A Real Texas Ranger

This morning, I got the following email from my dad.  I haven't changed a word (and you'll find it hard to believe that my dad was born in New Jersey; he seems to have Texas in his soul).  Although the Texas Rangers lost the World Series, the spirit of the real Rangers will live on. And here's why...

Yesterday Mr. Matt Dillon Bingham the Smith County District Attorney called and said that this Old Texas Ranger was going to be in his office and that he was going to have him sign this poster for me.  Glen Elliot is an Old Ranger, about 89 now and has written two books about the Rangers.  He’s an old school guy and one of the stories about him was that he chased a guy that crossed into Mexico, he parked his vehicle on the US side walked across into Mexico went into the bar where the culprit was, stuck a gun at his head and drug him back across the border.  The good old days when they didn’t worry about the paperwork, when the rule was you have the right to remain silent if you can tolerate the pain.  

Empowering Women and Girls to See Themselves as Empowered

My friend Deirdre posted this on her blog and I thought it was amazing. I plan to show it to my girls. As much as we all like to be cute and attract adoring looks from cute boys, we need to be the smart women that we are, and continue to model that behavior for young women. 

It's a huge opportunity for us to break away from the shell of the ego. We may like being women, or men, or white, or black, or Latina, or European, or from Texas, or from Canada, or that we have curves, or that we're tall, or that we can roll our tongues, or that we're double-jointed, or whatever... but deep inside we are something entirely different, just a mass of energy that found a nice package to inhabit for a lifetime.  We are more than just what's on the outside.

Check out their site http://missrepresentation.org/ and pass it on.

Falling in Love Again

I have been tossing around the idea of self-love lately, spurred on by my latest birthday and the recurrence of a single spoke on the cycle of my life.  I noticed recently that I’ve been hearing that voice in my head again, the one that likes to try to compare me with other people.  This voice, which doesn't even sound like me (and really, I wouldn't take ownership were it not inside my own head), likes to say things like, “Look at your thighs.  Probably time to start running again,” and “Why did you buy/keep that dress? It makes you look fat.”  I’m serious!  This is not someone I would entertain in my circle of friends and the fact that she is as close to me as my own thoughts is deeply troubling.

The thing with this voice is that it tends to crop up in a seasonal cycle.  Bathing suit season is a given – but I love summer too much to really give into it, preferring to throw media ideals to the wind in favor of beach days and back dives.  Then there’s the cusp of late summer to autumn, when I feel overwhelmed by obligations to the girls’ schools and teams, my own expectations for my writing and creativity, and the pressures of upcoming holiday plans.  So it wasn't too surprising when the voice came back a few weeks ago, out of the blue, like an old boyfriend breezing through town, not caring about how much wreckage is left behind by the visit. I found myself hearing those old stories again, about how I really ought to cut out all sugar, need to join a gym, have to add at least another hour of cardio to each day (Where would I find the time? Well, the voice said, I should just wake up an hour or two earlier…).

As the ugly voice continued, my stronger self wondered why it had come back to visit in the first place.  This is where age comes in handy – the longer I’ve been around on this planet, in this body, the more experience I’ve had with these cycles.  And one thing I remember is that when my writing and creativity is being stifled in some way, pushed to the back burner or placed “on hold” (as it tends to be during those first few crazy months when school starts up again), then the part of my brain that is usually too occupied with my creative thoughts to worry about petty things that are beyond my control opens up, allowing enough space for the voice to creep in and make itself at home. 

This time, however, fortune was on my side.  My girlfriend Christine (of Belle Femme Gazette and Dollybelle’s Peepshow) had called to ask a favor: would I be interested in opening up my closet and wardrobe to her camera for a quick style video for her blog and webzine?  I had to swallow the voice and just allow myself to get excited instead.  What could be more fun than spending a day in my closet, going through clothes and talking about style?  Christine has a gentle approach and looked at my clothes without judgment, focusing on pieces I might like to add to my wardrobe.  More importantly, she worked with what is: my figure, my style inspirations, my lifestyle.  She didn't talk about the latest trends and celebrity bodies.  She spoke to me.  When she sent me the video links (one for a cute side bun and one for my closet), she was ecstatic with the results, calling me a “glamour mom.”  

As you can imagine, this isn't how the voice sees me.  I found myself questioning which voice I wanted to hear... and the answer was clear as day.

I watched the videos and was surprised at how much I loved seeing myself through Christine’s lens.  Sure, I’m lumpy in a few spots (the voice made sure to point that out); I’m 40 and I have three gorgeous kids and a full life and I like to drink wine occasionally and I can rarely pass up a piece of homemade pie.  But I was shocked that I could finally see myself as a “glamour girl” – that the beauty I’ve tried to cultivate on the inside has found a way to live on the outside as well, despite the voice.

I’m re-reading Louise Hay’s “You Can Heal Your Life” as a refresher and something I read last night resonated so loudly, the voice finally relaxed and subsided.  Under a passage titled “The Real Problem,” Louise outlines her work as a life coach and how she asks her clients to explain why they've come to see her.  After they’ve listed all their problems, pains, issues, etc., they all come down to a single bottom line, over and over again: “I am not good enough.”  To this, Louise says:

Hurrah, hurrah!...Now we do not have to bother with any of the side effects such as body problems, relationship problems, money problems, or lack of creative expressions.  We can put all our energy into dissolving the cause of the whole thing: “NOT LOVING THE SELF!”

Well, voice, it’s been a good run for you, but I’m afraid that I’ve outgrown your negative, petty thinking. I’m starting a new love affair with my self and there’s no more room for you.

Quiet Courage

Today marks a decade of our country living in a state of persistent war and global terrorism, but it also commemorates acts of incredible courage.  Not just from the passengers of the hijacked planes, the firefighters and rescue workers, but also the survivors whose loved ones perished in the 9/11 attacks and the rest of us who watched helplessly as our fellow Americans suffered.  That day marked a line in the sand for us: we can be sad about these tragic events and we will never forget, but we must go on and we must live, with gratitude and with intention.


I spent this morning with a dear friend of mine, whom I met while working on the college paper.  We sat next to each other at graduation, swigging champagne from a bottle under her seat.  She got me my very first job after school, at a PR firm (which I sucked at, and I had to quit or risk being fired; seriously, I wasn't cut out for the pressure), then found me my first apartment (right next to hers in Hollywood). Because of that magical apartment, I met my neighbor's brother Rafael... and the rest is history.  In addition, she showed me how to smoke pot gracefully, taught me how to make trifle, and took me to my first yoga class.  I can hardly express how much I have gained simply by saying hello to a very pretty blonde girl in the newsroom more than 20 years ago.


Anyway, we met at a yoga studio and did an intense 90 minutes of flow yoga and breathing, then had breakfast nearby to catch up.  After I jumped off the PR train, she continued on, advancing to bigger and better jobs in the entertainment industry.  The last time we spoke - I'm ashamed to admit that, apart from Facebook chit-chat, it's been about a year - she was at a big network with all sorts of glossy reality shows.  It was stressful and fast-paced and she was expected to keep her BlackBerry on her hip at all times.  


As we ate breakfast, a former colleague of hers came to the table to say hello and it became clear to me that she no longer worked at that network; instead, she works for a much smaller, lower-profile network.  "What happened?" I asked.  In PR, generally, you climb the ranks higher and higher, dealing with more and more stress, and your main reward is the cache of where you work and the money that rolls in.  But you pay for it, working so hard that you can barely recognize your priorities.  It's like, "Oh man, I want to see my kid's preschool Christmas play, but I'm supposed to go to the Botox party of a 'reality star' that's going to be in People Magazine..."  Her life was a juggling act and I was constantly in awe of how even-keeled she remained, in spite of the chaos that's inherent in Hollywood.


Anyway, she mentioned that the BlackBerry thing ended up being her undoing.  By a twist of fate, she didn't have it with her on a Sunday afternoon as she and her family took her parents to a garden show. A PR "emergency" (meaning: no one died, nothing happened, someone just didn't show up for an interview) sprung up and my friend was caught without her BB.  Her boss in NYC wanted proof of something from an email that my friend couldn't access while she was out with her family.  On a Sunday.  It was a thing, and it came up in her review (don't even get me started on this -- my friend helped launch so many of the media phenomenons that are in our TV culture now that it baffles me how her boss could single out the BB incident and berate her for it).


My friend was disappointed but, with years of mindful thinking and yoga under her belt, went back to her office and let it all go.  Let it wash over her and out of her system.  And went back to work with a quiet resolve to just do her job, do it well, but keep things in perspective.


A week later, she got called by a woman who wanted her to work with the smaller network. It was a lot less stress, an easier commute, shorter hours, a reasonable boss... and MORE money.  The main catch was that she would no longer have the high profile shows she was used to... and that really made her think. But the kicker was quality of life - she could have a great job AND have a great life, too.  Naturally, she took it, and she hasn't looked back. Her health, family, psyche and soul have benefited greatly from this leap of faith and courageous first step toward a new life.


On this day of remembering courage, I wanted to point out that courage comes not only in tidal waves, but also small ripples.  Each wave, each ripple, makes a difference.  It seems the only fitting tribute to those who lost their lives: to live well for them, to do right by their memories, and to continue making our best choices despite the inherent fears around us. We may live in a world filled with terror, but we do not need to be terror-filled.


Take a deep breath with me here.  Inhale courage.  Exhale fear.  It only takes one step.

A Barbie Sunday

I was walking past my daughter's room and saw that Emme was arranging the hand-me-down Barbies that her friend Mallory gave to Marlowe.  The older girls had "grown out of" playing with Barbies, they agreed, but they consented to helping Marlowe set them up in the playroom, which led to hours of hanging out with the Barbies (hot tip: when you have middle schoolers, you don't say "playing" anymore, apparently). 

Anyway, when I caught Emme in the playroom, I had to stop and capture the scene.  "You'll love these when you're older," I said.  I pictured her as a teen, grimacing at this ludicrous statement.  "Much older," I added.  

In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

This morning, I read a friend's blog post about turning 40, and then I met a girl at my Bar Method studio who is about to turn 30.  Each of them had the same fear, anxiety, worry, discomfort about the unknown number ahead of them.  I won't lie: my 39th birthday filled me with a white-hot fear that life as I knew it would be over in 12 months.  And then all I heard was this: tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...


What do you want to do with your life? my inner voice asked me.


The answer, in response to Max's death and the fears around me and the seemingly careless cycle of life, was simple: Live.  


And when I blew out my birthday candles, the only wish I had was to travel.  Italy, I wished, with all my might, and then I blew those crazy candles right out.


The smoke from that wish curled high up into the air, past my kitchen ceiling and into the ether.  And my wish came true, not only with a trip to Italy, but to more faraway places than I could have imagined.  Deep soul-searching and relaxing sight-seeing, party-all-night sorts of places and quiet, reflective ones, too. With family, with friends, alone... It was a year of finding myself, over and over, in the present moment.


By the time August rolled around once more, I was happy to welcome a new decade.  As they say, the 20s are fraught with frenzy and craziness, and then the 30s are rife with self-reflection and searching for yourself and getting all of your messiness dealt with (if you're lucky).  Rounding the last few weeks, I realized that, with a few very significant exceptions, most of my very closest, dearest friends were not only past 40, but closer to 50.  And they are luminous, shining women, self-aware and smiling, wise but silly, happy to suck the marrow out of life.


And I wanna be just like them when I grow up.  


Hello, 40.  Where've you been all my life?

The Reason I Haven't Been Blogging

When you get a horoscope like this one, you have to sit back and breathe.  Then you get to work on the extraordinary.