I no longer want to write, I NEED to. My life depends on it.
The last eight months have been one of the most difficult periods in my life. My husband Michael and I have found ourselves in the unenviable position of struggling to find gainful employment, shortselling our home in Florida, having to move out of our rented home in Minnesota and into a small, two bedroom apartment, and fighting off creditors that are starting to bang on our door. Long story short, we are running out of money.
When I was in college, I learned about a psychologist named Abraham Maslow and his theory that human behavior is dictated by a hierarchy of needs. On the bottom level of the pyramid, one strives to have basic, physiological needs met, those of breathing, water, sex, food, and shelter. Once those needs are met, one has the freedom to move up the pyramid to the second level in an attempt to meet safety and security needs. Once those are met, we move upward to focus on love and affection. If those are satisfied, we elevate to having our needs for esteem, confidence, and respect of others met. Finally, if all of these areas are provided for, we transcend to the highest level to that of self-actualization.
In other times in my life, I have been blessed to reside on the top of the pyramid. I have spent hours contemplating my own existence (and navel) and worked on core issues that kept me from being the most enlightened, non-judgmental, expressive person I could be. Those were good times indeed! I got the healing work I needed, experienced the creature comforts that a full bank account (or a large credit line) afforded, and had ample time to pursue happiness around every corner. My relationships were rich and rewarding, my body was in excellent condition, I had a spring in my step, and I went to bed every night with a smile on my face.
However, I have also resided at the bottom of the pyramid. I painfully recall the years in my early twenties when I avoided answering my phone -- when I had a phone -- because I knew that a bill collector would be on the other line. (These were the olden days before the invention of the omniscient Caller ID.) Dinner consisted of ramen noodles or easy cheese spread over my fingers. I lived in a God-awful, rodent-infested apartment right next to the El train tracks in Chicago and lived paycheck to paycheck. If my friends and I went out and had a few drinks at the local bar, I would have to find a way to survive over several days without food until I got paid again. Sometimes dinner would be saltine cracker packets surreptitiously acquired from the local Wendy's. Eventually I worked my way out of the shithole I was in and slowly, ever slowly, climbed up Maslow's ladder.
Now, at forty years of age and a husband and daughter later, I find myself back on the bottom. Many nights I have laid awake, asking God why he won't send me the big book deal or the next lucrative speaking contract. My stomach has started to respond with that same, burning sensation I used to feel when I had ulcers. Everything around me is getting tighter -- my throat, my bank account, and my pants. This difficult situation has become even more disquieting given the fact that I am supposed to be the award-winning author of inspirational personal essays and a dynamic motivational speaker!!! I tell myself in the quietest, darkest times that I am a failure because I am so woefully mishandling my life. Instead of being the Bringer of the Mojo, I have become the Bringer of the Slo-Mo. This challenging period has caused me to fill myself with guilt, shame, and anger, both at myself and at God. Why won't you hear my prayers?? What have I done to deserve this?? What did I do wrong?? Am I being punished for some bad behavior I have previously done?? Why, why, why???
In the cold light of day, I realize that my struggles aren't unique or personal. The economic downturn has caused many of us to dramatically alter our lives, and we are forced to re-examine our priorities. Not only are we doing without, but many of us are thrown into the deep end of the survival pool. However, it's important to remember that just because you can't pay your bills, that doesn't make you less of a person. Just because my calendar contains less speaking engagements then I would like it to doesn't mean that I am a bad speaker. Just because my books aren't selling as well as I would like them to doesn't mean that I am a rotten writer. It's not personal; it just IS.
This experience, like every obstacle, has provided a wealth of gifts and lessons to me. I am releasing attachments that have kept me from being truly at peace: attachments to material objects, to ego, and to the approval of others. Through the process of downsizing, I am letting go of anything that no longer serves me. Our basement is filled with boxes of stuff that I thought was important to me, but no longer is -- pictures, paintings, furniture, candleholders, books, and anything else that won't squeeze into our new, tiny abode. In the next two weeks, we will be selling or giving away items that have kept us mired at the bottom level of Maslow's pyramid. In this act of release, I am already feeling myself getting lighter, become less afraid, and, dare I say, becoming hopeful for the future. One of the greatest realizations I have had during this maelstrom is this: I am not my stuff. I am not my calendar, my business card, my house square footage, my piano, my family vacation, or my display of knickknacks.
This morning I realized that there was one final step for me to take to begin the journey upward: I needed to publicly share my story, warts and all. Embarrassment and ego have kept me from telling the gory details of my latest imbroglio. I was afraid of people judging me for not being the powerful woman I present myself to be. I was afraid that I would be seen as a failure, a victim, and a loser. One of the risks associated with full disclosure is the chance for those who may want to hire me or buy my book to say, "She's a nutcase! She's a nobody! Why in the hell would we want to hear anything she has to say?" However, the risk is well worth it. I need to authentically express my truth if I am to step away from the fear and back into power. It is time for me to open my kimono. Again.
I ask that you hold me in possibility, and I will do the same for you. Let's see each other climbing ever higher into that blissful place of self-realization where all of our needs are met and we can be the best of who we are. I am so very grateful for the gift of writing so I can purge the toxic thoughts that have kept me unhappy, unhealthy, and unrealized. The truth is a magical elixir that helps wipe clean all of the dirty little secrets we keep hidden away, and I am jumping back into it with gusto. My physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health are at stake. I must acknowledge, own, and even celebrate my life, even at its gunkiest. Because even at its ugliest, we are all still blessed with untold gifts. Sometimes the most painful times remind us of how friggin' awesome we truly are.
If you, like me, are living at or near the bottom of Abe's pyramid, please know that you are not alone. You are still a beautiful, magnificent, worthy, and divine being, no matter what the numbers on your check register or the credit report say. I honor you and your journey.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
In Defense of Sweat Lodges
Today is a sad day for spiritual seekers. James Arthur Ray, the incredibly popular New Age guru who was featured on The Secret, was arrested this morning on three counts of manslaughter. He is charged with causing the deaths of Kirby Brown, James Shore and Liz Neuman during a grueling sweat lodge he led in Sedona last October.
The reason I am sad doesn't have anything to do with the legal challenges Mr. Ray now faces. Instead, my heart reaches out to those family members who needlessly lost their loved ones, seemingly because of one man's stupidity, selfishness, and greed. Moreover, my knickers are in a twist because I fear that the sanctity of the sweat lodge and other indigenous ways of prayer will be unfairly paired with the thoughtless, self-centered behavior of one unqualified man.
Being in a sweat isn't about who has the biggest balls (as in the case of Mr. Ray's "Gut it out!" mentality); rather, it is a profound indigenous practice of cleansing the body and deeply connecting to the Creator. If you haven't ever done one before, you can't fully appreciate it's magnificence. I have had the privilege of participating in several sweat lodges and found each experience to be incredibly healing and transformational. When properly facilitated, each element of the lodge -- the way in which the ribbing is constructed, the types of blankets used, the number of rocks placed in the pit, the songs sung, the prayers said, the seating arrangement, the herbs used, and the duration -- are all carefully managed by a skilled elder who is in tune with the energy of every participant. But, believe me, being in a sweat lodge isn't a walk in the park. I have sat in ungodly hot sweats where I slithered to the ground just to press my face against the cool, moist Earth. I have plaintively wailed to Spirit to help me through the intense discomfort of the heat. My clothes have been dripping wet after sweating my sins away on a mountain in California for hours. Yes, sweat lodges are one of the most physically demanding things one can do, but I have NEVER once felt unsafe. Not once. It is all due to the trust I have in my spiritual elders and their acute ability to "hold space" for each of us. Never in a million years would my sweat lodge leaders allow people to vomit and pass out in one of their lodges, as what happened in Sedona on Ray's watch.
James Ray's careless behavior has sullied the reputation of the sweat lodge. It is akin to what a handful of Catholic priest pedophiles did to the reputation of the entire Church. Not every priest is a pedophile, and not every sweat lodge is dangerous. In the end, it is the person we need to scrutinize, not the practice. If you are ever given the blessed opportunity to participate in a sweat lodge -- or any other spiritual ritual for that matter -- ask yourself some tough questions first: Where did this person learn his/her skills? How long has he/she been doing it? Does he/she have the support and blessing from tribal elders? Does it look and feel like the practice is based on sacredness or selfishness? Do I feel honored?
Mr. Ray, this is a great life lesson for you. It looks like you'll be staying in your jail cell longer than you feel comfortable doing, just as dozens of people stayed in your sweat lodge for longer than they should have. The difference is that your high-priced lawyers may, just may, get you out in time. As for Kirby Brown, James Shore and Liz Neuman, they weren't so lucky.
The reason I am sad doesn't have anything to do with the legal challenges Mr. Ray now faces. Instead, my heart reaches out to those family members who needlessly lost their loved ones, seemingly because of one man's stupidity, selfishness, and greed. Moreover, my knickers are in a twist because I fear that the sanctity of the sweat lodge and other indigenous ways of prayer will be unfairly paired with the thoughtless, self-centered behavior of one unqualified man.
Being in a sweat isn't about who has the biggest balls (as in the case of Mr. Ray's "Gut it out!" mentality); rather, it is a profound indigenous practice of cleansing the body and deeply connecting to the Creator. If you haven't ever done one before, you can't fully appreciate it's magnificence. I have had the privilege of participating in several sweat lodges and found each experience to be incredibly healing and transformational. When properly facilitated, each element of the lodge -- the way in which the ribbing is constructed, the types of blankets used, the number of rocks placed in the pit, the songs sung, the prayers said, the seating arrangement, the herbs used, and the duration -- are all carefully managed by a skilled elder who is in tune with the energy of every participant. But, believe me, being in a sweat lodge isn't a walk in the park. I have sat in ungodly hot sweats where I slithered to the ground just to press my face against the cool, moist Earth. I have plaintively wailed to Spirit to help me through the intense discomfort of the heat. My clothes have been dripping wet after sweating my sins away on a mountain in California for hours. Yes, sweat lodges are one of the most physically demanding things one can do, but I have NEVER once felt unsafe. Not once. It is all due to the trust I have in my spiritual elders and their acute ability to "hold space" for each of us. Never in a million years would my sweat lodge leaders allow people to vomit and pass out in one of their lodges, as what happened in Sedona on Ray's watch.
James Ray's careless behavior has sullied the reputation of the sweat lodge. It is akin to what a handful of Catholic priest pedophiles did to the reputation of the entire Church. Not every priest is a pedophile, and not every sweat lodge is dangerous. In the end, it is the person we need to scrutinize, not the practice. If you are ever given the blessed opportunity to participate in a sweat lodge -- or any other spiritual ritual for that matter -- ask yourself some tough questions first: Where did this person learn his/her skills? How long has he/she been doing it? Does he/she have the support and blessing from tribal elders? Does it look and feel like the practice is based on sacredness or selfishness? Do I feel honored?
Mr. Ray, this is a great life lesson for you. It looks like you'll be staying in your jail cell longer than you feel comfortable doing, just as dozens of people stayed in your sweat lodge for longer than they should have. The difference is that your high-priced lawyers may, just may, get you out in time. As for Kirby Brown, James Shore and Liz Neuman, they weren't so lucky.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Sex Ed 101
I am always shocked at what I'll write to elicit a good laugh. It's time once again for my monthly "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing. Let the embarrassment commence! Enjoy.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Asking Mom For Help
Sometimes we just don't want to make it a Hallmark moment.
News flash: This time of year ain't always merriment and mistletoe for everybody. For a variety of reasons, the holidays can suck for many of us. For some, it's a battle to create a festive atmosphere or supply presents under the tree when there's precious little money and no gainful employment. For others, it's an empty nest or an empty bed that brings out one's Inner Scrooge. If you are like me, the holidays can be a painful reminder of a loved one's death.
The next few days will undoubtedly be rife with love, laughter, yummy food, and fun presents to give and receive. Yet, there will also be a part of me -- a part of a lot of us -- that will be yearning for that missing someone around the dinner table. For me, it's my mom. For others, it may be a grandmother, a husband, a son, a sister, or a friend. Even though my mother won't be here in physical form, her spirit has recently been making itself known in many ways. Just yesterday, I felt I was channeling Mom as my daughter and I undertook the task of making her famous 7-layer bars. I recalled so many Christmases past where Mom would prance around the house in her red sweater and acrylic high heels, making sure everyone had something to drink and a 7-layer bar to nibble on. She was the quintessential glammed up matriarch, white zinfandel in one hand and a glowing cig in the other. No matter how many presents I receive in my lifetime, few will give me the joy I felt upon witnessing the contagious belly laugh of that little firecracker.
Yesterday, I received a telephone call from a dear friend of mine who is currently going through the same thing I did three years ago. His father is about ready to depart this world, and the transition is understandably difficult for the entire family. On one day, it seems like his dad is ready to leave; on another day, he is up and around, basking in the love of his spouse, children and grandchildren. My friend believes that he is showing one final burst of energy before he says his final goodbyes. Who knows, maybe he's waiting until after Christmas so his loved ones won't be reminded of his death on the 25th of every December. I wish I could tell him that it doesn't really matter what day he decides to die. Even if he waits a few extra days, his family will still feel the crush of his absence every year around the holidays. There will be an air of melancholy when everyone sits down to the feast. Someone will make a reference that will remind everyone of a long-running family joke. His favorite holiday movie will play on television. In so many ways he will be there still, even when he's not.
Because of this phone call I received, I decided to ask my mother for a special gift this year. I am going to ask her to help in a way that only she can do.
"Ma, please go to Jim's bedside and help him find his way to Spirit. He needs help in dropping his body so he can move on, and you are just the gal to escort him. (He's cute too!) As you know, he's probably a little afraid and worried that his family won't be able to handle his death. Reassure him, Ma, that everyone will be all right and that he is going to an amazing place filled with beauty, joy, and Divine love. Once he feels and sees you there, he'll understand that he's not really dying - just changing locales. It will help him and his family so much. Bring all of your peeps too! Thanks, Mom, for this huge gift. I love you so much!"
And I miss you too.
News flash: This time of year ain't always merriment and mistletoe for everybody. For a variety of reasons, the holidays can suck for many of us. For some, it's a battle to create a festive atmosphere or supply presents under the tree when there's precious little money and no gainful employment. For others, it's an empty nest or an empty bed that brings out one's Inner Scrooge. If you are like me, the holidays can be a painful reminder of a loved one's death.
The next few days will undoubtedly be rife with love, laughter, yummy food, and fun presents to give and receive. Yet, there will also be a part of me -- a part of a lot of us -- that will be yearning for that missing someone around the dinner table. For me, it's my mom. For others, it may be a grandmother, a husband, a son, a sister, or a friend. Even though my mother won't be here in physical form, her spirit has recently been making itself known in many ways. Just yesterday, I felt I was channeling Mom as my daughter and I undertook the task of making her famous 7-layer bars. I recalled so many Christmases past where Mom would prance around the house in her red sweater and acrylic high heels, making sure everyone had something to drink and a 7-layer bar to nibble on. She was the quintessential glammed up matriarch, white zinfandel in one hand and a glowing cig in the other. No matter how many presents I receive in my lifetime, few will give me the joy I felt upon witnessing the contagious belly laugh of that little firecracker.
Yesterday, I received a telephone call from a dear friend of mine who is currently going through the same thing I did three years ago. His father is about ready to depart this world, and the transition is understandably difficult for the entire family. On one day, it seems like his dad is ready to leave; on another day, he is up and around, basking in the love of his spouse, children and grandchildren. My friend believes that he is showing one final burst of energy before he says his final goodbyes. Who knows, maybe he's waiting until after Christmas so his loved ones won't be reminded of his death on the 25th of every December. I wish I could tell him that it doesn't really matter what day he decides to die. Even if he waits a few extra days, his family will still feel the crush of his absence every year around the holidays. There will be an air of melancholy when everyone sits down to the feast. Someone will make a reference that will remind everyone of a long-running family joke. His favorite holiday movie will play on television. In so many ways he will be there still, even when he's not.
Because of this phone call I received, I decided to ask my mother for a special gift this year. I am going to ask her to help in a way that only she can do.
"Ma, please go to Jim's bedside and help him find his way to Spirit. He needs help in dropping his body so he can move on, and you are just the gal to escort him. (He's cute too!) As you know, he's probably a little afraid and worried that his family won't be able to handle his death. Reassure him, Ma, that everyone will be all right and that he is going to an amazing place filled with beauty, joy, and Divine love. Once he feels and sees you there, he'll understand that he's not really dying - just changing locales. It will help him and his family so much. Bring all of your peeps too! Thanks, Mom, for this huge gift. I love you so much!"
And I miss you too.
Monday, December 14, 2009
F'ed Up Fairy Tales
Call me an arrogant douchebag, but I have a Google Alert set up on myself. As a self-pubbed writer who has pimped herself out for articles, interviews, quotes, reviews and anything else that will get my name out into the world, I like to keep track of where I am floating in cyberspace. This morning, I got an alert about an interview I did on fairy tales over a year ago for Online Dating Magazine. I must have been wearing my sassy-pants when I did it! Here is the interview. Enjoy...
Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose
I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?
Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.
What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.
What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.
Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."
How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.
Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!
Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose
I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?
Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.
What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.
What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.
Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."
How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.
Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
We Knew We Were Gonna See This
I am currently sitting at the Minneapolis International Airport, praying that the airplane on which I am about to board can outrun a raging blizzard. Yippy F#$king Skippy.
As a recent transplant from Florida to Minnesota, I am often asked why I would voluntarily choose to leave Paradise for life in the Frozen Tundra. (The word 'insane' is often used in the question.) When we packed up our worldly belongings in August and headed north, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fast forward four months later, and I'm shivering my ass off. News Flash: This time of year, Minnesota gets cold. It gets BUTT-cold. It gets oh-shit-my-nipples-feel-like-they-are-going-to-friggin-fall-off cold. And it's not even Christmas. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? I'm not swearing to the Lord; I'm literally asking Him.
Oh yeah, I remember. On the professional front, we moved for the career opportunities it afforded me. In only a short period of time, I have been able to generate significant new speaking gigs, and I believe it is directly attributable to being in a major metropolitan area like Minneapolis/St.Paul. I have also made some amazing connections, established growing friendships and had occasion to speak in front of large groups. These are all good things!
However, the more important reason for our reverse-migration has been the reconnection with my family and my roots. I was born in this Frozen Tundra forty years ago, and I have several family members that have been silly enough to remain living here (just kiddin', peeps!). What a joy is has been to have Thanksgiving with one of my brothers and his family, spend evenings playing cutthroat games of Rummikub with my niece who has suddenly grown into a woman when I wasn't looking, and chilling with my soul sis Susan while enjoying a glass of zin. Emma is on Cloud Nine-and-a-Half being so close the clan, and she proudly announces that her new BFF is her cousin Libby. To top it off, we get the pleasure of hosting Christmas Eve dinner at our home. Norman Rockwell we ain't, but it will be a great time nonetheless.
So, here I sit, fretting about the friggin' weather. I recall my husband quoting the James Cameron movie, The Abyss, whenever I start bitching about the cold or snow. He says, "We knew we were gonna see this". Yep, we knew that the weather was one of the drawbacks to our decision to move up north. But, you know what? No place is ideal. If you don't deal with blizzards every once in a while, you deal with hurricanes. If you don't deal with hurricanes, you deal with smog, fires, earthquakes, persistent traffic jams, outrageous real estate prices, or bad hairdos. Every place has a shitty part, no matter how you slice it. We made our decision to move to Minnesota based on intuition and heart, not number of inches of snow per year. We knew we were gonna see airport delays, snowplows, runny noses, and icy roads. But we also knew we were gonna see smiling faces on our children, friendly competitions of Apples to Apples around the fire, and houses full of laughter and love. My life is richer in every way for having come back home. When all is said and done, a blizzard every once in a while is a tiny price to pay.
But I won't be complaining when my plane lands in Sarasota.
As a recent transplant from Florida to Minnesota, I am often asked why I would voluntarily choose to leave Paradise for life in the Frozen Tundra. (The word 'insane' is often used in the question.) When we packed up our worldly belongings in August and headed north, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fast forward four months later, and I'm shivering my ass off. News Flash: This time of year, Minnesota gets cold. It gets BUTT-cold. It gets oh-shit-my-nipples-feel-like-they-are-going-to-friggin-fall-off cold. And it's not even Christmas. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? I'm not swearing to the Lord; I'm literally asking Him.
Oh yeah, I remember. On the professional front, we moved for the career opportunities it afforded me. In only a short period of time, I have been able to generate significant new speaking gigs, and I believe it is directly attributable to being in a major metropolitan area like Minneapolis/St.Paul. I have also made some amazing connections, established growing friendships and had occasion to speak in front of large groups. These are all good things!
However, the more important reason for our reverse-migration has been the reconnection with my family and my roots. I was born in this Frozen Tundra forty years ago, and I have several family members that have been silly enough to remain living here (just kiddin', peeps!). What a joy is has been to have Thanksgiving with one of my brothers and his family, spend evenings playing cutthroat games of Rummikub with my niece who has suddenly grown into a woman when I wasn't looking, and chilling with my soul sis Susan while enjoying a glass of zin. Emma is on Cloud Nine-and-a-Half being so close the clan, and she proudly announces that her new BFF is her cousin Libby. To top it off, we get the pleasure of hosting Christmas Eve dinner at our home. Norman Rockwell we ain't, but it will be a great time nonetheless.
So, here I sit, fretting about the friggin' weather. I recall my husband quoting the James Cameron movie, The Abyss, whenever I start bitching about the cold or snow. He says, "We knew we were gonna see this". Yep, we knew that the weather was one of the drawbacks to our decision to move up north. But, you know what? No place is ideal. If you don't deal with blizzards every once in a while, you deal with hurricanes. If you don't deal with hurricanes, you deal with smog, fires, earthquakes, persistent traffic jams, outrageous real estate prices, or bad hairdos. Every place has a shitty part, no matter how you slice it. We made our decision to move to Minnesota based on intuition and heart, not number of inches of snow per year. We knew we were gonna see airport delays, snowplows, runny noses, and icy roads. But we also knew we were gonna see smiling faces on our children, friendly competitions of Apples to Apples around the fire, and houses full of laughter and love. My life is richer in every way for having come back home. When all is said and done, a blizzard every once in a while is a tiny price to pay.
But I won't be complaining when my plane lands in Sarasota.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Swing Dance Sexiness
Here is my latest "Sex and the Suburbs" column for Creative Loafing newspaper. While it isn't as steamy as some of my others, it still brings a smile to my face. I hope it does to yours too!
Blessings, and make it a great day.
Theresa
Blessings, and make it a great day.
Theresa
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