daily "to dos"like "pick up dog pills" to a five-year plan I wrote in 2007 that I still have one year to complete.  

Turns out it was a pretty ambitious plan.  I better get cracking. 

I also found a list I dashed off on the morning of January 24, 2008. 

This date isn't significant, but I'm glad I date everything since 2011 has been feeling like 2008 for months now.  In fact, the last decade is a bit of a blur. 

I had forgotten about this list until I rediscovered it in my old notebook.

It goes... 

What All Children Know:

That they are color blind

That war is wrong

That magic is real

That smoking is bad for you

That you must always wear a helmet on a bike 

And a seat belt in the car

That we should all be friends

That playing is natural

That love is all there is

That God is everywhere

That we are all One

That every child deserves safety, love, and nourishment

That it is a good idea to go to bed when you are sleepy

That the only time is "now"

I don't recall what originally prompted me to write it, which I'm sure is due to the aforementioned blur. 

I suspect that I wanted to capture the essence of who I believe we are when we first enter the world...

And the innate wisdom we possess.

When my daughter Hope was fourteen-months old,  I took her to New York City for a week-long visit to see friends.  

 

We were on the subway one afternoon.  Everyone in the car, myself included, had their eyes cast to the floor or the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact with each other. 

This is Subway Riding 101.

Then there is little Hope in her jogging stroller, looking around at her fellow riders.  

She starts waving and saying "hi" with her tiny hands to giant men who one might not want to encounter in a brightly lit alley.  

She was persistent.  If they didn't acknowledge her, she would wave again and say "hi" a little louder until they noticed her. 

Hope wasn't afraid to look them in the eye, because she didn't know she was supposed to be afraid. 

She didn't see any separation between herself and the strangers on the train.  

This was poignant, because I knew I would soon teach her about "stranger danger" and the ins and outs of personal safety. 

The state of the world dictates that we must teach our children to protect themselves from our current roster of villains:

 

Pedophiles, serial killers, regular killers, drug dealers, drunk drivers, terrorists, rapists, thieves, abusers, stalkers, bullies, and sociopaths. 

This may be our current normal, but it's not natural.

What is natural is when children needed to be taught to avoid the perils of nature: deadly berries, precipices, and where the mountain lions hang out.  

Now kids must learn to protect themselves from other people, which is what villains are -- mere people with a warped sense of right and wrong who could shatter our worlds in an instant.

This is a modern necessity thanks to the few misguided apples that might threaten to blow up our whole barrel. 

However...

I believe my baby daughter greeting fellow passengers on the F Train is symbolic of who we actually are, which is loving, open, accepting, and non-judgmental. 

Some might define this as "innocent" -- a child not knowing any better. 

But what if it's the little kids who know best and it's us who've forgotten how things are supposed to be? 

This is what I believe. Why?  Because I clearly recall being little and embodying the qualities of the list.  As an adult, I aim to remember this is who I was. It's who I am.  

My goal is to thoroughly prepare my children for life in the world, but my approach strives to balance the duality of "don't talk to strangers" but don't "judge the strangers" either. 

So that none of us forget who we are... 

Therefore, we don't say "I hate..." or "They're weird..." or "She's stupid" or "You're annoying." 

When personalities clash, we work to find the good in people, the bright side, and seek a deeper understanding of underlying motivations so that we can be as compassionate as possible.

This can be challenging, not only when I drive, but especially now as my kids' teenage years approach, but I am steadfast. 

Children are born with a light in their eyes. A light that belies their inner wisdom, their spirits, their open hearts, their fundamental capacity for non-judgment.

I feel it is part of my job as a parent to ensure that that light doesn't go out. 

In them. 

Or me.

 

The Scariest Blog I Have Ever Written. Seriously!

Why scary? 

Hint: It has nothing to do with Halloween.

I have been standing on the edge of a dizzyingly-high metaphorical diving board for about twenty-five years now. 

Not only have I not had the courage to leap off, I haven't even had the guts to let most of you know I'm even on it. 

So here I am, on the edge of this imaginary high dive... hiding in an allegorical closet.

I realize this is kind of ridiculous, but my fear of rejection, reproach, and recrimination is quite real.  It’s dominated me for decades.

This is because I’ve lived an approval-seeking lifetime of pleasant neutrality, but I’ve been paying a price for my non-pot-stirring ways.

I recently came to the realization that I must jump off this board I’ve been perched on since I was a teenager -- and to heck with the consequences. 

Besides, there is the distinct possibility that I may have just built this fear up in my mind over nothing.  

First, The Back Story: For the last year or so, I have been dealing with a series of seemingly unrelated physical maladies. 

Thankfully, none of them have been serious, but they have prevented me from living my life optimally.  From an excruciating frozen shoulder to an infected molar (breaking my streak of pristine dental health), to laryngitis, the flu, a stomach bug, debilitating fatigue, and slews of little sore throats.

This didn’t made sense. I am very health conscious. 

I am the pretty much the jpeg for clean living. 

My doctor, who I’ve visited several times over the last year, ran a passel of tests, confirming that I am indeed exceptionally healthy.  

Then I asked myself what I always do when I’m faced with a challenge: "Why is this happening? What do I need to learn?" and the oldie but goodie, "What is it that I'm not seeing here?"

The answer -- which deep down I've known all along -- appeared instantly. 

"Time to leap off the diving board. Out with it already! Blog it, dude."  I’d like to think that the wisest part of myself uses the “dude” quite liberally, connoting a casual confidence.

The moment -- and I literally mean the moment -- I decided to jump off my invisible high dive a.k.a. write this post,  I instantaneously started to feel better.  Just like that.

I've felt great ever since!  My health has shifted back into balance.

What does the scary high dive stashed in a silly closet represent?

I’ll break it down like this.

We are all here to live authentic lives.  This means different things to different people.  For me, it means that I need to live as highest expression of myself, which is...

Not just someone who is innately optimistic and perennially hopeful, though I am these things, but... 

What it REALLY means is that I am a typical modern woman living in the regular world of  weekly laundry, varsity mothering, intermittent online shopping and gooey bites of vapid entertainment...

Who also happens to have a profound, completely nonsecular, spiritual calling which does not fit into any preexisting religious or spiritual mold. 

That’s it.  I said it.  Finally! 

In the past, when asked, I’ve always meekly admitted that I’m “spiritual.”

These days, "spiritual" to many means, "I believe in a higher power than myself, but I'm not religious."

This is a perfectly fine definition, but for my purposes here, it’s insufficient.

What "spiritual" means to me is that I look at all of life through a Universal/God-consciousness lens at all times.  In every situation, at every moment, no matter how monumental or mundane.

It’s a “calling” because this path is my true life’s purpose. It’s something I MUST pursue.  

Fortunately, the way for me to fulfill it for now is to just keep doing what I’ve been doing for the last two and half years, writing my books and blog, but with this as my focus. 

Everything I’ve done previously has laid the perfect groundwork for this path.  This includes modeling, MTV, and movie making.

I am very grateful to have a small coterie of people who already accept me in this regard, which includes my wonderful family.  Believe me, I know how blessed I am to have their support. 

However, it’s not enough anymore. 

Why?

In order for me to live as the highest expression of myself, I need to be 100% myself, 100% of the time, which means being completely honest about who I am with everyone.

Just the notion of admitting this truth has scared me for ages, but merely saying it is a powerful step for my personal self-expression.

Lady Gaga expresses herself with her crazy meat dress.  Telling you this is my version of a crazy meat dress.

The sheer act of spilling the beans is going to free me in a way that has been long overdue, so long in fact, it was taking a toll on my health.

This revelation isn’t going to change anything between us.

I really do love my neighbor as myself, whether they agree with me or not. 

I'm not at all interested in convincing anyone to share my views.  I'm too polite for that. 

If you want to reach out to me and want to discuss the magical workings of the universe, of course, I will welcome it.

However, I will not to argue.  There is too much negativity out there to create it right here, so if you want a debate,  I'm not your gal. 

Now, perhaps you are surprised by my board-leaping, spiritual closet-exiting, Universal consciousness-living/writing announcement. 

Or perhaps you're not. 

You may be intrigued.

Or totally indifferent.

You may judge. Or scoff.  Or not. 


You may receive it in any number of ways.  I can't control this.  


The important thing is that I’ve finally jumped into my whole truth. 

And you know what?   I am already starting to feel pretty free.

Dude!

Summer Lovin'... Had Me a Blast? Happened Too Fast?

The older I get... the more pressure I seem to place on summer.  I've attempted to examine this dynamic but I've only managed to cobble together a few pale theories. 

Is this because______?

A).  I live in New England.  Our winters and springs are long and cold. It seems to take summer forever to arrive. When it does it's time to get cracking on boating, beach-going, lobster rolls, and all manners of summer fun?

B.) Time feels like it's passing faster than ever, therefore I need to really make summer "count" because "it'll be over before we know it"?

C.) I want to futilely recapture some summer romance of days long gone by, while being in complete denial that this is no longer truly possible because I am a full-fledged grown-up?

D.)  Unlike any of the other seasons that come and go with a slow fade, summer crashes closed?

I suspect the answer is a synthesis of all of the above. 

Pathetic as it sounds, and I am not proud to admit this, I started to feel slightly melancholic on August 1st. 

I know this is not the optimum way to be, since I strive to practice living in the moment -- every moment. 

Most of the summer, I felt myself failing to practice this... practice.

Then I reminded myself that there is still time to pack it all in. The friends we want to see! The places we want to visit! The cool green salty water we want to plunge in! Go! Go! Go!

But that's pressure, see?  Maybe for adults, there are no lazy, hazy dayz anymore.

As children, summer offers a promise of a certain ineffable magic that is hard to shake (catching fireflies at twilight anyone?) 

I don't place intense expectations on the other seasons. I appreciate their special qualities: apple cider and hayrides, snowfall and reading by the fire, fresh green leaves and robins paratrooping into the yard.

I love all of it... but maybe not as much as I love rapid-fire summer. 

Why isn't summer slow anymore?  Summer lasted eons when I was a kid. 

Now, it whooshes by like a firework making its ascent.

Believe me, I am not looking for sympathy here.  Nor am I trying to whine.  I really am just trying to understand my experience. 

Writing enables me to get clear on subjects in a way that mulling them over in my mind does not.

This small act of articulating these thoughts here enables me to find peace that summer 2011 is screeching to a halt even as I write.

Ironically, writing about summer's all too immediate ending has brought me a sense of unexpected relief.  It's like a turquoise liquid dip on a blistering day in July for my psyche.

Ahhh...

Now, I feel ready to embrace autumn and the crunchy leaf wonders it beholds.

* How did summer 2011 feel to you?  I hope it was spectacular! Please share.

The Death of (Most) Problems

I'm trying to get my kids out the door to get to camp on time.  We're running behind.

I look at the clock.  Rats!  There is no avoiding that they're going to be at least ten minutes late. 

"Oh the horror!"  I mean, who cares?  It's ridiculous, right? 

Yet I do care to a certain extent, because I like to be organized and on the ball and all that. 

Being late feels sloppy to me and I don't like sloppy.

Plus, I feel it's disrespectful to keep people waiting.

Clearly, I bring a lot of baggage to being late.

So we're dashing to camp (though not breaking any laws) and I'm chronically apologizing to the kids about their impending tardiness.

Meanwhile, they don't mind.  It's camp after all, not school. Heck, they're just psyched it's summer.

"It's okay, Mom," they reassure me. 

As I find myself getting wrapped up into what really amounts to a minuscule issue, I remind myself to apply a simple criteria I devised to quickly prioritize and often resolve problems (no matter how big or small they may be). 

I ask myself two questions (they may sound dramatic, but they snap me out of my agita every time).

1.) "Am I going to be thinking about this situation on my death bed?"

2.)  "Is this potentially life-threatening?"

Basically, I jump ahead to death and work backward.

Then the answers are invariably and mercifully an emphatic "no" to #1 and, thankfully, most of the time, it's "no" to #2 too (though tragically, not always).

It's easy for me to answer "no" to #1, because what really matters in life are the people we love, not the problems and challenges we face each day.

It's not going to be one of my big life regrets that my kids were late for camp in the summer of 2011.

When we're on our death beds (metaphorical or otherwise), we are only going to be thinking about the profound love we have shared with one another... not the fight over whose turn it was to gas up the car.

We are also not going to be wasting our last breaths on the laundry we resented folding, the traffic we were forced to sit in, that jerk who just cut us off, or the bills we had to pay ("f*** ing taxes!").

We're not even going to dwell on the bigger stuff: when we were unfairly fired, betrayed by someone we thought to be a close friend or partner, or the acts of a cruel and unconscious parent. 

What we are going to be focusing on is the love we created. 

That's all.

None of the other stuff will be relevant when we get to the end.  

Only love will be present.

This love will transcend all fear, regret, and anger. 

It is the true substance of our souls.

The rest?  Just details.

The Tao of Poop

Last winter, right before Christmas, I was trying to soothe my frozen shoulder (another story) with an Epsom salt bath. When the tub drained in our second floor bathroom, the tub in the first floor bathroom filled with water.

"Must be the salts," I thought.

We called the plumber who performed a thorough diagnostic. He had "bad news."

Water was backing up into the house from our sewer line connecting us to the street -- meaning our sewer line is collapsed. The water has no where to go, so it backs up into the lowest point in the house.

As far as I was concerned, the fact that it was only water backing up into the tub -- and not sewage -- was really pretty awesome.

Yes, we had a problem. Yes, it was going to be expensive to fix, but I was very grateful for what wasn't happening ... a veritable indoor shit storm at Christmas.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. It’s after dinner and I’ve just sat down to relax after a busy day.

My neighbor knocks on my  back door.

"There is sewage coming out of your valve in front of your house and going into the street," she says.

CUE: Alix's eyes popping out of her head -- cartoon-style!!

I thank my neighbor profusely as we dash into my front yard to investigate.  I apprise her of the fact that our sewer line in brand spanking new and supposed to last for decades.

How can this possibly be happening???

We peer over the fence.

Damn! There IS sewage coming out of the newly installed valve and plopping onto the sidewalk and running into the gutter. Fortunately, it’s not gushing... just oozing.

Yuckity-Yuck-Yuck-Yuck!

It is embarrassing, disgusting, confounding and infuriating all at once.

What to do?

Step One: An emergency call to the drain company who did our pricey pipe replacement.

“Can someone please come right away?”

“Yes, but we'll have to charge you,” says the person who answers the phone.

“What? For clearing the brand new pipe? Uh, no. Please call your boss and work it out with him. This shouldn’t be happening.”

[Later, when the pipe is cleared of whatever is causing it to back up, the drain boss will say it was “most likely a fluke and probably won't happen again.” Hmmmmm... this is not completely reassuring, but so far it hasn’t.]

Step Two: Call the police and alert them that there is raw sewage on the sidewalk and in the gutter. I don't want anyone unwittingly riding their bike through it.

“Can they please bring some orange cones?”

“Yes, and we’re going to call the sewer department to make sure it's not the public line creating the problem.” Good thinking (it won’t be).

Step Three: Clean... Uh-Oh. One of the grossest natural materials known to man -- forget that it is produced by man --  is on my sidewalk.

Crap!

Literally.

I gird myself and grab my rubber boots, my hose, my environmentally safe cleanser, trash bags, my garbage can, a bucket and my nerves as I get to work doing perhaps one of the dirtiest job ever.

As I start to clean up, I put my emotions aside in order to deal. It helps. A lot. Is this what "manning up" feels like?

It takes multiple steps to complete this nasty task over a period of at least forty-five minutes. After I've bagged and tossed all the, achem, refuse, I begin to fill the three gallon bucket with soapy water. I lug it out to the sidewalk, making a note that we need a much longer hose. I then carefully pour the suds over the sidewalk (we don't want any back splashing!!).

As I do this, I am intensely present. My methodology being that the more concerned I am about germs and toxins, the more focused I become. For instance, pumping gas practically turns me into a zen master.

In a moment, I notice a cluster of suds that is shaped like a heart gently floating down the walk. It’s pretty.

Then, I look up and notice the lovely pink evening sky. It’s gorgeous out here.

Then I look down the road and see the harbor. More beauty I am drinking in with my eyes, even as I am avoiding breathing through my nose.

I am intensely grateful to live here. What a blessing to be able to see boats peppering the bay now. Summer really has arrived.

I look back to the sidewalk. In the next swath of suds, I see a second bubbles heart cascading down the asphalt walk.

Then, as I’m hauling my sloshy bucket for like the fourteenth time, I spy a small heart-shaped rock lying in the grass. I smile. I pick it up and put it in my pocket.

I then find myself feeling surprisingly invigorated, if not downright alive.

Heck, I am just about joyous.

I then realize that I may be doing an unexpected and highly disgusting chore, but I am still doing it in concert with the universe.  The universe, which often communicates in symbols, has reminded me that there is a subtle sacredness in all things, including when the fit is hitting the shan... or the sidewalk.

The Power of "No."

Some dear friends were recently complimenting me on my ability to say "no." 

I was surprised yet pleased, because saying "no" doesn't come naturally to me.  I've had to work at it like I've had to work on my posture or my penmanship, since saying "yes" is my reflex.

My sister and I have long shared a joke about the a nodding "yes" that almost indiscernibly segues into the gentle "no" -- complete with the casual shaking of the head. When we observed people doing the "yyyeahhhhhhhnnnnnoooooo," it cracked us up because it was so relatable.  Neither of us really knew how to say "no."  

For years, I would automatically answer "yes" to invitations  -- Yo Alix, do you want to go ice fishing at 4 a.m.? (beat) Um, yeah -- because I didn't have the skills or confidence to kindly decline.  God forbid I should offend someone.  I mean, what if they don't like me? Everyone has to like me, right? Right?

I would accept jobs, social obligations, or projects that I really wasn't feeling for one reason or another but felt powerless to refuse.  I really love people.  I don't want to let them down.  It seemed much easier to let me down than let others down.

A few years ago I realized that I had to make a change.  I have focuses (foci?) in my life -- my family, my work, my writing -- and I owed it to them and me to say "no" to things that don't serve those purposes (purposi?).  It already takes me too long to accomplish the few goals I have. Piling on more "to-dos" takes me further from my finish line.

Those first few "no's" were verbose and rawly awkward. I'm sorry, I would really, really love to -- it sounds amazing -- I'm sooooooo flattered that you asked me -- but, I don't think I can right now, though I wish I could, but um.... thanks. Sorry!!!!!!!!! (beat) Oh crap... now they hate me.

I also used to think that I had to have a concrete calender reason in order to say "no": the dentist, a drunk uncle, dropsy. Now I know I don't need anything other than what I'm saying "no" to isn't in alignment either with who I am or what I am doing with my life in that particular moment.  I still remind myself it's okay to put myself first where appropriate.  The world does not fall apart without me on its committee.

The beautiful aspect about this whole process is that people are exceedingly gracious when receiving a gracious "no."  When grace meets grace everything is in its proper place.

The Hope of Ye Olde U2

When I first heard this song, I was fifteen years-old, very impressionable and kinda boy crazy -- a classic combination! I loved to crank this song in my room on my Philco double-cassette stereo and try to sing along.  Being an Alto, I thought I could vocally really get in there with Bono. In hindsight, I probably couldn't. The song's concept of true-romantic-soul-mate, Dublin-style-gray-sky love set to a pulsing drum beat, stirring base, and soaring guitar made me feel incredibly hopeful for the future. This is the song that made me love U2. I still think it's one of their best.

All of these years later, the song is still potent.  I can't say as much for the production values of the video, but I think Bono's look still holds up, New Wave mullet and all (that's right, you heard me).  Thankfully, I am no longer boy crazy, except for the one to whom I'm am happily married.

When I play this song for my kids in my car, my son thinks the refrain is "Two birds eating pie" instead of "Two hearts beat as one." Now when I listen, I laugh and hear his version of the song over the original. The song has taken on a new family-friendly meaning.  Regardless, it still makes me hopeful for the future, probably because "They can't stop the dance" even if it's maybe their "last chance."  The song, to me, is about persistence.  Persistence is another form of hope, whether it be about hope for true love, or two birds sharing a baked fruit-filled desert.

My Favorite Words... A Cavalcade!

I am a lover of words. Not only that, I think choosing the appropriate words is of paramount importance. After all, we create with them. We convey with them. We love with them. We learn with them. We build with them. We heal with them. We bond with them. We make peace with them. Words are, in my book, just plain hot diggity dog. 

I have been collecting my favorite words lately. Here is my list so far:

Poppycock Hackneyed Scalawag Hoodwink Flibbertigibbet Ethereal Euphoria Exaltation Gangbusters Gobsmacked Vexed Smolder Ember Pop Fiddlesticks Muckraker Haberdasher Balderdash Persephone Seraphim Mermaid Maya Specter Gratis Fireworks Whimsy Verdant Gossamer Paradox Juggernaut Zeitgeist Cathedral Flying Buttress Crackerjack Bad ass Supernova Indochine Bamboozle Hibiscus Plethora Sake Articulate Pamplemousse Inspiritus Backsass Sassafras Nocturne Luminous Velocity Bogart Dio Incense Frickin Cacophony Symphony Maestro Embrace Brainstorm Oy Mansard Whizbang Sprite Gallant Ninja Gothic Breathe Mala Canvass Caravan Melodic Splash Diaphanous Incandescent Nautilus Bishop Esplanade Bisou Pagoda Razzle dazzle Hobnob Humdinger Persia Shazam Catalyst & Yowza... What are some of your favorite words?

Blog Block Party

Truth be told, I've had what I call a "blog block" since the start of the new year. Now here it is spring and my block still hasn't cleared. I write about the subject of hope. Humor is a component too (yuck-yuck!), because laughing is freakin' wonderful.  Like a soulful narcotic, it gets us high from the inside out. However, I don't limit myself to these two topics.  I need to write about other stuff that I care about like my beloved aging dog or wanting to "save the adverb real bad" since I don't want to see the English language officially slip into oblivion. Sarah Palin's verbal idiocies are in the dictionary now?

"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Galled."

When 2011 began, I had high hopes for the new year.  I still do. I think my blog block stems from the exceptional amount of intensity brewing around the globe these last few months. For example, talking about hope followed by a knock-knock joke in the wake of the devastation in Japan might appear naive, or worse, insensitive. 

"Doesn't she know the world is going to hell in a hand basket? Doesn't she watch the news?" 

When I shared my concern with a friend who is also a fellow blogger, she said with a smile, "but it's [hope] refreshing." Her comment was refreshing!  Then an artist friend suggested I write about how I'm not writing. I loved this idea too. So here I am blogging about my blog block.

I regard it as a blog spring cleaning. Like spring cleaning, we clear out the dusty corners to make room for the new.  Where there is room for the new, hope will surely follow.  Ideally, in a clown car.

Hope: Not For The Faint of Heart & 9 Other Hopeful Ideas

Originally posted on December 8th, 2010

Hi Friends.

There are many misconceptions about hope that are in serious need of clarification -- if not illumination. So let’s get to it.

1.) As the title of this post states: hope is not for the faint of heart. Remaining hopeful takes tenacity. Hell... it takes guts. Remaining hopeful after all that life has thrown at us is a valiant choice. Own it.

2.) There is an overwrought (and misguided) idea in our culture that the quality of hope belongs to the young, the naive, or worse, the delusional. This negative hope P.R. usually comes from pessimists or self-proclaimed realists who feel they have a better grasp of “reality” than someone who is optimistic or hopeful.

This is an impossibility because reality is relative to the individual. Our realties are unique to us. We all filter our personal realities through the lenses of our life experience.  We can change our lenses anytime in order to see the world in a more positive and hopeful light.  It may take some work. In fact, we might need to dig deeply to make this shift, but the work is so worth it, because...

3.) Life is so much better with hope than without it. This is a simple truth. I've sampled life from both buffets and "The All You Can Eat Hope" is so much better.  No Contest. It's downright delicious compared to the "The Empty, Void, Eat What You Want, But Why Are We Really Bothering?" which is at best bland -- at worst bleak.

4.) Being hopeful, or having hope, doesn’t mean you’re weak -- it means you’re courageous. Every enlightened leader the world has ever known has been hopeful and espoused some form of hope.

5.) Facing difficult challenges is part of life. Remaining hopeful in the wake of them is one of the gifts these challenges give us (wisdom is the other).  We can’t give up on hope or worse -- backlash against it -- as if hope owes us something.  It doesn’t.  It’s not a stock we buy and then when the market takes a turn, we sell it to show how smart we are: “Look, I saw this coming... that’s why I got out.”  Hope is a long-term investment.

6.)  Hope is not a gimmick.  It’s a force. Not unlike the most famous force of all: Star Wars'.  In the original movie, Princess Leia implores, “Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” The Force is the whole Jedi Master power source, but they need hope in their Light Saber holsters to access it.

7.) Hope goes hand-in-hand with peace. If we want peace in our lives, or in our world, we must remain steadfastly hopeful.

8.) Hope is creative. In order to bring something new into the world -- whether it’s a scientific discovery or a work of art -- hope fuels the creative process. It propels us to keep moving forward each day ... sometimes for years... in order to realize our visions. No great leap of humanity was ever made without hope. Fire? Hope. Vaccines? Hope. A man on the moon? Hope.

9.) Hope is the flip side of fear. This an archetypal dichotomy. When studying the Tarot, you learn that there is a card that represents our “Hope and Fears," because they are entwined.  If we’re not feeling hopeful, it’s because on some level we're feeling fearful.  Yes, it might very be artfully suppressing these fears, but we're suppressing them nonetheless. Hope expunges fear.

Upset?  Take hope out for a spin and think about something that excites you -- even if it's a fantasy of a new job or a new home.  This exercise will drop-kick fear out of sight. Repeat until hope becomes second nature, but don't expect this to happen overnight. This is where the tenacity comes into play.  Stick with hope. It will eventually take you where you want to go.

10) Don't be afraid to hope.  Hope allows us to take risks in order to have what we want in life. This is why hope is not for the faint of heart.  Be brave. Claim it. Hope is waiting for us.

      

Well, I Do Declare! Scarlett's Sole Bit O' Wisdom

Originally posted on October 4th, 2010

Scarlett O'Hara was all about Scarlett O'Hara.  She was selfish, spoiled, scheming, and worst of all, a slave owner.  Gorgeous and resourceful, she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.  Scarlett may be fun to watch, but we never root for her.  Her choices add up to a cautionary antebellum tale that could be subtitled,  "Let's Not Do What Scarlett Does...  Let's All Be Like Melanie!"

In the end, Scarlett, the original Mean Girl, gets her comeuppance from Rhett Butler’s Civil War-style F. U., "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

As far as I can tell, Scarlett gets only one thing right.  After the burning of Atlanta by General Sherman's army, Scarlett hits bottom in her hoop-skirt.  Does she crumble?  No.  Scarlett discovers that she is a survivor.  Alone in the muck, she vehemently declares: "As God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again."

This is one of the boldest moments in Gone With The Wind.  What she says preceding this statement is still selfish and scheming... okay... it's a little crazy: "As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill."

Lie?  Steal? Cheat?  Kill?  Geez, Scar... chill... don’t kill.

Enlightened she is not, but Miss O'Hara's one nugget of inadvertent wisdom, from which we can all prosper, is that we have the power to decide what it is that we don’t want --  just as much have the power to decide what it is that we do want.

Scarlett vows that being hungry is no longer an acceptable avenue for her.  We can do this too and we don't have to be starving in the Confederate muck. We can decide what is no longer acceptable or serviceable to us.  By making conscious choices, we tap into our power.  By tapping into our power to choose, we can profoundly change our lives. This power is the battery of hope.

Recently, a loved-one of mine decided that a longtime work situation no longer served them. While they’re not entirely sure what the next step will be, they know what it won’t be -- the same-old, same-old. They consciously drew a line in the universal sand.  This small act has tremendous creative voltage to generate a new paradigm in one’s life. It’s not necessarily easy.  In fact, it takes moxie to leave something familiar for the unknown. 

Taking is a step further, we must now mix our classic movie heroines. When it was time for her to leave the safety of the abbey, Maria in The Sound of Music says, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window."  Everyone’s favorite musical nun-turned-nanny recognized that a metaphoric door had closed, but trusted that the unseen window was open for a reason.

While doors do close in our lives, we don’t have to sit around and wait for them to shut in our faces. We can close  them on our own. By doing so, we create space for more beneficial opportunities to take shape in our lives. Once we gently close a door, the fun can begin...  formulating what is it we do want, like Scarlett in her post-Civil War Era, but without all the Southern-fried lying, cheating, stealing, and killing, y’all.

I Want to Save the Adverb So Bad!!

Originally posted on September 8th, 2010

It's more than a little challenging to be the poor neglected adverb these days.  People here are dissing it real quick and it just ain't right. In fact, it makes me, like, wicked sad.  Now, I'm not saying that I always get it perfect myself, but I do think if we don’t start saving the adverb now, it may be real hard to recover later.

“What's the big deal? Why do we need to save it?” you ask.

First of all, without it, we don't sound particular smart (don't be mad, it's true). Then our poor verbs, who are doing the heavy-lifting actions on our behalf, aren't proper modified. Now they’re hanging out there without a freakin net! Doesn’t that sound total scary? And our adjectives, which are trying to describe everything so beautiful for us, are reduced to half their meaning.  It's a real big bummer.

Why people are killing the adverb soft and slow, I don’t know.  To be clear, the slaughter is not from my friends and family.  It’s people on television!  People like professional actors who are being paid to speak for a living. Lately, they are frequent saying their character’s lines more adverb-free than not.    
“I’m real slow to object, Your Honor, but object I must!”

Where does the  breakdown first occur?  I'm not real sure. Was the adverb first missing in the script?  Did the writers say, "Screw you adverb and your little "ly" too!"  Hmmmm... Or did the actor (while in character) make the slip and no one noticed, cared, or bothered to correct him?  So the director, the producers, the script supervisor, and the network all let it slide by?  Why? Is it laziness? Ignorance? Indifference?

I've heard TV presenters and even some journalist chuck their adverbs too.  This is perhaps a greater transgression since these individuals are being paid for their expertise -- part of which is speaking the English language.

Then there are TV's so-called Reality "Stars" (by the way, the word "star" is now completely meaningless since a season as The Bachelor now earns you the same label as Cary Grant -- WTF?).  Anecdotal evidence supports that a large proportion of reality stars wouldn’t know an adverb if it bit them on the ass real hard.  I know these are  actual people and shouldn’t be held to the same standard as the aforementioned professionals -- I’m not expecting Snookie to turn into Ted Koppel here -- but I do think that we shouldn’t allow the adverb to be so forgotten that its absence becomes the norm.

Special Note: Sarah Palin, if you must stay, then will you at least get your adverbs out of your modified beehive and put them into your over-confident-for-no-reason mouth?

People all over the globe watch our TV.  Many even use it to learn to speak English. I'm not trying to sound harsh and whatnot, but I think as Americans we have a responsibility to ourselves -- and the world -- to not sound like total dumb asses.

A Love Note to My Suddenly Disabled Dog

 Originally Posted on July 26th, 2010

Dear Daphne (A.K.A. Scup, Scuppy Pup, Scuppy Puppy, Pooch MaGoo, MaGoodie, Oodie, Oodie DeeDee, Daffy Dog, Oodie DeeDee-My Daffy Dog),

I know you won’t be able to read this, but that’s not stopping me.  I have something to tell you and I want to shout from the rooftops.

As a kid, I dreamt of getting a dog just like you, but you didn't arrive until I was a married thirty-year old homeowner. Pre-kids, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. You kicked off our family, giving us someone to love, care for, and yes, dote on, besides each other.

I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I fell in love with you even before we met.  I had seen a face much like yours -- fuzzy, tan and white, with bright brown eyes, a black gum drop nose, a little canine smile, ears with personality to burn... one glance and I knew I was a goner.

When we finally met in person, we bonded instantly. Your coat was still wiry in texture and you scampered around the room on our first date like any other nine month-old puppy drunk with a taste of freedom.

On the ride home that first day, Nick (who would later coin all of your affectionate and highly creative nicknames) and I decided to name you “Daphne.”  Your birth name was "Madame," but you didn't look like a Madame to us (besides, with a name like that, I would always be looking over my shoulder for Wayland Flowers)

Like any new parent, I obsessed over every detail.  I bought all the books and the latest equipment.  You looked so smart in your new red collar. 

You were home for three weeks before you barked for the first time.  In fact, I was starting to worry that you didn't know how to bark.  It turns out you were saving your bark for other passing dogs... and that was about it.  You have never barked -- not once -- when someone has come to the door. 

Daphne, you have completely spoiled us in this way.  You have also never cried or whined (unless someone accidentally stepped on you because you insisted on being underfoot when there was a chance that food could hit the floor, which is how you earned another nickname, "Little Miss Underfoot”).  You also, as it turned out, didn't shed. This was very considerate of you. Not a must, but a plus we have come to appreciate.

Remember on our neighborhood walks how people would always stop us to ask what kind of dog you are?  "Wire hair fox terrier," I would reply with a smile.  One time, a fellow passing us on the street took one look at you and exclaimed, “Asta!” He was of course referring to the famous fox terrier from one of our favorite old movies, The Thin Man.


Like any great relationship, we have had our moments: occasional accidents in the house, bolting outside in a thunderstorm (much to our terror), but nobody's perfect.  You’ve been great with the kids, though a little slow to admit they’re not your litter mates at times.  In the big picture, you have been a fantastic dog.  Daph, we began as a trio and now we’re a quad.  This quartet loves you like no other. 

That is why it is so hard to think that our time together is starting to run out.  You are twelve and change now, which is still kind of low-milage for your breed.  I thought we'd have a few more good years. 

As I sit here and write to you, you are lying cozily on your bed next to me.  You are snoozing away.  Looking at you in this setting, you wouldn't know that you are now disabled.  Around Christmas, you back legs start to slip out from under you.  It was subtle at first and was easy to mistake for the slippery new floors in our new house.  By Easter, you were still getting around, but your hips were lower than they used to be.  By May, we were ordering you a wheel chair.

Having run every test, we have learned that you are in great health, except that your brain is no longer communicating with your back-end.  You are not in pain, you are just weak.  Looking for more answers, the new vet has helped you tremendously with a diet makeover, supplements, Chinese herbs, and acupuncture treatments. You have put wieght back on and have perked up.

As if we didn't have enough challenges, the conversation with the woman from the canine wheelchair company who called to get my credit card number, floored me.

Yes, she completely flabbergasted me by taking it upon herself to tell me that you have a fatal condition, not unlike the human ALS.  When I tried to tell her that neither of your doctors had mentioned this as a potential diagnosis, she replied expertly, “they don’t always know.  Doctors make mistakes.” 

She continued, “I’m just telling you so that you can prepare yourself emotionally,” as if she were my father’s oncologist, instead of a custom dog-wheelchair purveyor.  “I’ve seen this disease in a lot of wire hair fox terriers in the last couple of years,”  she persisted.  Wow. Nothing I said from our side made a difference to her.  She's convinced this is what's wrong with you and there was no talking her out of it.  She was as tenacious as a terrier herself.

This, needless to say, threw me for a loop.  I didn't think that this leg weakness development could or would kill you.  I just thought you were entering your "Senior" phase with a bang. 
For the record, neither the vet nor I accept this unsolicited phone diagnosis as gospel (though it is a boogeyman in my head at times). 

With all of this drama swirling around you, the great news is that you seem blissfully unaware to your new limitations.  You still love to give kisses and get your snowy white tummy rubbed.  You still get excited for meals.  You still love to sniff the morning breeze.  You are yourself in every way, except that you can't walk. I am so happy that you are small enough that I can pick you up and take you out with ease (we’d be in big trouble otherwise). We have had to build a new routine with your more complicated care. You have been a total trouper throughout.

Daphne, I admire the way you are perfectly fixed in the present moment. You inhabit only now in your canine-time-stasis.  It's me who is a part-time mess.  I try to stay present, because I think this is what you may be trying to teach me, by example, or should I say “Ood-xample?"

But my heart is breaking at the thought of loosing you, my little pup.

I have philosophical blips where I tell myself that this is part of life, that we have given you an loving home and that nothing and no one lives forever.  Then I have moments where I felt powerless and even a little hopeless.  

Then I rally... hope returns.  "Who knows?" I think to myself.  "You may continue on in this condition just for quite some time and be fine."  Wheelchair woman be damned!

I just needed to verbally declare, Daphne, that no matter what the future holds for us -- for it is a mystery -- you are a huge part of our hearts, now and forever. 

You, Oodie-Dee-Dee-Scuppy-Pup-Pooch-Magoo-Miss-Daffy-Doggie, have been the delightful dog of our dreams.

Love Always,
Alix

                     
                       Daphne in repose with Nooble, the teddy bear.   

Look Out Rocky!!! The Bike Ride & My Writer's Dilemma

Originally posted on June 22nd, 2010

So I'm out riding my bicycle on a lovely summer day.  It's gorgeous and I'm giddy from the summer-only scents of honeysuckle, rose hips and the huge privet bushes that have been left to their own devices in the untamed areas of the island where I live.  I love the unique peace of the bicycle ride.  The freedom it affords.  Robins are darting across my path with such a crazy consistency it’s like they're trying to tell me something. Summer is humming all around me.

As idyllic as it is, I'm feeling conflicted about this ride.  Part of me feels I should be physically attached to my computer working tirelessly in the way that a really dedicated writer does. That's the thing about being a writer -- you never feel like you've written enough.  At least that's how I feel.  No matter how much I produce, I am often left feeling that I could have worked harder and written longer.

I then remember reading that Ernest Hemingway wrote one page a day in the mornings.  Once he had written his page, which he would labor over for hours,  he was free to  his throw himself into his uber-manly pursuits, which of course gave him plenty of material to write about.  I tell myself that my bike ride, while it's not deep sea fishing or big game hunting,  might give me something to write about too,  though can't help but wonder if I’m just rationalizing or procrastinating (something I can't afford to do).

Ride to write?  Write to ride?  This is My Writer’s Dilemma. Does the ride reward the writer (me) or does the ride serve the writer (also me)?  At this moment, I don’t know, so off I go...

Whenever I leave my house--be it by vehicle or on foot--I set the intention for a safe and uneventful journey.  "Uneventful" means just what it sounds like--I get to where I'm going without incident: no crashes, no collisions, no being pulled over by cops, which equals no tickets, etc. You get the idea. I think of myself as a “conscious commuter.”  I even have an animal clause.  I would never want to kill a creature, great or small, with my car (I would feel terrible, plus it would be gross).  Also, I don't want to ride over roadkill while I'm on my bike.  Yes, I am that squeamish.

I am almost back home from my lovely, summery, albeit partially conflicted, though nicely uneventful pedal-to-no-metal cruise.  I'm thinking about what I'm going to be working  when I get home: my "damn book" (mentioned in my previous "Flood" post) and what my next blog topic should be (I haven't a clue).

Suddenly a-big-fat-load-of-Bizarre-with-a-capital-“B” hits.  A squirrel, from out of nowhere, bolts right into my front tire.  So determined is this animal to cross in front of me, that I can feel his (her?) body hitting the wheel.  He’s so persistent I can hear his little claws scratching against the bike as though he is trying to stop it from moving so he can pass.  I am clearly in this squirrel's way.

I squeeze the hand brake while squealing loudly like a cartoon version of myself, because, well I just can't freakin' help it. “Eeeeeeeeeek!! Aaaaaaaaack!!”

Additionally, I'm praying that I don't run over this nutty ballsy squirrel or worse--crash and go down smack on top of Rocky!

The bike doesn't stop right away.  I’m still rolling while Rocky is taking his life in his little gray crazy paws.  What is so weird is how committed he is.  Rocky is going to cross in front of me no matter what.  He hits my bike?  So what.  He hits it again?  WHATever. There is no stopping him. There is no turning back. It’s like his own personal D-Day and my bike his is Normandy.

I’m finally slow down enough that he’s able to cross, which he does like he has a rocket strapped to his tail, leaving both of us unharmed.  By my standards, if no one gets hurt, which includes aggro squirrels with apparent death wishes, it still qualifies as "uneventful."  I utter a big “phew.”

Of course I’m no expert, but Rocky’s behavior strikes me as really out of character (squirrel-wise).  I wondered if there was a deeper meaning to the incident.  Was Rocky actually trying to tell me something?  My secret inner-Shaman-ista side starts to emerge--the side of me that believes in the communion of all life.  I think everything has something to offer us if we are open to it.  This is how I quietly roll, when I’m trying not to roll over madcap squirrels, that is.

To find an answer to my esoteric query, I refer to the book Animal Spirit Guides by Steven D. Farmer, Ph.D., to see what a squirrel close encounter this memorable might mean.  According to Dr. Farmer, squirrels can have multiple meanings, but the one from this book that really resonated for me was: "Although you are actively and aggressively pursuing your goals right now, you need to balance this pursuit with more socializing and play."
“Play!” So there you have it.  The determined squirrel did represent something... it’s perfectly all right, in fact, advisable, for me to take a bike ride when the spirit moves me.  The ride does serve the writer. 
My Writer’s Dilemma is solved... in a most unexpected way.  Now, what's up with the Robins?

"Catie, Will You Go Out With Me?"

Originally posted on May 28th, 2010


What the--?

This what I read on a rock today.  It wasn't just any rock either.  The graffiti was sprawled in huge black spray-painted letters across a gorgeous craggy stone that sits right on the edge of the sea in an idyllic state park near my house.

It bummed me out to read this.  Not like the oil spill bums me out of course, but still... the letters are so gargantuan, you can practically read the date request from space.  Who knows?  Maybe Catie is in outer space, but that is no excuse.  This "ask" is painted in a completely beautiful setting and vandalism--even romantic vandalism--really upsets the apple cart of natural majesty there.

Sure, there are much worse things that could have been written, so maybe I should consider it lucky that it's at least family-friendly graffiti.  Now I'm wondering if park services will remove it or if we're going to be reading this query until the sun and sea wear it off, which could take decades.

I'm sure whomever decided to  make this gesture felt that it was gallant yet artistic-- like John Cusak holding up the boom box while Peter Gabriel sang "In Your Eyes" to Ione Skye in the great Say Anything.  It had to have been an impetuous youth who was sick and tired of texting and Facebook and passing Catie anonymously in the hallway at school.  This person must be desperately in love with Catie and they wanted her to know it.  It's actually pretty  ballsy, since they probably didn't know how Catie would respond.  If only it weren't permanent for every passerby to read while they're trying to drink in the awesome sun, sea, and waves.  Couldn't "Catie, will you go out with me?" have been written on a old fashioned Post-It note, instead of an ancient slab of granite?

Looking at the bright side, maybe this rock writing sparked the beginning of an epic Earthshaking romance between Catie and the spray-painting granite ocean-view-defacer... like Brangelina or Bennifer or Antony and Cleopatra (Cleotony?).  Speaking of long romances, my husband and I met 20 years ago this weekend.  It was nothing like Catie and her admirer.  We used the phone.  As for the anniversary, I don't think we are really doing anything to commemorate it though I would like to. However, I have a feeling it's going to fall through the cracks of Memorial Day cookouts and summer kickoff moments (SPF 70 anyone?).

[Just to be clear, I'm not dropping him a hint here, as he rarely, if ever, gets around to reading this blog, despite his best intentions]

We met I was 21 and he was 25.  Now I'm 41 and he's 45.  Holy time-lapse Batman!!  I am proud that we have hit such a significant marker in our relationship.  What is really amazing is that in our circle of friends here in coastal Rhode Island (who are approximately the same ages as we are), twenty years together isn't that  exotic.  I can think of five other couples who are either about to mark their twentieth year together or  who have recently exceeded it.

What can account for such longevity (besides hard work, commitment, fun and love)?  Maybe it's something in the water?  That would be the salt water of course, because Lord knows you can't drink the water out of the tap here.  Perhaps the salt water and sea air swept Catie off her flip-flopped feet and into the arms of her spray painting admirer?

Tell us Catie.  Did you go out with them?  I hope so! Please say the rock didn't give its beautiful rough face up in vain.  Twenty years from now, we still don't want to be wondering how you answered this question, but unless the park rents a power washer, we very well may be.

The Mirror

Originally posted on May 14th, 2010
 
Last week something rather extraordinary happened -- or didn't happen -- depending on which way you look at it.

It was Monday evening and we were running a little behind schedule at my house.  The kids had been excused from the table to head upstairs and get ready for bed.  In addition, they were supposed to sort laundry for allowance money.  They seek out chores so they can earn dough for covetous items (like Wii games).  Normally, they would be in bed by 8 o'clock and reading.  Lights are out by 8:30 (on a good night). 

My husband and I were taking it a little slowly downstairs at the dinner table.  I was relying on the kids (ages 8 and 10) to get all of their stuff done without supervision.  In hindsight, this was an overly ambitious goal.  When I came upstairs at 8:15, the kids were lying on our bed watching TV, not ready for bed and the laundry, while sorted, had been hauled into our room for illegal tube-viewing -- breaking the no-TV-after-dinner rule.

I hit a roof as this was a blatant exploitation of our upstairs' absence.  I think they must have thought that since we don't have a periscope to the second floor, it was a free-for-all for the elementary set.  Operatically, I sent them to their room to go straight to bed.

I then noticed that the blinds were up in the bathroom. Since it was now dark and privacy was required, I marched down that hallway to the bathroom like I was a boot camp superstar.

March! 2-3-4! March!2-3-4!

So single minded was I -- steam still hissing out of my ears -- I was having a Terminator (Termomnator?) moment.  I was a machine on a mission.  I entered the bathroom.  My eyes fixed on my destination -- the window. En route, I marched passed the vanity.  I heard a loud cracking sound.  I pivoted 90 degrees so that I now was facing the medicine chest that still gleamed with shiny newness.  In the next second, I caught the huge mirrored door that was breaking off it's hinges with both hands.

Yes people, I friggin' caught the mirror!

Me -- who is famously known for not having quick reflexes -- was storming past the mirror in the exact moment that it broke from its hinges.  One second earlier or one second later and it would have been a disaster.  Yet I was there in the exact moment that I needed to be there in order to avert catastrophe. 

I enlisted my daughter to get her father because this door was exceedingly heavy (mirrored on both sides), and I didn't know how long I could hold it.  He raced upstairs and assisted in taking it completely off the chest without further damage.

We were both in shock that our new medicine chest  broke... and in such a dangerous way.  What if the kids had been brushing their teeth and it fell on them?  We started to shudder as we headed down freaky-spooky-scary "What If" Lane. We then made a quick metaphoric U-turn and headed home to the present where our kids were safe and all was well that ended well.

The timing of this event was no-less than amazing to me.  If we hadn't been running late that night, then surely I would not have been in the bathroom at the exact moment it broke.  Usually by 8:15, I'm in my room ready to wind-down the day.  If the kids hadn't pushed the boundaries, then I wouldn't have lost my temper and I wouldn't have had the impetus to charge to the bathroom in a hot pique.  All of these little events, which seemed so out of order in the moment they occurred -- actually weren’t. They put me exactly where I needed to be in the exact moment that I needed to be there.  The exact moment!

That, my friends, is what I call a miracle. 

What's in The Name... of Hope

Originally posted on April 30th, 2010

I realize that I make it confusing for people.

First, I was "Alix."  I still am.  It's pronounced like "Alex" a la Alex P. Keaton and not the French way, "Aleeks."  For years, people have asked me about why my nickname is spelled with a "i" when my full name "Alexandra" is spelled in the classical way.  My short answer is that my parents thought it would be more feminine, which it is.  The long answer goes back to my parents debating about whether to call me "Aleeks" or "Alecks."  The compromise was "A-L-I-X."  Spell it one way, say it the other.  I like that it's a little different.  Of course, when I was a little kid in the 1970's, having a name like "Alix" in any form was way exotic.  I could never find my name on a mug or a key chain in Spencer's Gifts.  How I longed to be a "Julie" or a "Jill" or a "Beth."  Sigh.

After I graduated from high school, I moved to New York because I had an opportunity to have a modeling career for one of the big agencies.  It was time to think about my name.  It's standard for models to change their names or play around with their monikers because it's such a competitive business that you don't want to have the same name as another model.     When a kid from Iowa named Christopher started modeling in 1997, he decided to use his middle name as his first name to stand out more. "Ashton Kutcher" was born.  When I modeled, I went by "Alexandra-No-last-name.”  I probably wanted to sound more grown-up -- to shed my childhood identity in the big city.  I don't think it worked.

After modeling for four years, I attended The American Academy of Dramatic Arts to try my hand at acting.  Since I was a student, I happily went back to "Alix."  Except that I  had one teacher who never got my name right all year.  He always called me "Alexis."  He must have been a big Dynasty fan.  I didn't really mind, but it drove some of my classmates crazy.  They would correct him, "Her name is ALIX!"  It never took. 

When I call customer service numbers to order linens or shoes or figure out some credit card nonsense, the people I speak to invariably call me "AlexandRIA."  They add an unnecessary "i" at the end.  Maybe they all live in Virginia?  Or Egypt?

When I began my freelance writing career, I used "Alexandra Flood."  Again, back to being grown-up but even more so now because I had a last name too.  After a seven years of writing for magazines and the web, I segued into screenwriting and filmmaking.  I wrote and directed an independent feature-length comedy called A Totally Minor Motion Picture.  By this point, I was feeling like I should now be credited as "Alix Flood" because it felt the most true to who I am in my day-to-day life.  Also, I was an actual grown-up now, so I didn’t have to try so hard to sound grown-up.

To confuse matters even more, in my personal life I toyed with the idea of taking my husband's last name for about, oh, I don't know, the first five years (!) of our marriage before I decided that I just wanted to keep being "Flood."  I like his name, but I realized that I didn't need it, say, for the sake of our kids.  It really didn't matter to them or their schools if their parents had two different last names.  Now because I would sometimes use his last name (though I never changed it legally),  people will still call me by his last name though I haven't used it for about ten years.  I can understand this.  I mean, I was unclear about what I wanted to be called, so it's all on me if people still aren’t sure.

I have now spent more than five years going by "Alix Flood" professionally.  Just to keep piling on the confusion, I have decided to mix it up -- yet again -- and use my full name "Alexandra Hope Flood" for my blog.  I think just as much as my nickname feels like most like the day-to-day me.  My entire name feels like a part of myself that I have yet to explore. 

About three years ago, I heard a story about a guy who had tried many different careers, but nothing stuck and he was frustrated.  He had always made homemade vodka and given it to friends as gifts, until one day someone suggested that he go into the vodka-making business.  It was what he loved and it came naturally to him.  He was already good at it.  And you know what his name is?  Tito Beverage!!  Really.  That was his name.  In the interview I saw, he was laughingly saying "My wife says, ‘nomenclature is destiny.’" His homemade vodka is a hit. 

The gears started turning. Tito is a guy with a noun as a last name.  I have a noun as a last name too.  Then my middle name “Hope” is also a noun and a verb, and a virtue.  I have always loved it, but I’ve never used it.  Then it hit me, my name is “A. Hope Flood.” Without being fully cognizant, Hoping and having Hope is something that I have excelled at.  Hope is something that I am just plain passionate about.  It comes naturally to me.  It's something that I want to share.  I want to give it as a gift to friends.  It's my homemade vodka.  My kind of spirits. 

An Actual Flood and What Came to The Surface

Originally posted on April 14th, 2010

This time I am talking about a real flood here. Not a metaphorical one.  My state, Rhode Island, was declared a state of emergency two weeks ago by President Obama due to the heavy rains that caused the Pawtuxet River (fun to say, but not fun to live near now) to overflow swamping houses and business.  People have sadly lost their homes and some businesses are still closed indefinitely.  The Warwick Mall was flooded -- like three feet of water in front of Target flooded.  This is very distressing for a state that is already economically depressed. Our unemployment rate is already one of the highest in the country.

For those who don't live near the river, storm drains also overflowed. The water table got over saturated and on the island where I live, most of the people I've talked to have had water in their basements. Friends with finished basements have had to tear up carpet and throw out furniture. It's all a big time bummer.

We had 18 inches in our cellar and a lot of keepsakes got wet.  It was a big swampy project to clean up -- more like excavate -- and while we sadly threw away a mountain of books, baseball cards, and items we once thought worthy of saving, in an instant, much of it was converted into garbage. 

Seeing so much from the past, not just my past, but my family's (for I was storing of a lot their things for them) brought a lot of memories to the surface in a giant wet mess.  Fortunately, with perseverance, we were able to save the most crucial items -- old letters my father wrote home during his military service, photographs of my grandparents, my old journals (which we put down there in error) and letters, my father's book research (we were able to save the most important pieces and cull the rest). 

Weeding through all of this -- it was like the last 100 years of my family imploded down in that basement -- it was impossible not to reflect on the passage of time.  My father died almost 16 years ago and my grandmother has been gone since 1980.  They both have very interesting stories and I have always intended to tell them through some creative medium or another.  All this time has passed and I still haven't done it. 

The flood was a huge wake up call for me and while I boohooed quite a bit -- especially when I had to chuck my little brother's baseball card collection that he had trusted me to preserve -- I now know, more than ever, that it is time to get busy with all of the projects that I want to do, but thus far haven't.  I am writing a book and it's been a little slow going, but I don't want another 16 years to pass without me accomplishing these goals.

Since the flood my mantra is (with forte): "Don't wait!! Just write the damn book!
Just.
Write.
The.
Damn.
Book!" 

I've Got The Pow-AH! Just Add Hope

Originally published on March 18th, 2010

I love to write about the meaning of "Hope," not just because it's my middle name or my daughter's name (long story but despite appearances, she isn't named after me). 

It's not just because I live in the state where "Hope" is emblazoned on the flag.  Nor is it because my children's bus stop is on the corner of Mount Hope Avenue. 

I write about "Hope" (capitalized by me for emphasis) because despite all of these daily and overtly and crazily blatant reminders in my life, sometimes I actually forget to Hope. 

Now how could I forget?  I'm not sure, but I do.  I think this is perhaps part of the human experience -- forgetting what we already know from time to time.  This may be why we repeat our lessons in life because they didn't quite stick the first time. 

 I would say that I have always had a hopeful disposition,which I am grateful for, but what I really know/think/believe/feel is that Hope needs to be taken to the next level -- or as some hepped up Real Housewife might say in a confrontational manner, "Bring it on!"

I think Hope is one of the most underestimated powers around. "I've got the POW-ah!" (cue World Power's early '90's dance classic "The Power")

People think money is power... but the real power is Hope.  When we Hope -- really Hope -- then our dreams begin to take flight. When we Hope we can begin to bring our dreams into our realities.  When we Hope, we delight at getting out of bed in the morning.


Even though I have so many "Hope" bricks falling on me, I don't always wake up feeling, well, a flood of hope  -- let alone A Flood of Hope (& Humor).  In fact last week, I really struggled to come up with a post topic and I encountered so much resistance, I decided to skip it.  I didn't want to, but I just couldn't get cracking. 

I have come to learn that Hope takes practice and conscious effort just like anything else that is worth doing well.  Start by thinking about something you Hope for.  Use your imagination!  This should be a fun and light exercise.  By the time you're really digging into your dreams, you will certainly feel happier than you did before you started Hoping.

It just takes practice. I promise.

The Jigginess of Hope -- The Mood Solution!

Originally posted on March 5th, 2010

I live in New England.  March is not kind to us here. Perhaps this is why some residents choose to go into bacchanalian overdrive on St. Patrick's Day.  Speaking for myself, I hide out during the season where everyone gets to be Irish, since people getting rip-roaring drunk in the daytime makes me nervous.  I'm always worried a fight is going to break out, but I'm getting ahead of myself here -- it's still a week before discarded plastic beer cups will be filling the gutters like chubby parade confetti on Main Street.  Landfill -- here we come!

Yesterday, I woke up with a case of the seasonal "blahs." It was gray and raw and hard to get motivated.  I wanted to feel focused and inspired.  I wanted to be productive and accomplish things, but instead I was awash in grayness. Blah-city, here Folks. I was even wearing a gray sweater, which normally is one of my favorites, but it make have been just one dose of gray too many. 

Through years of trial and error I have learned that when I'm feeling "blah" I have to take responsibility for it and try to work my way out of it.  Just to be clear, "blah" is not blue.  Blue is sad and more serious than blah.  Blah is just... well... blah.  The word says it all, but I’m a firm believer that it can be shaken-off with the right cocktail of choices. 

The answer can be the right food combination -- a healthy carbohydrate to release some serotonin into my system.  A few years ago I was on vacation with my family, but I was also trying to avoid carbs and I was a mess -- I wasn’t enjoying myself, until a read in a magazine that a piece of toast can help to release serotonin and change your whole mood. After reading this, I decided to accept myself not only as a carb-lover, but as a carb-needer.

Some sugar can be good too, in moderation of course.  My preference is sugar mixed with caffeine.  A few dark chocolate covered espresso beans, which I sometimes call “Mommy’s morning crack” can perk me right up. In these instances, I think of food as a medicine with the potential to "cure" the blahs, but I am not advising to go eat every time something goes wrong -- like the toner cartridge is empty in the copy machine, so let's make a run for the Entenmann's in the break room .

Apart from food, another surefire mood solution is listening to the right song. Cranking the perfect tune can quickly banish the blahs and I begin to feel like myself again.  Hope returns!  Yesterday my solution was so infectiously fun that there was no way I could feel "blah" while I was "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It."  All these years later, I still don't know what the hell "Jiggy" means, but I really don't care. Will Smith is such a fun and positive artist -- his cheer is phenomenal.  I mean look at him... how can you not smile?

So “Na-na-na-na-na-na! Na-na-na-na-na!” to you March in New England blahs!!! And thank you Will Smith for... well, being you. 

Please visit my facebook fan page for a Big Willie Style "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It" video fix.  I'm telling you, the blahs don't stand a chance! 

I Didn't Come Here to Win. I Came Here to Make Friends

Originally posted on February 25th, 2010

 

I don't think I have ever seen a reality show where some over-zealous participant doesn't say, "I didn't come here to make friends. I came here to win!" I mean, it's almost a cliche at this point, but I still hear it.  In fact, I'm thinking of putting it on a T-shirt for satiric effect. 

 

I find this declaration funny is because making friends is winning!

 

Clearly these people have never seen It's A Wonderful Life or if they have, maybe they missed the message.  The Angel Clarence leaves his copy of  Tom Sawyer with an inscription to George Bailey at the end of the movie: "Remember, George: no man is a failure who has friends..."

 

Nothing could be truer.  I certainly think it's important to have goals.  In fact, I myself have always been very goal-oriented, but I think it's way more important to have friends.  I have also always been very friends-oriented.  All of my great school memories are tied into cherished time with my friends -- not the term paper I got a B- on.  Along the way, I have made friends while working toward some of my various goals (modeling, acting, writing) and my wonderful friends have supported me toward some of my goals... helping me to make my movie, A Totally Minor Motion Picture, for instance.  That would have been impossible without the immense help of many of my friends who volunteered their time, creativity and energy to bring the comedy to completion. While I am proud of the final product that is the movie, I am even prouder of the collaborative effort that created it.  There is no way that I could have done it without them. 

 

Friends are the prize. 

 

My grandfather used to say, "A true friend is someone who you know all about and you like anyway."  I love this because none of us are perfect and we shouldn't expect our friends to be either. 

 

If I've ever been irritated by a friend (which is thankfully very rare these days) sometimes I put the irritation into what I call "The End Game Test."  This always snaps me right out of it.  Now, you may think this is morbid, but I think that it helps to put things in their true perspective. So ask yourself, "Would this irritation or conflict stop me from attending my friend's funeral, if, God forbid, something were to happen?" The answer will 99.9 % of the time always be an unqualified "No!"  You'll soon realize that when it comes down to it, you love this person and accept them for who they are and would be so distraught if you were to lose them -- so who cares if they took the last scone or blabbed a little secret or whathaveyou?  None of this matters when put into the context of life and death.  Mentally fast-forwarding to the moment when you will no longer have each other to be mad at makes you realize that what you're mad about really doesn't matter. 

 

We all must quit this Earth at some point and it's important to make our contributions to the world -- I am all for it. However, I think it's even more important to make contributions to each other, because in the end, we "win" with the love and laughter and tears that we share. 

 

I can honestly say that I am rich beyond measure in friendship.  I am a wealthy woman, indeed.