Tag: appreciating life

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Guest blog: “I may be Asian, but I’m not your Christmas Chinaware” By Abbie Pfau

It is with great honor that I post my first guest blog. The writer is both talented and intelligent, witty and kind. She is gorgeous and current and she just so happens to be my little cousin. I give you Abbie Pfau:

My mom always said that when I was a girl, my joy was infectious, but as a woman my wit has become deadly. Through 9 surgeries, a month of paralysis, and 23 years as an adopted, differently-abled individual, I’ve learned that I don’t have to be so dichotomous. Instead, I’ve set out to try and use both the wit and the joy to share a point-of-view as someone who’s just trying to make it through every open door in life, without having to press the “handicap accessible” button. After all, who has the patience for that?

I never do.

Always be graceful, but don’t be afraid to be reckless…

Abbie

Photo credits: http://images.huffingtonpost.com/2015-09-23-1443029669-9258368-Dollarphotoclub_75515307.jpg

I May be Asian, but I’m Not Your Christmas Chinaware

            “Abbie Pfau, get over here right now and give me a hug. You’re not actually crippled.” The moment those words left my friend’s mouth and traveled across the high school piazza, a couple hundred confused faces turned to stare in horror. I picked up my crutches and traversed through a sea of people, hopping over bodies and laughing with her as we enjoyed the uproar she had just caused. All of those poor bystanders had thought they had just witnessed the biggest display of rudeness against a disabled woman, but what they don’t know is that it was actually a great compliment. On the contrary, it was their horrified faces that conveyed the unintentional insult. They all actually thought I was crippled.

I have crutches, so I must be broken. I am broken, so I must need help with everything.

It’s a very common misconception, so please, don’t feel bad if you’ve made this mistake. I understand the logic; everyone’s trying to make life easier, and truthfully, my condition does make certain things like carrying heavy objects and bending over to pick my clothes off the floor a bit of a struggle. If I’m being honest, I’m in some degree of pain every day, even when I go to sleep. But nothing hurts more than people’s (un)conscious discrimination against my ability. Most of the time, able-bodied people don’t realize they do it, because to them it feels like they’re being considerate and inclusive. However, there’s nothing that feels more exclusive than when someone tells my boyfriend he shouldn’t make me go on a hike with him. There’s nothing kind or helpful about scowling at my family for expecting me to wash my own dishes. Someone isn’t doing me any favors or any justice by sneering at my friends for laughing with me after I’ve gloriously “McFallen” in a McDonalds. There is this overpowering belief that my family, friends, and significant-other should never “make me” work. They should never “make me” get up to let the dog in. They should never “make me” go out and have adventures that would require any physical activity…because it might hurt. My fragile self might break, just like Humpty Dumpty.

There’s an important lesson to be learned from Humpty Dumpty though. He spent most of his story just sitting on a wall…and he still broke. I spent a month of my life paralyzed from the waist down, unable to do anything for myself. I couldn’t get up to go to the restroom by myself. I couldn’t take a shower by myself. I couldn’t even roll over in bed while I slept without someone’s help. Nevertheless, with determination and resilience, I worked through the pain and regained my physical independence. That would have been nearly impossible without the help of people I love; they always pushed me to work harder, to be better, and to live life fully – and living fully doesn’t mean needing someone to do everything for me.

After my back surgery and paralysis, I wasn’t allowed to bend my spine, which created a great deal of difficulty in my daily life. My parents have a very deep top-loading washer; nevertheless, they still expected me to do my own laundry, so I figured it out. My loved ones are all very active; they love to be adventurous and go hiking, skiing, boating, swimming, traveling, biking, etc. Never intending to watch them from the sidelines, I’ve learned to adapt. Sure, it might take me longer to bike the trails or climb the hills, but it certainly won’t stop me. My bones might ache when I stand up to answer the door or bring in the groceries, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be expected to do it. My body might be in pain, but that doesn’t mean my life has to suffer. I may be disabled, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead. I’ve been given a life to experience, live, and love. I refuse to spend my days sitting on a wall waiting to break and expecting all of the King’s men to put me back together again.

I know I look like an innocent, dainty piece of china that you have to protect and lock away in your cabinet. However, the truth is, I – and the multitude of other differently-abled individuals around the world – am stronger than you know. Our fragile, eggshell bodies have held the weight of an adversity that most cannot fathom, but they never break under the weight. So please, don’t be afraid for us. Don’t make excuses for us. Don’t expect less from us. Don’t lock us away and do everything for us. Help us be the best we can by pushing us to be more than we seem, because the only disability in life is being enabled to the point of not experiencing all it has to offer – even, and perhaps most importantly, the challenges it holds. If we didn’t want the challenge, we would’ve let you know.

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“Painkilling” remedies from the Caribbean

In my most recent post, “An unexpected love affair,” I alluded to my experiences whilst on vacation, most particularly with the people we came to meet in various islands of the Southern Caribbean. While I admitted in that post that Puerto Rico was our most loved island of the trip, I also admitted that Grenada and Barbados left a very sweet impression on my soul. The joy, the energy and the creative spirits of the people in Grenada and Barbados made us feel welcomed and I was inspired by their lifestyle and simple nature to succeed in life and to find contentment, oftentimes despite a lack of resources and wealth.

I was particularly impressed by the Grenadian people’s ability to “live off the land” and export much of the world’s spices, despite their poverty. During our visit there, we attended a tour of a spice plantation and a nutmeg factory. We were struck by their very simple, yet effective, means of hand-collecting, sorting and packing spices … particularly nutmeg. There were no motors or machinery, just wooden sorting boxes and human hands. And yet they export a large portion of the world’s top spices around the globe.

We learned through our tour guide, that much like the natives in the US, the people of Grenada have learned to make use of every part of a plant and do not waste. In addition to the actual nutmeg seed that we use here in the states, in Grenada, the outer shell of the nutmeg seed is used for coal to build a fire. The red, fibrous wrap around the seed, called “mace” is removed, dried and used for cooking (thus deriving two spices from the same tree). And oil extracted from the leaves and bark is used for homeopathic remedies. The same is done for every plant on the island. What they harvest, they use in its entirety.

Grenadians literally have a plant-cure for everything. In the case of nutmeg, it is used to treat insomnia, promote digestion, relieve pain, and its antibacterial components are said to promote good oral health as well as detoxify the body. ( A quick internet search will explain the chemistry behind each of these uses.) In many Grenadian stands and store fronts, they sell the whole and the ground varieties of spices as well as the oil extracts. They believe very much in their benefits and pride themselves in their overall health as a nation. “We don’t use medicine”, they will tell you, “we don’t have to…” “this is natural, and it works.”

And because they believe in the natural properties of these plants and spices, they include them in many more foods them we traditionally would, here in the states. For instance, I found “Banana ketchup, flavored with nutmeg” and semi-sweet chocolate bars “60% cocoa, flavored with nutmeg”. I bought them both and they’re delicious – not over-powering or awkward tasting…just good!

But my favorite food by which to add nutmeg is a tropical cocktail called,

“The Painkiller”®

We were first introduced to “The Painkiller” in St.Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands and I was struck by its unusual, yet amazingly delicious pairing with coconut and other tropical juices. It is fuller and more complex than the over-used rum runner, lighter than the piña colada and if made correctly, still packs a good punch with that Caribbean-West Indie rum.

Upon returning home, I rushed to look up the recipe.

A google search has taught me that this now infamous cocktail of the Caribbean was first created by the owner of a tiny, waterfront bar in the British Virgin Islands, and then modified and trademarked by the founder of Pusser rum. Therefore legally I have to list Pusser rum as the rum used in this recipe. However, as I am not selling this drink or making money off this blog, I can tell you that I swapped out the rum for the dark rum I bought in Puerto Rico, as you could any dark rum you have in the house and it was just as delicious.

The Painkiller®

  • 4 parts pineapple juice
  • 1 part fresh orange juice
  • 1 part cream of coconut
  • 2 parts Pusser’s dark rum*

Shake and serve over ice with a pineapple wedge. Sprinkle nutmeg over the top (even better if it’s freshly grated).

Perhaps its the nutmeg’s natural pain-relieving qualities or perhaps it’s the rum that gives this drink its signature name. Whatever is paining you, be it physical or spiritual, I suggest you try this tropical cocktail. If the spice and the alcohol don’t take your woes away, the flavor will certainly transport you to a tropical island. Close your eyes, hear the waves, feel the breeze, and bury your worries away.

With a land so full of trees bearing these sweet fruits and powerful spices, century-old rum making techniques and the tenacity to “make-do”,  it’s no wonder the people on these islands are happy 🙂

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An unexpected love affair

My husband and I recently celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary with a cruise to the Southern Caribbean. Being avid road-trippers, this was a first for us and we selected a route and itinerary that took us to as many places as possible in seven days. Our goal was to use the cruise ship more as our mode of transportation than the highlight of our trip. By booking a cruise that departed from Puerto Rico instead of the States, we managed to get six islands into those seven days, including PR. And I was so excited to get to know each and every one of these islands. I researched each one and planned activities for each. Culture is important to me and I wanted to know the people and their food as much as I did their landscape.

Being that it’s February and winters here can be rough, we arranged to fly into Puerto Rico a few days early so as to avoid any conflicts with the cruise departure from potential flight delays due to weather. We also booked our flight-out the day after the ship returned so as to have one last honeymoon night after the cruise. For three nights before the cruise, we stayed in a beautiful boutique hotel in Old San Juan on Calle de la Fortaleza, right in the middle of everything. Then we cruised the Southern Caribbean and visited five more islands. Upon returning to PR, we spent our last night in a bohemian-style bed and breakfast in the Condado/Isla Verde area, more out-of-the-way, in an up-and-coming art district and close to the beach.

Of the six islands we visited, we discovered that more than food and landscape, language or income level, it was the people that gave each island its true character and spirit. Beautiful beaches meant very little when the people were not welcoming. And with that, Grenada and Barbados were true gems! Whilst poor islands, the people there were so friendly and joyful, that we felt instantly welcomed. We loved both of these islands tremendously and would love to go back.

And yet, it was with Puerto Rico that we had a very unexpected love affair.

One could argue that because we spent the most time there, our opinions of PR might be skewed from our opinions of the other islands. But the truth is, we were enraptured within our first hour there. Despite all the beauties that the other islands had to offer, it was Puerto Rico who really captured our hearts.

In Old San Juan, the air and the architecture were infused with a calming energy I can’t describe. Like Valparaiso Chile, the brightly-colored stacked homes have an unexplainable way of stealing the hearts of many, including myself. And I always find Cuban architecture to be my most favored. The narrow cobblestone streets spoke to my soul the way they do in Savannah and Saint Augustine and I could feel the presence of hundreds of years of culture saturated in their uneven stones. The views from Castillo de San Cristobal, spanning over city and sea, literally took my breath away. And the sound of the deep blue water sending waves crashing into the black boulders surrounding the old city walls smoothed away any sense of tension in my body. It is a beautiful city and instantly it communed with my soul and welcomed me.

Cute Mom and Pop restaurants flanked every street corner and wonderful food was everywhere we turned. From white tablecloth to small diners, they had it all. But our favorite was to sit at the street-side tables where locals screamed out the happy hour specials to passers-by. There, we’d sip our mojitos, (by-far the best we’ve ever had) and soak in the city.

The history of the city/country fascinated us too. We walked the length of the old city walls and visited the original gates and forts that once protected the island from outside intruders. A city fountain, full of statuesque symbols that represent the country, included two goddesses that are said to both protect the island and welcome visitors by sea (a welcome surprise for this heathen in an otherwise very Catholic country). The family is  the center of the culture. And when I discovered that a frog, of all things, was a national symbol, it was a match made in heaven. I love frogs!

But despite all of that … the symbols, the food, the architecture and the landscape … again it was the people who really touched our hearts. Every person that we encountered in a store front, restaurant/bar, walking down the street or selling their goods out of a basket, was kind. They went out of their way to communicate, to explain, to accommodate us, and to welcome us as visitors to their island.

It’s been almost six months since Hurricane Maria ravaged their country. Despite the fact that we knew several of the attractions we had planned on visiting were still closed, it was with purposeful intent that my husband and I maintained our vacation plans. Lights, water and safety were all that we needed to give us the green light to not only visit but to support them through our tourism; and we sought out worthy, small businesses to patronize. We didn’t want to be part of the masses who pulled out and left the country hurting even more than they already were. So we went with the intention of enjoying ourselves and helping out the little man at the same time. We did this for all the islands we visited on that trip.

We weren’t expecting any kudos for that. It only seemed common decency to us. We aren’t wealthy and we weren’t going as missionaries. We merely went there as vacationers, spending the modest amount of money we had on food, drinks and a few souvenirs.

And then the craziest thing started happening. Complete strangers would approach us in the streets to thank us for coming to Puerto Rico and to assure us that they will continue to rebuild. We were instantly humbled.

They told us their stories. One woman we passed in the street, was walking three dogs. And when we stopped to greet them, she explained that they were all rescue dogs that she pulled off the streets after the storms. Three wagging tails that she did her part to save and now calls her “children”. Other people told us stories of people with private planes that air-lifted sick kids out to the United States to get treatment. And they expressed their gratitude to the U.S. companies for coming to help. They spoke of the months without water and without power, how the community came together to clean-up, and they described the sound of the storm when it passed over their houses. A true nightmare, to be trapped on an island, with no way off, when mother nature surges through in historic fury. Their stories were both heart wrenching and terrifying.

They described what it was like to survive a category five hurricane.

What they never did though … was complain.

And more than even that, despite their tragic stories, they remained joyful. As a people who had lost so much, they were still happy! And they were working so hard to continue to clean-up. Nearly six months- and the trucks were still picking up loads of rubble and debris, the electric companies were still repairing downed lines, and some businesses and natural landmarks will be forever changed by the damage; but they merely said “We’re going to be okay! We’re going to rebuild. Thank you for coming here!” And they’d laugh and they’d shake your hand and they’d ask where you were coming from and they’d welcome you like a long-lost friend.

I remember watching some news footage, days after the storm, and how the people of PR came out into the streets to dance. With no lights, no water and some with no homes, they banged on steel drums and shook homemade instruments and they danced. A true example of learning to dance in the rain. I experienced that mirth while I was there. Music always seemed to fill the streets, no mater the time or day. Smiles found themselves on every face you came to meet and laughter and a love for humanity seemed to surround us .

On our last day, after returning from the ship, we were excited to experience another part of the island – along the beach of Condado and Isla Verde. We were impressed to discover that the neighborhood we were staying in, had always been a poor one but had recently been developing into an up-and-coming art district; and small businesses and restaurants were filling in where old dilapidated structures once stood. The Cuban architecture and cobblestone was replaced by wider streets and graffiti art; but the people were just the same. Still coming up to us and thanking us for coming, still sharing their stories and finding reasons to laugh.

There, we again walked the streets and enjoyed the food, but we also experienced the beach. It wasn’t the most visually striking beach we’d seen in our twelve days of adventuring, but again it was the people who brought the beauty. It was a Sunday afternoon and all the locals were down on the sand with picnic baskets and beer – men playing a ball game, lovers snuggling on their blankets, young people enjoying one another’s company … not because it was a holiday. It wasn’t even summer, but just because.

And that night … away from the city center, amidst the tropical foliage outside our room, the most magical sound came when the Coqui frogs began to sing. And with that, I knew … this was a love affair that would have to continue. A love affair with a tropical climate, delicious food, rum and coffee, beautiful architecture, history and above all, beautiful, happy, people.

Like the poor man who will search the beach after the storm, for wood to rebuild his home, I too, will search the world for places that rebuild my soul. I am glad I found Puerto Rico.

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“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”- Recollections of a night-shift nurse and humorous stories from other people who find themselves trying to function in their over-worked, zombie-like states

coffee

I suppose you could say I have four jobs. In addition to writing, I have two other jobs which pay the bills. I work full-time as a labor and delivery nurse (at night) and part-time as a nursing instructor, which I do during day hours. My fourth and most important job, of course, is mothering my two children. Different jobs on opposite shifts plus two kids makes for one sleepy Momma. I understand “tired.” I also understand “over-worked” and “zombie-like states”. I live like that most of the time.

I’ve worked nights for the past twelve years because it works for my family. At the start of every shift, I introduce myself to my patients and explain that I will be taking care of them from 7p-7:30a. Most nurses work twelve-hour shifts, but somehow, twelve hours at night is always more shocking to people than twelve hours during the day. And the question I most often get from my patients at night is “Do you always work the night shift?” To which I reply with a smile, “For twelve years.” The reaction to that reply is usually one of surprise and sometimes confusion, “Wow, twelve years?!”…. translation: “OMG! Why would you choose to do that for so long?” And then the follow-up question is always “Aren’t you tired!?” And my reply to that one is almost always a little laugh and then something along the lines of “I’ll sleep when I’m dead…” or “It’s amazing how you can learn to function on little sleep”… cop-out responses, I’ll admit. Other times I just tell it straight “Yeah, I’m always tired … but this phase, like every other phase will one day end. And don’t worry … you’re in good hands with me tonight!”

I like my autonomy at night. I like the culture at night. I like my coworkers. In fact, I like just about everything about the shift … except for the constant state of exhaustion. And in regards to my other job, as an instructor, I love that job too! Except that it has me waking up at 4:30 am some days. That’s life. Life is hard. But to get where we want to be and to have the things we want/need, we have to work hard for them. And in addition to working hard, I am also gaining fulfillment from each avenue in my life and that helps to ease the pangs of exhaustion.

Fortunately, my children don’t know any different. I’ve worked the night shift for as long as they can remember. It’s not weird for them that their Mom sleeps during the day. Although, their sympathy for me is frequently lacking. “You’re always tired!” is a common line in my house. And when they were little they’d tell people, “My Mom just sleeps during the day,” forgetting to explain further that I work at night. While it has allowed me to be more present for them during the day, for things like school events and the afternoon pick-up, homework time and dinner; my frequent state of exhaustion has certainly led to some interesting moments as well.

So whether you’re a single person who is over-worked or a parent who hasn’t gotten a solid 8 hours sleep in years … whatever state of life has you feeling ‘rode hard and put away wet’…. welcome to the club! While there are days that I am so tired, I want to cry … like anything in life, I believe tiredness is best digested with a dose of humor.

So, brew yourself a cup of coffee and allow me to present to you, a humorous recollection of stories from myself and other people, who, like you, have had their own moments of exhaustion and survived to not only tell the story, but to tell it with humor. If we can’t laugh at ourselves, then what’s the point of being here? Seriously, life is too short!

••••••••••••••••••

Amongst the many ridiculous text messages I’ve sent that made no sense, or the times I’ve answered the phone slurring my words … for every time I’ve had to explain to a teacher that “I work at night and I’m tired … I don’t have a substance abuse problem,” or the times I’ve overslept and left my kids sitting in the front office waiting to be picked up … I have learned to apologize and then laugh about it. Here are a few of my other shining moments:

One day, post night shift, I got held over because it had snowed over-night and several day shift nurses were late getting-in. When I finally left the hospital, I had worked 16 hours straight and still needed to clean off my car before I could head home. With my gloves on and ice scraper in hand, I found my car. Ice had sealed the door closed and I had to chisel it off before I could even get in and start the de-froster. When I finally got enough ice off that I could open the door, I stood there, balancing on a sheet of ice, hitting the unlock button over and over again. “Why wasn’t the door opening?! Are the locks frozen?” I peered through the hole in the ice that I had chiseled and looked inside the car, looking to see if the passenger-side door was unlocking. “Wait…where did that stuff come from? Where’s my rearview mirror decoration? Oh my god…this isn’t my car!” I sheepishly snuck away hoping someone nearby wasn’t calling the police because a crazy woman was trying to break into their car. When they did return to their car I’m sure they wondered why a portion of the driver’s side door was cleaned off! I’ll consider it an accidental act of charity.

It’s not just the wrong car door that I’ve tried to open with my remote opener. I’ve also stood at my house door hitting the car door remote and waiting for the house door to unlock.

And on multiple occasions, I’ve brewed an entire cup of coffee, with my single serving coffee maker, into the spill catch, having forgotten to place the cup under the drip. In case you were wondering, a standard-sized single-cup coffee maker has a spill catch that holds exactly one traveler-sized mug of coffee in it. Bonus-it didn’t run all over the counter! Bummer-I wasted a K-cup!

I’ve gone to a parent teacher conference wearing two different color flip-flops … I mean, black and brown … forgivable, right? I’ve accidentally worn my 12 year olds leggings to work (black…we both have black) and gone to pick up the kids with my yoga pants on inside-out.

And my favorite sleepy word-mix-ups are:

I was packing-up my dinner and additional food to share with coworkers before heading out to work. My mother, who was at my house that afternoon asked, “What’s that for?”  I replied, “Work for food.”.  “Oh, is that some new organization you’re a part of?”, she inquired. “Huh? No, its WORK for FOOD!”, I said again. “I know”, she said, “Is that like a meal donation program that you’re doing?”  “Mom,” I became annoyed, “it’s food for my work!” She than kindly pointed out the err in my words. Tired people are also grumpy people sometimes.

And another time, when I was discussing a kind-hearted person who adopted disabled children, I instead said she “disabled adopted children.” How’s that for a switch-up in the meaning of the story? 

And here are more fabulous stories from other, very tired people:

Colleen tells about the time she thought she lost her wedding rings. “I searched everywhere before deciding I had probably knocked them into the sink and they were stuck in the pipe below. I called maintenance to have someone come over. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, a shimmer of light caught my eye. My diamond ring and wedding band were on my right hand ring finger.”

Kelly recalls pouring coffee into her cereal bowl.

Tammy tells of a time she was nearing the end of a very long shift, “Back in the day (i.e.–when we charted on paper, with pens, instead of computers) after being awake for 56 hours (of a 72 hour call stretch), I charted a progress note for a labor patient, updated the orders, and handed the chart to the patient’s nurse. She handed the chart back to me, and said, “You might want to take out the sentence about the giraffe.”

Erin recalls her own post night shift moment: “I had worked three nights in a row and after my last shift, I decided to stay up and get some things done. At the end of the day, I had Monday Night Football on. It took me until the third quarter to realize I was watching the game in Spanish.” Erin doesn’t speak Spanish.

Kat remembers when she lived in an apartment building and took the elevators to and from her apartment. “I used to always say “have a good night!” … when it was 8 am and I was getting home from night shift and ready to crash. I’m pretty sure I’ve also said “good morning!” to people at 5 pm when I was first waking up.” They must have been a little confused!

Gretchen remembers cooking dinner in her sleepy state. “I was cooking a chicken and I could not figure out why the hell the chicken would not cook. I kept checking the temperature and the thermometer kept reading 90 degrees. So I kept putting it back in and re checking it. Finally, I realized the thermometer was in Celsius. I over-cooked an entire chicken by a few hours.” 

Another time, Gretchen recalls ordering a custom sign for her house. The sign read “Home Sweet Home  est. 2012.” When the sign arrived, she proudly showed it to her husband, “It’s nice”, he said, “but our house wasn’t built in 2012.”

Annie spoke of her long days working in a city hotel and the grueling commute that compounded her day and her sanity. “I left fairly late at night and I would always leave by the hotel entrance. This entrance had a revolving door with two regular doors flanking each side. The revolving door had a motion detector that started moving upon human approach. After a long day, not once but twice, I stood in front of the normal doors flanking said revolving door, waiting for it to somehow detect my motion and open. I would stand there in a daze for a solid minute or two before cursing myself and opening it. What a tired dunce! One day I thought I would outsmart my tired self and go through the revolving motion doors, only to snag my tote in the segment and fight the door to get it out. Those doors still have me laughing. Thank goodness nobody ever saw me.”

Chrystie, a veteran in sleep deprivation, begins with “Oh where do I begin?!” She starts by listing the places and times she has fallen asleep, “…in Starbucks waiting for my coffee, burping a baby, on the phone with a coworker, during a heavy metal concert, while my hair stylist was doing my hair…”

She then recalls things that she’s done whilst in a sleep-deprived state:
“I’ve put my laptop in the fridge, gotten a food container to put leftovers in and put the container of food BACK in the cabinet, worn my pants backwards and inside out, and only put makeup on one eye. Another time, a woman stopped me because it looked like I had a “weird stain” on my pants- my infant daughter had spit up on me just before I left the house and the “stain” was the ENTIRE length of my left leg. My pants were black. I hadn’t noticed!” 

Laura recalls the time that she pulled up to a stop sign and sat there waiting for it to turn green. She waited so long, in fact, that she fell asleep (with her foot on the break thank god!). A police officer then proceeded to pull up and perform a field sobriety test on her. While she balanced on one foot in the freezing cold she respectfully responded, “Officer, could I please perform a breathalyzer instead … I really don’t think I’m going to pass this test and I assure you I am sober. I’m just really, really tired.”

Joe submitted a photo of a metal handicap door button with this story: “At my corporate headquarters I went to the rest room. In an attempt to leave, I was trying to figure out why swiping my badge wasn’t opening the door. I stood there so long I decided to take a picture of the button”. You mean those things don’t also have a badge swipe?

Beth remembers her overnight shifts in the military often involved going to the bathroom to take a ” mini power nap” in the bathroom stall in an effort to survive the night and remembers that she drove home every morning but often had no memory of her drive.

Rosemary recalls her days with a young infant. “I was trying to get her to fall asleep and she kept fussing every time I’d take my hand off of her. My legs were tired of standing there waiting for her to drift off to sleep. So, I climbed into the crib with her. I woke up hours later … wondering why I was sleeping in the baby’s crib.” 

 
 So there you have it! You’re not the only one who’s state of tiredness has them questioning their sanity!

For everyone out there who is trying to be productive while fighting a daily state of exhaustion, you’re not alone! But be careful! Don’t be afraid to ask for help. It takes a village, if you don’t have one, form one. When I first moved to my neighborhood, I knew no one within a 20 mile radius. So I made friends at the preschool and hung out at the playground everyday, getting to know other parents and building relationships. Some of my best and most reliable friends came from that playground. And they have saved my butt more times than I can count. It’s those friends, who know when they receive an incoherent text message from ‘Amanda’ that it’s probably because I worked last night and can’t seem to wake myself up enough to text coherently, much less drive. And without further explanation, they will bring my children home to me. And on my days off, I return the favor. While I’d like to think that I’m super-woman and can do it all alone, we all have our limits and an injury (or worse) isn’t worth your pride. For every one of these funny stories, there’s another story that’s not so funny. So, be safe. And then, once you are safe, look for the silver lining and learn to laugh at your struggles. If you can’t, who else will?!

Further more, don’t forget that life is about balance. Anyone who knows me, knows that while I work hard, I also play just as hard. Stop saving your vacation hours, use them! My response to people when they say “You guys are going on vacation again?!” is always “Every chance I get.”

I guess the motto here is : “Work Hard, Play Hard, and no matter what you’re doing … keep finding reasons to laugh.”

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Our Halloween House

 

I remember when we moved into our first single-family home. Family members who were "in the know" discovered the property and had helped my parents to make it happen. It was on the other side of town and needed A LOT of work, but it was a generous offer that allowed our family of six to move out of a single trailer and into a larger space- four bedrooms, a den, dining room and a living room and even our own fenced yard. We were excited, but only at first.

You see, a motorcycle gang had previously resided on the property and although it was summertime when we acquired it, it looked very much like a "Halloween House". With only one other house beside it, it was removed from the rest of the neighborhood. There were holes in the doors and spray paint on the walls. The old wooden floors were stripped of their finish. The fence, doors and shutters were painted black. And the property was completely over-grown. The steps creaked. There were mice. And across the street, there was even a cemetery. "This is where we are going to live… in a Halloween House?" My 6-year-old brain tried to wrap my head around it. "What was wrong with the trailer park?"

It took a village to clean that place up and make it our own. Long days with the blood, sweat and tears of many a good soul turned that sad-looking property into one that we could be proud of. Lots of elbow grease, new carpet, fresh paint, even some new plumbing, and the broken black and white house turned to a sunny white and baby blue cottage. And there were azaleas, and lilies and tulips to boot. And right in the very front of the property, just behind the fence, sat the most-wonderful oak tree with the most- perfect branches for climbing. My father attached a small swing to it for my baby sister.

Irony would have it, that when we got all moved in … we missed our trailer; the kids did anyway. My parents couldn't believe, after all the effort that went into restoring the property, that we were asking to "move back to the trailer park?!" I had gotten used to sleeping in the living room there. We were all so close together. It was cozy. Sleeping in my bed in the "new room", I felt so far away from everyone; even though my parents' door was just a few feet from my own. My brothers were now on an entirely different floor. This house sounded different. My siblings and I missed the instant community and playmates that waited just outside those aluminum steps on the cement patio that we had learned to walk on. This house was more removed and there weren't many kids in the area. It was just the four of us now, to make play with one another. We had out-grown the trailer and my parents knew that. It was time to move-on and make a new place feel like home.

In September, we started at a new school; a private school that was academically challenging and required that we wear uniforms. It wasn't an easy transition – to leave our friends, a community where we could have 'the run of the place' and a school where we were "comfortable." Even though we weren't getting what we needed from school or life, we didn't know it back then. My parents were wise to make the move, even though we hated it.

That fall wasn't a fun time for us. So in an effort to jazz things up a bit, my father, forever the Halloween King, spent one weekend in October constructing a "Halloween Hunt" (as we used to call it). He had done it the year prior, in the trailer, and we loved it. He planted clues throughout the place, scavenger-hunt style, which would ultimately lead us to a "treasure box" filled with small toys and candy. But this house was bigger with a much greater potential for hiding clues and decorating. And so, the Halloween King took us on a spectacular hunt around the house, back into the dark den, down into the unfinished basement, outside facing the tombstones, into the yard covered in orange and yellow leaves … all in search of our treasure. And with that, and time of course, we grew to love our new home. You see, despite all the effort that went into repairing that house, it didn't feel like the perfect house … until … it became Our Halloween House.

And no matter our ages or life's happenings, the Halloween festivities and the 'Halloween Hunts' continued, each year becoming more and more elaborate. And just when Dad would say "Guys, I don't think I can do it this year," our disappointed faces would give him the motivation to pull it off, yet again. One year there were clues attached to the fallen leaves, nailed to the ground. Later, when we were older, the hunt led us into the cemetery that we had grown so accustomed to living next to. And with little money but a whole lot of creativity, he always found a way to make our homemade costume ideas come to fruition. From our earliest years, through high school and even into college, we always dressed-up and we never repeated a costume idea. In our family, it didn't matter how old you were, fantasy always resided there.

When we left the house and started families of our own, the 'Halloween Hunts' stopped but an 'All Hallows' Eve Bash' replaced it. Instead of spending days typing-up clues and putting together a hunt, my father spent days making invitations and putting together goody bags for the trick-or-treaters. It took him an entire month to decorate the house! And while few trick or treaters came to our house in my youth, because of its location on the outskirts of the neighborhood, as the decorations grew, so did the numbers of visitors, up to the hundreds. Many came by car just to knock on the door of the "Halloween House". The celebration of the season never faltered. Even into his sixties, my father climbed into that tree to hang lighted plastic jack-o-lanterns that became a signature landmark every fall. The front yard became a cemetery of its own (faux of course), growing bigger every year. The lights that covered the house and the yard got brighter too; even brighter than at Christmas. Our empty bedrooms were filled with boxes of Halloween decorations. My mother's curio cabinets, left behind with the divorce, were filled with monster collectibles. And the den became a permanent set-up for a Halloween village.

Having moved out of my hometown when I started my family, if ever I had a patient or ran into someone who said that they lived there, I'd tell them that that was where I grew up. They'd ask where I went to school and what neighborhood I lived in. Then, I'd ask them if they knew "The Halloween House". Everyone always did. "That's my house," I'd tell them, "My Dad, the Halloween king, still lives there. Stop by sometime, he'd love to show you the inside." For however impressive the outside was, the inside had even more. It was a Halloween lover's paradise. And everyone who drove-by it was impressed and they were even more impressed to meet someone who once called it "home."

 

 

Life is a series of choices and circumstances, some of which we can control and others, which we can't. Life would have it that 'Our Halloween House' would fall into a similar state of disrepair that we once found it in. And my father would find himself making the hard transition that we once did, thirty years prior. This time, it's the kids who know it's time to move on. And as we learned in our youth, just because "it's time", doesn't make it easy. Like the avocado-green aluminum trailer, our Halloween House had its place and its time, but its era is now over.

It is fitting that our good-bye party there falls on the weekend before the infamous holiday. No decorations this year, those are all packed away. No lighted jack-o-lanterns, no Halloween village. This year, it's like a true haunted house. And really, the decorations aren't needed. It already looks spooky enough. But the people will still come. The kitchen, with its roof caving in, will still smell of mulling spices. Old Halloween tunes will still play through the open windows and a fire pit will still warm cold toes. Out back, my pets are still buried. And in the front, still stands the most-perfect tree with the most-perfect branches for climbing. I'll hoist my kids up into it and tell them, once again, which branch "belonged" to me and which ones belonged to their aunt and uncles. Its orange and yellow leaves will once again cover the ground and I will remember the way it used to be.

Good-byes are always bittersweet. You couldn't pay me enough to rehab that house again. And just as the house has changed, I'm removed from that town now too and it no longer feels like 'home'. Many of my memories there are not good ones. And the house was never a perfect one. It was always drafty and always creaked, but it was our house. It gave us a place to lay our heads and call our own. It gave us a yard to play in and a tree to climb. The community pool is where we became avid swimmers and the school that we once hated was just the beginning of a most appreciated journey upwards in academia.

There is more story to be told, many more chapters of life still to be written. It is with a sigh of relief but also angst that we turn the page of that chapter of our lives and look ahead to new adventures. But you can be sure that it's a chapter that will never be forgotten. Like all things in life, things change, but Halloween will always be celebrated. Until I'm old and gray … when the weather turns cooler and the leaves change, when candy corn appears on the shelves of stores and children begin to imagine what they will reinvent themselves as for the night of trick or treat, I'll always recall my youth and what Halloween was like with a Dad who was is the 'Halloween King' and the magic that the season held, living in "Our Halloween House."

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Snorkeling the Waters of Life: A tale of life with anxiety

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We were so excited! Our road-tripping adventures that year had landed us in the Florida Keys and we were ready to take full advantage of the stunning waters that surround the tiny chain of islands. We had never explored tropical waters before and were giddy to get out there and have a new experience. Having done my research on the best spots to snorkel, I booked us a boat ride and snorkeling trip from Marathon Key to the beautiful Sombrero Reef. A 30 minute boat-ride would arrive us to the reef and we’d spend an hour or so in the water, snorkeling some of the most breathtaking waters on the planet.

Having only played around with a snorkel and mask a few times before, it was recommended to us that we spend some time practicing off-shore before our paid excursion. So the day before, we headed out to Bahia Honda State Park, gear in-hand. I expected that I’d be a natural. I’m a strong swimmer and with so many beautiful things to see, how could I have any trouble keeping my face in the water and breathing through a tube?

We waded out into the crystal-clear waters until we began to see coral and vegetation and little colorful fish. I secured my mask, placed the snorkel in my mouth, submerged my face in the water and went afloat. The life I saw swimming around me was amazing! Never before had I witnessed such a clear view of sea life just feet from my body. I wanted to stare at it all day.

And then, about 60 seconds later … I began to panic. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and I started hyperventilating. My initial awe of the sea life around me crashed and I couldn’t see the fish anymore. I was so consumed with my angst of breathing that the rest of the world blurred out of focus.

I shot-up out of the water. The peaceful sea and near-by snorkelers were still there, just the same. “What is my problem?!” I thought. Again, I tried. Again, I began to panic. “Why is this so hard for me!?” “Slow your breathing down”, I told myself. I made it a few minutes longer and then again, I was pulling my head out of the water and the tube from my mouth because I felt like I was suffocating.

I wasn’t the only one … the other adults in our party too found it harder than expected to regulate their breathing. But I was disappointed nonetheless that what appeared to be so simple was a struggle for me. Nevertheless, I was determined to master this skill before our expedition the next day. We had all day at the beach …. and I was going to figure this out!

I used the skills I’d learned as a nurse to assist my patients through labor as well as the tips I had received from other snorkelers and I continued to try. Still unable to focus on the fish, I put all of my focus into taking slow, deep breaths. I spoke to my inner-self, “You’re ok. Nothing is wrong.” I reminded myself to relax. Becoming more aware of my body, I realized how tense I had become and it took a conscious effort to relax each set of muscles, one at a time. It’s much harder to breathe and float when your muscles are tense. Each time I put my face in the water, I lasted a little longer before I felt the urge to lift up and pull my snorkel out. And each time, I tried again.

Then I started to find a rhythm. I breathed ….. in …… and …… out ….. in ….. a ….. slow …. and …… purposeful …… pattern ….. and my body began to relax. Slowly, I began to see more of the ocean bottom and felt less consumed with my breathing. My focus shifted from what I was doing and how I was feeling to what I was seeing. And by the end of the day, submerging my face in water while breathing through a plastic tube became second nature. And then, I didn’t want to leave. In fact, I was so in love with witnessing the goings-on of the ocean floor that I didn’t even hear my then 11-year-old screaming above the surface that there was a six-foot shark approaching, mere feet behind me! LOL, Oh well, that’s Florida for ya! The shark swam-off like they usually do (humans aren’t that tasty) and I continued with my explorations. The disappointment that had darkened my day shifted away and the initial excitement I felt, returned. It ended up a good day after-all.

The next day, we embarked on our excursion to Sombrero Reef … and we were blown away! The sea life that had impressed me the day before was nothing in comparison to this. Sombrero Reef was bursting with life. The moment we entered the water we were immediately surrounded by schools of colorful fish. There were purple and yellow brain and fan corals, giant parrot fish and angel fish, striped fish and spotted fish, more varieties than I could possibly know the names of. It felt like I was in a live-action version of ‘The Little Mermaid’ … minus the mermaids. Nurse sharks lurked on the seafloor and even a barracuda was minding his business in the shadows. Every second was breathtaking. It felt like I’d somehow jumped into the page of a National Geographic photo and I didn’t want to look away for even a second.

My family and I were changed that day. We are adventure takers and we are always looking for new and varied experiences. To this date … while many moments have come close, none have topped that day.

As we boarded the boat to return to shore, we couldn’t contain our excitement. And for the rest of the night, none of us could stop talking about the wonders we had witnessed first-hand in those Florida Key waters. I was so thankful that we had taken the opportunity to explore them. A 30 minute boat ride from the shore and $30/person proved to be worth every penny … and more. But I was even more thankful that I had gotten the advise and taken the opportunity to practice the day before. That trip would’ve been wasted had I not.

I have an adventurous spirit, I am a skilled swimmer and I have never before considered myself to be an anxious or fearful person. Experiencing what I did that first day of snorkeling was sobering; but it happened. I wasn’t thrashing around or acting a fool, but I was panicking. What I thought would be easy and second-nature, required purposeful intent and repetition in order to master it. But I persevered and I worked through my episode of unexpected anxiety; and when I did, I gained confidence and discovered a new favorite thing to do.

This past month, my family and I had another opportunity for a snorkeling adventure when we swam with the manatees in Crystal River. The setting was completely different as it was barely dawn and the water there, whilst clear, is fresh and cold and full of vegetation (perfect for manatees). It had been two years since we snorkeled the Keys and while we had peered at a few fish here and there on various beaches after that, we hadn’t done any prolonged snorkeling since that trip. This was a 3 hour adventure that started before the sun even rose. Unlike fish, manatee are harder to find, more easily spooked and are protected as an endangered/threatened wildlife species. This trip required that we remain calm and still in the water. We were instructed to float and not swim, to use slow subtle movements and to whisper so as not to disturb or frighten the manatees.

I sunk into the water, floated onto my belly, placed my snorkel and submersed my face in the cold, dark water around me. And as I took my first few breaths, that feeling of panic began to creep in again … but this time, I knew just what to do. Like labor breathing or riding a bicycle, my body remembered how to cope and my mind allowed it. Within a minute or two … I clicked right over to that purposeful, rhythmic breathing that I had mastered in the Keys … and I was at peace, floating with the manatees.

Another life-changer for the books!

 

Life is an open sea full of wonder. There is so much to do and witness and be a part of. Seeking out those adventures, searching for new opportunity and making the effort to follow-through and try something new is sure to yield more rewards than you can ever imagine. ‘In the end we’ll only regret the chances we didn’t take’ and the times we quit too soon. And yet nothing will stop you from taking a chance or encouraging you to quit faster than fear and anxiety. It is the biggest bully and the darkest demon.

The older I get, the worse it is. It’s genetic. Anxiety has paralyzed the people I love from socializing, making new moves and trying new things for decades. Whether it was a fear of failure or a lack of self-confidence or simply being overwhelmed by life itself, they have missed-out on so much because they didn’t try. Surrounded by that in my youth, I looked to others who took chances with admiration and I modeled myself after them. As I grew, I prided myself in being one to take on new challenges and new experiences, even when the anxieties of others discouraged me. And I have grown to be an accomplished and confident woman with few regrets because I broke away from that pattern. I am frequently complimented on my ability to remain calm, be it at work as a nurse or at home as a mother. I am good at remaining collected in stressful circumstances and I work well under pressure.

But the truth is … what no one knows … is that be it genetics or hormones or a learned behavior … sometimes … no matter how calm, cool and collected I am on the outside … on the inside, I am fucking terrified. And instead of pushing forward, sometimes all I want to do is run away. It’s weird how I can resuscitate a neonate who isn’t breathing without hesitation … and yet a phone-call can sometimes be paralyzing.

I know I can’t let fear and anxiety win. I have worked so hard to break away from that pattern and I have been rewarded so many times for doing so, that I know I have to continue to fight. I can’t allow my inexperience or my disadvantage or my genetic make-up to exclude me from anything that I have been given the opportunity to do. I must always try. And once I have tried, I must continue to keep trying. Life is too short not to.

 

Anxiety is the most common mental disorder in the United States … by a landslide. Studies show that anxiety affects 1:5 adults in the U.S. While it was once thought to be a disorder that largely plagued young people and children, recent studies now have mental health professionals altering their views. Many people are reporting an onset of anxiety later in life, though the type of anxiety experienced does tend to vary with age. According to this article posted in NCBI [https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3263387/], “Phobias (particularly social and specific phobias) may predominate in childhood; panic disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) may be at their highest prevalence in adulthood; while worry disorders (ie, Generalized Anxiety Disorder) may be most common in old age.”

So, I guess I’m not alone.

If you haven’t yet experienced an episode of anxiety, odds are, one day you will. And regardless of whether or not you ever experience it yourself, it’s important that everyone understand it so that they can be a help to those who struggle with it. For too long society has shamed or dismissed it and even excused it. None of those actions are acceptable.

If you had been with me that day in the Keys, what would you have said to me? Would you have shamed me by saying – “What the hell is your problem?” or “Yikes … you need help.”? Would you have dismissed it by saying – “You’re fine! Just don’t think about it. Just do it. It’s not that hard.”? Would you have excused it by saying, “It’s ok, you tried … it’s just not for everybody. Don’t feel bad … let’s just get out and go sit on the beach.”? If you had … you might have robbed me of one of my now favorite activities and a life changing experience at the reef.

We have to do better than that!

The same way I was unable to take-in the wonders that laid beneath me amongst some of the most beautiful waters in the world because I felt like I couldn’t breathe – people with anxiety can’t take-in life because they feel like they can’t breathe … or move … or think … or control it. And like me, it usually rears its ugly head at an unexpected time and they hate that it is happening. Shaming them, dismissing them or excusing them are all equally unhelpful. Instead they need someone to coach them. They need someone to teach them how to relax and breathe slowly and deeply. They need someone to tell them that they are “Ok” and that they “can do this”. They need calm, positive energy not aggressive or negative words and actions. They need help. And while medication is definitely a necessary tool for some people, often times cognitive-behavioral therapy (like education, problem solving skills, relaxation techniques, and sleep hygiene) works wonders!

Trying new things is scary … it can be terrifying actually. But with purposeful intent and practice you can master it. And when you do, the treasures that you will discover will more than compensate you.

If you struggle with anxiety, don’t stop trying because you’re scared. Hold someone’s hand and jump in … and when you do, make sure it’s someone who will teach you how to breathe …. and then, open your eyes to the wonders around you. Life is breathtaking when you are focused on the right things and you have the coping skills to enjoy them!

photos aken by Amanda Meneses at Sombrero Reef
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Looking for adventure? 10 Reasons to take a Road Trip !!!

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I remember it like it was yesterday … the first flight we took as a family of four.

It was a 5 hour flight from the east coast to Utah to visit some family and explore the west. The kids were 4 1/2 yrs and 15 months. I wanted to save money so I didn’t buy a seat for the 15 month old. We booked a late flight and kept him awake all day with the hope that he’d sleep on the plane. Despite every good effort, the child who had just recently weaned and found his legs only wanted to run around and when we couldn’t allow him to do that, he was inconsolable. After that trip I decided that we would not be flying again for a very, very long time.  That combined with a desire to see the world and a lack of funds to travel internationally, fueled the idea of “Road tripping.” And now, we’re obsessed!

To date, we have traveled up and down the east coast, driven from MD to TX and back and explored a good bit of the west. On one of our trips we managed to hit 12 states and on another we explored 4 major national parks. When people hear of our trips and adventures and they learn that we drove it all, they’re usually aghast. “You drove all that way!?” “How long did it take you?” “Don’t the kids drive you crazy?” “Omg! What do you do with all that time in the car?!”

So this post is to answer those questions and share with you ….

10 Reasons why Road Tripping is the thing to do!

  1. It’s cheaper! Check the gas prices and do the math … if you have more than two people in your traveling party, it’s almost always cheaper to drive your own car. Saving money on plane tickets and car rentals allows more money to go towards other things – like cool excursions.
  2. My children won’t disrupt anyone else. Can they still be whiney and annoying sometimes? Sure! They’re kids! But they’re mine and I love them unconditionally. If they kick the back of the seat, whine, or are too wiggley … strangers who have no obligation to my children and who paid good money for their seat aren’t bothered. This eliminates a ton of stress on me, as their mother.
  3. It’s more comfortable. We have it down to a science! The kids pick what movies they want to pack. We have wireless headphones so that they can watch a movie while we listen to our music. There’s a cooler packed in between their seats filled with juice boxes, snacks and sandwiches. They each bring their pillow and pack a “carry-on” which is filled with fun activities for the car – a new activity book, travel-sized games, their toys, ear-buds, tablets, etc. You simply can’t carry all those things on a plane. Nor can you put your seat all the way back or lay down across the seats.
  4. It allows for more flexibility. You have your own vehicle and your own schedule. You can choose to stick to your pre-determined stops or be spontaneous without the worry of a flight to catch or a shuttle schedule to check.
  5. It encourages you to explore more places off the beaten path. Airports tend to be the hub of cities and businesses and are full of tourist traps and chain-restaurants. Once you are in the center of those hubs, the motivation to move outside of that area may be lessened because of traffic and time and sheer inconvenience. But if you’re planning a road trip, you simply plan your route based on where you want to go, not just where there’s an airport. We decide how far we want to drive each day and then we look in that vicinity to see where we want to stop and what opportunities there are in that area. Every day we have a new adventure planned. Try it! I promise you’ll find yourself at more parks and cozy little restaurants then you would if your plane dropped you off in the middle of a city. And my experience has proven these places to be our most memorable gems.
  6. It allows for more family bonding. Spending hours in close quarters affords us the opportunity to know one another more deeply and it forces us to find enjoyment in one another when the tendency may be to retreat and be alone. With no pressures of time or being in public, discussions take place that otherwise wouldn’t. Car games to pass the time encourage team work and shared thoughts. We’re in it together and the trip isn’t enjoyable for anyone if someone is acting up – so there’s a motivation to be pleasant and to be a team player. Do we sometimes get on each other’s nerves? Sure, that’s what the independent activities are for. But when those get old, we come back together again. Kids love playing games with their parents and the time in the car gives us a break from life’s busyness. And with a laptop I can get some work, writing and photo editing done while we travel instead of trying to do it at our destinations or when we get back home.
  7. It teaches children the virtue of patience. In a world of instant gratification, road-tripping shows them that the sweetest things in life are worth working and waiting for. A 5 hr road trip for my kids is a piece-of-cake because they know what a 17 hr drive is like. And I’m convinced that the work and wait it takes to travel to various places makes them appreciate our destinations even more.
  8. It reinforces geography and teaches map reading skills. This dying art is alive and well when the Meneses family takes a vacation. Using both digital GPS as well as a simple paper version of the states we are traveling through, we chart our path of adventure; and as a result, learn where these cities and states are in-relation to one another and how long it takes to travel between them. And … it’s another car activity to keep our minds busy!
  9. It creates cultural awareness. Exploring different locales within the same trip allows us to see first-hand the common threads and the vast differences that lie just a day’s car-ride apart. It’s a 10 hr drive from the moonshine-filled, lush Great Smoky Mountains of the twangy Tennessee countryside to the jazz-filled streets of New Orleans. Another 8 hr drive and you leave this architectural gem, infused with Gullah and French influence, and the swampy wetlands of Louisiana turn into the dry, brown desserts and the cowboy culture of Texas. Be it food, way of speaking, common mode of transportation, placement of modern-day conveniences, homeless population, level of crime, or merely the overall lifestyle of the people who call these places “home”, my children can see that there’s goodness to be found everywhere. Our hometown isn’t superior because it’s familiar and there’s more than one way to live.
  10. Planning ahead saves time and money and allows for a more stress-free vacation. Road tripping does require more planning than a one-stop vacation … but it saves you more time and stress once your vacation begins. Friends and family love to tease me about my typed itineraries. But when vacation comes, I literally punch the address into the GPS and off we go! I don’t have to worry about where we are going to eat or if  a certain place is open on Sundays. I’ve already done all that. And if we want to cut something out or stay longer, we can! But we’re not wasting time walking in circles or googling “things to do”. Trip Advisor and Map Quest will become your best friends (they’re free). There’s no moping around the hotel room, “What are we going to do today?” nonsense. And as I said before, you get more experiences and have more flexibility by driving your own car. 

 

Start out small and give it a try! Your first road trip doesn’t have to be across the country. It doesn’t require a ton of money or a travel agent. The planning can be done a little-at-a- time and the hotels booked and paid for one-by-one, in advance, so that when the vacation comes, your expenses are minimal. And, like anything, the more you do it, the better you will get at it!

My family is half-way to our goal of experiencing all 50 states. I am convinced that there is no better way to explore the vast and varied experiences of this country than hitting the open road. There are so many cultural experiences and adventures right here in the US. The sites you will see, the road-side stands selling local fare-boiled peanuts or fresh produce, and the places you will find just can’t be replicated when you’re in the air. My favorite memories have come from these trips. I have snorkeled amazing reefs in the Florida Keys, rode a mule down into a canyon, floated alongside manatees, jumped from cliffs in Texas, ridden on a train through the West Virginia countryside and danced in the streets of New Orleans with my 9-year-old …. and none of those things would’ve happened if we hadn’t taken a road trip.

Don’t get me wrong …. I want to travel internationally and sometimes a plane ride is only practical … but while the kids are still young, while I have 4 tickets to buy – not just 2 and while there is still so much of this country that we haven’t seen, road tripping has allowed us to check-off bucket list items without going into debt and has shown us the many hidden treasures that can be found when you take the long road.

Adventure can be for everyone! Go find it!

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Cold Soup

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A head on collision with a 100 mph impact, divorce, tragic death, health issues that leave life-long scars, low economic status, cycles of abuse and dysfunction, victimization due to both environment and intentional assault…

What do these events do to a person? Who does one become? Tell me, how is one changed by them? Because they will change you. Forever.

Well, of course one could become cynical and bitter, lose their sense of self and sense of hope. They could develop tunnel-vision – an over-compensation of one’s traumatic life experiences that lead a person to see only one outcome for a particular experience and therefore make over- generalizations and judgements of others. They could continue their dysfunctional cycles because that is what they were shown, what they were taught. We see it all the time… you can picture the people and hear their words now. “It’s not my fault…”, “That’s the way I was raised….”, “It’s because when I was a kid…”
dot…dot…dot…

Or, one could in the face adversity and trauma, turn away, run, crawl and hide from life experiences and possibilities – in an effort to avoid being hurt again. That is a very real and natural, self-preserving trauma reaction, that without intervention could lead to a loss of one’s will to live. And challenging life experiences could be used to justify those actions and attitudes. It’s understandable. Life can be cruel and at times there seems to be no sign of improvement in sight.

This insight shouldn’t be used as an excuse to judge others for their life choices but an opportunity to hold our own selves accountable. No one experiences life the same or has the same genetic make-up. And therefore, don’t bother drawing comparisons.

We all have scars. We all have left-overs … remnants from our past that bubble-up or sneak-in… giving those who happen to be watching close a peep-hole view of the world we came from, behind the doors we thought we had closed behind us. No one comes away from a battle unscathed and we ALL have a story.

 

The point is, what you do with your story.

 

I remember a time when I walked into a patient’s room and she and her husband were eating soup, cold, out of a can.… cream based soup at that! Horrified, I said “Oh no, we have a microwave!” “We know”… they said, “its fine, we’re used to eating it like this.”

Now, those who know me, know I am direct but curious and never approach with the intent of making a judgment but instead, of gaining insight. And … I have the biggest mouth in the universe. So, I inquired, “What makes one start eating soup out of a can, cold? I’m just curious … and why would you choose that when you have a microwave available?”

The husband’s demeanor changed immediately. A smugness and attitude crept in. “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. Sometimes this is what we could afford and we just got used to eating our food cold.” And then he made some vague reference to his days spent in college dorms and eating cheap food.

I knew in that moment, he saw the little blond registered nurse standing in front of him and he thought we came from very different places. I’m sure he thought I grew up in high society – with my highlights and big vocabulary and BSN. Fact is, when I was growing up, we couldn’t afford canned soup. My mom fed our family of 6 for days with a ham bone and a bag of dried beans …. probably from the church pantry. But it was heated and eaten at the table with dishes – the same set of dishes for 20 years that some relative handed down to us, because that was cheaper than paper plates. And we hand-washed them because we had no dish-washer. And I never had the privilege of living in a dorm. I paid for my college degree myself and commuted back and forth in between my four jobs in order to do so.

I knew exactly what it was like to ‘go without’… but that was no excuse for not striving for better. Eating cold soup straight from the can is lazy. And lazy has not a thing to do with economics. That’s what I wanted to say… I wanted to tell him not to use poverty and background as an excuse for continued choices and behaviors …. but I couldn’t.

Instead I very calmly and quietly said, “Yeah … me too … I grew up without money too. It was hard. At least we always had a fire source though and I didn’t have to eat food cold.” He was speechless and I just left the room.

Maybe some people like canned-soup cold and maybe they don’t want to dirty dishes. That wasn’t the point of that story. Had that man stated those reasons for his choices, I wouldn’t have had a judgment or an argument to make. He likes it, period! And that’s fine. Your past will always tint your future, but don’t use it as an excuse to keep buying the same color. Yesterday, you could have gone the extra mile to heat your food, with or without a microwave. Today, you have a microwave.

 

Cynical. Cyclical. Defeated. A victim ……… OR ……… Learned. Experienced. Diverse. Hard-working. Resilient. Fortuned with varied experiences. Gained perspective. A survivor. A conqueror.

The choice is yours.

What do challenging experiences lead to? How are you changed by them?

I can only tell you what I’ve tried to do. And I am flawed. My personality is a strong one and it’s not for everybody. Those experiences I listed up top in my intro…the ones that change people…they happened to me…and not just once. Many of them happened enough times or for enough time that they left scars. I don’t let my scars define me but I don’t cover them up either. They are a beautiful part of me and how I have evolved. I acknowledge them. I ponder them. I work on them – to keep them soft and pliable, not hard and rigid. They are reminders of a past and experiences that I learned from.

What will you do?

Will you run away? Or will you fight? Will you hide? Or will you seek an opportunity for success? Will you use fear as an excuse or a goal to overcome? Will your lack of perspective be a crutch or a reason to go explore?

What have my experiences taught ME?

They’ve taught me that tomorrow is promised to no one. That everyone has a story, and if you sit long enough with someone – they’ll tell you. That you never really know ‘what you would do’, until you’re there. They’ve shown me that kindness and goodness show up in the most unlikely of places. And that those two things, matter more than just about anything. I’ve learned that anger is a normal and an often immediate response but it can be controlled. And time and introspection is the best healer. I know that I can’t change my past … but I can accept it and learn from it … and further, I can learn to appreciate it for what good it has given me. Because there is some amount of good in everything.

And I am still learning, that like my past … I can’t change people and people don’t owe me anything. But, I can choose to learn from them, and to accept them as they are and I can relish in whatever goodness they have to offer. My life is a gift to me and I have one shot at it. So I’m choosing not to be a victim but a conqueror, an adventurer, a seeker, a student.

Many years after my youth, I own my own home … and it doesn’t have a dishwasher. Instead, I married a man who doesn’t mind hand washing in the least. Occasionally I do buy paper plates for convenience. And I never eat cold soup unless its gazpacho. And I eat it in a chilled bowl with fresh avocado on top because damn it, it’s delicious. And life should be filled with as many moments of deliciousness as we can fit in …. not laziness … just deliciousness.

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Tiny Treasures

 

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I spent a week in paradise, searching a beautiful chain of islands for rest, for answers, inspiration and strength. I hungered for solace but my mind was plagued by busy thoughts. Too exhausted to move and too restless to sit still, I was tired of thinking and yet silence drove my mind into a feral beast that lashed in every direction.

Like a small child to its mother, I turned to the island for comfort but when she reached out to touch me, I turned my cheek. I yearned for her to soothe me, yet I resisted.

All week I combed the beaches, not for shells but for answers. Walking past thousands of perfect specimens, I looked into the vague distance as I fought with my demons and talked to my angels. Asking for guidance, I waited for an answer but my requests were met only by a nagging silence. In the most wonderful company, I felt alone. Alone, I felt tormented.

Tired of walking, I sat at the water’s edge with a fishing pole. The periodic taps of biting fish and the occasional fight of a catch helped to maintain the busy-calm that I was looking for. The views around me were breathtaking and yet my perspective barely extended beyond the minnows nipping at my toes. I was lost in my mind and consumed by my thoughts.

Soon, despite the fishing pole wedged between my side and right arm, my anxious hands found the sand and shells under the waters I sat in. And I found myself collecting miniature shells and lining them up on my bare thighs.

“For the doll house”, I thought. “With these tiny shells, I can make something for the doll house”. And soon, I was in-search for the tiniest of shells, hidden in the sand around me.

Finally, I was searching for something other than answers.

As the storm clouds rolled-in, I scooped up my collection and we headed home.

The next day my mind found itself in the same battle … no energy for busy, no patience for quiet. Again, I combed the beaches empty-handed and again, despite the beauty that surrounded me, my mind was drowning. Sitting along the water’s edge, my fingers once again found the sand beneath me. And then, as my fingers sieved through the powdery white sand, their tips found themselves on the underside of another tiny shell and finally, my angels answered. “Keep searching for tiny treasures”.

“Keep searching for tiny treasures”

Slowly, my mind began to work in a different way and the view ahead of me began to clear. Instead of searching for something I may never find, I rediscovered the tiny treasures of my lifetime.

I remembered my childhood home. Inside those walls, there was plenty of pain and heartache … but on summer nights, in the backyard, there were fireflies! A mason jar, a childhood crush and the sweet green grass that always grew too long made summer evenings there, magical.
I don’t remember most Christmas’s and I can’t recall a single first day of school … but if I close my eyes, I can take myself right back to the sound of crickets and those glowing, flying, tiny treasures.

Looking further back, on the years we lived in the trailer park, I remembered when my Dad brought home “Kool-Aid” for the first time. I sat on the table with my face planted over the plastic pitcher. As he emptied the seemingly empty packet and added the sugar, a mysterious, sweet smoke billowed out and stuck to my lips. Then, as he poured the water, the white powder, like magic, flashed into a brightly-colored drink. He was a magician and that was the best “juice” I’d ever had!

It was from the orange clay that surrounded our white and green aluminum home that we spent hours making the best “cheese pies”. They were sun-baked and carefully crafted by the hands of babes.

One summer, the seventeen-year locust came. There might not have been much work and we might have started to out-grow our tiny home …. but those giant bugs provided endless entertainment. We’d carry our pet turtles outside to the empty baby pools and watch them catch and crunch the unsuspecting insects under the hot sun for hours.

I lived my first six years in that trailer and those are some of my fondest memories. Artificial dyes and sugar, poor soil and pre-historic-looking pests were childhood treasures I’d nearly forgotten.

And then, there was that summer at my grandparents “beach trailer”. My brothers and I ran outside in the evening rain when we saw some toads sitting on the porch. Using a fishing bucket and our bare hands, we chased the bumpy, brown amphibians by porch light. By the end of the night, we were soaked and filthy with mud and we had caught a hundred toads! Past our bedtime, Mom finally called us in and tipping the bucket, we released our tiny, hopping treasures back into the wet, dark night. And we carried the pride of our catch into our dreams.

On a camping trip, I found a large shark tooth along the water’s edge where I was playing. Holding it tight in my hands, away from the other kids who were trying to snatch it from me, I raced across the campground to show my mother. I found her in the cabin, alone, crying, but she stopped when I opened my hands. “What a gift!” she said and she forced a smile. In my jewelry box, I still hide that fossilized tiny treasure.

It’s the extra pickle on your sandwich and two cherries in your milkshake. It’s the smell of fresh-baked cookies. A sunset. The warmth of blankets when they come out of the dryer. It’s a text that says “I love you, that’s all.” It’s a bird’s sweet song. It’s an innocent giggle and a satisfied grin. It’s two tiny hands holding a buttercup, “For you Momma”.

The world is speckled with tiny treasures waiting to be found- little creatures, yummy treats, beautiful sights, wonderful sounds. And every place, no matter how dark it may seem, hides its own secret stash …. if you’re willing to look for them. Past the shadows and under the storm clouds, these treasures will be waiting and the joy they bring you, can carry you.

With the same fervor that you seek such wonders, you must also seek to maintain a focus on them, lest you lose sight of them into the background of life and worry.

This week, I saw a Momma dolphin fishing in the canal with her babe. I saw a manatee feeding in the grass. I saw pelicans dive and an egret swallow it’s dinner. I held an infant shark and chased little lizards. I was surrounded by treasures and yet I couldn’t take them in, because I was distracted.

My ‘life lens’ was out of focus. Instead of looking too far ahead, I had to look around. By focusing solely on ‘tomorrow’s’ problems, I was missing the beauty in ‘today’. And a missed appreciation for the beauty of today is exactly what I’ll mourn when tomorrow finally comes.

As I make my way down the shoreline of life, I know I can’t predict what will lie ahead. While I won’t lose sight of the horizon, my focus is on ‘today’. I can’t change tomorrow and I can’t change fate but I can discover each day’s hidden treasures and allow these small blessings to carry me onto the next.

If I’m lucky, I’ll one day look back at a set of footprints that’s stretched far from view and I’ll see just how far I’ve come. My journey will make me stronger and wiser and more resilient to the changing tides and life’s harsh weather. My body will tell the story of a thousand difficult days, but thanks to my angels, my pockets will be stuffed with lots and lots of tiny treasures.

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The Magic of Savannah

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Surviving life takes honesty, to know when your mind and body need a break. It takes gumption, to get off your tail and to go find solace when you need it. It takes wisdom, to know what places and what people will replenish you. And like everything that ends well, it takes a little magic. Anyone who tells you there isn’t magic, simply hasn’t found any yet. The world is full of magic, you just need to know where to find it.

Fernando replenishes me and Savannah holds my magic.

Walking along the river’s edge my tired feet carry me and the weight of my heavy heart. One step at a time, putting one foot before the next, I am reminded that this is just what I needed to do.

The lapping of the small waves and the glistening of the setting sun on the water’s surface sends waves of comfort into my soul. Like the rocking of the tides, my head is devoid of thoughts and then flooded again. Alternating between the welcome absence of thought and the inevitable pining and searching for inspiration and support, I see the river as a beautiful woman. Standing alone, she appears massive and exudes power and strength. Like a warrior upon a cliff with her wild hair whipping in the wind, her presence tells the land around her that she rules here. No one, nothing, can conquer her.

But in just a moment and a turn of one’s head, an enormous container ship makes its way down the waterway and the massive river appears small and overwhelmed. She is dwarfed by the load passing over her and it appears as though it will smother her. Don’t be fooled. She is still a warrior. With grace and beauty she carries that ship on her back, shouldering the weight of every burden that she is given. It is then that you see her true strength. Summoning my inner-warrior, my soul becomes one with the river.

While my soul is immersed in the water that runs along beside me, my feet carry me away from the water’s edge and find a new surface on which to tread. This path is a familiar one. My beautiful ‘River Street’ is paved in cobblestone. I love cobblestone.

As my eyes move from the water’s surface to the path ahead of me, I examine the stones laid before me. A magical passageway, each ancient stone cut by hand … none of them the same as the one beside it. Each one holds the markings of a hard day’s work and the weight of centuries. I am reminded that the most beautiful things in life are the ones that are not like the others. No one stops to admire the bricks of a modern building- stones that are cut by machines, each one designed to look just like the next, lined up, perfectly uniform and just the way they were intended to be from the start. There is no inspiration found in artificial perfection.

So why do we yearn for flawlessness when our hearts are always drawn to imperfect beauty?

My feet work harder to carry me over the uneven stones and I feel unsteady. Yet I welcome the journey. These stones inspire me. They hold their position, still standing strong after years of being tread upon, beaten by harsh weather and saturated by floods. For years, horse hooves clopped upon them, wagon wheels and trolley cars rode them hard and leather, hand-sewn shoes and hard boots walked over them, day-in and day-out, wearing their once sharp edges smooth. And despite its scars, still, it bears the burden and provides passage to those who come to the river.

Even the trees here, ancient and draped in moss, like a wizard, exude wisdom from the years they’ve survived. Thick with stories only their roots can tell and strength from carrying the weight of the epiphytic plants that adorn them, the great oaks comfort me.

Like the wave of a magic wand, a stroll down these streets assures me that my feet, though still tired, and my heart, only slightly less heavy now, too, will carry the load that it is given … with roots that run deep and branches that provide shelter, one step, one lapping wave at a time.

I am thankful for my honesty, my wisdom, my gumption … but most of all … today, I am thankful for the magic of Savannah.