Dian Reid Writes

the old man and the red sweatshirt woman

2011-02-07T08:54:00.000-08:00

i keep playing it back in my mind in slow motion. in real-time, though, it happened so quickly. the roar of the crowd. the pounding of footsteps on pavement as racers held the finish line in their sights just fifty yards ahead. metal crowd separators stood between us and the runners in the lanes leading them just fifty yards ahead to the finish line. on the far side, separated by red ticker-tape were the marathoners in their own lane. on the near side, closest to me were the half-marathoners, so close to finishing, yet so far away. my eyes scanned for a single familiar face as i stood on my tippy toes and watched too many strangers to count run by.

a man in his late fifties or early sixties as he came into my sight, as if i was meant to see him. just as he passed my foothold in the crowd outside his running lane, i watched his body pause and head almost snap back. he dropped to the ground and i saw, heard, felt his head smack the asphalt. his body lay limp for a single second before he began to convulse. is anyone else watching this? i looked around as the women huddled next to me in search of their own family member or friend looked on in horror. several runners stopped and kneeled next to the man, unsure of what to do or how to help.

i gasped for air, feeling claustrophobic but unable to move or look away or close my eyes. someone yelled for a medic. the man seized again and i felt tears streaming down my face, and a rock in my throat, which must've risen from the pit of my stomach where it sat quietly just moments before. a medical team arrived and asked everyone to step away. people around the man scuffled and scattered. a woman kneeling next to the man did not get up, but continued whatever she was doing. a medic must've asked her to step away again, because she yelled, "i'm a nurse and a paramedic, i know what i'm doing!" more scuffling as the medic came in closer and allowed the nurse to continue working while he asked her questions to understand the man's situation.

i looked on and saw the man had stopped moving. complete stillness. a woman next to me said, "oh god, i think he's dead." i don't know what possessed me to look back over but when i did i saw the man lying limp, except for the movements from the nurse performing cpr on him. i turned away and didn't look back.

just as i turned away from the scene, erin returned from her search for our first friend to cross the finish line to report that she lost him in the chaos beyond the finish line. she asked if i'd seen our other friend and i said, "no," then explained that a man had passed out right in front of me, cracked his head on the pavement in seizures and now they were giving him cpr. tears had been on my cheeks, but now i couldn't contain my sobs and erin pulled me away from the crowd to console me.

i sobbed uncontrollably in her arms for what seemed like forever, thinking to myself, stop being so stupid, dian! you don't even know the guy. i paused for a moment, lifted my head and said, "i can't see that man die, we have to go now," then dropped my head again and wailed more sobs into erin's shoulder. she tried to honor my request and back me away, but my legs would not move.

once my emotions were somewhat under control, we walked forty feet closer to the finish line and stood back from the fence, where we could still see racers pass by, but where the crowd also blocked my view of the man and his cpr administration. i stood facing the race lane, near catatonic as visions of my father flooded my mind.

seizures in the hospital. seizures that started in the early afternoon and got progressively worse until 3am, but didn't subside completely until after 6am. seizures i documented from 10pm to 5am, cataloging length, intensity, and interval. seizures i witness alone while the rest of the family slept comfortably in their beds like i'd asked them to. seizures i thought i'd moved past, more than five years after his death. seizures i now knew i would never forget.

just to my right, a woman in a red sweatshirt slunk down to her butt and held on to the legs of a woman in a white sweatshirt standing next to her to keep her from falling completely to the ground. the white sweatshirt woman removed her sweatshirt, folded it up and put it under the red sweatshirt woman's head for comfort. a police officer walked past and asked the women if they were okay. he spoke into the speaker/microphone attached to his shoulder, an extension of the walkie talkie on his belt and calls for paramedics.

just after an ambulance pulled up to the scene, erin overheard someone say something about an iv. she looked over to the area the medics had been tending to the man to see the paramedics were preparing to load the man onto a stretcher. the red sweatshirt woman next to me seemed to be fine, although she would also be loaded onto a stretcher for further precautionary evaluation.

it was super bowl sunday, and we had plans to watch the game at a friend's house later in the day. the thought of laughing and cheering being anywhere other than on my couch with my girl and my dog made my stomach churn. erin canceled our plans on my behalf and held me tight. my heart pounded as i thought about the man getting on the stretcher and being taken away. i was relieved to think he'd survived. a wave of tears came and i let them. no sobs, no sounds, just tears, and the slight rise of another lump in my throat. both the tears and the lump subsided within sixty seconds and i focused on the race again, attempting to pause the loop of my father's seizures.

erin's face lit up and she screamed our friend's name. i followed her lead and found myself surprised to be hooting and hollering right along with her, "wooohoo! yeah, you did it!" in between whistles and clapping, the ring on my middle finger slapping up against the bones on the inside of my palm. erin grabbed my hand and asked if i was ready to go find them.

i was ready. ready to leave the man in his ambulance on his way to recovery. ready to leave the red sweatshirt woman in the care of the white sweatshirt woman and the paramedics. ready to leave my father's seizures and my heavy heart at the finish line and move on to whatever was next.

we found our friends, congratulated them on their half marathon finishes, and chatted for an hour before heading back to our respective homes. erin and i stopped for lunch on the way home and i continued to process the morning's events. i apologized for bringing up the man and the sound of his head hitting the pavement and his seizures again, but i needed to process it all, rather than let the tape of my father's seizures continue to loop in my head. she held my hand and let me talk, let me cry, let me be.

---

as i sit here this morning trying to put everything together and make sense of yesterday's events, i'm struck by just how random life really is. that man woke up yesterday morning to run a half marathon, and instead got within fifty yards of finishing to be taken away in an ambulance, barely clinging to life. a woman woke up yesterday morning, put on her red sweatshirt to cheer on a friend or family member, and passed out on the sidelines, missing whomever she'd been cheering on.

and me, i woke up thinking i'd do some cheering, some eating, some more cheering and more eating, surrounded by friends. instead i was reminded of just how fragile life is, how sacred the space on my couch is, and how my memory isn't about what's important, but what's impacted me the most, no matter how much i try to forget.

---

sometimes we're the old man who's so close to finishing, and life takes over with its own agenda. sometimes we're the woman in the red sweatshirt who pushes herself too hard for the sake of another, doing more damage to ourselves than good for another. and sometimes we're the innocent bystander who watches it all and tries to piece the learning together for the good of us all.

Detox Tea, Unknown Release, and Being a Better Person for No Apparent Reason at All

2010-10-25T13:43:00.001-07:00

it's been windy most of the early afternoon. rainy most of last night, although just enough to send a few drops every other second maddeningly down the rain gutter from the top of the second floor to the base of the house, just outside the bedroom.

haven't been sleeping well lately. been drinking detox tea this past week and i believe it's working. slowly, but surely. i listened to a detox meditation track a couple of days ago while i focused on a single word: release. it worked.

i bawled uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes. other than the tears and gut wrenching cries, i have no idea what i released. i was grateful to be at home alone. grateful to have a puppy to lick my tears when it was all over. and grateful that i didn't feel sad or weepy for a single second after the meditation was over.

detox. i almost don't know what i'm detoxing from. i know i have things to release, i can feel it in my bones. i just don't know what i need to release. i'm fine with not knowing. it's kind of like tossing a box in the garage after not opening it for two or twelve years.

i can sense i'm in the middle of a great shift. i'll look back on this period in my life and know that this was when things started to change for me. again. funny thing is, i thought things could only change for the better when everything was falling apart. it's almost odd that nothing is falling apart, and still i'm in deep need of release, in this deep bend into a shift.

i'm tired of spending time on things that don't matter. i'm tired of making up reasons to do things, as if they do matter. i'm tired of idolizing a minimalist life. i'm tired of walking along pretending i'm getting accustomed to all the changes in my life over the last few years. i'm accustomed. and it's time for more change, more growth.

in a space of clarity around what's important to me: family, friends-that-are-like-family, animals-that-are-family, my health, laughter, being myself, and growth, i see spaces of comfort, spaces of resistance, spaces of longing, and room for exploration.

this is no mid-life crisis. i am not leaving anyone, i'm not dissatisfied with my life or relationship, and i'm not in need of a brand new shiny car to prove to myself that i'm not getting any older.

i just want to be a better person today than i was yesterday. and a better person tomorrow than i am today.

it's not that i'm not good enough or that i'm trying to be perfect. i guess it's more that gravity is what it is, and i feel pulled. i am not a moth pulled toward a flame, drawn to my own demise by forces i don't understand. i am a person pulled toward the universe, drawn to my expansion by my own intuition.

i don't need to fall apart to understand that. at least, not today.

a mother's love reflected

2010-10-08T09:40:00.000-07:00

it's amazing to me how fuzzy everything gets when i try to look back on the past. memory no longer has a bright eye but a faded smile, or is it a grimace, a wince, a sober silence locked away while i swallow the key and peer beyond a ship over a foggy ocean?

i'm writing stories of my childhood in working on my next book. stories of my mother's desperate tries to be a good parent, of my desperate tries to be a good daughter, and stories of failing miserably, both her and i. but we were only human, what else could we expect?

i look back and see a mother who was trying so hard to be liked, to be loved, and by people who didn't know how to like or love anything or anyone that wasn't money in the bank, a sly, stiff drink, or another man who knew how to handle his power. she wanted to be loved by people who tried to love, but were just no good at it, so i think they stopped trying, only my mother never seemed to notice. this is the problem with always seeing the good in people.

we hold these truths to be self-evident, but we shield our eyes from the light of that truth and look away when it's too hard to bear. so many times i see a mother who could have changed everything, and refused to try until it was too late, and that last attempt did, in fact, change everything.

but i can't imagine a life that was changed by an action that never happened, a life that never was. i used to dream of a place where my mother was still alive, where she cared more about me than she did about being loved by people who would never love her, where she cared more about herself than being wrong. but i know this place does not exist, and so i stay in the world i've created, here in the now, the present, the life of love and truth and what's real, and right here in front of me.

love never dies. only people do. i love my mother even more fiercely now than i ever have before. in part because i love my self more fiercely now than i ever have before. i recognize that her actions did not reflect her love for me, only her lack of love for her self. i don't pity her, i learn from her, and i love her. as i always have, as i always will.

And So We All Grow

2010-09-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

the days go by slower and slower,

and still they seem to be gone in a swallow.

the sun rises, the sun sets,

the tides ebb, the tides flow,

the moon waxes, the moon wanes.

the same cycles over and over again,

and yet,

we are never the same person,

over and over again.

we say we haven't changed,

but we always are,

we always do.

we say we want things to remin the same.

we say we want stability.

what we want is change because what we want

is growth.

but remember when we were growing up

and our bones hurt

because they were growing

and changing?

that's the way of life.

it's not meant to feel good all the time,

it's meant to be lived.

we go through life standing up and sitting down

and building up and tearing down

and sitting still and standing tall

and raising fists and raising masks.

we are who we are each day and on and on,

and that person is never again

the same as we are right now.

we are like the glass of wine that is different with each sip,

as each moment the air changes the flavor of the grape.

the layers are exfoliated by oxygen and movement,

and oh so are we.

something is wrong when we want things to stay the same,

when the status quo is enough,

when it's all we strive for.

something is right when we're in search of something more,

something greater,

something different.

we are not unhappy with who we are or where we are,

we are simply curious beings, and want to know what else is out there.

we want to know how things work,

understand the meaning of the unknowns of the world.

this does not make us pessimists or unfaithful,

this makes us the curious children we were born as,

and maybe some of us

just forgot how to be curious.

maybe it felt good to know something

and so we got stuck in knowing

and being inside the box of understanding

what was happening.

and so we got comfortable and set up camp

and forgot it was camp,

and stayed forever.

we are living in our mud walls,

thinking they are concrete.

the walls of our minds are not concrete,

they are matter.

they are fluid.

they are ever changing and curious.

they are always seeking more.

they are always hungry for what's next.

and we are not dissatisfied when we are curious about what else is out there,

we are in fact so satisfied,

that we can't help but want more of that satisfaction

of finding out

what else will work

in our lives.

i believe this with every fiber of my being.

so this is the way of the world.

curiosity.

the river flowing, up and down and in and out.

the river dries up, the river overflows.

the river beholds an ancient truth of allowing what is to be, and seeing what else is up around the bend.

the river is all knowing and wise.

and it is fed by its mother,

the ocean,

and it feeds its mother,

the ocean.

and it all comes from the same place,

the wonderful vast universe of water and evaporation

and clouds and rain,

the cycle that began it all that we know almost nothing about,

it would seem.

and so we wonder,

what is next

and because we don't know,

we have fear

because we have forgotten what it's like to be

curious.

we have been taught to fear the unknown,

rather than embrace it.

we associate the unknown with dark alleys

and scary men with no boundaries.

we associate the unknown with lies and bitterness

and fake smiles to take something from us.

it's not that we ought to believe everything we hear,

or walk down every dark alley.

it's that we ought to trust ourselves,

our gut,

our intuition,

and still

move forward.

maybe it means choosing a different walkway or person to work with,

but it can't mean choosing the same old familiar things

day in and day out

simply because it's what we know.

when we set out to strand ourselves on an island of the unknown,

bring with us those things, those people that are familiar to us,

that give us comfort.

and so we still grow,

we still change,

and we grow

with those familiar people,

with those comforts of home,

and so they grow, too.

and so we all grow.

what's hers is hers

2010-08-23T06:49:00.000-07:00

my girl's grandmother passed away this week. mum. i only met her a few times. she's the kind of woman you instantly fall in love with. proper in her manners, sweet in her demeanor, and fierce in her love and respect for her granddaughter.

the last time we saw mum was over skype. she was in aww at how the picture on the screen was really us all the way over here in california. she got to "meet" jackson and share a space of love and smiles over the mysterious waves of the internet. for that, i will always be grateful to skype.

it kills me to see my girl's heart so broken. i don't know what to do for her, i don't know what to say. i can go through my own pain, but how do i just sit here and let her go through hers?

i'm trying not to let my grief overshadow hers. this is her loss, and even though i feel an ounce of it, too, i have to remind myself of my role in her grief: support; love; kisses; space; shoulder; tissue giver; ear; head rest; and more love.

i can't speak to what she's going through because i know we all process grief differently. i can only marvel at how she's actually processing it. it's so different from my own family's way of getting through death. they cover it up with "being strong" and "sucking it up" and "moving on".

erin said, "i'm gonna call my mom now," after spending a few tears on my shoulder. a few years ago i might have been jealous that she has a mother to call. today i was grateful. grateful that she has a mother to call, grateful that i just adore that mother, and grateful that their relationship is one where they can process through their grief together. it's a special bond, and i'm grateful to be a witness to it all.

true strength shows up in feeling the pain and moving through it. true strength shows up in breaking down and letting it all out whenever that wave hits you. true strength is moving through it, whatever it may be, and not figuring out how to maneuver around it.

i'm eternally grateful for this gift of being able to see erin's true strength shine. and a little piece of me hopes i never have to see it again.

750 words write mind

2010-08-18T10:34:00.001-07:00

this morning i did a little word-association exercise via 750words.com.

as i read through the 750 words, some combinations made sense while others seemed to come out of nowhere. i tried not to repeat any words, but even after reading through the list a couple of times, i began to see words melding together and my thoughts drifted to other words i could have used instead. the mind of a writer, indeed.

tired. weary. gray. hot. slummy. wild. heart. brilliant. being. ornery. flagrant. foul. chicken. bugawck. lenient. principal. order. way. stuff. turkey. thanks. many. lots. parking. beach. sand. ocean. waves. baseball. sports. announcers. costas. rica. quote. letter. blog. paragraph. seo. daily. new. keyword. adword. google. adhere. blunt. brief. point. boxers. hanes. shirts. bacon. wrapped. present. christmas. mom. dad. cancer. life. death. grandma. grandpa. old. new. baby. twins. boys. born. living. still. calm. peace. tranquil. serenity. movie. lines. ropes. carpet. red. pop. corn. blue. chips. stock. market. store. ralph. grocer. butcher. play. kids. playground. swings. summer. swimming. pool. lifeguard. station. hut. ramp. on. off. freeway. lion. cage. roar. anger. freeing. liberation. 2010. y2k. bozos. earthquake. water. shutoff. valve. gas. fire. burn. ash. smoke. cigarette. stink. lungs. rot. decay. cay. timoty. island. trees. palm. coconut. frond. pineapple. hawaii. vacation. surfing. honolulu. relax. chill. solitude. massage. warm. cozy. cove. rocks. salt. fish. shark. dolphin. anew. seek. ice. fall. pick. battles. wars. wage. economy. down. south. north. pole. arctic. bears. polar. iceberg. warming. global. earth. planet. green. cycle. bike. walk. carbon. footprint. reduce. around. high. crack. home. less. restrict. aware. awake. arrest. police. car. truck. suv. trip. drive. road. asphalt. concrete. jungle. monkey. chimp. words. sign. language. shift. thinking. believe. animal. nature. instinct. intuition. gut. wrench. plumber. pipes. clogged. twist. snake. swamp. aligator. crocodile. chocodile. junk. eat. ack. hack. vomit. sick. heal. meditate. mind. brain. activity. stagnant. bliss. achieve. excel. blow. corporate. exact. enough. never. much. always. depth. need. skill. cohesive. communicate. swear. passive. agressive. type. keyboard. click. tap. nudge. push. pull. ebb. flow. speed. meth. capital. washington. dc. comics. books. cartoons. daffy. duck. bugs. bunny. wabbit. elmer. glue. hold. together. smile. laugh. one. all. we. us. our. common. ground. electric. youth. elder. generation. x. y. chromosome. genetics. healthy. disease. decide. choice. pregnant. not. early. late. embryo. life. rights. taken. away. afar. women. man. stick. stone. break. bone. fix. necessary. no. leave. now. alone. free. bird. fly. plane. superman. superhero. out. crowd. afraid. allure. magazine. pages. rip. shred. tear. up. aloof. sacred. feminine. genuine. real. authentic. you. yourself. have. pink. nose. edge. inside. outside. fear. claw. scratch. door. foot. wedge. butt. pant. leg. naked. truth. elephant. room. lie. white. slave. driver. daisy. miss. pushing. under. six. feet. grave. digger. shallow. rain. feel. drink. one. more. grace. gone. camera. canyon. left. sunset. rise. occasion. falter. help. hand. finger. nail. head. own. responsible. child. latchkey. pots. pans. cook. self. alcoholic. mother. cows. moo. hill. pout. shit. lip. steal. thief. heart. whisker. thick. poke. through. me. jog. mile. eight. seven. countdown. celebrate. party. 1999. over. under. gamble. lose. nothing. back. shirt. shoes. flip. flop. waver. waiver. clause. contract. deal. card. cookie. crumble. behave. consequence. yawn. teeth. growl. bark. carve. name. love. knife. sword. daggar. cuts. deep. seated. set. broken. doctor. nurse. soccer. bask. glory. raise. arms. glee. sing. pop. culture. cult. classic. shining. jack. dull. boy. donor. marrow. plates. blood. family. ties. thicker. bleed. red. rant. rave. reviews. moral. judgment. ethic. vote. judge. save. constitution. civil. case. hook. sinker. comedy. show. tell. ask. don't. realize. blinders. horse. ass. tail. swat. flat. tummy. saggy. boob. tv. program. remote. control. authority. fought. law. won. johhny. cougar. melons. camp. tent. stake. mallet. mullet. lame. hair. trim. lesbian. landscape. brow. furrow. gag. spoon. shoplift. pootie. jerry. tom. couch. crazy. misfit. mishap. weave. web. charlotte. genius. bar. draught. beer. lite. miller. case. pillow. fight. cat. dog. jax. clean. floor. termite. gross. expensive. homeowner. overrated. adulthood. middle. school. junior. senior. college. exam. pass. fail. learn. succeed. grow. align. forage. plunder. blunder. mistake. con. pro. football. american. rugby. hairpiece. trying. false. sense. security. guard. shot. heard. round. gimme. putt. tee. fairway. chunk. shank. alley. dark. lit. bounce. baller. sorbet. champaign. mimosa. sunday. morning. ease. bed. enjoy. sleep. flail. try. cling. blanket. belong. curse. goat. bambino. little. tiny. teeny. weenie. button. penis. nah. fold. over. comb. iron. towel. toss. salad. dressing. showers. benches. hurdles. marks. slim. chance. go. 200. dollars. cash. cool. dirty. money. rich. wealth. health. self. esteem. colleague. boss. blink. tipping. jeans. tennis. billie. holiday. paid. month. year. sail. around. bay. idea. lab. science. major. english. minor. math. journal. accountant. log. irs. tax. honor. values. pilot. force. army. navy. marine. biology. bigger. aware. mindful. action. authentic. reality. dreamy. mac. book. author. wannabe. gogo. stage. cheer. friends. core. abundant. everything. willful. disaster. wonders. plight. mankind. neanderthal. study. discovery. national. international. worldly. trotter. basketball. dribble. wipe. moist. cake. chocolate. vanilla. creamery. cheese. house. indeed. ownership. wood. fence. glass. ceiling. feminist. movement. classy. broads. understand. seek. knowledge. accept.

751: want.

752: more.

A Year Ago on DRW: Lather, Rinse, Repeat

2010-08-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

August 11, 2009:

I just finished the book. My emotions are all over the place. I cried this morning because Erin walked past me as she got ready for work. Which is what she does every morning, but this morning I wanted her to stop. To stop and look at me. Notice that tears were welling in my eyes. Notice that my emotions were too raw for her to get ready for work. I walked around the house. I fed the cats. I sat on the bed. And when she walked in to get dressed, I could barely get the words out, "I'm feeling a little emotional today." I cried in her arms and didn't know exactly why I was crying. Guess I didn't need to know.

This morning I printed a copy of the book and handed it to a friend to give me some feedback. I'm headed to Kinkos as soon as I'm finished with this blog and printing off six more copies. One for Texas, One for Orange County, two for Long Beach, one for Studio City, and one for Venice Beach. Some are giving me technical feedback of, "take this out, put that there, add more here," and some are giving me real life feedback of, "this really spoke to me, wish there was more on that."

My emotions seem to be bred from fear. Fear that it's all crap. Fear that I just spent three years putting my soul on paper and it's not going to amount to anything. Fear that I'll get ripped to shreds in the feedback that I've gone and asked for. I realize the fears are unfounded, even irrational. The important thing is that I'm processing through it. Feeling the fear, addressing the fear, and moving forward anyway. It's the only way to let the fear go. It will come up again, I'm sure of it. No life is sans fear. And when it does, lather, rinse, repeat.

The book has since taken on another series of rewrites and is hoping to be edited again soon. This is the kind of book I can't rush, and still I know it's dying to be ready by all of your eyes.

Through the Summer Breeze

2010-08-01T07:52:00.000-07:00

the summer breeze has been an influence on my morning, and i can almost feel the crisp chill blowing through the hairs on my arm, neck, and the back of my ears.

for the last 56 days straight i've written my morning pages over at 750words.com. i love this process of brain drain and starting my day by sifting through the dust and mulch to see which is which. (i also kind of love all the charts and graphs and eye candy that come along with finishing my daily words).

usually i kick up the dust and get clear on what i'm going to work on for the day or work through an issue or what's going on throughout the week or weekend, or what i'm going to have for breakfast. today, though ... today ... today i fell in love. and i want to share some of it with you.

that up there is one of my favorite pieces of eye candy, the capturing of the most frequent words of each entry. what's captured above are the words of this morning's writing.

i won't share all the words with you, but will share some that seemed to come from the depths of my soulful wisdom—you know, the one our ego seems to block like a linebacker.

the summer breeze is cool and light. it refreshes the air and the mind and the body and the soul. the ocean air is cool and damp.

the fog lifts as the sun rises and sheds light on the day, the city, the street, the house. our house is filled with light and love and summer and breeze and ocean and air.

our beach is sandy and warm, that slight breeze kicking up the grains of sand that refuse to stay put. the grains of sand are wanderers among the earth of vagabonds. no grain willing stay put for too long, it has been through too much not to take its story to the next place willing to listen, to learn, to love to honor, to cherish, to feel, to flee, to be, free.

our lives are filled with these ocean breezes and this summer air. the fog rolls in, the fog rolls out. wise words and my kind soul permeate the soft skin made supple by the moisture in the air from living by the sea. if the air is cold, my heart is warm. if the air is warm, my heart follows suit.

we do not believe in "one or the other", we believe in coexisting in a life where anything, everything is possible. my brain is the genius it set out to be all those years ago when formulating a plan to be here, to love, to cherish, to honor, to bring forth the light in my being i've always known was here. and so i am, and so it is.

this is the life i have chosen for myself, but not as a human, as the tiny microorganism that lived and has lived for centuries and milleniums. this is the way of life and we all are much more than we can conceive of with our own two eyes and ears and arms and legs. our minds are supple just like our skin, although we see so much less with our minds than we dor our soul.

our mind blocks the soul from speaking, but not from seeing. the soul is patient and will wait its turn because the soul is not the ego and the ego has no place in the soul.

the ego knows this and takes its rightful place in our minds and begins to settle in for the long haul with the intent of protecting us. but the ego has a two-year old's mind and offers tantrums and punching as a way of resolving conflict and communicating fears. this is the way of the ego and it is what it is.

we all see things differently and the love in the air is more powerful than the ego in the mind. it's a matter of letting that love in, which the soul is kindly obliging.

the summer breeze brings us back around and the ocean air will lay its fog and lift its fog in its own good time. we all will lay our fog and lift our fog in our own good time. our ego will try to tell us otherwise, and sometimes our minds will believe, but the soul knows best.

we don't always listen to the soul because we're not always listening. but today i am. today i listen.

today, we—my soul and i—are one. we travel the ocean air and fly in the summer breeze. we compliment each other and say how nice our hair looks. we notice the sparkle in each other's eyes. we share the glitter of sea foam as a dolphin pushes up for a breath of fresh air and a playful jump. we sit in awe of each other and revel in our marvelousness. we take care of each other and nurture one another with kindness. with indulgent prosperity. with deep and loving compassion. we understand that our imperfections are just the opposite, and made for reasons that—at least, i—cannot comprehend.

but the soul has infinite wisdom and understands that i will learn in my own good time. i will understand and grow in my own good time, just like every redwood does. we grow in groves, not in solitude, but because we have others around us and are meant to thrive in a world where we see each other for our greatness and not for our weakness.

redwoods see greatness in other redwoods, and strive to grow taller, not to outshine, outlive, out-do the others, but so the other redwoods will do the same.

we grow and thrive because of our community and sharing and willingness to help others grow. we will rise to the top of our beings and continue to grow and thrive. and it's not so we will be taller, bigger, badder, better than anyone else, but so that others may see us grow, and do the same—have the courage to grow where once there was blind courage and no growth—see the inner wisdom that's been kept hidden in the depths of the soul, only to come out and play when the soul knew it was time.

we all have our time, we all have our wisdom, and our time is now and our wisdom is here.

this is what i have to say on this beautiful sunday morning.

turns out i did share almost all of it. i hardly recognize the words as my own, but that's how the universe works. through us all. and through the summer breeze.

words, dying to come out will not be kept at bay

2010-07-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

words, dying to come out will not be kept at bay.
shared with you they hold water like salt,
kept from you they hold water like cracked dams
killing the dense population of my mind.

________

core burns hard within
singes paper mind
healing happens outside me

________

stumbles alone quietly
through the night dream air
i own reality

________

among brilliant cats drinking
everglades from gators
harp indigenous jowls kept.

labor mars naivete
offers prayers quick
resolves sore time, used venom

willful xenons yearning zeal.

________

the great thing about poetry is that it means something different to everyone. we see the words on the page, the screen differently. we share the experiences in our mind with what we see in front of us and we say, oh that makes sense, or i don't get it, or i just can't think about this right now. we hide under the covers, we blow them off, we creep tentatively into the daylight, wondering how we'll be affected, afflicted, inflicted, infected, reflected, rejected. we make up words, signs, wisdom in our heads so when something goes wrong we say, see i told you so, even if just to our inner child who tried to dream one last time.

and in the end, you're still the same you, and i'm still the same me, and time moves on as ever it does, as ever it will.

we will survive. it's all we know how to do.

Courage [Revisited]

2010-07-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

I posted over at Authentic Realities today on the courage my father showed in sharing my mother's death with me, so I thought I'd re-share with you a related post.

Courage, from Sept 2008:

From 7 Days:

My father was the epitome of courage, although I didn't realize it until after he died. There was one single moment in my life where everything changed.

Everything.

My father pulled into the driveway of the placement home I lived in when I was sixteen and said six words.

Six.

"It’s your mother. She’s dead, Dian."

And thus began my new life.

When my father got sick two years ago, my first emotion was relief; many more would follow. Since my mother's death I’d spent the better part of fourteen years wondering when my father was going to take his turn. I did not dread his death, but felt relief in moving forward. Forward without the anticipation, the anxiety of wondering how my father was going to leave my life.

My mother left unexpectedly, abruptly; my father gave me time to adjust. Time to say good-bye. Time to say all the things I would need to say in order to bury him without regrets; in order to be buried without regrets.

I wondered for years who would break the news of my father's death to me. It never occurred to me that he would be the one. It never occurred to me that I would walk him through it. It never occurred to me that I would watch his last breath heave into his chest and be slowly released. It never occurred to me that I would feel the last beat of his heart with my own hand on his chest. It never occurred to me that I would cherish that moment; just as I’d learned to cherish those six words my father had spoken all those years ago.

My father was not a man of wealth in large bank accounts, but a man of wealth in the courage he held quietly in his heart. My father loved me, of this I am sure. Not because he told me, but because he showed me. His soul spoke six words to me as I held my hand on my father’s chest.

It’s your father. I’m dead, Dian.

heaven and earth

2010-06-30T08:37:00.000-07:00

This post comes from a prompt by Julie Jordan Scott in her amazing Wild Wednesday Writing Camp this morning.

today i will tell about heaven and earth like this…

ooh baby do you know what that’s worth,
ooh heaven is a place on earth.

when i was young this was just a pop song by a girl i had a crush on
today, i live those words,
live that life
that knowing
being

my heaven is being curled up in her arms.
my earth is being tangled in around on with her being.

my heaven is watching him dance and play when he cannot see me.
my earth is throwing a ball back and forth for hours.

my heaven is them.
my earth is me.

i am

2010-06-24T07:53:00.000-07:00

when i find myself in playful soul respite and relief, i write…

playfully, reality, rawly, really.
i write my truth.
i write my soul.
i allow my self to come out and play.
i cease from hiding and move into being.

i can relax and enjoy the writing without feeling like
i have to
need to
got to
get it
done.

i can let the words roll off the tips of my fingers and live on the page just as they like.
just as they are.
just as i am.

i am free.
i am alive.
i am.

Truth Speaks

2010-06-07T06:46:00.000-07:00

my truth says…

my truth says,
you are not alone.
my truth says,
you are big enough,
you are just right.

my truth says,
you are powerful beyond words.
my truth says,
you are powerful with your words.
my truth says,
you are powerful when you
speak your words.

my truth says,
you are perfect.
my truth says,
you are brilliant.
my truth says,
you are already
something;
you are already
someone.

my truth says,
you are brave.
my truth says,
your courage is beautiful.
my truth says,
your tears wash away
what no longer is;
the feeling is bliss.

my truth says,
you are all that you need to be;
you are growing.
my truth says,
just be you.
my truth says,
you are worth it.

A Year Ago on DRW: June 6, 2009

2010-06-06T16:29:00.000-07:00

Since readership has grown a little bit over the last year (hey new followers, hey!!) I thought I'd post something from this day last year. Here's a bit of "Learning Me" from June 6, 2009:

This morning I'm enjoying a bit of quiet time, while Erin and Jackson are sprawled on the bed sleeping the morning away, Killer is curled up on the futon enjoying her alone time, and Sly is curled up next to me on the couch (finally finished cleaning himself).

The past couple of months have been a blur. Between Balance and Process coach training; life coaching and being life coached; reading Anatomy of the Spirit, The Drama of the Gifted Child, and The Mastery of Love (and then Bringing Down the House just for a break from myself); attending marriage equality rallies in Long Beach and Fresno; putting down bricks over the dirt in the back yard to keep Jackson from digging (since he killed all the grass within 1 month of our arrival); continuing work on the book; putting a 2000 piece puzzle of Neuschwanstein together; softball and BBQ's, both local and on the road; and taking Jackson on his daily dog park trip so as to get him too tired to eat the furniture (or stacks of $20's we apparently keep lying around), I haven't made much time for blogging.

I hesitate to exclaim, "ALL THAT IS ABOUT TO CHANGE!!" because I'm in a place where I'm really trying to honor myself. I've once again run myself into a place where I'm unwilling to commit to anything more that what I already have on my plate. A friend of mine, whom I haven't seen in quite a while (and now lives right around the corner) invited me to a BBQ and I just couldn't commit. Part of it was that I have prior commitments that prevent me from accepting any further invitations, but that line of reasoning was only valid after I found out it was an evening BBQ. While I thought it was during the day, I simply couldn't commit to anything further than, "...well maybe I'll stop by for a few mintues..." and even that made my skin cringe at the guilt of now she's hoping to see me and I really should just stop by for a minute, it's right around the corner!

But the thing is, maybe I really don't have a few minutes to stop by. Maybe in order to honor myself I just need to take the day as it comes and do only what I have time for, only what I don't have to rush around for. With all that I've already committed myself to, I've left little time for recuperation, for relaxation, rejuvenation (I feel like the Cajun Man on SNL). I've been focusing so much on growth that I haven't given myself the chance to let it all sink in.

I've often referred to personal growth and learning as a sponge. If I'm the sponge and water is learning, then it takes a little bit for the water to stop flowing over the top of the sponge and for the sponge to really begin to absorb the water. But then when the sponge is full, the water continues to pour right through and the learning is missed. I have to turn the water off, allow myself to absorb what's already been passed through me to learn, and then let that sit for a while in order to really take it in. So to tell you where I am today, I've turned the water off and I'm letting myself sit for a while. In this space I'm finding time to appreciate the things I've learned.

Living a balanced life isn't something you achieve, it's something you constantly work towards-it's about making conscious choices about what I'm willing to say yes to and what I'm willing to say no to in each moment of decision. It's about knowing that I have the right to make decisions based on what's important to me right here and right now. And about realizing that I am not locked into anything that I do not choose to be locked into. I am human and things change. I must be flexible in coming to understand what is important to me, and then firm when honoring those values. And then I must be flexible again if the values I've held onto for years and years are no longer working for me. And I must be firm in my commitment to honor myself in addressing and evaluating my values and then flexible again in how best to proceed in honoring those values.

I've also learned the value of introspection, reflection, and being honest about what comes of both of these exercises. I've learned that the past is the past and while it's best to leave the past back there where it belongs, the only way to do so is to process the feelings--to really FEEL it all before moving forward. Otherwise I'm carrying around the baggage of the past. An example of this learning in my own life:

I once thought that I was over my mom's death. Until I realized that whenever someone close to me would bring up their mom I would victimize myself in that I didn't have a mom and how hard it was for me on Mother's Day or her birthday or a random Tuesday because you can call your mom just because you feel like it and I can't. I realized that I had processed my mom's death, but I never processed the anger I felt around it. And so I carried that anger along with me where ever I went. I carried my anger with me to lunches and meetings and relationships and road trips and intimate dinners for two and large parties and into the shower and the bath and on walks and hikes and bike rides and to the grocery store. The anger didn't show up in everything I did nor everyone I talked to, so I thought it was manageable. Until I went through some coaching last month.

Not only did I acknowledge the fact that I was angry with my mom for leaving, for being a bad mother, for teaching me the wrong way to love so had to figure it out on my own, but I also gave myself permission to feel that anger. To really let it out and sob and scream and be ANGRY! I found that expressing this anger didn't take away my love for her, but it let me move past myself so that I could see and be at peace with the wonderful mother I had. While she was terrible at some things, she always did her best to be the best mother she knew how to be. I am who I am largely because of my relationship with my mother, in all its flawed brilliance. And because I felt the anger, because I let it pass through me, because I was willing to feel it and let it go, leave it in the past, I can now move forward a lighter person, without the weight of this bag of anger I carried around for so many years.

I think I must stop with the learning for this morning, simply to honor my space of taking a break. I must let this learning sink in, I must sit in my silence with it to fully understand and then I'll be ready to move forward. More learning to come, although I can't promise expedience for right now...

I Wonder

2010-06-04T06:07:00.000-07:00

i wonder…

i wonder what needs to be said. i wonder what needs to be heard. i wonder what fears lie beneath.

i wonder.

i wonder.

i wonder where i will go next. i wonder where my writing will take me. i wonder what questions are dying to be asked. i wonder what’s dying to come out.

i wonder what i know but don’t say. i wonder what i say but don’t know.

i wonder what’s next. i wonder what a-ha is lurking in the underground. i wonder what’s been left unsaid. i wonder what’s been silent. i wonder what silence will be heard.

i wonder what piece of me is dying inside. i wonder what piece of me is thriving. i wonder what piece of me is feeding off the fear that has hold of my heart.

i wonder when my heart will let go. i wonder when my heart has had enough. i wonder when my soul will step in.

i wonder when my writing will be my soul. i wonder what writing is my soul. i wonder what writing is at the center of my heart, the center of my soul.

i wonder what’s deep. i wonder what’s raw. i wonder what’s inside.

what do you wonder?

Loving Unconditionally

2010-06-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

From 7 Days.

His eyes seemed grayer than the day before, and the stubble on his cheeks and chin had grown quite a bit. A sticky white residue from the tube in his throat being taped to his face for stability was left on his lips and stubble. The nurses and I wiped him down several times, but his face remained greasy from lack of a real bath or shower in more than four days. The flesh on his cheeks was rubbery and plastic. It felt as though it might stretch across the room just as it hung from his bones. I was having to work harder to recognize my father. My father, the man who always bailed me out. The man who always went to work. The man who showed up every time he said he would. The man who always believed in me. The man I could always count on to be there, wherever “there” was. He was always “there”. He took me in when my mother turned me out. He found BILY* and taught me how to communicate. He had all the goods on me, and he loved me anyway. As I stared at this man who had been a part of my last thirty years, I wondered: Who would be there to love me unconditionally as he always did?

The Place I'm Meant To Go [Updated with Video]

2010-06-01T08:36:00.000-07:00

I wrote this yesterday in one of the camp fires over at Julie Jordan Scott's Writing Intensive Camp.

the place i’m meant to go with my writing and my words is….

deep. raw. inside. what i think people won’t love me for. what i think people will judge me for. what i think people will hate me for.

the place i fear the most. that fear guides me into the fears of others and calls out to come and play, what would stay underground and unheard for years.

where i have feared to go. where others have feared to go. where others have no idea.

the place no one else can get to. the place only i can see. the place only my intuition can shed light on. the place we all need to go.

the place i need to be. if i focus on nothing else, i ought to be focused on what’s dying to come out.

the place i’m meant to go in my writing is the heart. the soul. the center.

[Updated with video below, also as seen on Authentic Realities 6.1.10]

the brilliant peaceful gift

2010-05-26T11:51:00.000-07:00

the day he left was a brilliant day. it was finally over. all the waiting. all the fuss. all the pain. there was no more what if. only what is.

of course i was left to sort through what is. what was. and figure out the difference between what was and what is.

the rain. the hospital. the tears. the cancer. the kleenex. the food in the cupboard. the clothes in the closet. the money in the bank. the memories in my mind.

what's real? what's fabricated? what's only my perception?

my perception is my reality.

one foot in front of the other. moving. shifting. changing. growing.

without having to wonder when it was finally going to happen, i could focus on what was next. but then, just what the hell was next?

the funeral.

but let me stay in this moment of brilliance for one more moment. one more moment of relief. one more moment of surrender. one more moment of knowing. one more moment of peace. one more moment of this gift my father has given to me in letting go of this world and giving it to me to do with as i choose.

the funeral can wait one more goddamn minute while i sit here in this peace.

Just To See Him Smile

2010-05-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'm "supposed" to be doing something else right now. But I guess if that were really true, I'd be over *there* doing it, instead of *right here* doing this. And this is much more important. For now.

I'm a DIY kinda girl. Part of that comes from not wanting to ask people questions when I was a kid for fear of getting in trouble, and part of it is going with my father to job after job after job, and not only watching him build decks and fences and furniture, and repair plumbing and electrical and mechanical stuff. He was a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician, a jack-of-all-trades handyman.

My father wasn't much of a technical guy, though. When it came to computers, he relied on me to help him. My father was comfortable with tools in his hand, and I with a computer at my fingertips. I felt like it was a great payback system for all the handy stuff he showed me how to do for myself over the years. It gave me a great sense of pride to be able to teach my father how to do something because I'd learned so much from him over the years.

In the last stage of my father's cancer, he couldn't get up and move much. He was tired all the time from the blockage in his liver and the medication and the cancer. His mind couldn't stay focused on any single thing for too long, but he could stay focused on Freecell.

So I bought him a laptop. Just so he could play Freecell in his lap and not have to get up to it.

The laptop had a huge 17 "screen. He felt like the cards were coming right at him. His birthday had just passed in October, and December/Christmas wasn't quite there, but when it comes to doing something just to see someone smile, there doesn't have to be a special day to do it.

As I'm sitting here going through page after page of the book and looking back at those last 7 days with my dad, I'm drawn to think about not the 7 days, but all the days that led up to the last ones. I still have that ginormous laptop, and I'm pretty sure the only thing it does anymore is play Freecell.

When my father passed away in the January following this for-no-good-reason-other-than-I-love-you-and-want-to-see-you-smile gift to my father, I wondered if I'd wasted the $1,000 I'd spent on it, as I had nearly no use for it.

I can replace that $1,000. What I can't replace is the joy my father took in being able to play Freecell right in his lap. And as long as I remember him, I don't really have to.

Tommorrow's Sun

2010-04-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

Day breaks and clouds part slowly as the rising sun fills the sky with light from the heavens. Most days, I feel good. Most days, I feel like the parting clouds disappear at just the right time, the rays of sunlight are just the right brightness and temperature to keep me moving fluidly throughout my day. But not today.

Today the dark clouds loiter and take me over. Today the dark clouds soak me into their gloomy existence. Today the dark clouds become me.

I don’t fight the clouds, I let the wispy molecules surround me and hold me to the ground. The wind pushes us around, the sky holds us down, the sun is nowhere in sight.

Today the clouds rule the earth, and I doubt the sun is anywhere behind them. Until she peeks out briefly, as if to taunt me.

I lay in bed and close my eyes again, unwilling to brave the darkness beyond my closed eyelids. Tomorrow’s sun will just have to do.

Birds of My Mother

2010-04-28T07:30:00.000-07:00

On Sunday afternoon Erin & I were winding down from a fun-filled weekend. Erin took out the recycling from the kitchen to the bin by our garages while I futzed around in the kitchen with some cheese and crackers. When she returned to the house, she said Baby...there's a bird on the driveway not moving at all. It might be dead.

I didn't really do much thinking, I just walked to the door and asked her to show me where. She pointed the bird out, and I opened the front door to go check it out. I bent down and saw the bird was still alive. I reached my hand out slowly and the bird did not flinch away from me. I felt in my bones that I needed to help this bird.

I called the local animal hospital and they told me to bring the bird in. I grabbed a couple of towels and a paper Gap bag, and went outside. As I approached the bird this time, he began to breathe heavily, look frantically around himself and chirp, presumably for help. Trying not to scare him, I reached with the towel and tried to pick him up. He turned away and began to flutter his wings. He left poop behind on the pavement where he'd just been still. His wings would not work, but he still fluttered them and continued to hop away from me. Just before he reached the fence between our driveway and the neighbor's enclosed grassy area, I scooped him up into the towel and lightly wrapped it around him. I promised him I wouldn't hurt him and that I'd take him to a safe place.

And so I did.

In thinking about the events of the afternoon, it took me maybe 30 minutes to check on the bird, make the call, scoop him up, and drop him off at the animal hospital. When I got home we went about the rest of our evening as if it never happened. And the following morning I couldn't shake the feeling that something divine had happened with that bird.

When I stood at our front door and looked at the bird sitting in the driveway, I felt an immediate connection to him. I also felt an immediate connection to my mother. I didn't hear her voice, but I felt her spirit in every cell in my body. For a split second, I wondered if I should take the bird in and try to rehabilitate it. Until I realized that wasn't me at all, but my mother.

She would have nursed that bird back to health on her own. That's just what she did. And that's just why we had 4 rescued dogs and 8 rescued cats and 3 rescued birds when I was growing up. These weren't animals that she went to the pound or a shelter to save, these were animals she happened upon and couldn't help but take care of them.

Through this experience I get to see how my mom and I are both different and the same. My mom tried to save everything and everyone who crossed her path. Sometimes this was a godsend. And sometimes it was a futile attempt at saving people and things that didn't want to be "saved".

My mother bred me a strong inclination to help others. I have a rescued dog of my own, which we got from a shelter, and 2 rescued cats birthed from a cat I found in the parking lot after a softball game one night 11 years ago. But I've learned that I can't help everyone or everything.

My mother would have taken in that bird and known exactly what to do to get it healthy. That's who she was. Me, I know nothing of how to get an injured bird healthy. I feel like I honored my mother in saving that bird, and honored myself by taking him to a place that could actually help him. This gives me peace.

I don't know why it's important for me to share this story, maybe I just want to share the connection I felt to my mom in order to make it more real. I just know that my "decision" to help happened so fast that I missed the connection to my mother to begin with.

Which is why I'm glad I went back for reflection.

The Visit

2010-04-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This post reveals content of a graphic and traumatic nature, and may be difficult for someone with abuse in his/her background to read.

I remember my father telling me about The Visit years after it happened. He said The Visit always made him uncomfortable, but he didn't really understand why until he found out why it should have made him uncomfortable. I only vaguely remembered it when he first recounted it to me, but it stuck out firmly in my father's mind more than 15 years later.

The Visit:

Steven showed up at my father's door on a Saturday I was with my father for the weekend. Steven wanted to take me out bathing suit shopping for an upcoming trip. In the back of my father's mind, he thought that was odd. Steven said he promised me he'd take me since my mother didn’t have time. My father asked me if I wanted to go and I shook my head, "No." Steven left quietly, and nothing more was said about it. That’s how everything went in my family.

Until after my mother died. Apparently a lot of things didn't seem strange until after my mother died.

The Incident:

My grandparents took The Family to Hawaii for 3 weeks during the summer between my 7th and 8th grade years. "The Family" included my grandparents; my uncle, his wife, and his son; and my mom, Steven, and me. Except, my mom was pregnant with my little brother, so she didn't go. My grandparents treated Steven and I as a family and roomed us together when we got to Maui. We'd all stayed in a 3-bedroom villa on both the previous islands, but when we got to Maui, the resort we stayed in didn't have a 3-bedroom villa. So Steven and I got our own room.

I was thirteen years old.

At the time, the events leading up to "The Incident" only seemed a little uncomfortable. Steven had made a daily habit of making sexual comments to me, so I didn't find it out of the ordinary for him to do so while on vacation. He was in constant reverie about how "tight" my body was, or how "firm" my breasts were, and often said he could see me in Playboy Magazine in a couple of years. The first time he put his hands on my breasts, it was uncomfortable, but he made it seem almost like an accident. We were passing each other on the staircase at the house, and his arm swung wide. That's when he commented on the firmness. Steven seemed to know where to draw the line, though, and never made comments about doing anything to me, he simply shared his observations. This became normal. And continued while we were on vacation, as long as he was outside earshot of the rest of The Family.

I was thirteen.

Honestly, I don't remember how many nights we were on Maui. I only know that the day after "The Incident" Steven did not continue on with the rest of The Family, but booked a flight home to go be with my mom.

I was thirteen.

I remember thinking that the sky was beautiful as we drove back to the hotel. We'd spent the day doing things people do in Hawaii. When we got back to the hotel, Steven and I did laundry and found a gecko on the wall in the laundry room. I thought it was gross, and Steven laughed at me for being such a girl. As I pulled the clothes out of the washer and flung them into the dryer, he told me to slow down and shake each article out before putting it in the dryer. This would help it dry faster. For a long time after "The Incident" I refused to shake my clothes out before I put them into the dryer.

I was thirteen.

When the clothes were dry, we pulled them from the dryer and took them back to our room. We folded them. I was used to folding his clothes, as I was the designated laundry folder of the house. He, on the other hand, was not accustomed to folding my clothes. He took specific note of how small and cute my underwear were.

I was thirteen.

He took his pants off and put my underwear on. He danced around the room and laughed at how small the front was, and how his balls barely fit into them. I remember laughing, too.

I was thirteen.

I took a shower to wash the day off. After I got out of the shower, he asked if I wanted a back rub. This was not an out of the ordinary idea. Usually it was me giving him the back rub after he got home from his construction job. He'd shower and then lay naked on the bed face down with a towel over his ass. I don't remember how that got started, but I remember that happening almost every day once it did start. I remember wondering if he pushed his penis between his legs on purpose just so I could see it or if it was just more comfortable that way. Of course, I never asked.

I was thirteen.

I took my robe off and put a towel around my waist. I laid face down on the bed, my back exposed. He climbed on top of my back legs and began massaging my back. For a moment, it felt good. His hands stayed on my back for most of the massage. Until they moved lower. He began massaging my legs. He might have even asked me if it was okay.

I was thirteen.

His hands massaged the back of my legs. Started with the calves and then to the back of the knees, and then to the back of the thighs. And then to the base of my butt. He massaged the inside of my thighs, closer to my knees. Then he began to work his way up. My heart pounded. I did not want him to touch me. But he was on top of me and his hands all over me. I did not want him to touch me, but I could not speak. I pretended to fall asleep. I thought if I was asleep he would stop. I was wrong. His hands moved further up the inside of my thighs and his thumbs touched the opening of my vagina. His thumbs went inside my vagina. I don't know how long I stayed still, hoping he would stop and just go away. When I could finally not stay still any longer, I jumped as if being jolted awake by a noise. When I did, his hands jerked back. He stopped.

I was thirteen.

He might have asked me a question. I might have answered it. He got into the shower. He got out of the shower. I prayed he wouldn't ask me to massage him. He put clothes on and said he was going out for a walk. I don't remember the rest of the evening. When we packed up in the morning, he said nothing to me. When we arrived at the airport to head to our final island of the trip, he announced to my grandfather that he wouldn't go on with us, but he needed to get home to my mom. The Family told me nothing else.

I was thirteen years old.

Two years later I told my mother about The Incident. She asked Steven about it and he denied The Incident. My mother and the rest of the family assumed I’d lied in order to get attention.

Nine months after I told my mother about The Incident, four shots rang out, and my mother was dead. After her death, The Family finally believed what I’d told my mother about Steven. And my father reflected upon The Visit.

The Visit was a month or so prior to The Incident. After my father learned of The Incident, he felt guilty. I don’t know when my father was told, but it wasn’t me who told him. I first learned he knew in a therapy session shortly after my mother's death. He felt that he should have known better. He thought he should have protected me. He believed he was a horrible father for letting someone violate his daughter like that. He thought he should have seen the signs and known what was wrong. I have no doubt that his guilt about The Incident is part of what killed my father.

I know the doctors told us all it was cancer. But I saw the look in my father's eyes as he told me he was so sorry for not protecting me. I believe that look—his guilt—invited the cancer in to take over his life. I tried to explain to my father that The Incident was no one's fault but Steven's, to no avail. It took me years of time and therapy and healing to know in my heart that it wasn't even my fault.

My father preferred to bear the burden of blame, believing it was his burden to bear.

If you suspect physical or sexual abuse, talk to your child. Seek immediate professional help at your local police department, Department of Children's Services office, or check out Child Help online.

not always what you think

2010-03-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

today i reworked something i'd written a while back. i seem to be doing a lot of that lately. reworking pieces that didn't see the light of day from months or years past because i didn't know what the point was back then, anyway. but today i do. today it makes sense.

it's rare that i think about my mom on the last day i saw her. i prefer to think about all the days before that day because i've worked through most of the pain of that last day and the days to follow. but for the story, today i needed to go back to that day.

here's a little bit of what i remember from way back when...

Come to think of it, it was 7 days from the last time I saw my mom until I found out she was dead. And 7 days from that time until I saw her in the mortuary. I held her hand—no, that’s a lie. You can’t say that you held someone’s hand when they’re dead and they don’t know you’re holding it, can you? When they’re not holding your hand back?

I entered the room. Was anyone with me? Must have been because I remember asking for some time alone with her. My grandmother was skeptical about leaving me alone with her. So was my father, but he might have known better than to attempt persuading me not to. They left the room and a silence I’d never heard before filled the room. My mother was in the room, but there was no laughter. There were no jokes. There were no rules or restrictions. She wasn’t ever going to ground me again or tell me to get off the phone again or tell me anything, ever again.

I went to a funeral with my mom when I was thirteen. This was nothing like that. I thought I was sad when Brandy Fernandez died. But if that was sadness, it felt nothing like this. I’d heard before that when you lose someone you love it feels like your heart is being ripped out. I didn’t believe them until I felt the tearing of my flesh beneath my skin. It was slow and subtle at first, and then like chains and pulleys had been wrapped around it to be pulled out of my chest. I was afraid to look for fear of seeing blood drip from my wounded soul.

Someone—who was it? My father? My therapist? A stranger walking down the street?—suggested I write a letter to my mom and tell her all the things I wished I could have before she died. To share my soul with her on paper, then read it aloud to her; to her spirit. I pulled myself together as best I could and did what I was told. I began reading. One word and then another. I began to sob. I kept reading. Through sobs, I focused on the words on the page and getting them out. And while I read I missed her. I missed my mom. I wanted to hold her hand again. I wanted to feel the warm touch of my mother’s hand just one more time. Without thinking about what I was doing, I reached my hand into her casket and put my hand on hers. This is where I wonder if I held her hand.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

I remember walking in the room now; an image that’s stuck in my mind all these years. Nothing looked liked her except her lips and her hands. I never noticed how much our hands looked alike until that day. But they no longer felt alike.

I couldn’t believe what I felt against my skin. Just like the silence I’d never knew existed, I felt a coldness no living person can ever truly understand. For all of my sixteen years, my mom had the warmest hands I’d ever felt.
They comforted me while having thorns pulled from my shins after running through rose bushes. Dried tears of sorrow and incomprehension with just a hug when she knew words held no meaning. Those hands cared for me more than I ever realized I would miss. And to touch them with no warmth, only ice seeping through her pores, stunned me.

I struggled to breathe for a moment and stumbled away from the casket. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Loudly. I could think of nothing but the hole in my chest that I could feel but not see.

As I sat beside myself in grief I heard a door creak open. I looked towards the entrance to the room and have a vague recollection of shooing away whoever had checked in on me. I was embarrassed at being unable to hold myself together. I quickly stood up, wiped tears and snot from my cheeks and chin, and then continued the letter from where I’d left off before I’d distracted myself with my mother’s hands.

After finishing the letter, I folded it back up, and tucked it under those cold hands, leaving it to be cremated with her.

Looking back, I wish I’d kept a copy of that letter. At the time I’d been angry that my last moments with my mother had been disturbed, but I said nothing. Instead, I felt cheated and kept it to myself. The last mother-and-daughter moment I would ever have was cut short and there was nothing I could do to get it back.

there are so many parallels between my mother's and father's deaths. and still, they were nothing alike.

grateful for what i have and where i am

2010-02-26T09:03:00.000-08:00

a post from the archives, as i'm in a similar place of rewriting and reworking 7 Days:

february 29, 2008
i started reworking my book about my dad this month and the progress has been pretty good. it’s hard to know what’s the right thing to write, what i should leave in, what should be left out and sometimes even knowing what i’m comfortable writing.

i’m going back and forth between my dad’s childhood and the way he was raised and the effect it had on him as an adult and then as a parent. and then it forces me to talk about how all of that affected how i was raised, how i chose to receive the parenting i got from him and how i raised myself in his absence during the week.
my dad was a weekend dad from the time my parents got divorced until i was fourteen. that’s when my mom decided i was too hard to handle and that my dad needed to take the reigns as the non-fun parent with all the rules. it was quite a change from what i’d been used to from my dad as a parent.

i was excited to move in with my dad because i’d always had fun when escaping to his house for the weekend. only it wasn’t weekend dad's anymore. he noticed things like what time i got home from school and whether or not i’d done homework. it was like he was talking to my mom...learning tricks of the trade or something.

with my dad’s new-found interest in my life outside of tagging along with him to friday through sunday softball, i found it hard to like him as much as i had before i moved in. he wanted to know where i’d been, who i’d been with, what i’d been doing, and why i got back so late. the prying into my personal life was invasive, at best.

even though i was no longer living with my mom—and more importantly, her boyfriend—the issues that had been created while i did live there still lingered. since my dad didn’t get home from work until after 6pm on most nights, i had to go to my mom’s after school. only, my mom didn’t get home until after 5pm, which meant i shared empty space with steven from the time i got there until my mom came home.

after the hawaii incident, he didn’t touch me at all. he still looked at me like i belonged on in a section of playboy without words, and he still made inappropriate comments from time to time. but i could live with that, as long as he didn’t touch me anymore. only, my dad didn’t know about any of that yet.

at fourteen, i felt like an adult. i’d had my own key to the house out of necessity of letting myself in since i’d been in first grade. i’d been stealing my dad’s truck at least once a week and taught myself to drive a stick in doing so since i was thirteen. i’d had sex by then, and while i understand much more about it all now, i really thought i had a handle on the world and people and knew how things should work.

i’d had the example of an alcoholic single mom who divorced a man she loved but didn’t want to be married to; who divorced another man who decided that he wanted to be with another woman; and who refused to marry a man who probably cheated on her numerous times (and what of his thoughts and actions with me?) but she couldn’t bear the thought of another failed relationship. so she stayed, portraying misery as the foundation of any relationship worth having.

i’d been drunk on numerous occasions and smoked more pot between the ages of twelve and fourteen than i ever have after. i’d tried lsd, coke, and speed but only stuck to speed (due to the ease of acquiring it, even when i did have to pay for it). i’d been arrested five times before i turned fifteen.

i was sure i was all grown up.

and in all of this, i was still fourteen. i was still three years away from getting my driver’s license. i was still four years shy of being able to vote. seven years short of legally being able to drink. only two years away from losing my mom (as it turned out) and becoming more adult than i ever could have imagined. at fourteen, even with all my experience, i was still a child; still in need of parenting. only my dad just didn’t know how.

his father left his mother for another woman when my dad was a teenager. his step dad beat him with a stick that my dad had to go find himself in the yard. the navy showed my dad how to smoke pot (or at least, his fellow seamen did), so even though he earned a free education on the GI Bill, it almost went to waste because he smoked pot and played softball more than he went to class. luckily he was somewhat of a genius and ended up with a degree in history, which he never had the confidence to use.

as told by my dad, he muddled through his twenties, thirties, and even forties unsure of what he wanted to do with his life. he was a good man though, aside from all his faults and absentee parenting he received as a child. he found a way at some point to salvage something of fatherhood and began to take care of me. i didn’t realize he was doing it at the time--i thought he was just trying to piss me off. turns out he knew a little more than me.

turns out we’re not always the bad part of what our parents taught us. my dad never beat me. my dad only loved me. i was able to escape alcoholism because of my awareness of my mom and grandfather never fully getting a handle on it. my dad was extremely patient with me as i began to reveal the details of the (my) “relationship” with my mom’s boyfriend. in the end, i think he internalized too much of the blame and may have been part of what caused his death. i’m not saying guilt causes cancer, but the toxins that it does create certainly don’t maintain a pure environment for the body—guilt certainly doesn’t provide energy for the immune system to fight off even a cold, let alone the cancer that overtook his body for death in just fourteen months time.

my parents spent most of their lives trying to escape their respective childhoods (and maybe their adulthoods, as well). my mom and her abusive father. my dad and his abusive step-father. the drugs and bad relationships. the always trying to please everyone but themselves. they spent their whole lives trying to escape instead of trying to let go.

and still, here i am. in all this realization of lives and loss and regret and remorse and letting go of things i never knew i was holding onto, i still have so much more to learn, so much more to let go of. like the idea that my parents were perfect, just because they’re dead. they were parents and they were human. and if not for how they raised me, i would not be who i am today. and so, all i can do is be grateful. i wish it were as easy as it sounds.

Up the Stairs

2010-02-25T10:18:00.000-08:00

I recently had a hard drive crash and lost a the last few months worth of work on the book. I'm not dwelling on it, and in fact it gives me a chance to start afresh with a new direction I'm taking. Up until recently, the focus of 7 Days has been mainly on my father and how his death and grieving for him impacted me. That's still a great focus, but I felt it important to introduce some of the details about my mom's death and its impact on me in order to give texture and context to my mind-frame as my father's illness unfolded.

This is an excerpt of a draft I'm working on right now, with those things in mind.

Up The Stairs.
I was the only one who knew whose things were whose. Before everything was cleaned up they had me go back to the townhouse so I could say yes, this was my mom’s, no this isn’t. Steven was in jail and my grandparents wanted to make sure they got everything of hers before Steven’s brother came to get his things. How would he know? His brother had never been to the house in my eight years of knowing Steven.

I remember walking into the house. Coldness overtook me and I trembled at the door. To the right at the entrance were the stairs to the second level. At the top on the left, a door to my mom’s bedroom. Straight ahead, the hallway to my old bedroom. A linen cabinet and closet on the left, just before my bedroom at the end of the hall. It had become Michael's room after I left. He was in that room when all the chaos took place, just two and a half years old.

My grandmother wanted me to get things of Michael’s, things of mine from the bedroom. In order to get there I’d have to walk past my mom’s bedroom. I summoned all my strength. I walked to the stairs and began to climb, one foot ahead of the other. As I ascended, the opening to the lower level became smaller and smaller. And when I reached the halfway point, where the railing met the wall of the bedroom, my legs gave out. I slipped. I fell just one step back and landed on my hands and knees. I was too weak to continue. I sat there and cried until my grandmother met me on the stairs to help me down and tell me it was okay. All I could tell her was, “I’m sorry.”

I felt weak. I felt like a failure. I had been asked to do something, and I had failed. I couldn’t complete a simple task to go up a single flight of stairs and pass a closed door to get to the belongings of my two-year-old brother. I feared they would always see me as weak little Dian, who couldn’t even get halfway up the stairs without falling to her knees.

At times I still regret not going up there. But I couldn’t pass that bedroom. I couldn’t even get half way up the stairs. My father had warned me that the bedroom hadn’t been cleaned up yet. The bedroom had been a crime scene. I told my father I could walk past the room if he closed the door, but in the end, I was too weak. I didn’t have to see anything to know what went on in that room, and I couldn’t bring myself to be on the same level as Steven or my mom when those four shots were fired.

There were no shots fired during the last seven days of my father’s life. But the constant beeping of the heart monitors was enough to drive me near mad.

letter to mom: march 26, 2008

2010-02-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

this is a repost from a couple of years ago. i'm writing a new letter later today and thought it appropriate to share this one again, for context and contrast.

dear mom,
my life is so much different from when you knew me. all i could do back then was try to please you. i know it was hard to tell with the running away, the arrests, the disrespect i showed you on a daily basis when you were still alive. but in all that, i wanted you to notice me. i wanted you to protect me. i wanted you to teach me. i wanted you to love me.

we watched baseball together and i learned your love of the game, win or lose. we laughed together and i learned your sense of humor, both filtered and raw. we talked like mother, like daughter, like friends, like enemies, and i learned that nowhere and everywhere was safe within those bonds.

i listened to how you searched for your father's love and never got it because you were a girl. i listened as you denied your alcohol consumption that night you passed out after i tasted your vodka flavored lemonade and watched you pour a bottle of smirnoff down the kitchen sink the next morning. i watched you teach me that appearances are more important than telling the truth. i watched you teach me that telling the truth does no good when the person i'm telling doesn't want to hear it. i watched you teach me that i don't need to tell the truth if people will believe a lie.

my life now does not mirror my life then. my life now only expresses my life then. i've learned so much from your life, from the things you did right, from the things i wish you'd done differently, from the things that impressed me so much that i’d have you do them the same, no matter the consequence.

let me tell you what i remember, so you can see through my eyes.

i love that you took care of me when i was sick, that you came home for lunch to check on me and feed me soup and take my temperature (and probably to make sure i was really there). i love that you took me to dodger games. i love that you got excited at the prospect of talking to steve yeager on kabc radio one morning while getting ready for work. i love that you baked my birthday cake more often than not. i love that you took me to brandi fernandez's funeral and told me that there was never a good enough reason for suicide.

i remember walking down the railroad tracks by our condo and we talked about school and how you were disappointed with the previous year's grades. i told you i would bring them up in the coming year, and you told me you didn't believe me. maybe that would've worked if i believed in myself. but i was relying on you to believe in me. without you, i couldn't believe in myself. the scar from that day is still visible, palpable in my soul, my actions, my heart. i wonder if it will ever fully heal.

i remember sitting on the couch the weekend before you died. pomeranian on one side of you, me on the other. we talked about nothing in particular, but i remember beaming inside...feeling like you finally looked at me like a real person. like i wasn't just your daughter, but someone whose thoughts and feelings you cared about because they were relevant, not because you felt obligated by family relation. you talked to me about your relationship with steven and i talked about life in placement. you didn't judge me, you didn't scold me, you just listened. i will always be grateful for the moments we shared on that couch. especially because they were the last.

i've gone through graduations and first loves, getting hired and fired, moving and moving and moving some more...i've gotten a driver's license, i've bought and sold cars, i've voted...i've loved, had my heart broken and broken hearts...i've lied, i've cheated, i've stolen...i've learned, been humbled, been forgiven...i've fallen behind, gotten ahead, and kept up with the crowd...i've been depressed, overwhelmed and felt like i would never recover...i've laughed, i've shared, i've given everything of myself and expected both nothing and everything in return...all in all, mom, i've lived. and you missed it.

for much of my twenties i resented you for missing my life. for not being here for the big things. you weren't here when i signed my first lease on an apartment. when i got my first raise. when i got into my first car accident. and i resented you for not being here for the little things. you weren't here when i came home from work exhausted after my first real night shift working the counter at mcdonald's when i needed encouragement and a soft ear to listen to all my complaints about why it was so hard. when i bought my first set of couches. when i dropped off my first set of clothes at the dry cleaners. it's the little things i missed that you never got to be a part of.

you used to send flowers to grandma just because. and you took that away from me. you would drop by grandma & grandpa's for dinner on a whim because you wanted to talk about what was going on in your life with them. you took that away from me. you would answer the phone when grandma called every other night just to chat about what little old ladies who play bridge and drink wine all day chat about with their daughters. you took that away from me.

so many nights i had dinner alone and wished i could've invited you over. so many nights i watched baseball alone and wished i could have called you after a great play. so many nights i missed you and your voice and the way you always knew the right thing to say, even if it was nothing at all, and i wished i could call you. you took that away from me. you took it all away by staying.

after you died i dreaded dreaming about you because i hated waking up from those dreams. i hated that the only time i could see you was when you weren't really there. i hated that you left me. i hated that you stayed with him. i hated that he killed you...that you killed yourself. i have no doubt that you didn't point the gun at yourself. but you stayed with him. you knew what kind of man he was: the kind of man to touch your daughter. and if that wasn't enough to leave him, then i guess nothing short of dying in a gun battle in your bedroom was going to do it.

i wouldn't let anyone talk bad about you because you weren't here to defend yourself. i wouldn't even allow myself to openly be angry with you, to openly resent you. but i was angry with you. i did resent you. you didn't protect me, and that made me angry. i expected you to react to steven the way you reacted to grandpa that night you told him off. remember?

i called you after grandpa yelled at me, had me backed into a corner crying, telling me i was good for nothing, that i would never amount to anything, that i would end up just like my mother. i didn't know what he meant; i was scared and confused. i called you and when you got to the house, you told me to go to the car. i sat in the car in the driveway and watched you. i couldn't hear a word that was said, but i saw your head, your hand, your finger swagger in front of him and in my mind i heard the greatest speech anyone's ever given about how wrong it was to treat me the way my grandfather had. i saw only the back of your head and could only imagine the words flying out of your mouth that night, but the one thing i was sure of was that you loved me. that you were protecting me. that you were saving me from everything bad he could ever do to me. from anything bad anyone could ever do to me. that was the only night of my life i ever felt like that about you.

there are so many things i've missed out on in my life because you weren't here. and for the longest time that seemed to be all i could focus on. and at some point it dawned on me that you were human. that you had faults. that just because you were my mother didn't mean that you were supposed to get everything right. that's a fallacy that all kids have about their parents. and it sucks to grow up and realize that your parents are human and make mistakes, too. i know you did everything in your power to save me. i know that if you could've done anything more you would have. and i know that you just didn't have the capacity to love yourself enough to leave him. and i know that because that's the way it was, i've learned from it.

i rarely think about those things anymore, but you need to know that sometimes they come up. that sometimes these things affect me and my life. and that these things do not consume me.

i live near the beach now, me and my two cats. i’m head over heels for my girlfriend. yeah, girlfriend. i guess if you were here, you'd know that by now. i quit my job over a year ago to write and haven't really done what i expected to with that, but i'm still working towards everything i've ever dreamed about. i wish you were here to see it all for yourself, but i accept that you're not.

i guess the whole point in writing this letter at all wasn't to tell you about what's going on in my life, but to tell you how you've impacted it. it's easy to tell you that you made me laugh and that i love you. but it's hard to tell you that i was ever angry with you, that i ever judged you and thought you were a bad parent. and even harder still to tell you that i've forgiven you for your mistakes, as if i have the right to do anything other than that. there were parts of my life that were hell when you were here as well as when you left. and none of it was your fault. it's just the way it was. my life is mine and if i blame you for everything that happened to me, i'd never get to living my life. so at this point, the letter becomes about letting you go.

there's no such thing as jayme ann newkirk anymore. no such thing as jayme ann reid. or jayme ann boland. she's gone and has been for years. the only thing that's left is the memory i hold of you. and that some of that memory serves me no purpose anymore. i've learned from the anger, the frustration, the humiliation, the exhaustion, the depression, and the relief. i've learned from holding on, moving on, and letting go piece by piece. first there were your clothes, then your make up (like i was allowed to ever wear make up), then your knick knacks, and your dishes, your phone (which still had blood on it from the night you died that i never cleaned off or told anyone about)...and the rest are the memories. there are some memories i'll let go of (i won't hash those out again here), and there are some i'll hold on to (hill cows and moo cows, the pout bird, and the look on your face when we saw brian boitano in the red onion all those years ago). but it's all my decision because this life is finally mine. yours is over and that's all you get.

i love you with all my heart. say hi to dad for me.

your beloved daughter

Dead Yet?

2010-02-03T11:53:00.000-08:00

I wrote this part of a chapter yesterday:

Rick, Johnny and Ian walked into Forest Lawn's mortuary and funeral services office to finalize the purchase of my father's plot. They'd been there before. They'd met with a tiny European man with an accent, who showed them the grassy knoll where my father would be buried. The same man greeted them when they walked in the door. Rick expected a hello, or a courtesy smile and head tilt. He received neither. Instead, the accented European man said to the three of them, "Dead yet?"

I told a friend of mine about this experience the other day, which I only recently learned about from my uncle, and she shared a similar, jarring experience. Her family member died suddenly of a heart attack. She was still in shock several days later when she was at the funeral home making the arrangements. As the sales guy went over the options, he began to make jokes. About the type of casket—"oh you don't want that one, that's a girly casket, I bet this guy'd want a manly casket, I mean, not that he gets a say now, guffaw, guffaw..." People can be so insensitive.

Is it really insensitivity? Are people just trying to make light of a tough situation? Do I expect too much from people who provide services for the dead and still need to functionally communicate with the living? Am I wrong to expect sensitivity or genuine caring from these people?

I am grateful that I wasn't with my uncles and cousin that day at Forest Lawn. And I am grateful I wasn't there with my friend at that funeral home. Had I been in either of those places, I just might have lost my composure.

Or I would have sat in the chair like my friend did, dumbfounded that the words were coming out of this man's face at all. She actually had the courage to ask him to tone the humor down a bit. He apologized and then went right back to doing business as usual, poor humor, and all.

Or I would have laughed heartily as my cousin impersonated the European accent all the way back to the hospital. We Reids enjoy a good bit of dry humor.

While hindsight might offer a lot of options, in the moment, it's hard to know what you'll say or do. I can only hope that the next time I walk into a funeral home because someone I love has died, that I'm treated with respect and humility, not sales and bad judgment.

Forget to Remember

2010-01-04T21:33:00.000-08:00

Forgetting. It seems to be a recurring theme on this day. Last year on the anniversary of my father's death, nearly the whole day passed before I realized the significance of the date. I wrote a post to reconnect myself, and rolled back the actual publish time to 9:01AM, although I'm pretty sure it was closer to 4PM by the time I even started writing that post.

It's about 9:15PM as I write this post. Odd to say that my father's death seems like something that happened to someone else at this point. Which is true. It happened to him. I just get to live without him. I'm fine with that. And that feels odd, too.

I like the first four years after my father's death much better than the first four after my mother's. I was so angry about my mother's death and I didn't understand so much. The past four years I understand so much more, not necessarily about life (although that's true, too), but about both of my parents.

I understand that I get a choice to be like both of them, either of them, neither of them. I get to choose to love myself more than some guy who will never me because I don't love myself. Thanks mom, for teaching me that one. I get to choose to take care of myself before everyone else (which also goes back to that whole loving myself thing). Thanks dad, for teaching me that one.

I also understand that they were both human. That it does me no good to judge them on the job they did raising me when I turned out just fine. I get that my parents were victims of themselves, and then of others—not the other way around. I get that they did the best they could with what they knew. And I get that I love them, even in their early departures.

On days like today when I've forgotten to remember the significance of the date, it doesn't bother me. Not because the date is insignificant, but because I don't need a significant date to remember either of my parents.

I remember my mom when I laugh. My dad when I build. I remember them when I cook or clean or run or play or read. I remember them when I live my life. Not when a certain day passes me by to remind me that they're not here anymore.

So take that, January 4th, 2006 6:07PM and June 27th, 1991 early AM hours.

Mom's Olay

2009-12-28T08:42:00.000-08:00

As I got ready for a client this morning I noticed my face was a little dry. I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a plastic bottle of Oil of Olay and dabbed some on my chin, my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. And then I slipped back in time a little.

After my mom died I took over most of her belongings. It was too painful for her brother and my grandparents to take anything, so they pawned it all off on me, citing that I would be honored to have these little reminders of her everyday. I was sixteen and hadn't yet figured out how to say no to anyone, so I took most of it.

The clothes that didn't fit me I convinced my grandmother to donate to a women's shelter in Los Angeles. I held on to pretty much everything else. Including her make-up and toiletries.

My mom loved Giorgio. But at some point she stopped buying it because the same scent seemed to come out of a little yellow striped can that stated, "If you like Giorgio, you'll love...". Since the can wasn't the real thing (and the smell of it kind of made me sick), I had no problem tossing it into the trash.

She had a plastic bottle of Jafra body lotion, which I used up within the first few months. I didn't relate the smell to just my mom since I've always used my mom's lotion. It was hardly like using my mom's lotion at all.

And then she had a glass bottle of Oil of Olay. Pink glass. Black label. I can hear the sound of the black plastic cap being screwed off the glass top. I can smell the Original scent of creme. I can feel the moisture being locked into my skin after my morning shower.

I don't remember when I actually finished that bottle, because I kept it for quite some time after I emptied it into my pores. It might have been a few months, it might have been a few years. I'm sure I used it long after the expiration date had passed, though, because I remember at one point seeing 04/92 stamped on the bottle. Seeing the date now reminds me of just how long ago that really was.

For a long time I remembered how much I missed my mom, and a moment like this morning where I was taken back to the scent of my mother's Oil of Olay might have sent me into a long list of why it's so horrible that my mom was taken away from me so long ago. But when that moment this morning happened, I simply smiled. I remembered my mom. And I thanked her for my youthful skin. I doubt I would have started using the Olay at age 16 had it not been for her.

Keep On Keepin On

2009-12-27T17:56:00.000-08:00

I've been doing a bit of reflecting of late, and realize just how much growth there's been for me this past year. Not just for me, but for the book. This year the book went from concept to paper to being read to being edited. It's not that there's nothing left to do; there's plenty left to do. But the growth I've had this year gives me a sense of urgency for getting the book finished and published and out there into the world.

I keep having this dream (even when they suck, I hate to call them nightmares) that I get the book published and no one buys it. Or that two people buy it and they both tell me it's crap. Or that five people buy it and they form a group to come TP my house because they expected more out of me. I hide inside while I see rolls of toilet paper flying hither and thither, and people from the neighborhood join in on the egg throwing and the toilet paper tossing while my dog looks at me in contempt and refuses to protect me. Dreams are stupid. At least the ones I refuse to call nightmares are.

I know this is just fear of working for years on a project that doesn't relate to anyone. And I know this fear is unfounded. Everyone I've handed the book to has been touched. The greatest compliment I got from handing the book out to my cast of feedbackers was that most of them cried. It's not that I was trying to make anyone cry; I just told my story. And while my story is written around the cancer that took my father from me, the basis was the relationship between my father and I. I guess the story's not for everyone, but I've realized that I'm not really writing it for anyone else; I'm writing it for me.

Without this book and the last three years of writing it, I might not have ever learned a thing from my father's death but that he's not coming back. By reflecting, by writing, I've been able to connect with me. Who I was then, who I am now, and who I'm on my way to becoming. I've learned more about myself in this past year or four than I have in the my thirty years prior. I've been able to connect with myself in a way I never knew existed, let alone thought was possible. I guess that connection is what people relate to, not the details of my story.

We're all human. We all feel. We all have relationships, whether they work for us or not. Those relationships all need tending to. And at some point all of those relationships will cease to exist, whether we like to admit it or not. By change, by circumstance, by accident, by death. I want to create as much learning, as much healing as I can in the relationships that haven't yet ceased to exist.

I guess I'm still trying to figure it all out.

In the meantime, I'll just keep writing.

What about you?

In Progress (Aren't We All?)

2009-12-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

Draft 7 is on the way. In progress (aren't we all?). Streaming wildly, slowly, softly, thoroughly. Writing in stream of consciousness style of late, and it seems to be working. The connection to my father grows and grows as the days without him pass me by. It seems to me that the connection I create (retain?) by writing about him and me and our relationship and what it was like to lose him and live with him and take care of him and feel guilty for not taking better care of him, for not making him well and making him beat the cancer. By writing about all of this, my love soars and my heart grows for him. I have new and old appreciations coming to light for all of my relationships. I feel less at ease with questions in passing and long for deep conversations about who you are and what's important to you. I feel motivated to share this connection with my father, to share this connection with you, with him, with her, with everyone, everywhere. Because aren't we all connected? Don't we all share something (what is it, what is it??) with each other? We share this emotion, this passion, this grace, this gratitude, this life, this focus, this awareness, this conscious effort to [be who I am], this grief, this loss, this air, this memory—albeit for different things, but we share it nonetheless.

And so I remain in progress, as ever I will be while I'm alive (don't you, too?). At some point the book will be finished and cease to be in progress, but me, I prefer to always be on to the next bit of growth.

As for the book...I'll be testing excerpts (although is it still an excerpt if it doesn't actually end up in the book?) to see how it feels to get some of this out into the world.

I must remember to breathe.

Inspired

2009-12-08T09:13:00.000-08:00

always too long since the last post. the thing about blah blah blah is blah blah blah. it's all the same thing. i've got to get back to being connected to writing. i've got to get reconnected. and i've got to realize that the connection is never lost. this is not like a magnetic field that gets interrupted, this connection i have to my source is all powerful, all abundant, and so is my ability for keeping things invisible. like my good state of mind. it's always good but sometimes i think it's not because i hide it from myself. where does it go, my good state of mind? it goes in the closet, out the door, left behind with the shoes i wore last week on a run, or maybe in the grass where jackson peed while we were on our run. he looks so free when he takes off running without me. i let the leash down and tell him, go 'head good boy, and he runs and runs and runs as if he'll never come back and then he reaches that point, that same point every time, only sometimes it's 5 yards, sometimes it's 50 yards away, where he stops and turns around, looks over his shoulder to make sure i'm still running behind him, still trying to catch up with him, and then takes off for another sprint way. and all the while i see myself in him, longing to have that run to be free and let myself loose with each moment of each day. only i feel like i can't be that free, i can't be that loose because there are bills to pay and mouths to feed, bills to feed and mouths to pay. oh jewel, where are the days when you wrote a good song again? but songs won't reconnect me to writing. or maybe they will. maybe that's what i'm missing is to turn on some music and get myself inspired, like the blog told me to. i read a blog this morning that told me to read newspapers and magazines and blogs to get inspired, and to listen to music and the radio to get inspired. hogwash. inspiration comes from beauty and i don't feel beautiful right now. i feel horrid. and cold. and disengaged. and there is no inspiration from where i'm sitting, but i can't seem to choose to get up. the cold keeps me here, staring out a window that surely holds beauty on the other side of it, but I can't for the life of me figure out where. and so i sit here, waiting for inspiration to find me, inspire me, take hold of me and toss me around like a rag doll until i am shaken and stirred, like a dirty neat martini on a friday night.

Just Another Tuesday Morning

2009-09-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

This morning wasn't too different from most Tuesday mornings. Wake up, kiss Erin good-bye for work, blog, shower, get ready for the day. What was different this morning was having to take Jackson into the vet and leaving him there for a couple hours.

We think he got bit by a spider. At least, that's what the vet told us probably happened when we took him in a couple weeks ago. They gave us some antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory for him, and told us to bring him back in for a follow up in a week. We washed his penny-sized "thing" on the side of his belly for a week, then put the antibiotic cream on it twice a day, and gave him his anti-inflammatory pills with a treat every night. The "thing" didn't get bigger, but it certainly didn't get smaller. So we took him back on Sunday.

They said Jax is too young for it to be a mast cell tumor, but in any event, it's probably better to just have it removed. Which is what's happening as I type.

The car ride to the vet wasn't much different than any other. With the back windows rolled down, Jackson stuck his head out the driver's side window and let his ears and jowls flap in the wind. When we pulled up to the curb, he was anxious to get out, hoping I was taking him exploring. I was not.

Once inside the vet, he behaved like normal. Sat when I asked him to, growled at a child (he doesn't understand what children are or why they're so fidgety or loud), and then laid at my feet to protect me from the little boy with the kitten in his hands. And then he started to shake.

I don't know why he started to shake, I can only assume that dogs are more in tune with their intuition than humans. Just as I started to comfort him, one of the nurses asked me to confirm some information and sign some papers before they let him in the back to get prepped for surgery. As I signed the documents, I noticed myself getting choked up. Am I crying?

Tears did not flow, but I'm glad the nurse didn't ask me to speak anything more than "yes," "no," and "okay." I knew he was just going in to have a "thing" removed, and that he'd be fine, but he's my baby, my boy, my Bubs. I can't even begin to imagine how I'll react when I have an actual child and he or she gets hurt. For now, I'll settle for being emotional about my dog going in for surgery.

Another nurse came from the back and said it was time to take Jackson back. I almost just handed his leash off and walked away, but just before I did, I knelt on one knee in front of him and asked for kisses. Bubs obliged. I felt myself getting emotional all over again. I handed the leash over and watched him walk to the prep room and out of sight. A lump settled in my throat until I realized I'd been standing there for at least a minute after Bubs was out of sight.

I asked a nurse at the reception desk how long she thought it would be, and she said at least a couple of hours. She said the doctor would call me when she was finished with the surgery to let me know how it went and when I can pick him up. I walked out of the vet's office and began to cry.

It's not like we're having him put down. I know he's going to be fine, and it's just a minor surgery to have a little "thing" removed. And still, I worry. He's my baby, my boy, my Bubs. I want to fast forward to after the phone call, after picking him up, after he's recovered and he doesn't have to wear the cone around his neck to protect the wound from licking. But that's not how life goes. So I'll just wait for the call, pick him up, and try not to laugh at the silly cone that will need to go around his neck. This isn't just another Tuesday morning, at all.

Digging Deeper and Oprah's Couch

2009-08-31T11:42:00.000-07:00

Today I get back to work on the book. There are parts that I need to dig deeper into, so I'm starting that process today. I'm simply writing short stories about my mom and I, my dad and I, and Reese and I. I thought I was done digging deep, but I'm learning that life is all about digging; deeper is where the goods are.

So with today comes a breath of fresh air, fresh life into the book. I don't know that everything I'll be working on in the next couple of weeks will even make it into the book, but I must start this process.

I had a dream I was on Oprah's yellow couch, listening to her talk about my book. Maybe that's because I (poorly, as you can see, but it gets the job done!) photoshopped myself onto her couch last week with my book in her hands. I believe in the law of attraction, and am certain that posting it on my vision board will help me get there. Of course, I know that just posting it won't get me there...and that's where the digging comes back into play.

So, off to dig I go...I wonder what I will find for you....

Thursday Exploration

2009-08-28T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a day of exploration. My friend, Lisa Mae, and I got on a train in Long Beach and headed north at 9AM this morning. Here's a recap of our experiences:

A man with extraordinarily long legs sat next to me, and was gracious enough to apologize when his knees bumped me along the ride. My favorite part of his interaction with me was his direct eye contact. Eye contact can be so uncomfortable with strangers, yet with this man, I saw his kindness and warmth, without an ounce of "I bet you'll look away before me!" What a great start to the morning!

A woman on the train just a few minutes later began a conversation with Lisa Mae over her hair. Lisa Mae apparently resembles the woman's daughter, and so she felt it necessary to give Lisa Mae tips on how to dye and take care of her hair. After the short conversation, the woman moved back a couple rows to sit with her friend, and continued to stare in silence at Lisa Mae until she stepped off the train. I guess we all need a little conversation.

We walked up one street and down another and across another and back up the same street to find a breakfast spot near the Staples Center. Thinking we were headed for IHOP (which we weren't terribly excited about, but it seemed to be the only place promising to be open in the area before noon), we happened upon The Original Pantry Cafe and proceeded to eat breakfast inside the Historical Landmark. Do you know they've never been closed since they opened their doors in 1924? They don't even have locks on the doors!

There are no bars on Sunset between Vine and Highland (aside from the one inside the Arclight, which we bypassed, thinking another would be just up the street--not a good idea, walking in 100-degree weather). Lisa Mae said out loud to me, for no apparent reason, "I'd love to see Michael Jackson's star!" Just a few minutes after her wish, on our way up to Hollywood Blvd from Sunset (simply because that was the route we accidentally took), we glanced down to find this:

My, the Universe is speedy.

We had a drink in Hooters and all I can say about that is: it must be hot running around in those pantyhose all day.

We skipped half-way down a street block to a vintage clothing store. While skipping, I turned to Lisa Mae and said, "I don't think it's possible to skip without smiling!!"

While walking around City Walk at Universal, this sign caught Lisa Mae's eye:

So then we did this:

If you know me at all, you know that I despise the heights. Especially the variety where people jump out of planes that aren't even on fire. It seemed like a happy medium, where the wind came out of the ground, I never got more than 6 feet off the ground (which I think is a pretty good way to stay away from 6 feet under it), and I didn't have to jump out of a plane. Afterward, we celebrated with a beer.

This man joined us on the last leg of our trip back to Long Beach:

He brought his own chair and sat at the head of the train. It was like he planned to have an audience. In my bliss of the day, and enjoying my previous experience of direct eye contact on the train, I looked the man in the eye and smiled. This was apparently his cue for action. He took off his headphones and began to preach verses from the Bible. I sat next to Lisa Mae and watch this man perform his sermon of sorts, delighted with his passion for the Lord. And then it turned... well, I'll let you be the judge. He said (and I quote), "God don't like it when one woman lick on another woman. No he don't." He went on to say something about balls on a billy goat and a giant knocking at the door, at which point I stopped listening. But with all the ruckus of his ranting, I couldn't help but look up at him every now and then and smile. One of the times I looked up at him, he looked me right in the eye and said he'd kill me if I raped his wife. I had and ahve no intention, so I felt safe. A few minutes later a LA County Sheriff's officer stepped forwards and we all though he'd escort the screaming man off the train. He did not. He pulled out his ticket book just before the train stopped, stepped off the train and proceeded to walk to patrons on the deck to see if they had a ticket for the train. Apparently it's more important to the Sheriff's office that you pay for a ticket for the train than maintain orderly conduct once you're on it. Which isn't to say that I wanted the screaming man to get arrested, or even a ticket, I just would have liked a quieter ride home. But I guess if I had that, I wouldn't have this story to tell you.

And that was our day. How was yours?

For another spin on this day from me, go here.

Moose for Sale (Not Really, But My Book Will Be Soon)

2009-08-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

I have a raging headache that's gotten worse since last night. I've eaten breakfast and taken something for it. And the gardeners with the leaf blowers outside are not helping.

I went ahead and painted something in the last couple of weeks. A moose. A friend of mine like moose (not meese, Erin), and I thought I'd paint her one. I warned her that the end result may look nothing like an actual moose, but I was surprised to see that it does. A little. The antlers give it away, otherwise one might think it's just J-Lo in a deer suit. But here it is:

In other news, I've gotten a little bit of feedback on the book (I sent it out to 9 people, and I've heard snippits from 6 of them), and so far, so good. It's been pretty much what I've expected, that the story is solid, and there are some adjustments that need to be made. This makes sense, as I've never written a book before. One of the things I didn't expect was this:

"I intuitively knew this was going to be an important book and now it has been confirmed."

Wow. As I've been writing the book, I guess I've known the importance all along (it's kind of what's driven me to this point), I just couldn't know the impact until I let it go off to Kindergarten to see what it might do in the world.

I'm learning as I go and not letting "not knowing how to do it" keep me from doing it. I'm excited to get everyone's notes back and get to work on the final product. Once I finish revising based on the feedback I get, I'll be ready to look into the means to get it published. I have a couple of options to look at, so I'll just have to be patient and see what pans out.

If you want to be on a mailing list to be notified when the book is available for purchase, please email me at dian[at]dianreidwrites[dot]com.

Holding Period

2009-08-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

I hardly know what to do with myself now that this phase of the book is done. I printed 10 copies total and have sent nine out for reading and feedback. I hope it's not too much feedback. I hope it's not too little. Maybe I'll be like Goldie Locks.

I can't seem to remember all the little projects I used to distract me from writing the book (for a while there I seemed to be pretty good at finding things to do that were not writing my book). You'd think a writer would have made a list...

Maybe I'll paint a little. Maybe I'll start another writing project. Maybe I'll golf. Maybe I'll coach. Maybe I'll take a bath in the middle of the day just because I can. Maybe I'll cook up some poetry, or an essay, just for fun. Maybe I'll celebrate. Whatever I do, it won't have anything to do with opening up a word document from the folder, "7 Days". At least not until September 1st. Seems like the right thing to do, to wait for the feedback before I start making changes.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat (Or: Holy Crap)

2009-08-11T10:23:00.000-07:00

I just finished the book. My emotions are all over the place. I cried this morning because Erin walked past me as she got ready for work. Which is what she does every morning, but this morning I wanted her to stop. To stop and look at me. Notice that tears were welling in my eyes. Notice that my emotions were too raw for her to get ready for work. I walked around the house. I fed the cats. I sat on the bed. And when she walked in to get dressed, I could barely get the words out, "I'm feeling a little emotional today." I cried in her arms and didn't know exactly why I was crying. Guess I didn't need to know.

This morning I printed a copy of the book and handed it to a friend to give me some feedback. I'm headed to Kinkos as soon as I'm finished with this blog and printing off six more copies. One for Texas, One for Orange County, two for Long Beach, one for Studio City, and one for Venice Beach. Some are giving me technical feedback of, "take this out, put that there, add more here," and some are giving me real life feedback of, "this really spoke to me, wish there was more on that."

My emotions seem to be bred from fear. Fear that it's all crap. Fear that I just spent three years putting my soul on paper and it's not going to amount to anything. Fear that I'll get ripped to shreds in the feedback that I've gone and asked for. I realize the fears are unfounded, even irrational. The important thing is that I'm processing through it. Feeling the fear, addressing the fear, and moving forward anyway. It's the only way to let the fear go. It will come up again, I'm sure of it. No life is sans fear. And when it does, lather, rinse, repeat.

Painting 99 (101 is too advanced for me)

2009-08-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

A few things I've learned as I paint for the first time since kindergarten:

Big brushes cover more space than, say, small brushes.
When you mix colors and run out of that mix, it's hard to recreate it; best to make a lot.
There are no lines to paint inside or outside of; I get to create my own lines.
When a color is gone, that color is gone until you buy more paint.
Size your painting to the canvas; it does not shrink to fit.
I can create beauty, even in a mess of paint.
Bristles fall right out of cheap brushes.
Light colors do not hide a charcoal sketch.
Jackson will bark every time I need a steady hand.
What ends up on the canvas looks nothing like what was in my head.
It's okay to suck at painting, at least I'm willing to learn.
Wear comfy shoes if you stand on a hardwood floor; sore piggies are no good for creativity.
No matter how much he tries, don't let the cat help you.

Here's the first of my paintings, which is related to my coaching practice:

I used a brush that was really small because I forgot that I bought a larger set of brushes. But the extra time painting the background gave me a chance to lose myself in the brush strokes. I forgot to paint around the light at the top of the lighthouse, and was crushed at the thought of ruining my first painting. Until I realized that I could just paint over the red with white, and that the effect of the brush fade worked perfectly to show the fading light at the end of its reach. I didn't realize I'd have so much space left once I finished the logo, so I improvised by adding my company name and tag line. Divine intervention, I guess.

What I love about this painting is that I did everything wrong and it came out perfect. Critically, I'm sure it's a mess, but I learned so much about painting, and about patience, and not being attached to an outcome. I'm working on my second piece, and I have been able to exercise what I've learned so far, as well as pick up a few new tricks.

The creative space of painting is so much different than the creative space of writing. As I'm coming to the end of 7 Days I'm finding that I need more and more space from it. Finishing the book is an intense process, and if I don't step away for a minute or 90, I can't see the forest for the trees. I've been allowing my brain to shift and think on different levels, so when I come back to writing I have a fresh perspective. It's working brilliantly.

As for the book, I see the light at the end of the tunnel. And it no longer looks like a train.

Mini-Update

2009-08-01T20:43:00.001-07:00

Just a quick update. I'm in Houston, copy editing the book. I would have liked to have had this part finished by 7/31, but I'm super stoked that I'm finally at this stage after 3 1/2 years. I spent the first two years trying to wrap my head around the idea of actually writing a book while telling everyone that I was writing it. It's not that I wasn't writing it, it's that what I was writing wasn't the finished product. And I didn't understand that one does not write a book in a single rough draft. This version is the 6th draft, and I'm sure it's not the last draft. I've been told by several people that handing a copy to an editor is like handing your heart over and asking him/her to rip it apart with tweezers. I think I've done all I can to prepare myself for that part of the process, but I'm sure the actual editing process will be...something to remember.

I really don't know what the process is after I'm happy with a copy to hand to an editor or publisher. First I'll need to find an editor or publisher to hand it to. And then... Oprah, here I come.

30 Minutes

2009-07-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of so many things I can hardly keep myself sane. I'm updating my Twitter and Facebook accounts, and redesigning my coaching website. I'm creating a brand for myself and my coaching company, Authentic Realities Coaching (actually, I'm having someone else create it and I'm just approving it). I'm working on a coaching workshop on coming out for the LGBTQ community (and friends and families of). I'm building my coaching practice (2 clients and counting). And I'm working on the book with a deadline of July 31st to finish draft #6 and have it ready to be edited.

I've barely been able to find the time to relax, which has taken its toll on me in the form of sleepless nights. I've been waking up at 1AM, 3AM and around 5:30AM just about every morning. This week my coach is working with me on self care. Self. Care. How do I care for myself when I'm spending so much time caring for...not even for people, but all these things? And it's not like these things aren't things I want, but they're taking so much time out of my day, I don't have time to just sit and relax and be...or do I?

I've planned on taking 30 minutes every day that's just for me. Which is something I've had posted in my calendar for some time. It shows up as "Dian Time" and when the reminder pops up, I've been promptly dismissing it and getting back to whatever I'm doing. So it's time to start honoring that schedule. And how do I do that?

For me, it's about making clear exactly what I plan to do in my 30 minutes of Dian Time. So on Monday it was "plant cactus," which meant that I spent 30 minutes planting cacti I bought over the weekend to replace several plants that Jackson decided were planted for him as midday snacks. It took me about 15 minutes, so I then allowed myself to sit in the sun in the back yard and just relax. What a notion.

Yesterday my Dian time was "meditation." Now I didn't meditate for 30 minutes, but I did meditate for 10 minutes. And then went outside and soaked up the sun again. And enjoyed my newly planted cacti (after putting up a fancy wire blockade around the edges so a certain puppy wouldn't have easy access).

And today my plan is to walk on the beach. I have a meeting in Manhattan Beach at noon and immediately thereafter, I will be putting my toes in the sand and breathing in the ocean air and letting the energy of the earth rise through my body from the warm sand and rejuvenate my soul.

I figure with all this life going on around me, the least I can do is to take a few minutes each day to really enjoy it and not get so caught up in living the good life that I miss it as it passes me by.

Having Fun

2009-07-06T13:50:00.000-07:00

I tend to be pretty serious with the posts up in this joint, so I'm taking a detour this post. I went to Palm Springs for my birthday weekend a couple of weeks ago and here is a little of what happened:

And not necessarily in that order.

In other news, I've spent the last week without my computer, as previously reported, and it's created such a beautiful space for learning more and more about myself. It was nice to not be tied to my computer, opening up Word and typing and typing and typing and getting distracted by email and FaceBook and Blogger and IM and checking my account balance and then chastising myself for getting distracted.

I just wrote 3 paragraphs that were (while interesting, I'm sure) not fun at all. I really need practice at this fun thing. So here's what I propose:

Do five fun things this week. Try at least two from this list and then make up a couple of your own:

Laugh out loud in the middle of a crowded room
Dance in your living room with your dog or cat or an imaginary friend if you have no animals
Sit on your couch with your feet in the air
Stick your toes in the water on a sandy beach
Have your favorite dinner for breakfast
Roll down a grassy hill (unless you're allergic to grass like me!)
Send someone a silly card in the mail
Play with your food
Hula hoop in the park
Run like Phoebe around the block

My plan is to get to all of these in the next 7 days... and you??

Basic Strategy

2009-07-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

My Mac was in the hospital this past week and she's finally home, having made a full recovery from a couple of replacement surgeries. They might seem minor, but even minor replacements and repairs, when it comes to electronics, are always a major event. Especially the part where I had to be without my laptop for a full seven days.

When the man behind the Genius Bar asked if I had everything backed up, I quickly replied, "Yes." And then I remembered that the last time I really backed anything up was a few months ago. Prior to a lot of the progress I've made on the book in the past 6 weeks. So I took a few minutes and backed up my book on iDisk (a truly Genius bonus of being a [formerly known as] mac.com member), and signed my paperwork and went on my merry way.

And of course when I got home I realized that writing my book isn't the only thing I use my computer for. And it was too late. So for the entire week I went without my computer, no internet at my finger tips (having it at my thumb-tips is just not the same), and virtually no connection to the outside world.

We subscribe to mlb.tv, which allows us to view all MLB games (that aren't based in the LA area), and then hook my computer up to the TV and voila, it's like we have cable. Only without my laptop, there were no MLB games to watch. Boo. And then there are the little things like these blogs that are ~~impossible~~ difficult to post from a Blackberry.

But all that is in the past and the present is here and so here we go, forward into the present. Which means: get back to work and wait for the next post. I can just about guarantee it will be more interesting than this one.

Cheers.

Furrowed, Playful Brow

2009-06-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend I finished my Coach Training with CTI and I'm exhausted! I'm still letting the learning sink in, so not much about that right now.

I feel a sense of relief lingering in my entire body now that the training is complete and I can go back to having all the weekends in a month to play with.

I have this overwhelming urge to talk about what I learned and the fantasticity (I'm a writer, I can make up words if I want to) of it all, and I'm trying to stay in a playful place because I've missed it so.

["What is playing, again?" she asks intensely with furrowed brow.]

And as I sit here and try to think about something playful to write...I'm not playing. So with that, I'm going to go run around outside with Jackson for a while and just be silly. And I think you should too. Jackson would love it!

Learning Me

2009-06-06T08:38:00.000-07:00

This morning I'm enjoying a bit of quiet time, while Erin and Jackson are sprawled on the bed sleeping the morning away, Killer is curled up on the futon enjoying her alone time, and Sly is curled up next to me on the couch (finally finished cleaning himself).

I once thought that I was over my mom's death. Until I realized that whenever someone close to me would bring up their mom I would victimize myself in that I didn't have a mom and how hard it was for me on Mother's Day or her birthday or a random Tuesday because you can call your mom just because you feel like it and I can't. I realized that I had processed my mom's death, but I never processed the anger I felt around it. And so I carried that anger along with me where ever I went. I carried my anger with me to lunches and meetings and relationships and road trips and intimate dinners for two and large parties and into the shower and the bath and on walks and hikes and bike rides and to the grocery store. The anger didn't show up in everything I did nor everyone I talked to, so I thought it was manageable. Until I went through some coaching last month.

Not only did I acknowledge the fact that I was angry with my mom for leaving, for being a bad mother, for teaching me the wrong way to love so had to figure it out on my own, but I also gave myself permission to feel that anger. To really let it out and sob and scream and be ANGRY! I found that expressing this anger didn't take away my love for her, but it let me move past myself so that I could see and be at peace with the wonderful mother I had. While she was terrible at some things, she always did her best to be the best mother she knew how to be. I am who I am largely because of my relationship with my mother, in all its flawed brilliance. And because I felt the anger, because I let it pass through me, because I was willing to feel it and let it go, leave it in the past, I can now move forward a lighter person, without the weight of this bag of anger I carried around for so many years.

Equality

2009-05-28T10:26:00.000-07:00

I can hardly begin to express my frustration, but let me take a crack at it. The California Supreme effing Court just doesn't get it. How is it possible that the Supreme Court of California has decided that the ban on same sex marriage is constitutional? This isn't about people voted on it and I should just deal with it. This is about people voting on rights, which should be disallowed in the first place.

Murderers are allowed to get married. Murderers. People who take the lives of others. People who willingly and knowingly strip people of their right to live and breath...those people can get married, but me, no I can't. And I'm tired of hearing bullshit arguments of, "Well you can get married, you just have to marry someone of the opposite sex." Well isn't that fancy?

You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometimes

You might find

You get what you need.

~Rolling Stones, of course.

Maybe this loss is just what we need to propel ourselves forward into growth. Maybe this loss is a sign of rampant stagnant behavior in believing that someone else is and will be responsible for making sure my rights are handled neatly and tidily so I don't have to get my proverbial hands dirty.

---

So that was on Tuesday as the decision was announced. I tend to not act out of anger. It's just how I was raised. It's not about not doing something I'll regret, but taking the best step forward. If I'm angry and haven't processed that part then I tend to not know what the hell I'm talking about and I just spout out silly arguments that sound better in my head than spoken.

A friend of mine said that the decision was exactly what she expected, but I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed because I really thought that the Court would see that Constitutional rights were being trampled on. I'm still in the midst of processing exactly what the decision means, as far as what action needs to be taken so that I (we) may realize equality in rights around marriage.

There are arguments that state calling it marriage is the whole issue and as long as we (the gays) don't call it marriage, then we can have all the rights we want. There are arguments that state that not calling it marriage keeps a same sex [married] relationship different and somehow less meaningful than a heterosexual marriage by simply changing the word. This argument states that there is a specific connotation that comes with marriage, that connotation being that it's a permanent relationship and unless it's called "marriage" it's just not the same in the public's eye. There are the arguments that marriage ought to be between a man and a woman because that's the way that God intended it. And of course there are countless other arguments around this issue that I could spend all day recounting.

At the moment, I have no problem with calling marriage between same sex couples something other than "marriage" as long as the rights of each institution are equal. My inclination is to believe that no matter what "it" is legally named, it will end up just like Kleenex. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. So really, call it whatever you want to because to me, it doesn't matter what you think of my relationship--I'm not in it to please you. I'm in it to fulfill myself and my partner in sharing love, growing individually and as a couple, and everything that comes along with those paths.

My relationship with another woman has only the effect on another couple's relationship that they choose to allow it to have. One can choose to see my relationship as one of love and trust and support and partnership and growth and fun and struggle and learning; just like many heterosexual relationships. And of course there are other ways to view my relationship, but to do so is to ignore the truth of what the relationship is: love and growth.

I challenge anyone who believes that God disapproves of my same sex relationship to look at your own life and address the things that God disapproves in your life and relationship before you go judging mine. I have my own relationship with God, and it doesn't include the judgement anyone else brings.

And as for Prop 8 being upheld, my first thoughts included: "This state sucks!" and, "Maybe it's time to get out of this place," and, "How can this progressive state be so shockingly stand-still?" I'm allowed my initial thoughts to flee. I'm glad I don't act on impulse. Because the reality is that California is a great state. I love living here, and this issue is not enough to get me out of here. And learning takes time.

I'm willing to be a part of an action that brings California back to a state of grace, back to a place where people can come as they are and simply just be themselves. I am willing to fight for the things I believe in. I am willing to be a part of something greater than myself so that people after me can benefit from things I never had or things I had to struggle for. I hope that someday the GLBT community has the opportunity to take our equal rights for granted, and that we never do.

Process

2009-05-21T09:34:00.000-07:00

I sat in my chair thinking about how wrong it all was. How wrong that this man was yelling at this woman. How wrong that this woman was not able to ask a simple question to get further clarity. How wrong that this man was unleashing his frustration on this woman. How wrong that now it was two women and they were both crying. How wrong that these two women had been victimized by this man’s anger.

I wanted to walk across the room and hold those women. Hold them and tell them that everything was going to be okay. That this man was just a big bully and that his manners were terrible. That this man had lost himself and was too arrogant to see that you were just asking questions. I wanted to tell that man to get a hold of himself and have some compassion. I wanted to walk across the room and protect those women. Protect them from that man and his anger.

And all at once I wondered what it was in me that made me think that these women needed to be protected. I began to think about my own emotions and was completely uncomfortable in my chair watching this confrontation unfold. Confrontation is uncomfortable for me and I can’t be with it. I can’t just sit there and watch it unfold. I need to take action; I need to do something. And instead of doing anything, I continued to question myself and my motives as to what emotions were being stirred in me by just watching it all happen.

I felt uncomfortable, yes, but that was just on the surface. There was something more than discomfort there, something deeper. Underneath the discomfort I started to feel sadness. Sadness, not for the women being confronted, but for myself. Where did that come from? I could see my child-self in these women, and as a child I was incapable of protecting myself, I was incapable of standing up and speaking my mind--doing so would create a physically and verbally unsafe environment for me. As a child, I was unimportant and need not share my opinions because they didn’t matter, and wouldn’t be heard regardless. As I sat there and thought about these childhood feelings that were very much visiting me in the here and now, it occurred to me that somewhere along the line I became an adult.

And as an adult I have grown to learn that I can and do stand up for myself. I’ve learned that sometimes people get angry, even get angry with me. Sometimes the reason is valid, and sometimes it’s not. Whatever the reason, I’ve developed the skills to assess the argument, know its truth and address it accordingly. I’ve learned to own my part of that truth and discard the rest as I see fit. And then a flash of anger came.

As an adult I’ve learned these things, but as a child I hadn’t learned to protect myself. That job belonged to my parents. And they didn’t always do a good job. As I thought about that, the anger became stronger. Tears welled up in my eyes and my heart beat faster. What was this about? And almost without thinking, I began to sob, I began to yell, to spew, to actually feel the feelings instead of sitting in my discomfort and trying to shift the focus onto something or someone else.

This experience happened over a period of a couple of hours, some of it in a large group of people, and other parts in a smaller, more intimate setting . These interactions and thoughts were the result of my training in Process. Process, being actually processing what’s happening for me right here and right now. What’s going on, what’s happening in my body right here right now, rather than what am I thinking about and how can I shift the focus from myself to someone else?

From that experience I was able to let go of some of the past simply by reminding myself that it was just that: the past. And the rest of it I was able to let go of because I allowed myself to just be present with myself in the moment. I was able to own my feelings as they were coming up, and acknowledge them, hold space for them and then give them permission to be released. I don’t need to hold onto that anger because I’ve now been able to express it. In that experience I was able to feel it all and let go of it pretty quickly. I suspect other things may not be as “easy” to release. But the important thing is that I’m learning to exercise the muscle that allows me to really be present with myself rather than deflecting.

Staying in the here and now has no room for anyone but whomever your emotions belong to (that would be you). I encourage you to find something you can’t be with today, and then to own it. For me, it was confrontation. My hands got clammy, my heart raced, I physically felt uncomfortable. Find whatever puts you in that place and then be with it. Really be with it. Honor it. Have compassion for yourself and those feelings, those emotions. Stand up for yourself and those feelings and emotions. Address them and love them. Actually feel your emotions. When you do this, the discomfort you feel will no longer be for hiding; it will be for growth.

This post is also available at coachdian.com. As I continue to build that site, I am working towards putting all coaching related posts there. I welcome your feedback!

Coming Back

2009-05-19T16:53:00.001-07:00

I've been MIA, it's true. And all with good reason. Not that I need to get into any of that here, suffice to say that 7 Days is coming along better than ever, and I've been able to take some successful strides in my Coaching career.

I have a couple of posts I'm working on around Balance and Process. Balance being how effectively we are able to balance ourselves on one leg while life is coming at us full force, and Process being what's going on right here and right now. These two pieces of my learning in Coaching have transformed my personal state and being. And that's what the posts will be about.

In a matter of just a few months I've read more books than I have in the past few years, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the growth I've encountered as a result. And maybe I'll have a post about that this week.

All this to say that sometimes life comes at you. And what can you do but roll with it. I'm not sorry I haven't posted, but not posting reminds me how much I miss it. So, thank you for that.

Time Flies

2009-05-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

Today I'm writing about the last day. The last day. Some days it's so easy that I feel guilty for remembering it all so clearly. And then there are days like today where I struggle to remember what exactly happened at all. I remember there was a day we had In N Out Burger in the room. What day what that? I remember there was a night my uncle fell off a chair. What night was that? I remember that there were a few days where my father still had his eyes open. I don't remember the last time I looked into his open, aware, alive eyes. And I feel guilty for not remembering.

This book and writing it are my life. There are ups and downs, some days are easier than others, and some pages flow and flow and flow like it's not even me writing them at all and some pages feel as though they're being ripped from me--even my finger tips feel bloody as my heart is transfered from my body through the keys and into, up onto the screen. And still there are times where I feel everything flowing through me just as it should be, like it's all a part of me--my body and soul (even my father's soul) are connected and creating and owning this piece of my life that is so important, that shaped me, that molded me from the woman I was before into the woman I became after. And all of this helps me recognize that it will all happen again because this is the way of the world, and I accept that.

I am not the woman I was when my father died. And in reliving those days just before his death, I see clearly just how strong I was, just how weak I was, just how normal and crazy I was. There was so much growth to be had in those last few days that I couldn't possibly have absorbed it all in just those days. It's in looking back with an honest eye that I can both see and acknowledge where I really was and thus track my growth over the past three years. My God, has it been three years? Three years, four months, three days. Yes it has.

Time flies, even when it's not all fun.

Not What It Always Seems

2009-05-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as an organized woman. Somehow this gives me the warm fuzzy that my mom would be proud. Which is really to say that my mom's psychosis of needing me to do what she said so she could feel loved and respected worked. I'm learning to let go of that, which makes me happy. I do so love things being clean and neat and tidy, but there are some things that just need the space to look and feel and be lived in. One of those spaces is the dresser in our bedroom.

There's the candles on the edge that give a cozy feel to it, knowing that at any moment we can light the candle and thus give life to the bedroom by creating the fire. There's the the self sufficient succulent which needs watering only every 3-4 weeks, but still needs watering or else it will die. The framed picture of love and smiles in the snow: even when it's cold outside there's warmth in the heart and seeing that always reminds me of just that. The cases for our glasses, which is just a part of life that we've accepted: sometimes we need help to see things clearly, and there's nothing wrong with a little help. My favorite pair of sunglasses which belong put away (as well as the other pair right behind them), but there they are, out on the dresser where they don't belong and which won't give me anxiety for at least another hour. The money on the dresser that may or may not be salvageable after Jackson decided $20 bills were his chew toys of choice. The money we budgeted for and did not spend and therefore set aside to spend in Vegas as a reward. Fat Bob, who's housed said budgeted and unspent funds until he no longer could fit anymore. A necklace which doesn't belong there but will sit there until it gets moved to its rightful place, be it around a neck or in a drawer, and until then will not give me anxiety because I refuse to let it. Three tubes of Chapstick because apparently moisturized lips are very important to me. And my very first business card proclaiming my status as a writer and where one can find samples of various parts of me and my writing.

I look at my dresser and I no longer see clutter, but I see a life that is lived and a room that is lived in. These things will all find their rightful homes in good time. They will keep there until we need or want those items again, and then the cycle will repeat itself. Sometimes things get put away, and sometimes they don't. I worry less about the appearance of being neat and tidy simply for the sake of appearing neat and tidy. And I listen more to the importance of just letting life be what it is. And what it is is sometimes messy, sometimes clean and sometimes in between. But it's always lived, whether for outward appearance or inward reflection, only we can decide.

Excerpt: The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

2009-05-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from a chapter I'm working on right now in 7 Days:

A cell phone is ringing. I lift my head and see that I’m the only one in the room. It’s my phone. It’s Rick. I answer. He’s at the hospital. Doesn’t look good. 12-24 hours left. Doctors want us to say final good-byes. Final good-byes. Final. I stare at my journal. It’s still unfinished, the pen still in my hand. I set the pen in the crease between the two open pages and then close the journal. I get up and scan the room. What am I looking for? Final good-byes.

A man walks into the tiny consultation room. He greets me with his name, a consoling smile, and holds his hand out for me to shake it. I reach out my hand but I do not shake his. I tell him I’m sorry but I have to go. I tell him my father is dying and I just got a call. He pulls something from his breast pocket. He puts his business card in my hand and tells me to call him if I need anything. I think this is odd. I take his card and I walk out of the room. I put my sunglasses on. I walk outside. It’s raining. I keep my sunglasses on and my face towards the ground. I walk to my car.

Rain falls on my head but I don’t walk faster. I lift my head and see the cemetery as I use the keyless entry to unlock my car. My mother is just over there on the right. In The Mausoleum of The Resurrection. I think, “resurrection” is definitely the wrong word. It’s been years since I’ve come here to see my mother’s niche. I don’t feel her. She must not be here today. Maybe she’s with my father. Maybe she’ll greet him. The car door is open and I’ve been standing in the rain with the car door open thinking about my mother and this business of her greeting my father on the other side. How long have I been standing here? I get in the car. I close the door. I cry. I start the car. I begin to sob. I lay my head on the steering wheel and I sob. As quickly as it started, the sobbing ceases and I wipe my face. I put the car in gear and I drive to the hospital.

I call Reese on the way. I tell her my father is dying today. I tell her I’m on my way to say my final good-byes. My throat tightens; my chest feels as if it’s ready to burst, as if a thousand knives are scratching to get out, as if broken glass is running through my veins. I keep my tears silent. Now is not the time for an outburst. Now am I driving and talking and listening and waiting. There is no time for bursting now. She is sorry, but what can she say? She knows she cannot change it and she cannot make it better. She says something but I don’t hear her. I tell her I will be okay, that I’ll be fine. I tell her I will call her later. I hang up the phone. I tell her I love her.

The car has stopped in front of the hospital. I guess I’m here. I turn the car off and remove the key from the ignition. I stare at the steering wheel. Then out at the rain. The drops melt into the windshield. The wipers are mid-wipe. I take a deep breath. And another. I hear a melody in my head. Tom Petty seems to come to life: …and the wai--ting is the hardest part… I hear this on repeat like a broken record: the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part. The melody drifts away.

I take another deep breath before getting out of the car and into the rain. I have no umbrella. I stand in front of my car and look both ways for cars. What if I wait for a car and just walk in front of it? I see a car in the distance. The headlights spotlight the rain rushing almost sideways towards the ground. The car gets closer. I brace myself against the wind. The car passes me. I step out into the empty street and make my way to the inside of the hospital. There are people waiting in the lobby. There are people waiting at the information desk. I pass both of these areas and press the elevator up button. I have all the information I need. And I will do my waiting on the third floor. …the wai--ting is the hardest part…

Struggle Is Me

2009-04-30T10:45:00.001-07:00

The past couple of days I've struggled to find myself. I've struggled to find who I am in my writing, in my self, in my coaching, in my world. It just happens that way sometimes. I wake up in the morning and I don't know who I am or how I got here. I live in this beautiful home near the beach with a beautiful girl and amazing animals that give me unconditional love and food in the fridge and dishes on the shelf and money in the bank. And I wonder how I got here? I'm sure I didn't just land here. I'm sure I drove myself here. I'm sure I walked myself here, crawled myself here, cried myself here, died myself here. This is all me and I'm okay with that. I'm not here to understand the how, I guess, just the me. This isn't someone else's life happening to me, no matter how much it feels like that sometimes. This is my life and I accept that. I like that. I love that. I am grateful for that and for all that's in it. So if I'm struggling to find myself, just look in the mirror. Like me or not, I'm right there.

You Can't Go Home Again

2009-04-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

After reading three books (ranging from 80 to 200 pages each) in the span of about a week, I got challenged to read one that might take more than just a couple of days. I obliged. And just a month and three weeks later, I've finished this massive epic novel, You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe. Whew.This book came to me in a box with six other books (two of which were read as noted above), all with little neon green post-it notes attached. Some notes gave a three- or four-word summary, some a reference to why the sender thought I might enjoy it. The note attached to this particular book: "My favorite book."

For the details of the book, you can read it yourself. As for what I got out of it, I'm happy to share. The title of the book is anything but true. You most certainly can go home again. But what you find there is never going to be what you remembered. We tend to go to extremes when we think about our pasts--we glorify or vilify whatever we remember and use it all to our advantage or disadvantage, whichever works best in the moment. The looking back, in and of itself, makes it difficult to move forward. So we spend a lot of time turned around, looking at the past analyzing it and figuring out where we went wrong, all the while we stand still, looking back at something that will never be again. It's not that there's no importance in looking back and figuring out what the hell happened back there, but there's something to be said for not pulling off the road in order to do so. Especially for something that no longer exists, save inside our minds.

There are parts of this book that are written so eloquently and truthfully about life and the way we go through it (albeit written in the 1930's), and the way we use our egos to maneuver through this piece and that and ultimately sacrifice the things we want for the things we think we ought to have. It's these portions that made me contemplate my own ego in this capacity. The idea that I have a past but don't use it against my future in order to "succeed." The idea that I have a future and don't discard my past in order to bypass the trickery of achieving a future at all. The idea that what happens in my reality is not only my reality, but a portion others' as well. That my world not only affects my self and my ego, but that it has effects on all mankind, even if I should choose not to believe so. That what goes on in the world is not just something happening some place else, but that this is all our home, my home and ought to be looked on with familial care. That just because what happens "over there" doesn't affect me over here, it has a great impact on the world in which I choose to live. That my existence, while mostly lived in the solitude of my own head (and briefly spilled out onto the pages of the internet via private journal or public blog), is not just my own (in part, because of these things). There is more to me than just what I see. And just what I say. And just what I remember. Because every time I try to go back where I once was, it is always someplace different, and thus, so am I. And that became clear to me as I read this book, in all its glorious 704 paperback pages.

This feels a little cut off, but that's really all I have to offer right now. I'm trying this thing where I post what I have to post instead of saving draft after draft after draft because it's just not right quite yet and then sits there for three weeks or four months before I delete it because it's no longer relevant. And there you have it.

Just one more thing: I wonder what makes this book anyone's "favorite book"? Not because I think it can't possibly be, but because the things that become our favorites become so because they've touched us in such a way that can never be forgotten. I cannot say that this is my favorite book, but it's touched me in such a way to see that it's possible.

Small Steps

2009-04-21T16:43:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I finished my chapter on Acceptance from 7 Days and I feel great. It's crazy to me that writing about something that seemed so depressing while going through it is now so uplifting to me. I've learned so much from my father's death; so many really wonderful things in me have flourished as a result, and it's not that I'm happy about his death, it's that I've learned from it, I've grown, and I've become a better person through the process of it all.

This past weekend I was in another coaching course with CTI and we focused on perspectives. I have more to post on that in a bit, but for now, I'm astounded at how little I've gotten done with my book in the past three years because I've looked at it as one giant step I have to take: write a book. It's not that I haven't done anything on the book, I have. I've even posted excerpts of some portions I thought might end up in the book here in this blog. But I never acknowledged myself for the small steps I was taking.

Every word I've written for this book has been a step that's gotten me to where I am now with it--whether it gets cut, fought for, or printed. It all leads me to whatever will get printed. So I'm celebrating this completion of this chapter by buying myself flowers for the flower box I put up today outside my writing space. I'm proud of myself, and I don't mind saying so. This is a small step. Which actually means it's a big step. Because in the end, any step is a step forward, no matter which direction it takes me.

Writing Space

2009-04-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

I've been running around this morning trying to figure out if I like my new writing space. My experience with home writing spaces in the past has not been so great. It's been a tiny desk with a tiny chair--a tiny blue fabric and black plastic and rusted metal chair my father bought me in high school in the hopes that I'd do some homework--and it's always seemed too...childish.

My new writing space is very adult. An espresso wood desk with three drawers and brushed nickel drawer knobs, sturdy, curve lined legs, and a sleek, almost glossy desktop with room for more than a glass of water and half a keyboard. Next to the writing space is my vision board, complete with a million-dollar bill, a house on a golf course, a vacation home in Hawaii, beautiful sunsets around the world, triumphant fists raised in joy and excitement of capitalizing on the moment, sandy beach shores, green grasses of baseball stadiums, and my name on the NY Times Best Sellers List. Now it's time to live up to it all.

As much as the space I have to write in is exactly what I've created, it's a little intimidating. Now I have everything I said I needed in order finish this book, and it's time to do it. Can I write what I think I can? Will people even read it? And if they do, will they see what I mean for them to see? I guess that's not what the writing is about anyway. It's more for you to pull whatever it is that means something to you out. Isn't that what we do with books, anyway? We always have the freedom to see something other than the author's intent, and maybe only then have we really gotten something out of the book, anyway.

So as I think about it now, yes, I like my new writing space. I look out into the little backyard, and I can see the flowers on the sill (if I close my eyes because I haven't put up the planter just yet), and the desk and the cat perched on the desk, and the vision board, all in my peripheral vision because what's in front of me is the writing. And the writing is all the space I need.

Acceptance

2009-04-14T11:17:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a chapter of 7 Days over the past couple of weeks, possibly titled: Acceptance. What began as an exploration into the acceptance of my father's death, both before and after it became reality, has turned into so much more. I'm reflecting on the level of acceptance we'd each held for each other, and the thresholds we each had for such. I could accept that my father was a Christian man and lived his life as such, but I drew the line at accepting any and all words into my ears upon hearing the words "church," "faith," "God," or the likes. And if I stopped listening when he talked, was that really me accepting him for who he was?

We had a conversation just before he died about religion and the ways in which it's affected our relationship, and I came to realize that we'd never have had that conversation if not for his imminent death shadowing his every move. This conversation catapulted us into feverish acceptance, given the "knowledge" that he'd be gone soon(er, rather than later). There were questions like: "Why don't you ever ask about _______ when you know she's my girlfriend?" and "What do you believe about God, Dian??"; then statements like: "She's not my friend; she's my girlfriend--you can acknowledge that even if you don't like it."; and "I don't necessarily believe that you'll go to Hell anymore...".

All this (and more, which I'll leave for the book for now) from the knowledge of his death, looming around the corner, not knowing which corner but being able to smell it if we put our nose to the ground like a hound, in the air like a retriever. And we were not wrong, unfortunately so. I wanted to believe we were wrong about how close his death actually was, but there's a knowing that comes in the form of a gut feeling, a twisted knot deep in the belly that tightens and sickens the days away, beckoning questions unasked and statements unstated to be asked and stated and put out in the open air so they can live and breathe and not die with the man sitting in the sunken couch with cushions that ought to have been replaced years ago, just as these things ought to have been aired.

And what comes at the end, but acceptance? Of the man sitting in front of me. Of the woman standing before him. Of the death waiting around the bend. Of the cancer buried deep in the man. Of the lesbian buried deep in the woman. Of the love for each and all of these things, these people. Of the idea that one can believe what one believes and that belief is not tarnished or broken or made irrelevant by another's belief in the opposite. In the end, there was acceptance of all that we were, all that we tried to be and all that was left over. In the end there was acceptance of a father and a daughter and a death that could not tear the two apart.

Fear In The Sky

2009-03-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to honor the fear. The fear of everything. The fear of nothing. And where do I go from here? What am I moving towards? I get in a space where I'm comfortable and all I want to do is just sit here and be comfortable. How do I get out of this space? How do I get ready for the next move? How do I put one foot in front of the other and just move? Move forward. Move backward. Sidestep this. Work around that. Can't I just move forward? It all feels like a step back sometimes. It all feels like it just can't be good all the time. I don't understand being happy all the time. There has to be some despair. There has to be some texture to this life. A blissful life is glossy and clean but it slips away from me like I never had it to begin with. I feel greasy and grimy like I’ve never been clean. Somewhere in this is my brilliance, but the needle. The haystack. The bull, the ox trying to find nothing in everything and everything in nothing. I feel so whole and lifeless. And then it passes. The light shines, a spark catches. The cold, dark fire turns red hot and burning. The desire to move again is here. The desire is here. Must. Take. Action. I see the mud ahead and somehow I know exactly how to move through it. Move through it. Through it. Through. It. I don't move around it or over it. I move through it. This must be what life is about. There must be something to this life and moving through it not around it or over it. Trying to figure it out doesn't seem to work. I just need to move, keep moving, keep on moving, moving, moving on up to the deluxe apartment in the sky.

Coaching Progress

2009-03-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

Something happened this past weekend that sparked a newfound exuberance for Life Coaching. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it was, and in the meantime I've put my nose and fingers and elbows to the grindstone. A month or so ago I bought coachdian.com. And then waited until now to tell anyone about it. I feared that it wasn't complete. I feared that I didn't have my niche. I feared that it looked and felt lame. I feared that I didn't know what I was doing. I feared that someone would actually contact me for a coaching session. But isn't that the idea of starting a business? And then the weekend happened.

I felt alive and excited. I received feedback from several sources acknowledging my growth and a natural knack for listening without judgement. I allowed people to ask me to dig into my fears. I allowed myself to actually dig. I allowed myself to release the fears that don't make sense. I allowed myself to honor the fears that held value. I allowed myself to take action...forward action. And now the site is up and running. I'm even telling you about it.

This isn't to say that I'm a perfect Life Coach now and that I've got everything figured out so get ready to pay the big bucks for my services...this is simply to say that I've actually begun to offer my services. I'm still in the stages of learning, and I'm learning quickly. The only way I'm going to get better is to do it. And then to keep at it. To make mistakes and learn from them. To honor the failures and use them as stepping stones toward success. This is how I'm going to become a great Life Coach. This is how I've started to already become this great Life Coach.

I probably won't post much here regarding coaching moving forward, as I really want to have some clear boundaries between my writing and my coaching. This is more for my sake than anyone else's. I have a tendency so get so wrapped up in one value that I think I'm honoring another value when actually I'm ignoring it altogether. That being said, who knows how this will all evolve...I guess we're all works in progress.

The Summer Day

2009-03-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

This is a poem by Mary Oliver, and can be found here.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver

This poem was passed to me by a Coaching colleague, and inspired me to ask of you...what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Inquiry: Value

2009-03-23T14:41:00.000-07:00

I sat down to write a blog about values and this is what came out:

I can take all the action I want to in my life and it doesn't mean a damn thing if it doesn't mean something to me. And if I'm just doing the action without the meaning behind it, I'm going to stop doing the action pretty quickly.

I got coached this weekend on my own health and fitness. Why do I start and stop? Why do I love the gym once I get there and hate it until I get there. Why, when I get to the gym, do I find the need to exert myself like I'm still in high school and can leg press 300 lbs or run 3 miles or do any of that without stretching? The thing that brought me to getting coached on this to begin with is the fact that I have a bum hip.

I'm 33 and I have a bum hip. Last year in a softball tournament I slid into a base and got up knowing something wasn't quite right. My high school mind said, shake it off, old lady, you're fine. My adult mind said, take it easy and ease back into exercise when you get home. I listened to both of them.

I listened to the high school me remind myself that I'm old. Older, at least. Then I felt a ping of, ummm...you can't talk to me like that. I'm your self. And what started to happen was the inner dialogue, the inner argument of feeling old and not being able to do what I used to be able to do. And the subsequent rebellion against that idea. So I went home and ran like I did before I left for the tournament. I even ran further. And then...my coach cut me off.

That's a great story, Dian, but what do you really want?

Well, the bottom line is that I want to hike and exercise and be in nature.

But really, the bottom line becomes: I'm not doing what I need to do in order to be physically able to do what I want to do. The simple answer is to just get off my ass and do what I need to do. But so far that hasn't been working. Which makes it the wrong answer. The answer that's right requires taking some time to figure out why I'm not doing what I say I will do. Which is also the tricky answer.

This gets into, well, we just bought a house and there just hasn't been time, and there's so much going on, and Jackson takes up so much time during the day and I'm writing and I'm unpacking and I'm putting things away and I'm shopping for new this, that & the other thing, and I'm tired at night, and sometimes I just don't feel like it, and it's painful, actually to DO what I'm supposed to do, and that just reminds me of not being able to do what I really want to do, anyway. Which are all just excuses.

To get at the real issue, I need to look at what is so damn important about stretching, anyway? See, the thing is that stretching isn't actually what's important to me. I could give a shit about the stretching, but I don't (which is why I don't do it). So what is important to me? Being healthy. Being outside. Feeling alive. Being in nature. Really feeling the burn and knowing the workout isn't just for show. Having sweat drip off of me after going for a run, and earning that beer I'm going to have while I'm watching the game. Those are my values. Those things are "what's important" to me. Not the stretching. So what does one have to do with the other?

I can't do all those things that are important to me right now. I can't do any of them. I can't because my hip is injured and needs rehabilitation. Rehabilitation means stretching. Stretching = honoring the values that are important to me. A light bulb goes on. A bell rings. *ding* So in all this...stretching really is important to me. Stretching will get me to a place where I can realize the things that are important to me. By stretching, then I can go for long walks without pain. Eventually, short runs. And then long runs. And then sweat dripping down my face...this makes me want to stretch RIGHT NOW! Seeing the value attached to the action makes it so much easier to do the action--makes it so much easier to sidestep the excuses. It doesn't matter that all these things are going on, it matters that I take care of myself.

I could go into a whole list of how I came to that value and how mine all seem to be tied together, but I'll save that for another time. The whole point in all this is that if there's something in your life that you're not doing that you think you should be doing, just look at why you want to do it. You may find that there's value attached that makes it easier to do. Or you may find that you really don't give a crap about it, and you can release yourself from the guilt of feeling like you "should" be doing blah, blah, blah. Either way, you're getting closer to who you really are, not this fantasy of who you or anyone else thinks you "should" be.

We grow, we change, we evolve...and so do our values.

Fulfillment

2009-03-19T13:44:00.001-07:00

For the next 3 days I'll be surrounded by an abundance of positive energy. Course #2 of 5 begins tomorrow in Glendale: Fulfillment Coaching. Based on what I've read in my Co-Active Coaching book, this weekend will be about coaching people into following their values. We all have values that are important to us, but when it comes to the daily task of living and honoring those values, we tend to spend a lot of time off course. I know I do. It's a constant battle to keep fresh in my mind what the big picture is with every decision I make.

One of my values is self preservation. It's important to me that I maintain myself so that I don't get lost in anything or anyone and abandon myself, as I have in the past. I've ruined relationships over this, and several times I've come close to losing a job or two. I've been so involved in having whatever or whomever it is in front of me, that I forget that pursuing those things and/or people are not in line with a) who I am, b) what I want for myself, and/or c) where I want to be in life when it's all said and done.

Being fulfilled isn't about having things. It's about being healthy and whole. It's about honoring yourself and your values. And about taking care of yourself, even when things aren't easy. I watched A League of Their Own the other day (for the hundredth time, I'm sure), and a scene with Dottie and Jimmy stood out for me like it's never done before.

Dottie Hinson: It just got too hard.
Jimmy Dugan: It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

See, they're talking about baseball, but I think this applies to our lives and everything in them. When I think about the best things in my life, none of them have come easy. The bliss of my late 20's was a direct result of going through and dealing with my mother's death. The bliss of my current relationship is the direct result of a tumultuous end to my last relationship. The enjoyment of sitting on my front porch writing this blog is the direct result of nearly 2 months of frustration between buying the house, closing escrow, and having Verizon drill holes in the walls because the builders didn't think about putting phone or cable jacks in any of the rooms.

It took knowing my values and honoring them in order to get exactly where I am today: in a state of fulfillment. If I choose to ignore my values, I fall out of that state. If I choose to honor them, I stay here. It doesn't mean that everything is perfect, it just means that I get to make decisions on how I create my happiness, based on what I already know of myself. I take the values of time in the fresh air and being productive, put them together and I get wireless internet on my front porch. It's easy to sit inside on the couch and do nothing. But it's more fulfilling to be out here on the porch. I put the values of eating healthy and spending quality time with friends and family together, and I end up with making my own meatballs and sharing them for dinner with Jill and Erin. It's easier to order something or go out to dinner, but it's more fulfilling to make it myself and have people I love in my home.

As I look back at the last few years of my life, it's been a crap shoot as to whether or not I'm honoring my values. I get better at it though, the more I practice. I don't expect to ever be perfect at it, but I'm pretty excited that, at the very least, I recognize what my values are. And I really don't mind working on honoring them, even as they change and evolve--even as I change and evolve. I don't mind the hard...the hard is what makes it (whatever it is) great.

Moving In

2009-03-18T11:47:00.000-07:00

Here are a few pics of the move and the progress. The pictures don't articulate the amount of work we did to get from one step of progress to the next, but you can at least see some of the progress:

The day before the movers came

The day the movers came

What it looks like for now, until we get our couches in a couple weeks

As for actually being in the house, I've begun to solidify the foundation of who I am. There's a part of me that has grown into an adult, with adult responsibilities and activities. No longer do I not care where the phone guy pokes a hole in the wall to get a line into this room or that. These are my walls. No longer do I fear an automatic payment coming out of my account because what if I don't have the money?? I've learned (through trial and error, of course) that my bank account is exactly what I put in and exactly what I take out; nothing more, nothing less. No longer do I live in a world of instant gratification where I think only of myself and my wants. I find that I'm usually able to discern the difference between wants and needs, and then act accordingly. No longer do I hold the same status as both of my parents at their deaths: renter. I'd like to believe they're proud of me, but more importantly, I'm proud of myself.

It is all these things and the realization of each that brings me into this afternoon of my life. I can appreciate the morning for the new day and the beginnings that got me here. I can appreciate the evening for the circle of life and the journeys of getting there. And I can appreciate this afternoon for what it is and savor my surroundings, my energy, my soul as I move forward, always forward, in this life.

I'm just going to enjoy this all while I can. What will you do with your afternoon?

From Hot Java...

2009-03-13T14:50:00.000-07:00

real quick...

it seems like forever since i put my fingers on an actual keyboard. it feels kinda nice. mac, i miss you. buying a house is fantastic. and time consuming. and frustrating. and wonderful. we have unopened boxes in every room. that part is mind numbing. but most of our things are put away where we figure they should go, and the rest will take care of itself as projects get finished. i.e. we can't put the bathroom stuff away until we create space in the bathrooms with the vanities we'll install this weekend. that part is just frustrating. but we'll get through it. and then there are projects that are finished. when i get internet in the house i'll get some pics up, but for now i'll tap away at hot java, sans pics. the wine fridge has been installed under the cabinet, for which i boor a hole myself in the cabinet (for the electric cord, not the whole thing). jackson has an eyelet installed on the porch so he can chill with us outside--and so we don't have to worry about chasing him down the street when he sees a squirrel or a piece of dust he just can't live without. i can't even think of the other 50 things that we've gotten done around the house, but we feel pretty accomplished for being just 5 days in.

and now i'm off to have a friday afternoon glass of wine at the wine crush. join me?

The Move

2009-03-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

The movers were scheduled for an 8am-12pm window today, but they didn't show up. Mainly because I asked them not to. Yesterday around noon we got news that we wouldn't be getting the keys, and the reason we wouldn't get them was unclear. The only thing we knew was that we'd done everything on our end right, and that the seller didn't have everything in place to get our loan funded.

When I got the call from my agent, I was devastated. Crushed. I'm almost uncertain of everything she said after: "Cancel the movers, I can't give you keys today." It was a Charlie Brown moment and "...wah wah wah waah wahh waahah," was all I that came through the phone line. I tried to keep my composure, but tears streamed down my face, my throat closed up, my heart pounded, and my ears rung while I seemed to lose all feeling in my body. My growth in flexibility was tested. And I failed. At least, I failed for about an hour.

It took a little over an hour for me to come to realize that the world was not, in fact, crumbling around me. We were simply waiting for the sellers to get the rest of their ducks in a row, as it were. And now that's done. This afternoon around 1:30 we received an email stating that our loan has been funded. FUNDED! This is what we've been waiting for so we can get our keys. And now that the loan has been FUNDED, we're getting said keys at 5:30 this evening. I'm back to the tears, the closing throat, the heart pounding, the overall body numbness, the ringing ears...but for very different reasons.

I have the wine and bottle opener sitting by the door, ready to go over to the house. We'll have a little ghetto toast in plastic cups, and drop off the office chair we purchased this afternoon. We'll show off the house to a couple of friends and hug everything in the house, even if I haven't had a chance to clean it (cleaning comes tomorrow).

As for the movers, I've asked them to come on Monday. We'll try the 8-12 window again, and this time I won't call them to cancel less than 24 hours before they're set to arrive. Monday will be a good day. Hell, today is a good day. They all are, if I take the time to realize it.

Ready and Waiting

2009-03-05T09:16:00.001-08:00

This week has been a whirlwind and it's not even over yet. By the time Friday has been recorded in the history books we'll be moved into the new house. But as of now, we're mostly packed up and mostly ready to go.

The washer & dryer are set to be delivered on Saturday, which are the only major appliances that didn't come with the house. Once the movers have loaded and unloaded, been paid and tipped, we'll make one of many trips to Home Depot. This trip will be to pick up a shower door we intend to install at some point over the weekend. Of course, it's highly likely that we'll be using a shower curtain for a month while we wait for someone to show us how to install it.

Also on this trip to HD we'll get window treatments--I've never understood this term, as it implies that your windows are in some way ill and need treatment. I prefer to call them window treats, as this seems more fun for the window. Our windows are in need of the treat of privacy, as will we, once we get in there and start walking around naked. Or even just plain ol' walking around. That ought to be our last planned trip to HD, however we're fully aware that it won't be our last actual trip there.

At this point we still have only a vague idea of where our things will go in the house. We've opted for new couches, as the delicious couch and king chair set we have now are just too big for the living room. I've decided that as yummy as these couches are to lounge upon, I'd prefer to have the living room we're paying mortgage on be the focal point of the living room, rather than the ginormous olive set that would take it over in 2.8 seconds.

As for our current living arrangements, tomorrow can't come soon enough. Just about everything of worth is in boxes. Coffee. Bagels. Knives. Toaster. Pots & pans. Dishes. Bowls. Kleenex. Envelopes. Shoes. Vitamins. Hats. Visors. Towels. And what's left ends up being all the little things that just haven't deserved a box to this point. A ruler. A few pens. Remote controls. A cat toy. Receipts. A bowl of rocks. Some tools. A stack of papers. Coasters. These are the things that drive me crazy. I'd like to take all these things and throw them in one giant box just to have them out of the way. But we're out of boxes.

It's just one more day, I keep telling myself. If everything goes to plan we'll get keys tonight and celebrate with a bottle of wine and a picnic on the empty living room floor. After I clean it of course. The place has been empty since July of last year when they finished the remodel. And since then there have been numerous people and couples and kids and families walking in and out of this room and that, seeing if our house was right for them. My Monica traits come screaming out when I think about that. If it weren't for the place being locked right this very minute, I'd be over there swiffing the floors, wiping the counters, cloroxing bathrooms and dusting the sills--maybe even treating them. And in the meantime I will try to keep my cool. Maybe I'll go buy a box.

I love having gone through this experience of buying a home. It's something I think everyone should go through. The growth that happens when you're forced to follow someone else's timeline is substantial. It's caused me to be curious in ways I wouldn't know to be otherwise: What's the difference between 5.25% and 5.125%? How long will it take to bolt the building onto the foundation so we can move in? What, exactly, is escrow? This whole process stretches me to be more flexible than I ever imagined I could be. And now I get to go through the experience of actually owning a home. And the I wonder...

What growth will this will bring?

American Life Today

2009-03-04T11:11:00.000-08:00

American Life Today is a blog dedicated to profiling random Americans that a friend of mine has come across in her travels, known for a while, or simply people that have run across her site and accepted an opportunity to be featured. I fall somewhere in the middle of options 1 and 2, and am excited to be the featured today!

Please check the site out and read up on some of the interesting folks that have been profiled so far this year. If you're interested in sharing yourself and being profiled, check out the right side of the blog to find out how.

What Is It That I Really Want?

2009-02-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

I've read two books in the last two days, and hope to finish a third by tonight. The first was The Dip, which I've already given my thoughts on. The second was The Old Man and the Sea. This book was sent to me with a note attached: "word economy = nobel prize"... after reading, I can attest that this is true. And the third book of the week is An Exact Replica Of A Figment Of My Imagination. This one was also sent with a note: "how to turn journalizing into a Bestseller." This is what I hope my book to be; not in content, but in concept.

In my Coaches Training this past weekend I received a lot of 10-minute coaching sessions. While the coaching was practiced by novices, it was led by experts. And as a result, I received some amazing coaching, as the essence of coaching is to allow the client (me) to answer his/her (my) own questions and draw his/her (my) own conclusions as to necessary action (if any) in his/her (my) life. In one of these sessions I focused on what I want people to get out of my writing; essentially: why am I writing? There were as many moments of silence as can occur in ten minutes during that session. In my memory, at least.

I tasked myself with trying to put into words what I want people to get out of my writing. I agreed to make a list of no less than ten things I wanted people to understand. I came up with things like: connect with emotions, relate experiences, embody change, and find yourself through my emotions. It all made sense at the time I wrote it down, but still I couldn't capture what I really wanted to say. And then I started reading this book. An Exact Replica...

The book is about the experience of the author's first child being stillborn and moving forward in life to have a second child that people will always see as her first. I'm only half way through it, and already I can relate to her. Not because I've endured a stillborn child; I've never even been pregnant. But the author has these emotions, these feelings, these thoughts, these rants that are so much in the moment of how she feels, how can I possibly not relate? As a writer, I've always been encouraged to show, not tell. So let me show you what I mean.

I have this idea that we are all humans and we all experience the same core emotions humans are capable of experiencing. Anger. Happiness. Sadness. Fear. And the varying fractions and multiples of each that lead us to frustration and despair and hysteria and joy and jumping up and down for such things and crying happy tears and tears of pain and regret and sorrow and faith and raising a fist to God and demanding to know why, why, for the love of God, why? The circumstances that lead us to these emotions and these actions are always different, as we are all unique. But the emotions themselves are what we all feel, what we can all relate to.

This is what I wish to capture in my writing.

The Dip

2009-02-25T11:34:00.000-08:00

I started reading The Dip yesterday afternoon. Between a few pages then, a few pages last night, and a few pages this morning, I finished the 80-page book before I got out of bed. As I read through the pages I started to think about the areas in my own life where I've quit before or during the Dip, as well as the times I've pushed on, all the way to the end of the Cul De Sac, or even carried myself right over the Cliff.

The Dip is is the place where it gets hard, but if you're good at what you do and really lean into it, you can push yourself through and come out successful because you've been able to be "the best in the world" at what you do (page 6). The Cul De Sac is the dead end that leads you nowhere but to the end of the street because that's just all there is (page 19). And the Cliff is the act of committing and then completely falling off the edge due to your commitment--as in dying of emphysema due to 20 years of smoking or buying a gym membership and then never going to the gym (page 20).

I've realized that much of my time in my former company was spent in the Cul De Sac. I was never going to become Executive Management, but I kept pushing upward, just the same. At some point, the opportunity for growth ceased to exist, and I failed to realize it. As a result, I became bored with my job, abandoned something I was really good at (helping people grow), and accepted multiple positions that exhausted me because I started from scratch and lead myself down a path I really didn't want to go down (the corporate life). I didn't realize it at the time, but quitting that job was the best thing I could have done for myself; it was the only way to keep from circling the Cul De Sac (aka Drain).

As I've embarked on my writing career, I've come to learn that writing a book--being a writer--has a huge Dip. For all the writers that are out there and successful, there are ten times as many unsuccessful and failed writers. Writing a book is hard. You have to write. Every day. Even when you don't want to, even when you don't think it's good. There was the initial excitement of quitting my job and being a writer, but the honeymoon wore off pretty quickly. When there was no income. When there was no structure. When there are no words. The honeymoon is over, and it's just me. And my head. And the Dip.

Without even realizing it, I seem to have prepared for this Dip (albeit a little late in my process), by hiring a Life Coach to coach me through finishing the book. The first part of growth is becoming aware. I have finally acknowledged that this is going to be harder than I thought. I've reevaluated my priorities, and writing this book is still at the top of the list. My vision for what the book will be is now crystal clear, and it's a matter of pressing through. Through the days I don't want to write, through the days I think my writing is crap, through the days of starting new chapters and throwing out old ones, and finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

The whole point is to process through it, because if I don't then I'm just like all the unsuccessful writers before me who set out on a journey and turned around just before they hit their stride. I will hit my stride. I will lean into this Dip and hit my stride. And ride it all the way to the New York Times Best Seller List. I envision this every day. Not because it's easy, but because I want it that bad.

I don't think it's necessary to buy The Dip or even to read it in order to find out if you're close to the Dip, headed down the Cul De Sac or over the Cliff. I think asking yourself the question is the first step. And if you think you want the book, email me. I'll send it to you for free. First come, first serve. As long as you promise to pass it on when you're done.

Wine or Not, It's In My Hands

2009-02-23T21:47:00.001-08:00

I got an email from my best friend just after 12:30 this afternoon asking if I'd be interested in going to a business "mixer" at a local wine store/tasting spot near Long Beach. Why not? $20 very well spent.

I met real estate agents and brokers and life coaches and hypnotists and a minister/financial planner (whose motto is "Jesus saves, so why don't you?") and anti-aging specialists and wine connoisseurs and business developers...all in all, this was the perfect place for me to be tonight.

All weekend long I focused on becoming a life coach. And in this 2-hour spot, I got to actually tell people I was a life coach. Which means...I'm actually a Life Coach, certification or not. I networked with several people and ended up making plans with 3 of them to get together this week and talk about doing a seminar for first time home buyers. A couple of Realtors, a Lender, and myself are going to figure out how to put together something where people who have never owned homes can see the benefits of capitalizing on an amazing opportunity that's happening right now in the real estate industry: BUYER'S MARKET!! We all want to help people realize their goals of actually owning a home, and I'd like to coach them through the entire process (having just gone through it, myself).

It's all kind of mind boggling to me that this is even an option, when just last week I was only going to a training class. Last week my future was in the hands of this training class, and today my future is in my own hands. What a transformation! I can see the possibilities for just about anyone...sure, maybe that's the two "2-oz" glasses of wine that were poured tonight speaking. And still, there's something there.

We all create our own realities. If we're open to opportunities, they come to us. If we're not, then maybe something other than opportunities come to us. It seems the choice is in our hands. Isn't it always?

Healing Balance

2009-02-20T21:21:00.000-08:00

I'm a big believer in energy and balance and using energy to create balance. I believe that thinking positively brings me closer to happiness. I believe that being around positive energy and people contributes to my own happiness. I believe that negative energy gets trapped in our bodies and unless given an escape route--massage, exercise, sex, hiking, softball, dancing, crying (to name a few)--that this negative energy manifests. Manifests into sore muscles and knots. Colds and flus. Maybe even cancers. That's what I believe.

Today was Day 1 of my Coaches Training. It was...an amazing and humbling experience. I think I could actually feel myself grow. In one workshop I was called on to coach someone while the other 20-some-odd people listened with intent to give feedback. I could feel the redness in my face, the tenseness of my muscles, and worse, I could hear myself flounder as the words began to form mid-air and make nearly no sense at all as they flew across the room. And I couldn't get them back. This is supposed to be your big calling, and you've buckled under pressure. That little voice in my head that keeps me from accomplishing all of my dreams started to stir. And then a funny thing happened. I told her to go away.

It felt odd. Strange. Out of the normal. Not right. Uncomfortable. I felt downright crazy for talking to myself in that moment, even if it was only in my head. For a moment I was afraid I'd spoken out loud. I looked around, and by that time, eyes were on the next would-be-coach. I took a deep breath, and as soon as they called for a break I bolted upright and headed for the bathroom to regain my composure. As I stood washing my hands, almost ready to go back into the fire pit, a woman approached me to tell me she liked where I was going with the questions I asked. She wanted to work with me on the next exercise. Huh. "Well sure", I said, all smiles. I might be able to do this...

I went back into the room and spoke to the woman I had a part in coaching. I thanked her for allowing me to be a part of her process. She smiled and leaned in for a hug. She made sure to lean her head to the right, so my head was over her left shoulder. I remember from a seminar of Dr. Wayne Dyer's that this has something to do with energy and the heart. And then she hugged me. This was no ordinary hug. She took long, deep, slow breaths in and let them out just the same. I could tell because two or three of my breaths equalled one of hers. And then it hit me: slow down. Absorb her energy.

She held tight to my frame and I began to release the tension in my neck. Next was the tension in my back. And arms. And chest. My breaths had become slow like hers, and I was nearly on pace with her, almost without trying. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I was in the middle of the "classroom" and no less than 15 people were in the room. And I had tears rolling down my cheeks, not caring who saw. This moment was for me, and not for them.

As we separated, I thanked her again, but this was for something different. I felt a shift, as she called it. A shift in my energy, from negative to positive. I don't mean to say that all of my negative energy was released, but I do mean to say that some of it was. I felt it actually leave my body. Through the hug, through my pores, through my tears. And that was enough release, enough energy, enough balance to get me through the rest of the night.

Volunteer Client Found

2009-02-20T08:11:00.000-08:00

Today I begin the first day of the rest of my life. I guess we do this every day. But it's not every day that I start Life Coach Training. I'm pretty excited to get started, and even more excited that I've found a volunteer client to coach for my homework assignment tomorrow night. As it turns out, I will need to coach a volunteer client on the second night of each of the 4 remaining courses. I can either use the same volunteer from this course, or use a new volunteer every time, and I'm sure there are benefits to both. If anyone is interested, please email me and let me know.

I was hoping to get a good night's sleep last night, but our new puppy got sick late in the afternoon. He spent a good chunk of the wee hours of the morning throwing up grass he'd eaten earlier in the day to try and make himself hurl. So every other hour had us jumping up to try and get him to the hardwood floors for easier mess cleaning, and subsequently cleaning up said mess. he seems to have gotten it all out of his system and is sleeping soundly (and snoring loudly) at the moment.

Last night and this morning (or maybe this entire week and month) have reminded me that things will always come up. It's rare that things will go according to plan 100% of the time, so I need to be prepared to be flexible. And in order to be flexible, I need to take care of myself. I've not meditated much in the last week, and plan on doing that this morning before I head out to class this afternoon. I'm also taking myself to breakfast. A) to ensure I actually eat breakfast, B) so that I don't have to clean up after myself when I'm done, and C) to sit with myself and enjoy my own company out amongst strangers. The next 3 days (today included) are going to be intense and I need to make sure I'm ready to take that on.

I'm finding that the more time I take for myself, the more time I can give to others. It's a rather peaceful feeling, and I'm glad I can recognize it.

Outlines and Honor

2009-02-18T13:45:00.000-08:00

I've never been much of an outliner. How do I know what I'm going to write before I write it? I write much better when I don't have any idea what I'm even going to write about when I sit down to write. That's my style. Half the time when I blog, I barely have a word in my head to run with when I start. Which may give the sense that I don't know what I'm talking about or where I'm going in the beginning, but I usually manage to bring it all around by the end.

Writing with deadlines and minimum or exact word requirements haven't always worked well for me, either. I tend to leave it to the last minute and then throw something together. Sometimes it works out to be brilliant, and other times it's just a mess. I think my best work comes when I'm not thinking at all about what I'm writing, but merely getting lost in whatever it is.

Which is why writing this book has been so challenging for me. I've written hundreds of pages and thousands of words, and while it all makes sense when I'm writing it, I seem to have no idea of how to put it all together when I'm done. This has come up in some of my life coach sessions, since part of the reason I have a coach is to be coached through finishing my book and ultimately getting it published. One of my coach's suggestions was to get an outline together. But I already said I don't really work well with outlines. Or maybe I do...

I've taken the hundreds of pages and put them in their respective chapters (although I still have no idea as to the order of these chapters), and have begun to see that the writing itself is not so great, but the process of having written has served me well. I'm now going through the chapters and creating an outline, based on the details within. It seems so simple, now, to create an outline, based on what I've already written. Paradigm shift.

And although I tend to work best without an agenda, I'm finding that all I need is a spark of inspiration to propel me into my vision. A quick look at the outline, and I can brainstorm about where I was and what I felt and my thoughts and plans and fears. Where before there were words on pages that somehow went together but I didn't know how, a structure emerges, and the pages begin to make sense. I'm beginning to really see the fruits of my efforts, and more importantly, I'm taking action and working towards the goal I'd set for myself: finish the book.

I'm learning that by honoring myself in writing and believing in myself to do so, I'm also honoring my father. Which was the idea in beginning the book, in the first place. By tossing out what I previously believed (I don't work well with outlines), and trying a different approach, I've become better at being me. Which means I'm growing. And for me, that's the whole idea in living life.

Volunteer Client Needed

2009-02-13T11:27:00.000-08:00

Next weekend I'm starting my first Coaches Training Institute Co-Active Coaching Course, and am super excited! According to the "syllabus," the second night's homework will be to coach a client in a half-hour or one-hour appointment, which can be in person or over the phone. I'll need to get it scheduled prior to the beginning of my course on Saturday, Feb 21, 2009 (10:00am PST). The appointment will need to be scheduled for sometime between 6:00pm-11:00pm PST on Feb 21, since I'll need to report back on the experience on the following day.

The “client” should be a volunteer client, not an existing client, nor should he/she be a spouse, partner, close family member or close personal friend.

This caveat limits participation in my homework assignment to people I don't know (or at least, don't know well), and expands my opportunity to meet new people and really get my feet wet in this new career. While I'm just beginning my professional coaching career, I feel like I've been preparing for this my entire life. I'm excited to finally dive in and begin co-creating paths to success and personal fulfillment!

What is Co-Active Coaching?

Co-Active Coaching has impacted the lives and careers of thousands of managers, leaders, and coaches around the world. It has led to the first ICF accredited coach training program, the most widely used text book in coaching, the largest number of certified coaches globally and a powerful, experiential leadership program that unlocks participants' unique and natural leadership strengths.

CTI coaching holds that people are naturally creative, resourceful, whole, and completely capable of finding their own answers to whatever challenges they face. The job of a Co-Active Coach® is to ask powerful questions, listen and observe to elicit the skills and creativity a client already possesses, rather than instruct or advise.

To train successful coaches, CTI uses an approach that includes four key elements:
1) In-depth, in-person Co-Active training
2) Professional practicum leading to certification
3) Business/entrepreneurial skills development
4) Supportive community of coaches.

If you're interested in becoming a volunteer client, and the date/timeframe above works for you, please contact me at dian at dianreidwrites.com to set up an appointment. I'm sure I will need plenty of volunteer clients as my education continues, so please contact me if you'd like to participate in a future assignment, or even just get some free coaching in while I'm learning. While these assignments are required in my education, please know that any persons participating as a volunteer client will not be obligated to participate in ongoing sessions.

I look forward to hearing from anyone who's looking to grow!!