Tag: inspiration

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Tradition is the Chocolate Egg in my Easter Basket

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In my house, Easter egg dying was always a family affair. A day or so before Easter we’d boil, cool and divide up the eggs. And the four of us kids would spend a solid hour or two dunking our eggs and decorating them with stickers or a magic egg-writing crayon. Some of those brightly colored eggs always found themselves in our baskets. And it was obvious, at least later in life, that our baskets were always hand-prepared, never the store-bought variety. The contents were always economical, but thoughtful. And when the Easter bunny came, he hid them in various places in our home. When we awoke, we scampered through the house excitedly to find them. If you accidentally found someone else’s, the rule was that you quietly put it back so as not to ruin the discovery for your sibling. My parents got a basket too, which my playful father always managed to find and hand-over to my Mom.

After baskets came a yummy breakfast. And after breakfast was church. After church, we’d run home to eat more candy and my mother would finish her side dishes to bring to my grandparents house. We’d parade over to my grandparents house in our Easter clothes, which usually had chocolate on them by that point. And there, the whole family would gather. We feasted on ham and scalloped potatoes, green beans and fruit salad. And we talked and we laughed and we played. The kids compared the goodies in their baskets and ran around on sugar highs, while the adults enjoyed a break from their weekly stressors and shared stories.

And so tradition would have it that my children too, have hand-prepared baskets that are hidden in the house. The same rule applies for finding your sibling’s basket and the same parent basket finds its way there too, with a few dark chocolates and maybe some coffee. Over a yummy breakfast, we excitedly anticipate the change in the seasons and we start making our warm weather plans. And while my children get just as excited about candy as any other kids would, they always ask, “Where are we going for Easter?” Easter dinner is what they’re referring to … because they know that holidays mean family. And if ever they spent an Easter without at least some of their cousins, they’d be devastated. And my children know that regardless of where we go, we never show up empty-handed. Mommy always has dishes to prepare; and the kids, anxious to play with their cousins, hurry to get ready and help carry the items out to the car. And when we arrive at our destination, we feast and we talk, we laugh and we play.

Some things have changed. My grandparents are no longer living and Easter is often rotated. Some family have moved out-of-state. And as the family grows, so too does their experiences and their extended family. Some, like me, have also changed our religious beliefs and practices. But we all still treasure tradition.

 

Living my life as a self-proclaimed non-believer, every holiday that rolls around, there’s always someone who has some sort of remark about why I am celebrating a “religious holiday.” I then feel compelled to educate them on how most Christian holidays started out as Pagan holidays and practices, which the Christians essentially re-purposed and re-named in an effort to more easily convert the Pagans. And I’m usually met by blank stares as few people who make such remarks actually know the history of world religion and culture.

The truth is, egg decorating and fertility festivals pre-date the first “Easter” or “Resurrection Sunday” and eggs and bunnies have virtually nothing to do with Christ’s resurrection. Rabbits, who reproduce readily, have been a symbol for goddesses of fertility since ancient times. And the first “Easter bunny” most likely came from a German fable. Easter as we think of it, culturally, has much more to do with German traditions and the Pagan “Spring Re-awakening.” And these customs and practices have been largely adopted by Christians and re-configured to suit the needs of Christian teachings.

Similarly, many of the customs surrounding Christmas, stemmed from German roots and Pagan festivals. Decorating cut trees came from a custom associated with the “Feast of Adam and Eve”-a tradition based on the Old testament, not Christ. Whereas, decorating outdoor trees, particularly, evergreens, was a Pagan practice. In fact, in the early Christian Church, decorating with evergreen was banned during the Christmas season due to its associations with Paganism. The Pagan Festival of Lights involved lighting homes and tombs in honor of several gods and goddesses. And the gift-giving festival for the Roman god Saturn, which coincided with the Winter Solstice, was a widely celebrated festival that early Christians sought to replace. Jesus’ actual birth is unknown, though some historians believe he was likely born in Spring.

So why do I keep getting blasted with “Jesus is the Reason for the Season”?!

Well, that’s because Christians decided long ago, what they would celebrate and when. Christianity holds the majority in many countries, including the United States. Those religious meanings have become their tradition, and for them, these holidays hold great religious significance. The world and the U.S. is a collection of people who hold various beliefs and various customs. If we want to peacefully co-exist, we must learn to have a mutual respect for one another. We must learn to accept that different holidays, different customs, have different meanings for different people. Those of us who choose to celebrate a holiday or a custom simply for its tradition, should respect the sacredness that the holiday holds for religious observers. And those who find religious significance in their holiday celebrations should acknowledge that many of the holiday traditions are a collection of both religious and non-religious customs, many of which have ancient roots that have nothing to do with their current beliefs.

In the U.S. in particular, one will find a mosaic of cultural influences which create the holiday celebration as we know it today – much like a holiday table is a mosaic of familial recipes. Everyone in my family agrees, we have to have my father’s mother’s rolls and my mother’s grandmother’s corn pudding and my grandmother’s pineapple salad. My children will hopefully continue these and then add a Chilean dish or my self-invented marshmallow-jello parfait. Just like family recipes can come together to create a wonderus feast that satisfies all who come to it, religion and culture too, can coexist and fulfill our needs.

So, if Christians can take their egg-filled baskets into church to be blessed and their parents can use the fertile symbol of a hard-boiled egg to instead illustrate Christ’s empty tomb … than non-Christians too can use the traditions associated with a holiday to teach and celebrate with family. While Easter Sunday does not include a church service for my immediate family, it does include family togetherness, the celebration of life and generations of tradition. And those traditions are the sweetness of life. They are our comforts and the things we look for above all else in an ever-changing world and an ever-changing life.

Tradition is your grandmother’s recipe. It’s a monogrammed stocking or a basket that you held year after year and the one that you look for. It’s the cookies and milk for Santa. It’s reading the same story or poem on the same day every year until you can practically recite it yourself; but you don’t, out of reverence for the moment. It’s candles on a cake and a song that you sing. It’s a routine you expect … a custom you’ve adopted. It’s the threads of your past that are woven into your soul and tie you to your ancestors; and it creates a beautiful and varied textile that you can’t help but to wrap yourself in. And it didn’t come about overnight or from one single source but from many places and many people over many years. It is comfortable and familiar and exciting. It’s the chocolate egg amongst all the other candies and tiny gifts that change with time. And without tradition, there would be a void that is as palpable as a hollow chocolate bunny … or an empty tomb.

Happy Easter! Happy Passover! Happy Spring Re-Awakening! Happy Jelly Bean day! Happy Traditions … whatever you want to call them!

 

Below are articles I referenced and ones that are worth reading if you have interest in holiday traditions:

http://www.wisegeek.org/where-did-the-tradition-of-the-christmas-tree-come-from.htm

https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/easter-symbols

http://listverse.com/2012/12/15/10-remarkable-origins-of-common-christmas-traditions/

 

 

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Hot Chocolate … a worldly and all season treat!

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Cocoa beans drying in the sun in Grenada. This remains the preferred method of drying there.

With roots across the globe and across centuries, this bitter seed has been enjoyed as both a sweet treat and a medicinal remedy probably since before Christ walked the planet. It has truly stood the test of time and if my taste buds and recent travels serve, it’s not going anywhere any time soon!

As I mentioned in a previous post, my husband and I recently had a 12 day adventure in the Southern Caribbean. And on that trip, one of our favorite islands was Grenada. It is a poor country but their good spirits, focus on health and resourcefulness was incredibly inspiring. They are a people who truly ‘live off the land’, using every resource in its entirety, without waste. They preserve the land that sustains them and they use their plants as medicine.

Of the six islands we visited, Grenada was the only island that we took a bonafide tour in. It was a spice tour. Our tour guide rode through the Grenadian countryside pointing out innumerable plants and citing their countless uses from pain relief to a cure for IBS, treatment for insomnia and natural Viagra. We learned how they use the spices not only for cooking but also for medicine. Every part of the plant and nut is utilized. Even the shells are used as fuel, like charcoal.

Amongst the many plants and spices covered, cacao was one that was focused on. While Grenada has long been dubbed the “The Spice Isle”. It is also quickly gaining popularity as “The Caribbean Capital of Chocolate.” In fact, our tour guide informed us that both Belgium and Sweden are sending chocolatiers to Grenada to talk business. This is likely due to that fact that the fertile soil and simple but dedicated farming techniques yield a high quality cacao (or “cocoa” as they say in Grenada) which is then used to produce a high quality, organic and potent chocolate. The flavors of the neighboring plants, like nutmeg, banana and clove are also said to effect the flavors of the cocoa beans. “We don’t water our chocolate down with milk” our tour guide explained. “We give you only chocolate. And because it doesn’t have milk, it doesn’t melt in your hand. And the antioxidants it carries, promote good health.” Chocolate is known for lowering blood pressure and cholesterol. Thus, promoting good heart health as well as reducing stress hormones and eliminating free radicals in the blood. Chocolate as medicine? Now that’s something I can get down with!

Jouvay is one company that we learned supports both Grenada and the U.S.. American chocolate maker L.A. Burdick created a unique partnership with Grenadian cocoa farmers, making the farmers the majority owners of the company. The cocoa growers are also the manufacturers. They ensure the product is sustainable sourced. By keeping both the farming and the production in the country, the production is more environmentally conscious, economical and creates more jobs for the poorest country of the Caribbean. Because the famers are being paid U.S prices and have U.S marketing on their side, the farmers are compensated appropriately, the product reaches a wider consumer population, and thus, yields, higher success. Thus benefitting Grenada economically. The U.S benefits by gaining access to some of the world’s finest chocolate and its profits. You can buy Jouvay online and on Amazon and learn more about Jouvay here:  https://www.jouvaychocolate.com/partnership

While we were in Grenada, we purchased some of their wonderful spices, cocoa and of course, some Jouvay bars. The cocoa balls we bought were produced specifically for making hot chocolate, we were told. And the Jouvay bars, a mild 60% and 75% cocoa are amongst the strongest chocolate I’ve tasted … but delicious! I’ve always loved dark chocolate. As a kid I always picked the gold wrapped “Special Dark”s out of the Hershey miniature bag. I feel so worldly now! LOL

So on this snowy day in the U.S. Yes, it’s snowing here in March … I decided to put those cocoa balls to good use. I won’t bore you with the process as this form of cocoa is not readily available here. I will however give you some non-alcoholic and libation ideas for your own hot chocolate. And for those who are experiencing proper spring weather, not to worry … frozen hot chocolate is here too!

Suggested Non-Alcoholic additives for your Hot Chocolate

 

  • Peppermint – either a few drops of extract or a hard candy. As a kid I loved to stir my hot chocolate with a candy cane.
  • Chocolate – either milk or dark … stir until it melts. It makes the drink that much richer!
  • Raspberry or Orange extracts- a few drops. These fruits pair beautifully with chocolate.
  • Coconut milk-for the non-dairy consumers or simply the coconut lovers. Give it a little zip in the blender and it gets all frothy and decadent without being overly heavy.

 

Suggested Alcohol additives for your Hot Chocolate

 

  • Peppermint schnapps
  • Whipped Cream vodka
  • Frangelico
  • Kahlua
  • Bailey’s
  • Vanilla vodka
  • Caramel vodka
  • Godiva liquor

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Frozen Hot Chocolate

Prepare any one of these or your favorite hot chocolate recipes and then allow it to cool. Add to a blender with either a scoop of ice cream or just ice and blend til smooth. It’s like a chocolate milkshake of sorts!

 

Because it’s always the right season for Chocolate … Enjoy!

 

 

 

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Worth living for…. My gratitude list and a response to the play “Every Brilliant Thing,” an essential conversation on suicide awareness and mental health

writing-1317009-640x480I recently attended a performance of the play, “Every Brilliant Thing,” written by Duncan MacMillan and Johnny Donahoe and performed by Alexander Strain. The play is and further yields a worthy conversation on suicide awareness and the importance of an individual’s mental health. And in the play, the conversation is held in the form of a one man cast who begins as a 7-year-old boy who is trying to understand and navigate the suicide attempt of his mother. The primary way he does this and the ongoing theme of the play is a gratitude list, or as he so britishly calls it, a “A list of Every Brilliant Thing”. And he leaves it on the pillow of his mother when she returns home as a reminder of all the things worth living for.

The list grows and unfolds over a lifetime and using light-hearted humor and audience participation, it reminds us of the many good things in life. It also brings to light, the fact that when our lives are going well and we have much to live for, the list grows quickly and easily. But on our difficult days, on the days when life has handed you a royally shitty hand, it can be a painful and nearly impossible task to think of things to be grateful for … or even to look at the list at all, for that matter.

Through this presentation, as a model for life itself, we are given the therapeutic task of replacing sorrow with gratitude, a worthy and effective exercise. And yet the play makes it clear, that this isn’t a cure for mental illness. Gratitude lists help us to establish a more positive outlook on life. They create a healthier, more uplifting viewpoint on the everyday, which improves our quality of life and self-satisfaction; but they don’t usually save lives and they certainly don’t cure chemical imbalances. It explains how grief and our attempts to process it, change as we age. And it makes the feelings that suicide survivors have, relatable. The guilt, the frustration and the fear of inheriting the same illness are all very real feelings for those affected by suicide; and it is self-affirming when someone else echoes the things you speak of only in your mind.

But the most important aspect of the play entirely, in my opinion, is the conversation that the play both is and creates. The conversation that mental illness is real and serious and that it deserves immediate and respectful attention. And yet in order to be effective, we must create some sense of normalcy and a comfortable place for people to come. In order to treat the illness, we must first end the stigma. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S and 1:5 Americans and Canadians suffer from some form of mental illness. The majority, not the minority, of people have been affected by suicide and the cascade of mental illness. And yet, we sabotage our own needs by labeling people, distancing ourselves, avoiding the topic or becoming uncomfortably solemn and unrelatable when we talk to those who are experiencing symptoms. It’s almost like we’re afraid of getting their “cooties.” Or perhaps we’re afraid of getting hurt or feeling responsible if things go awry. And yet, the name calling, ostracization and lack of relatability is exactly what perpetuates bad outcomes.

While there is still much work to do, and my experience is biased by living in a progressive part of the country, I do believe that we have made great strides in ending the hurtful exclusion and name calling of homosexuals and mentally retarded individuals. My children have grown to accept these people as they are and are blessed to have never heard the word “Fag” or “Retard” from their peers. And yet they know very well the term “Psycho.” And even worse, they know that quiet and cold feeling that comes when someone “has problems.”

As a medical professional and an advocate for mental health services, I can assure you of the suffocating nature that that stigma carries. Rarely to my face … but most often in small conversation, when the people talking don’t know my story, that’s when I hear it. That’s when, like my children, I feel it. The tone gets quiet and serious and suddenly, everyone involved in the gossip is “better” than the subject they are referring to.

And I do believe that the root of this reaction is out of self-preservation and not of mal intent. It is however, just as damaging. When people don’t have full regulatory control over their emotions or psyche, it makes people feel uncomfortable and afraid. And those people usually respond in 1 of 3 ways.

  1. They isolate that person. They stop hanging out with them, stop answering their texts and avoid them. They might be afraid of being manipulated by them or maybe they are just uncomfortable around them now. Maybe they don’t know what to say. It’s an immature response, but a common one. When one is afraid, they often run away. Still the affected person is left alone and learns by default not to confide in others. And because of this rejection, by default, the isolated person is labeled as an “outsider” or “different”.
  2. An even more immature response to feeling uncomfortable is to laugh and poke fun. This is not rooted in self-preservation. It is simply mean-spirited. And it happens all the time. The homeless guy that’s mumbling nonsense, the kid that comes to school dressed bizarrely or the jokes about voices in your head … all seem like viable subjects of seemingly innocent banter and yet to the victim and their families, it’s another assault. And even more so, to the bystander, whom you think is perfectly “normal”, those jokes are another rejection, another statement that “if you tell your secret, we won’t accept you”.
  3. And lastly, when they don’t ostracize or bully and tease, they judge. They judge them for “not really having a chemical imbalance,” without having any knowledge of that person’s medical records. They accuse them of “doing it for attention,” without ever wondering why. They judge them for “putting chemicals into their bodies”, for not being strong enough to handle life, for being dramatic, for always being “so negative”, for being “too lazy to get out of bed” or “too ____” … whatever.

So this week’s post is both a hand extended and a plea to all of those who have ended relationships because of a diagnosis … Who have refused to acknowledge or talk about the mental health of a person to their face and instead gossiped behind their back … To those who have labeled someone as “crazy,” a “head-case”, or a “nut job,” knowing full-well there was an underlying condition responsible for that person’s actions … For those who believe that simply “picking yourself up by your bootstraps” is an effective treatment … and for those who publicly demean mental health services in the form of therapy or medication … You are killing us!

Please educated yourself. Please try to understand someone else’s perspective. Please be compassionate and kind and patient. Please be a safe place. And if you can’t, at least shut up and give them a number to call. The worst place to be, is alone. And people who suffer from mental illness or have loved ones who are suffering, always feel alone. Please help me to change that!

Mental illness is so frustrating. And those affected can be incredibly draining and manipulative. And confronting mental illness most certainly can induce a grief response. But just the way we have changed the way we talk about mental retardation and homosexuality, a change in the way we respond to mental illness is also greatly warranted. It is not a new problem. It’s not a rich or a poor problem. It’s not an educated versus non-educated problem. It’s not a race problem. It’s not a strong versus weak problem. It is everyone’s problem. And people’s lives literally depend on it.

I am the mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter and niece of those affected by mental illness and there is not a single documented diagnosis in my family. Stigma and self-righteousness prevented diagnosis and treatment in our past. It led to many tortured lives and two untimely deaths in my beautiful, “normal”, middle-class, white, educated, god-loving, family.

That shit is changing with me.

So in the spirit of the play, I’ll end with my own “Brilliant List” and I’ll encourage you all to do the same, to seek out goodness and positivity. The National Alliance for Mental Illness reports that when you actively seek out ‘reasons to be thankful’ for 21 days, you will start to involuntarily think more positively. We could all use that. And then I’ll remind you that sometimes that list won’t be enough. And there are people and services that can help. Please let them help.

My favorite line in the play is :

“Life may not ever become Brilliant but it does get better. It always gets better.”

Amanda’s Brilliant List

  1. Hearing my children say, “Good job Mommy”
  2. Letting my husband love me in all his glorious ways
  3. Dancing in the kitchen
  4. Belting out Disney tunes with my 2-year-old niece
  5. Dark chocolate and red wine paired together, in the evening, when the house is quiet
  6. Finishing a photo book and reminiscing on that trip
  7. Planning a new road trip and anticipating the discovery of a new place
  8. The first unseasonably warm day of the year
  9. Talk therapy with my best friend, just the two of us … and wine
  10. Being assigned the patient that no one else wanted, and then connecting with her
  11. Having an opportunity to sleep in and actually being able to sleep
  12. Cooking delicious food with my siblings – we are like top chefs…well one is anyway!
  13. Going to a rock concert with my Dad and never sitting down
  14. Getting rid of old things and making space in the house without feeling wasteful
  15. Using up all the odds and ends in the fridge and creating something delicious with them
  16. Pedicures, with a really good leg massage
  17. A blog post that blows up, in a good way 🙂
  18. The smell and feel of a fresh haircut and highlights, good-bye grays and split ends
  19. Long conversation with deep thinkers over good wine
  20. Knowing that I’ve helped someone
  21. People who understand
  22. Extra time when I need it
  23. Thematic parties
  24. Outdoor summer family parties that start with food, lead to dancing and end with quiet conversation and star-gazing late into the night
  25. Feeling like despite all my failures and heartache, somewhere, somehow, I’m doing something right and maybe I’ll leave this world just a little better than I found it.

 

For those who need a phone number for help: 1-800-273-TALK, 1-800-SUICIDE, or text NAMI or TALK to 741-741

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Words are like Flowers and Writing is my Vessel

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“Writing is the painting of the voice.”-Voltaire

Writing is the vessel in which I sail my inner workings across the ocean of life. It is the  carrier of my thoughts and ideas, stories and lessons. It is the way I am heard, the way I share.

Deep within the matrix of our minds, thoughts and ideas are formed. Like trapped birds, they are released as the spoken word. Despite their beauty and complexity, each sound, each word, lasts only seconds before it’s gone, flittering into empty space. Though the message may linger, the words themselves are fleeting and seem to dissipate into thin air. The spoken word is easily forgotten or mistaken.

But ink that leaves a pen remains, permanently inscribing the words its master dictates. Thoughts put into readable form, the written word is a record. It’s a document. It is not the mumblings of a drunk or the talking in ones sleep. It is intentional. And it never lies or forgets.

When I talk, often I feel like a bumbling fool … awkward, disorganized and redundant. Words pour out of my mouth like children off a school bus … clambering and loud and clumsy. And my thoughts and ideas are often misconstrued and misunderstood.

But when I write, I am like a well choreographed dance. Every move rehearsed, every step cautiously placed, every word carefully chosen. And the words flow together like movements, creating a beautiful piece designed specifically to carry my message.

Words are like flowers. When I write, I walk through the most bountiful garden, hand selecting each blossom with careful and purposeful intent. Arranging the words into a bouquet, each arrangement is unlike the one I made before it. Each flower holds a unique purpose and aroma to the ear. There are no bad flowers, no bad words. And I yearn every day to discover a new variety, to uncover a new specimen to place in my piece.

Like every artist, my art, my bouquet, is not always appreciated. At times it is overlooked and ignored. Not unlike the painter along the sidewalk, the musician in the subway, the dancer dancing in an empty theater. But if only one person enters that theater, the heart of that dancer becomes full and she is no longer just a dancer, but a performer. When art is recognized, the artist gains the greatest fulfillment.

And yet, even without an audience, without a buyer, without coins in an otherwise empty case on the floor – those strokes, those notes, those movements, those words, are therapy for the artist. They soothe his soul and at the same time, they make him come alive. They are his heart and he cannot walk away from them. They are a part of him.

The highest honor is knowing that my words have touched another soul, hearing that my message has spoken to another heart. Feeling as though I have made a difference, I am fulfilled in my work. Like the chosen carrier of precious cargo, I feel worthy. I am grateful for my talent.

But even without recognition, without payment, when I put my pen to paper, it is therapy for my soul. Kneading through my angst and sorrow, the darkest part of my life, like clay, I create a sculpture of my life that is beautiful. And looking at that sculpture, I see how I have turned misery into joy and pain into lessons and I am proud of who I am and from where I came.

Life is a journey and each of us, an artist. We are handed a canvas and asked to fill the world with beauty. Be that canvas, a pot in which you cook, an instrument from which you play, earth in which you plant, wood from which you build, hearts of which you nurture … use your canvas to create beauty. My canvas is paper. And my paint, is words. Thank you for receiving my words. Thank you for taking the time to smell the flowers, to hear the notes that my heart sings, to feel the energy that my soul releases.

 

 

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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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“Judgment” …. a once Christian’s perspective

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According to Webster's dictionary, judgment is the "process of forming an opinion or evaluation by discerning and comparing” or “a proposition stating something believed or asserted”.

In my words, judgment is an analysis of a situation or the comparison of one thing to another which leads to the conclusion that one thing is preferable or superior to the other. We make judgments on the movies we watch, the places we go and the food we eat. We compare travel spots, restaurants and activities. We think about and then rethink the moves we’ve made and try to reach some kind of conclusion as to whether or not these moves were the best ones. When we judge a place or a material object, we create a sort of mental ranking for the future. We do this to ensure that the next time we are faced with a similar choice, we stand better odds at choosing the more favorable option.

People are not objects. Our nature is far more complex than taste and texture and visual appearance. And just as a person should not be defined by their outwardly appearance, they should not be defined by a single action or circumstance either. It is important that we understand favorable and unfavorable actions, lest we have a society of ambiguity and absolute relativism. One might also refer to this as, "right versus wrong." And unfavorable actions need not be condoned. But when we judge another person, when we categorize them based on an action or a thought, we are allowing our minds to formulate an opinion of another person’s worth.  The consequences of a lack of worth are far more devastating than identifying a dangerous habit or an undesirable characteristic. And that judgment is as toxic to the one who is placing it, as it is to the one being judged. The way I see it, judging another person is like watering a feeling that is planted in the innermost place of one’s core that tells one that they are better than someone else. People who continue to judge others are feeding the spoil within themselves and that spoil spreads to others.

While the act of casting judgment on others is toxic, in order to help identify and combat it, I find it helpful to understand why certain people have an affinity for it. And in my observation of people, I find that the practice of judging other people is often perpetuated by an inability to see another’s perspective or to understand another’s place or point of view. It is usually egotistical. And sometimes, it even lacks logic or reason. In other words, some people judge others because they simply don't understand them. Due to their life circumstance or position, they just don't have the experience or the context to begin to understand how someone could do something or end-up where they are. And so, having no understanding of what that person's life was like, they cast a judgment on that person for not being strong enough or smart enough to escape their fate. It's a sad situation that happens every day when certain people pass by the homeless or the prostitutes, the drunks or the drug addicts. Most people shake their head … few people wonder how they got there.

One of my favorite Bible stories is here in John 8:
1 but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. 2 At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. 3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8 Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

While some people find it impossible to understand certain circumstances or life choices; others, I've found, lean towards judgment because they're too close to those experiences and those experiences have led to hurt. Many times, when a person has had a negative experience with a certain individual, they will make a blanket statement or carry an exaggerated response to all persons who display the same character flaw or who fall within the category that this person has created . For instance, a child of an abusive alcoholic may develop a hatred for all alcoholics or a person who has been cheated on by a partner may refuse to have any dealings with other persons who too have committed infidelity, and thereby they judge them and cast them into a category of people who hold little worth. Sadly, when we are hurting, we are often so consumed in our grief that we fail to see our own faults much less the worth of the person who hurt us.

Mathew 7:1-5
1 “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. 2 For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. 3 “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? 4 How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye

While PTSD is a real thing and psychological cause and effect are valid happenings, there are treatments for these things. Holding on to these biases based on trauma are not healthy coping mechanisms. Categorizing people is a basic behavior that has evolved as we have. The same way a gazelle has evolved to identify the slow movements of a lion in the high grasses of Africa, humans too have evolved to identify undesirable human characteristics and to remove ourselves from them; particularly, after the actions of those characteristics have hurt us. This is a life saving technique and I in no-way suggest that you should seek-out or a-line yourself with people who display dangerous behaviors and characteristics. But I caution you to place a sense of worth on them. Because when we do, the collective opinion of others in society leads to the ostracization of certain members. We are a high level species. The highest in fact, that we know of. We are no longer striving for basic animal instinct … instead we are seeking a higher level of human thought and interaction. No one benefits from out-casting and labeling. The world isn't black and white. People don't belong in this category or that. We are humans and we are fluid. There is goodness and there is darkness in all of us.

To be able to see both the darkness and the light, we must learn to separate a person's actions from their "self". We must learn to see past their blaringly obvious flaw and look for the quiet goodness that they too possess. You can protect yourself from the dangerous behaviors of a person and still acknowledge that person's goodness and worth. You can distance yourself from your abuser and still recall their redemptive qualities.

Real life example:

Using reason, logical cause and effect and personal observation, one could reasonably conclude that extra marital affairs are detrimental to monogamous relationships as well as to society as a whole. If we as a society, could not place trust in our promises to one another, the structure of our society would suffer. The family unit is a huge part of the foundation that builds our communities. Affairs hold the potential to cause emotional pain as well as hold physical, financial and psychological implications. We can all agree that infidelity is an unfavorable action.

But we can separate the action from the person and conclude that while the affair itself is a dangerous and unwise choice, the person who is having the affair still holds purpose and worth. In other words, instead of categorizing them as a “cheater” or a “whore” and dismissing them as no longer having worth, that person can still be your friend. Their actions need not be condoned. You should in no way "cover" for them or encourage their behavior. But friends who make risky and unwise choices need counseling and good examples set, they don't need to be ostracized. What does hatred and isolation teach anyone?

Another subject of judgment that I find particularly popular is drug abuse. There is a nation-wide epidemic happening right now and the use of Narcan to revive addicts who overdose is a controversal discussion. Drug abuse is habitual and carries known risks of damage to the body. It is statistically shown to be affiliated with behaviors that cause the breakdown of family units as well the breakdown of one’s body. You’d be hard pressed to find any evidence to suggest that anything other than marijuana (and possibly MDMA) for certain health conditions has any benefit to the average person. We can make a judgment that drug use and abuse without a medical indication, is a risky, unwise choice.

And yet, by understanding the power of addiction, sympathizing that most teenagers experiment and it's those who carry the gene for addiction that find it so hard to stop, and knowing that no one dreams of becoming the monster of addiction, we can still find love for the addict. That person is not their addiction. Their addiction might change the way they behave and those behaviors might affect our relationship with them; but we don’t have to make a judgment about who they are. And we don't get to determine their worth. Nor should we join them or enable them. Instead we should use that energy to try to understand their struggle, help them if we can, and then thank the universe that we didn't inherit those genes or that we didn't go to that party the night the experimentation began. We must look at the faces of addiction and see them as the babes they once were. We must remember to love like a mother.

 "If you judge people you have no time to love them."-Mother Theresa 

"Love is the absence of Judgment."-Dalai Lama

Some of the most wonderful people I know have stepped out of their marriages, have excessive spending habits, display hoarding behaviors, struggle to control their fears and anger and suffer from substance abuse. Most of the population doesn't even know that these people have made these errors or struggle with these tendencies. They are good parents. They are good employees. And they are good people. They are flawed and they have made mistakes. And they don't need to be crucified for them. Nor do they need excuses to be made for them. They need help. I won't allow these people to bring me down with them. I won't get caught up in their poor choices or enable their behavior. But I will be their friend.

"I only look to the good qualities of men. Not being faultless myself, I won't presume to probe into the faults of others."-Ghandi

I am mouthy and at times, obtrusive. I am a fervent defender of the under-dog and fight for causes sometimes to my own detriment. I struggle with anxiety and that often manifests in control issues. My experiences with poverty, dysfunction and abuse as a child have led to my ability to empathize with these conditions; but I battle my own biases against those who live privileged and entitled lives. Organized religion is a struggle for me. And some of the people who have hurt me are a real hurdle that I need to overcome. But I am working to amend those. I make it a daily effort not to place judgment on any individual; but if you ask anyone close to me who they dread bringing someone home to – I'm usually the hardest to sell. Sometimes I look to myself and wonder how I've been so lucky in my marriage and friends and family. Sure, I'm a hard worker and for the most part, kind and funny; but I am flawed. My friends and family love me anyway. So it is my pilgrimage to love others too, no matter how flawed they are. And I encourage you to do the same. The world is too crowded and complicated to spend our time walking around pointing our fingers. If we did that, we'd all end up with a broken digits and swollen eyes. With splinted hands and blurred vision, how could we possibly work to make the world a better place?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Sitting on the bottom step … cold, hard cement under her torn jeans and a busy world around her that seemed to be standing still … she held her head in her hands.

The pretty girl with the perfect spirals of hair that fell delicately in front of her deep brown eyes … almost hiding them and the tears that they have poured over her beautiful face. Her perfect smile, chased away. Her musical laughter, muted like a busted music box. The plans for her perfect life, shattered, like a fist through a mirror. Her beautiful heart bleeding.

Her perfectly pink lips trembled and she whispered, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

A small school girl, she would hop and squirm in her seat. Her small hand waving frantically in the air, she’d beg, “Oh oh oh….pick me! Pick me!” So anxious and eager she was back then, earnest for a chance to give the answer, for a chance to try…

Not today … not this time.

This time she would’ve put her hand down. She would’ve hidden under her desk, slunk to the back of the room. She would’ve run … out of the classroom, out of the building … out of the world to escape this. She would’ve paid any money, rubbed any stone, whispered any spell, prayed any prayer … not to be picked this time.

She knows these things happen. She knows no one deserves it. She knows she couldn’t have stopped it. And yet here she sits, with her head in hands and cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

Delicately perched on the step, an empty eggshell ready to crack- like a fractured fairytale, only there’s no happy ending. Breathing is her greatest task. And as she cries and breathes … the tears become fewer and the breathing, deeper.

The empty egg-shell is not so empty after all. Inside, it holds the steel frame of a woman who doesn’t know her strength. But as she breathes, slowly, she begins to notice the supports within her.

Still she cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

The longer she sits, the more she becomes aware of the steel bars that compose her core, her inner strength. And she tries to stand.

Her knees shaking, her body trembling, she takes a step … and then another … and then another.

And then for the first time, she lifts her gaze to the street in front of her- full of people, full of obstacles, full danger and judgement…

The journey ahead is frightening and overwhelming, but she knows that she can do this. She can walk this walk and fight this fight. Inside of her she can feel the strength of the many warriors, women who came before her … and she knows that she isn’t just a survivor, she’s a conqueror.

Shadows begin to move and let way to slivers of light. Though she knows some shadows will always remain.

Her legs, once too weak to stand, get stronger with every step. Her head, once fallen, raises higher with each stride. Her eyes, once too filled with tears to see are now filled with focus and direction. And her heart … as strong as it beats and as full as it is … her heart still bleeds …

because she whispers, “I really, really, didn’t want it to be me.”

Still she takes another step.

 

 

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Life is a Circus … A Life Inspired and Lessons Learned from the Magician, Johnny Fox

I was a kid when I first saw his act  – A wry, smart-mouthed magician with a knack for sleight of hand and sword swallowing (amongst other freakish sideshow skills) and the uncanny ability to do it with such ease he’d tell the audience “anyone can learn to do it”. He’d explain exactly what he was doing … and yet still manage to surprise his onlookers. The little red ball would turn to an orange and the orange to a glass of wine. He’d swallow a bigger sword than you thought was humanly possible and stuff a balloon down his throat and then pop it with a smaller blade – leaving the audience in stitches as his throat echoed the squeaking balloon’s deflation inside his body. He was handsome and funny and infectious and he called himself “Johnny Fox”. “Johnny Fox”, he’d say “is my stage name. My real name is John Fox.” And it was.

It worked out that I married a man who loved the faire as much as I did. And so as we built our life together and our family, the Maryland Renaissance Festival became an autumn-time staple for our family, a continuation from my childhood. And Johnny Fox stood at the heart of it. For years my son wanted “to grow up to be Johnny Fox” and he was constantly asking for new magic kits and wands … and forever disappointing himself that he wasn’t as good as Johnny. And even though we could practically recite half his jokes by heart and the outcomes of many of his tricks became predictable as the years passed… we couldn’t not see him. Because his jokes just never got old, his skill never got sloppy and his act never stopped amazing and entertaining us. Every year, when we’d walk through the gates of the festival with our entertainment schedule in hand and I’d say “Ok guys, who do you want to see?” Someone would always say, “Well you know we HAVE to see Johnny Fox!”

And so when the year came that I checked the entertainment schedule in advance and I saw that Johnny wasn’t on it, I panicked. He had been performing there forever! Nearly, forty years in fact. He was the longest running performer at the festival and we weren’t the only family who had come to love his entertainment for generations. Quickly scanning the site, I discovered that Johnny had been having some health problems and his performances were uncertain. We attended the festival regardless and were thrilled when we discovered that he’d still be performing. It wasn’t his usual three or four shows a day, there was only one that day; but it was the “must-do” for the day.

So when the time approached, we purchased “sweet nuts” from his signature booth and arrived early to get good seats. With beer and nuts in hand, my husband and I sat on the blue wooden benches like we had every fall. And the kids ran down the hill to the front, to sit at the Royal Stage’s edge (now the Royal Fox Stage) – just as they always had; because they already knew that when Johnny’s act started, the first thing he’d do was invite the kids down. They didn’t seem to realize that they were getting too big to use that accommodation anymore, but I didn’t stop them. For years, my son would gaze up at the magician like a god. And my daughter would soak in every second … until he grabbed the sword. Then she’d divert her eyes and squirm like the little girl that she was … only not so little now. As for my husband and I, every year we’d think this would be the year we would catch him in his sleight of hand. We never did.

As we sat on the benches, waiting for the show to start, I wondered and worried about what would have kept Johnny from posting certain performances.

And then Johnny appeared.

And the nurse inside of me knew exactly why his performances were uncertain. One look at him and I knew that he was dying. The look of end stage cancer is a look any seasoned medical professional can spot. The crowd cheered and welcomed him with a standing ovation and tears welled in my eyes. Oh, the difference a year can make. Standing on the same stage that I’d seen him perform for decades, his strong, fit body suddenly looked so frail. His clothes hung off of him and his cheek bones jutted under his thin, pale skin. I knew in that second that the great magician’s body was betraying him in the greatest of ways. And yet, stretched across his face was the biggest smile one could produce and his eyes were on fire.

Without missing a beat, he jumped right into his same jokes, the same ridiculously good sleight of hand and the same good-humored freak acts. With the same smooth confidence he held in his shoulders and the same mischievous sparkle in his eyes, he carried his audience from laughter to jaw drop, in a comfortable and entertaining act that was always second to none. And despite his obvious health concerns, he still ended the show with a sword swallow. I was astounded that he had the strength and energy to do what he did. He was a performer that we’d come to expect year after year and this time, while I watched, along with my laughter and smiles, my heart felt heavy because I knew that this was Johnny’s last show for us. And I soaked in every delicious second of it. He ended the show as he always did, by saying, “It is a privilege to make people laugh for a living…”

After the show, he confirmed to the audience that this past spring he had been given a grim diagnosis and had been undergoing alternative treatment. “They told me I only had a few weeks to live,” he said, “And I told them, you don’t know who you’re talking to.” He didn’t call his journey with cancer a “battle” though, he called it a “dance”. He spoke about his love for life and people and his drive to “keep getting better”. If death was on his mind, you never would’ve known it by his words or his performance. He called the Maryland Renn Fest his “home” and thanked everyone for making it that. He informed us of a Facebook page that he had opened for people to follow him on, “Friends of Johnny Fox”. And while he needed to clear the stage for the next act, he’d be in the back to take photos and sign autographs.

The kids and I were at the front of the line. He sat on a stool while a line formed behind us. I could see how tired he was and yet he was still so full of life. Before even acknowledging the adult that was trying to talk to him, he spotted my son and held out an autograph for him and shot him a sweet, inviting smile. And after we snapped our picture with the legend, I bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek, which he welcomed with a “muah”. “I just wanted to tell you that we love you,” I said.” You have brought us back to the festival year after year and have brought us so much joy. You taught my children to believe in magic. Thank you!” “I’m just dancing”, he said with a smile and I walked away just as the tears started to roll.

When I left the festival, I sent my request to “Friends of Johnny Fox” and from that day on I followed his page. With every updated picture and post that was made of him, it became clearer to me that he was getting sicker, and yet, he was always doing something fabulous! He was attending concerts (we share a favorite artist-Bob Dylan), putting his feet in the ocean, soaking in a hot tub with friends. As a health care professional, I know first hand what end-of-life looks like. Some people deny it and some people accept it. Many people submit to it and some people fight it. Johnny rocked it! He really did dance, right up until the very end.

And when the inevitable post came through that Johnny had drawn his last breath, I hung my head. “He died with a smile on his face and was surrounded by friends”- who gave him his final standing ovation-the post explained. When I turned to tell my family, my voice shook and I cried. I’m a nurse – I know death. This man wasn’t my family or even a friend. He was a festival performer. “I’m crying over a sword swallower”, I told my husband as I laughed through the tears. “Yeah but it was Johnny Fox”, he said. ” And he was just such a cool guy.” My children cried too.

His whole presence and journey had such a profound effect on myself and my family that we continued to follow his page and it wasn’t until after his death that we realized just what a legend Johnny was. We aren’t carnies or performers ourselves, we only knew the Maryland Renn Fest. And we thought Johnny Fox only belonged to us ( silly, I know!). It wasn’t until the various newspaper articles and NPR coverage surfaced that we began to learn the depth of his extraordinary ability and larger than life persona, whose influence spanned the nation. A true “sideshow virtuoso,” one article explained. All those years, we thought he was just our favorite festival act … when in actuality, he was a nation-wide legend.

We also learned more about the journey that he had been on and his drive to keep living and performing, right up until the end. His friends shared that one of the goals he had set for himself when he was diagnosed was to perform for the MD Renn fest for one more season. Friends drove him to doctors and even across the country to receive alternative treatment. He fought from Spring to Fall and there were weeks that he spent the weekdays in the hospital, but would be determined to get out in time to perform for the weekend. He was from Connecticut and performed in festivals all over the country. But somehow, Maryland Renn Fest won his heart, and we were all the luckier for it.

It was a family decision to attend his Celebration of Life ceremony. And we were so glad that we did! The man we knew only from the stage came even more to life when his friends told stories about him and his years of antics and performing. People traveled from all over the country to be there and to honor him. The stage was perfectly anointed with his props and posters and regalia. And the program his friends designed with quirky acts, comedy, eclectic people and musical minstrels was so suited to him that it was life-alteringly inspiring. They even performed a “Twenty-one sword swallow” as a salute to the great entertainer. I don’t know whether I felt more like an unworthy intruder or a privileged guest, to witness the tremendous love for a man I only knew as an audience member.

At the end of the ceremony, the host, a friend of Johnny’s and a fellow performer and magician, explained a tradition that started with the death of Houdini. The tradition was to break the magic wand of the late magician; “because a magic wand without the magician is just a stick”. And they followed the tradition with Johnny’s.

 

We don’t always know where our inspiration is going to come from. Nor do we know how the people (or performers) in our lives are going to change us. During the Celebration of Life ceremony, Johnny’s friend and fellow performer, Mark Sieve said “Johnny’s leaving us has affected all of us in ways we have yet to know.” And it already has.

I never would have dreamed that I would gain the inspiration or the lessons that I have as an audience member of a sideshow artist … I never thought I’d find myself in a room full of circus performers and be moved to tears with their tribute. I am changed because I stopped to watch and paused to learn.

Johnny’s example taught me that no amount of “bad news” or challenges can keep you from living, unless you let it. “Life is a choice to sit it out or dance.” Dancing he did, and magic he made. It’s up to me to make magic with the talents that I have.

And like a magician’s wand, things are just things and days are just days, until you use them to create something magical.

His diagnosis taught me not to let the inevitable, rush me to the ending. There’s a journey, a dance to be had. What he accomplished in those months of “dancing” was earth-moving. He taught this nurse, this skeptic, that it’s not over until it’s over.

And yet, he was a return act who reminded me that nothing lasts forever. Life is fragile and even the longest running act must come to an end. Take nothing for granted.

His quirkiness and love for the oddities in life confirmed my love for individual uniqueness. Johnny was a beloved person and character that embodied everything that was weird and unusual. He not only embraced that strangeness, he made it cool and he made it his. He was a perfect example of being yourself and utilizing your unique talents to make the world a more beautiful place.

Johnny reminded me to honor our past. His act, though it always felt fresh and new, always included tidbits of info that credited the forefathers of his art. He educated while he entertained and he honored the performers and talent that came before him. He fought to keep that dying art alive.

Johnny’s story taught me that “family” is whoever stands by your side and “home” is where your heart is. It was obvious from the speeches made, that Johnny was a well-traveled and well-loved man. He seemed to have many homes. I’m honored that Maryland was his favorite. And the turnout at his life celebration made it clear that his family was a wide and diverse one.

And that family reminded me that it’s those relationships that matter most. The people who carried Johnny to the end it seems, would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. And relationships like that, unlike magic, don’t generate from thin air. Johnny invested in people and they too invested in him. We mustn’t ever be too busy to invest in the people we love.

Despite his life threatening illness, Johnny showed up for one last season. Regardless of his fragility, he still performed and made people both laugh and squirm in enjoyment. He didn’t quit or give up. He didn’t lose himself or become bitter. He lived for every second that he was given and turned a death sentence into a beautiful dance. Might we all find the tenacity within us to do the same.

So here’s to the sword swallower who taught this nurse, this mother, this beer-holding, giggling fan … to believe in magic. Life is a Circus …bring your friends, buy the peanuts, sit in the front row, stay for the last act … it’s too damn short not to!

Thanks for sharing yours with us Johnny! Hats off to a life well performed!

 

 

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An Unexpected Snow Day

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Productive non-productivity – it’s something that those of us who have a hard time sitting still need to learn. If you are the coach potato or the gamer, this isn’t for you. If you are the person who can get lost in a book for a whole day, take long walks just to clear your head and do well relaxing and getting lost in deep thought, you don’t need this. This is for the high energy, constant doers, who run themselves ragged and don’t know when to quit. It’s for people like me.

I don’t need someone to teach me how to be more productive. (I have 3 jobs for Christ’s sake). I make photo books, plan parties, decorate cakes, type itineraries for vacations, DYI my home improvement projects and create annual family Halloween costumes. And yet, I can’t sit still through a movie if there’s clutter on the floor, I never watch TV, I don’t sleep enough, I get a haircut once a year, quality time with friends is hard for me to maintain and even my playtime with my family feels like it’s scheduled. I need to learn how to be productively un-productive. I need to be reminded to sit back and take in the natural moments of life, beyond those that I find on a beach vacation.

… And an unexpected snow day gave me the inspiration to do just that …

It was 4 am and I was working my usual night shift at the hospital. Due to low patient census, I was given the opportunity to go home early. On any other day, with only three hours left in the shift, I’d probably decline the offer, as eliminating three hours in an effort to gain time/sleep seems futile at that hour. But on this night, we had an unexpected snow storm blow in. This short but fierce storm would likely delay school openings in the morning – and two-hour delays are a nightmare for working parents. Every time it happens, it’s a juggling act to make it work with my sleep needs and my husband’s obligations to an early morning job. I hated the idea of driving home in the height of the storm. But, when I did the “sleep math” I figured-out that if I left the hospital right then, I could get just enough sleep to get the kids to school and save my husband the shenanigans of trying to get himself to work at a decent hour.

Driving home in the pitch black of the wee morning hours, I began to dread my decision. The roads were freshly iced and the only traffic on them, Mack trucks and snow plows, zoomed past me and pelted me with salt. It was a cautious drive home to say the least … but my husband was flooded by relief when he saw my face in the bed and I told him “I’ll take the kids this morning.”

An hour into my sleep I was gifted with a text from the school. The two-hour delay had been converted to a school closing. I’d be a fool to take a cancel from work and then not take advantage. So instead of my usual 4-5 hours, I greedily slept 8.

When I awoke, the magic of the day began to dawn on me – a cancel from work (even if it was only three hours) AND a surprise snow day?! This day couldn’t go to waste! Youthful energy came bubbling up inside of me and the first thing I decided was that it was the perfect day for a big, hot, afternoon breakfast- eggs and sausage and the whole gamut! While family dinner is a nightly occurrence at our house, we don’t often get the opportunity to enjoy breakfast together. I love breakfast! And so do the kids. So when I called them to the table, they came eagerly. And their enthusiasm for a big breakfast combined with a surprise snow day prompted me not to grab my phone with my plate and coffee and I instead left it in the kitchen. While I sipped my coffee, I  listened to the newest drama my teenager wanted to share and the silly stories that my younger one had to contribute, unplugged. They were quite the chatterboxes and it seemed the magic of the day hadn’t been lost to them either.

After we ate, I watched my daughter slink off to the basement (to turn on the TV for sure) and my son ran to put his snow suit on. The sink was full of dirty dishes. The Christmas decorations needed to be packed up and the newly purchased bins to pack them in were sitting in the middle of the living room. There was laundry to be washed and vacuuming to be had. You see, I’m not the kind of person that needs to be motivated. I’m the kind of person who has a running list of “To-do’s”. And logically, I knew that this time, with the kids occupied, after breakfast and before dinner, with an impending 7pm return to work, could be well spent doing those household chores. But the magic of this unplanned day inspired me and instead, for once, I decided to be un-productive … productively un-productive.

So with the dirty dishes piled even higher now, I called down to my daughter, “Hey, lets paint our nails!” I sensed an unexpected happiness in her voice. It’s not easy to excite or motivate a teenager and I think my enthusiastic suggestion instead of a half-hearted inquiry, excited her. Without complaint she turned off the TV and ran to get her new nail painting kit. While my son played outside, she and I experimented with new paint colors and stencils. While we painted, I realized that I no longer had to paint her nails for her or instruct her to keep still to avoid smudging them. She was old enough to do it on her own now and yet young enough to enjoy doing it with me. Side by side, we played and we enjoyed ourselves. She even let me put the stamp of my choice on her big toe nail. And while my nails looked slightly like an elementary school child with snowflakes on every nail, the fact that I used her kit and kept it on when I went to work that night, made her feel like I valued our time, I think.

We finished up our nails just as my little snow monster came barreling through the back door. And instead of hollering for him to take his wet clothes down to the dryer and fussing about the wet floors, I simply told him “Get some warm clothes on and then we can play your Play Station”. “Huh?” he said. I repeated myself, ” I don’t know how to play. So you’re gonna have to teach me.” I hadn’t played video games since I was a teenager and certainly not since I became a mother. Never have I seen that little boy move so fast to change his clothes! By the time I got downstairs, he had the system on and the game ready to go, with two controllers. The three of us took turns with the two controllers and the kids were in absolute stitches – watching me try to hunt storm troopers with my light saber. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my teenager laugh so hard at anything other than her friends and my little guy rarely gets the opportunity to teach anyone older than him anything. He’d only had the game system for a week, but I know he felt like a “pro” teaching his inadequate mom how to “jump”, “strike” and “run”.

And despite the fact that I had just started my New Years diet, I knew that I’d somehow be able to accommodate the calories in a cup of hot chocolate and a handful of marshmallows that day. So while we played Star Wars, we all indulged in a beverage that I rarely make for myself and it was delicious! The whole afternoon was delicious!

When my husband got home, the dishes were still piled up, Christmas still standing and the laundry was still dirty. But everyone was so happy that I don’t think he minded at all!

 

It was only a three-hour cancel. But that three hours made all the difference … because I decided to use that time to play with the people I love. I met them where they were at and played the things that they like to play. Rare are the days that they come to me with a request to play anymore. And the days that they will even be willing to comply with my requests are quickly coming to an end. I’m glad that I took this day to cash-in on that. I enjoyed their presence so much more than I would have had I decided to just be “productive”. For once, I was able to ignore the mess, to put down the phone, to stop adulting, and I just enjoyed my children for who they are, with no itinerary or checklist.

An early leave from work is a gift. A snow day is a gift. Time is a gift. Don’t waste it! If you’re like me and you have a hard time ignoring the “To do” list, if you tend to be a relentlessly productive person, I encourage you to try being un-productive for once. But not in the isolated sense of getting sucked into a TV show or playing on your phone. Try being unproductive in a productive way – the way that nurtures relationships and creates lasting memories. The way that shows that people and relationships and life is more important than a list of never-ending chores. The way that uses time the way it should be used, as fleeting and limited and precious.

When I’m old and gray, I assure you, I won’t remember the day I left the dishes in the sink or the Christmas decorations up an extra few, but maybe, if I’m lucky … I’ll remember my children’s laughter as I tried to navigate their newest technology, their marshmallow mustaches from hot chocolate on a snowy day, and their quiet diligence while they focused hard to paint their little nails. But more importantly I hope they remember that some days, despite her list of things to do, their mother took time to play. And she never took time or life for granted … especially on snow days.

 

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The Bitterness of the Holidays

For many people, the holidays hold a bittersweetness about them. The glitter and the lights, the delicious food and brightly wrapped packages, the gathering of friends and family, are all part of what makes the holidays a sweet and wonderful occasion that we look forward to celebrating. But along with that wonder and excitement, for many, the holidays also hold the bitterness of broken promises, missed opportunity, loss and regret. If we’re lucky, we’re able to balance the two. We’re able to see the faces of those that have gone before us in the traditions and the crafts and the baking and we give them a respectful nod or a toast. But for others, the loss they’ve experienced is on such a grand scale and the dulled edges of expected loss are sharpened so painfully with the tragic loss of a loved one gone too soon, that a balance of bitterness and sweetness is a much harder feat.

The last time that I saw my oldest brother’s face was the Christmas of 1996. He was quite ill at the time, with mental illness and substance abuse, but my 14-year-old self didn’t quite grasp the gravity of it. I knew that there wasn’t much he would use or want so I put my creative skills to use and made my first decorated cake. He loved penguins. So I created an arctic scene on a sheet cake with icing, rock candy and gummy penguins. Instead of handing him a brightly wrapped package, I handed him my heart-felt craft and I elicited from him a rare, ear-to-ear grin. That night when he left, my cool teenage self chose not to hug him or say “I love you.” My family wasn’t big on that and my adolescent immaturity made it worse. I can still see him getting out of the car and I can still remember the inner conflict I felt as he walked away and all I said was “Bye Sean”.

My memories from that Christmas couldn’t be a more fitting example of that bittersweetness that I speak of. A few weeks later, at his viewing, I later learned from his friends that he paraded that cake around town. He thought that it was just “the coolest thing” and I got “props” from my big brother’s cool friends. Still, because I chose not to display my love and affection in other ways, I’ve had to learn to live with my own regret, my own missed opportunity, my own loss.

This season, be mindful of those people who find it “hard to get into the Christmas spirit”. Take note of the people who spend their holidays alone and include them. Be patient and understanding if they’re just not jolly. Remember that even the “Grinch” had a reason for his hardened and bitter heart. We’re all on our own journey, but we’re in it together. And we almost never hit the ‘hard parts’ at the same time. Instead of wondering why someone can’t “get it together,” lend them a hand … or an ear, instead of a judgment. Stop for just a second and take a look around … to see the people who may be silently suffering, they are often the ones hurting the most. Look beyond your own circle of festivities and see how you can add a little sweetness to their situation. And instead of saying I’ll do it next year … instead of being too busy to travel, too self-righteous to make a phone call or too cool to say “I love you”, use this season as an opportunity to make memories and to make amends. Life is too fragile to be filled with regrets.

And after you’ve delivered your cookies to the shut-ins and made your phone calls and filled your homes with lonely hearts and empty bellies … find a delicious holiday drink to fill your cups … cook up something delicious and affordable to share … and start telling stories and playing games … continue old traditions and build new memories … and then, let the sweetness of the holidays slowly saturate the bitterness away. It can, if you give it time and you let it in.

 

Here’s a cocktail that I think does just that. Cranberries, alone, are a sour and bitter fruit. And whiskey is a libation known to burn as it goes down and numb what is tender. But sugar and cinnamon and citrus have been the sweeteners and the fruits of the holidays since they first began. This cocktail uses these traditional sweets to balance the bitterness of the whiskey and the cranberry to give a beautiful holiday balance. I hope you enjoy it and the remainder of your holiday season. Blessings to all and wishes for a sweetened holiday this year and the years to come – from Life, Liberty and a little bit of Libations!

 

Whiskey-Cranberry cocktail

 

  • 1 cup whiskey
  • 1/4 cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice
  • 1/4 cup fresh orange juice
  • 1/4 cup fresh squeezed lime juice
  • 4 TBs spiced-cranberry simple syrup (see below)

Combine and stir or shake. Serve over ice. Makes about 4 servings.

Spiced cranberry simple syrup

  • 1 cup pure, unsweetened cranberry juice
  • 1 cup water
  • 1 1/2 cups sugar
  • 3 cinnamon sticks

Heat in a small saucpan until sugar dissolves and liquid reduces by about 1/5. Let cool.