10,000 Dancing Stars

But ... I Made It

2011-08-27T06:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of years and several pounds less ago, on a walk with my twin brother Kelly, he asked if I would want to climb Mt. LeConte in the Smokies as a recognition of our 50th birthday. Since Kelly has never asked me for much of anything and since we've gotten closer as we've aged (no, we didn't have that "twin thing" everyone wants us to have when they learn we are), I said "yes!" almost immediately.

Really, it didn't take a lot of thought. We were giving ourselves two years to get ready. Kelly used to minister in the area and had great connections for a place to stay. We thought we might even get two houses close together, invite lots of friends and family, and make a week of it. The planning walk was so much fun, I was really looking forward to the reality.

We checked in on our 49th and were still committed. However, I was having to curb some of my enthusiasm. I was starting a new career venture without much of a financial safety net. That meant I wasn't going to be able to rent the extra house or the van I had hoped my friends might travel in to join in the festivities. Kelly toned down his guest list as well. But we were still game.

Spring of 2011 brought me some sense of job security and a little less stress which was good because my internal activity was not matched by my external and I had gained some weight. Probably too much weight to be thinking about climbing a mountain. July 20 -- our actual birthday -- came and went with me committing mentally to get healthy but physically only managing to test my grit on the treadmill with an incline of 15. When I made 6 miles, I felt like I had a fighting chance but I still worried. AND I still wasn't training like I should have been.

When I saw Kelly's birthday photo, I thought, "Well at least he's not in his best form either so maybe I won't slow him down." Little did I know that that day he committed to daily 3 mile walks ... on the hills of Nashville, his home! When I saw him at the airport, the night he and my sister-in-law Karen picked me up for our birthday adventure, I noticed he wasn't quite the same. A lot less pudge!

I fretted much of the ride from Tennessee's capitol to Tennessee's vacation paradise. I had visions of having a heart attack on the side of the mountain and having to be Lifelined out of there. It didn't help when Kelly and his might-as-well-be-a-son-boarder Brent started going all MacGyver when prepping for the hike and discussed how to use a couple of branches and some jackets to make a gurney to carry someone down the mountain when injured.

My anxiety was lessened somewhat when I saw the incredible lodging Kelly has arranged. A friend of his had taken advantage of a foreclosure and we were living the high life -- literally and metaphorically for a few days. Log cabin exterior on the side of a mountain with a view of the tree-covered valley from each of the three floors. Three huge bedrooms, jacuzzis, incredible kitchen, hot tub and porches with swings and rockers. Definitely a Smokie Mountain pleasure spot.

In fact, I began to wonder if climbing the mountain was really THAT important. I could let Kelly and his friends make the trek for me and just enjoy some girl time back at the house with Karen and my niece Bethany.

But that thought passed quickly as I remembered my commitment. I gave the guys (one other friend of Kelly's joined us) the "out" of going on ahead (which they gallantly refused to do). I made my excuses -- too big and living at sea level. I grabbed every bit of help offered -- poles, Kelly took part of the food, and I prayed.

We got to the trail at 7:30 a.m. I was drenched in sweat by 8:15 a.m. I heard Kelly mention that he had considered turning around on his first trek up when he and his friends reached the bridge. We hadn't reached the bridge yet and I'd already plotted how I could spend the day back at the car waiting for the boys to return.

But I made it to the bridge, and then Inspiration Point, and then the Pulpit, and the salt mine, and finally to what Kelly called the "Yellow Brick Road" part of the trail -- a tree-lined, flat expanse just before you make it to the lodge on top. It wasn't pretty -- I huffed and I puffed and I stalled and I preached whole sermons to myself about taking just that next step, but I made it.

Coming down was no problem. I actually was ahead of one of the guys who was in much better shape than me. By this time, I'm sure I was delirious though. I began to easily relate to Young Frankenstein's dance number as my feet seemed to take on extra poundage in the clomp, clomp, clomp of those 5 miles back to the car, I still did it. And I must admit, I didn't mind when the boys were having to stop for rest breaks rather than just tending to me!

Getting in and out of the vehicle before making it back to the lovely surf and turf meal we'd planned was not a moment of ballet beauty but I made it. And up the stairs to my jacuzzi? Not graceful at all. But I soaked.

I was once told that "but" stood for "behold the underlying truth." I wasn't a model of "50 and fabulous" climbing Mt. LeConte. But I made it ... with my twin to encourage, wait on and support me, I made it.

Ahhhh ... The Simple Life

2011-08-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

I began yesterday at Omega House, came home to do a couple of massages, picked up Roger to go to an art gallery event that a new friend had invited us to attend, and ended the night at a Montrose hole-in-the-wall known for its fries, flirtatious waiters, and salads.

A pretty typical day in the nontraditional world of Karen Campbell. Yet, throughout the variety of experiences there was always an anchor moment, reminding me that the path I've chosen is simultaneously odd and familiar.

For instance, at the AIDS hospice -- after mopping all the floors, cleaning the kitchen post-breakfast, and attempting to chat up a couple of non-responsive clients -- I took a break and watched the Food Network. Watching other people cook is something I do every day. I find viewing creativity and making mental notes of things I can try incredibly relaxing. I just don't usually do it with a former massage therapist and nurse who now weighs about 80 pounds and who has extremely strong opinions on Rachael Ray's ineptitude in the kitchen.

A weekend massage is pretty typical for me as well. Two? Not so much. Two back-to-back? (yes, massage pun intended) Definitely not. But these were returning clients and both needed what I had to offer ... and they liked the back rub as well. I've learned that not everyone who walks through my massage therapist's door is solely in need of touch. Sometimes they also want to be heard.

At the art gallery, I encountered new friends who have great connections. As a networker and a passionate supporter of passionate people doing good work and using fashion to do so, I, well, ... I connected. By the time we were through touring the cute old cottage that had been expanded into a three story studio and artist's residence, I had secured the space for a potential fundraiser and gotten a promise of introductions to much needed jewelry designers.

At dinner, I laughed and willing received the good natured barbs coming my way as I enjoyed Roger meeting my new office suite mate Lyn. Both extroverted, they barely needed me to inject as they explored the why, when, where, and how of their pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness to date.

When I settled in at home at the close of the evening, I had an incredible sense of "rightness" to my day. People often comment on how good it is that I volunteer and work with nonprofits. They get this look in their eyes like I used to see when members of the congregation talked of pastors or missionaries. The "wow-there's-no-way-I-could-do-what-you-do" distant stare they suggests they aren't going to hear how ordinary it all really is.

But it's true. Doing the right thing can come naturally. I know how to cook and clean, so I do so at the hospice. I know how to make people feel good physically, so whatever they want when they're on my table -- be it silence or conversation -- I'm there for them. I know how to tell a story so I tell the story of passionate social enterprisers at an art function. I know how to listen so I do.

At every turn of my day, I'm rewarded. At every turn of my life, I'm blessed.

Disney Was Right

2011-07-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

Dianne volunteers at The Rose on the days we have artists come in and lead our clients and their friends/family through some activity designed to help them take their minds off the fact that we exist because breast cancer exists. She's a friend from my previous life in politics and I'm thrilled she's as committed to causes as I am.

On our last Pink Day at The Rose -- that's what we call them -- she was reacquainting herself with her past passion for needlework as she waited for someone in the waiting room to take us up on the offer to take up needle and thread. I guess it was all that embroidery surrounding me (subliminally suggestive of altar cloths) because I felt the need to confess.

"I still haven't had the chance to get a note out to your friends who might lead one of these days for us. I love the idea of healing drumming. . . . "

Without looking away from her work, "Then go do it now." Dianne is both artistic and pragmatic.

Recognizing that she, Terri, the needlework artist, and Jill, the other volunteer, had the situation in hand, I scooted off to type up the email and copied her on it.

When I got back to the conference room, I began to explain to Jill that in a couple of weeks that very space would be transformed into a pop up shop for Sweet Notions. While The Rose is my primary client, Sweet Notions is another nonprofit in which I invest my time. The two founders started it with very little money (and still have very little which is why my time is an investment and not a paying gig) and collections of jewelry from family and friends. They turned that into a social enterprise that benefits vulnerable women. The London version of it -- where one founder lives -- has proven to be very successful as far as life transformation is concerned and is making some strides at sustainability. The Houston manifestation is in a reinvention phase.

"We are trying to arrange with a local group who works with women coming out of human trafficking to provide jewelry-refurbishing as art therapy. When we get pieces in the collection phase that are outdated, we utilize artists' input and create templates for how to reclaim the piece in some way. We call that part Design Camps and they've done very well in London. But in Houston, we're lacking a partner. I've got a lead that the Y might be a connection but we haven't heard back from the contact there," I told Jill.

At that moment, Dianne's phone dinged, indicating she had an incoming text or email. I noticed she had a slight smile on her face as she picked up her smart phone. The smile turned into a bonafide grin as she read and then said, "You have now."

"I have now, what?"

"You've heard from your contact at the Y."

"What? How would you know that?"

"Because the healing drummer friend of mine, the one you just emailed, is the same woman who runs the program for human trafficking at the Y and she just replied to you!"

And, that my friends, begins the story of how Sweet Notions now has a partnering entity to assist women coming out of human trafficking. Houston maybe the fourth largest city in the U.S. but it's really just a small world after all.

Happiness is ...

2011-07-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

An editor who I've lunched with once and who has seen me move from the political sector to the nonprofit world thanked me this week for a press release I'd sent.

For those of you who may not be in the wonderfully wacky world of media, that's not something that happens every day. So I thanked her back. She replied, "We appreciate your eye for a terrific story and your wonderful writing!"

Wow!

Now, in the grand scheme of things, that compliment is not a big deal. I mean, really, one of my friends is well on her way to starring in and producing a television show and another just completed a writers training in Africa and has a blog that simultaneously inspires me to grab a keyboard and start typing and/or grab an apron and work at the Dairy Queen again because I couldn't possibly be a writer of his caliber.

So, I'm not exactly examining doors to ascertain if my head will fit through.

But I am pleased.

And on that delightful little high, I hear my dear friend and the longest-tenured one I have in Houston say today -- in an almost off-handed, of-course-you-are way -- that she's programmed her phone to play the theme for "Mission Impossible" when I call. When I check for why, she responds as though it's totally obvious, "You don't ask 'what can I do?', you ask 'what else can I do?'. You're always looking for what needs to be done and doing it."

I gave up wealth, position and power a long time ago. I'm glad to know that instead I now have a reputation.

I am a very happy woman.

Happy Pride!

2011-06-27T04:25:00.000-07:00

Perched on the back of a hot convertible with her partner by her side, she was ready for the parade. I took a moment to remind her how far she'd come -- from bible school to business school, from wide-eyed to savvy, from uninformed to advocate and organizer. She smiled and said something I would hear her repeat several times during the evening, "Amazing. Simply amazing."

As the Female Grand Marshall of Houston's Pride Parade, Tammi had a fairly good perspective on the evening. As her "wheel guard" during the walk/ride along Westheimer in Montrose, the area of the city known for its nurturing of life's alternatives to what some would deem the "norm", I had a chance to reflect as well. I marveled at the crowd of surely more than 100,000, at how the parade has grown in just the five years I've been participant rather than observer, and in many ways, how it had matured.

I still remember my first Pride Parade. Sitting on the curb at one of the less populated points at the beginning of the path, somewhat startled at how "typical" the entries were -- businesses, church groups, families, friends -- all supporting the LGBT community. I cried when PFLAG came by. To see older Mothers and Fathers loving their adult children by supporting them publicly moved me. I wanted to hold the friends that surrounded me closer in that moment, and assure them they, too, had a support system near.

My volunteer and political work has offered me the chance to drive the parade route, walk and cheer along it and with this last parade, get through early enough to come back and sit in the VIP section.

With risers constructed several feet above the route, I had a great view of the rainbow colors and could hear the musical entries as they paused for a moment for the announcers' introductions. I had to smile when I thought of what they'd had to say as Tammi came by. They noted her political activities, her advocacy, her family's support. But they didn't point out one of the most amazing things about her entry because they didn't know. She didn't either until we were all gathered at the starting point. That's when she began to take it all in -- two young family members were holding the banner, another woman and I who had worked with her on campaigns stood by the front wheels, and two college students and one-time interns covered the back. The reality hit and she smiled.

"Oh my!" pausing, she looked at me. "You know what I'm about to say, don't you, Karen?"

The others were waiting and checking us both. And it was her partner who prodded us to share.

"Everyone of Tammi's crew is straight," we replied. Had she intended to do it, surrounding herself with allies would have been noteworthy but the fact that she had simply reached out to representatives/relationships from various aspects of her life and come up with six who supported but had no letter designation in the LGBT acronym was somehow even better. At that moment, my Pride Parade truly began.

A Life Well-Lived

2011-06-26T19:19:00.000-07:00

We looked at the bag. Carolyn was so petite, the contents looked more massive than I assumed it would be. We then looked for a way to spread the ashes. Some clam shells she had collected and spread near the flower garden would do. Soon we were digging in and spreading her ashes on the very flowers she had planted and tended over a year ago.

To be a part of the last memorial for a life well-lived was an honor. Her husband, best friend and I ensured that what remained of her physically would continue to nurture that which she loved.

"Would you mind if I prayed?" I asked my two companions.

"We'd love it," they responded.

I then asked the Creator to help us remember, to laugh, to embrace all that would make Carolyn smile. We hugged and our memorial was complete.

She lived more than 7 decades and after helping hundreds of school kids know what it means to live in good health, she pursued a balance between emotional, spiritual, and physical well-being.

Carolyn was my friend. Carolyn was a do-gooder. Carolyn was a teacher. And now Carolyn's ashes nurture and encourage growth. Seems reasonable to me!

Stories That Don't Come Easy

2011-06-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

We can't help ourselves. We humans love our heroes and happy endings. Dramatic tension is fine when it's limited and measured, but soon enough we're jumping ahead, desperate for the tidy feel-good moment of knowing all is well in storyland.

Years ago, when the news became "infotainment," we bore witness to the struggle. "Law and Order" can investigate and resolve a case in one hour. So why do we wait weeks, even months (and some would say we're still waiting) for justice to be leveled on O.J.? We saw the chase! Now tell us the bad guy gets what he deserves! Right?!

Decades haven't pushed us much closer to coming to terms with our need for instant gratification on justice issues. I was reminded of that today when I read an update on Congresswoman Giffords' status after surviving a gunshot to the head months ago.

She's in rehab here in Houston so we hear tidbits now and then. And, of course, we all strained to see her as she traveled to see her husband Mark take off on his shuttle ride.

The deal is ... the news is good and it's not yet good enough.

From the story ... "Although Giffords continues to improve, Caursone said, 'She's alive. But if she were to plateau today, and this was as far as she gets, it would not be nearly the quality of life she had before. There's no comparison. All that we can hope for is that she won't plateau today and that she'll keep going and that when she does plateau, it will be at a place far away from here.'"

If you've ever dealt with someone who has experienced an injury to the brain -- stroke, accident, whatever -- the phrase "far away from here" carries the weight of the world.

I've seen it, felt it, and cringed at the realization of how superficial I can sometimes be.

Once, after heroic attempts to rally the troops and come to the aid of a colleague and friend who had a stroke when she was in her early 40s, I wanted to be more than I wound up being for her. But I didn't want it bad enough. The first days of her ordeal were triumphs for those of us coming to her aid, taking care of her family, reaping kudos from all who witnessed our all-night vigils and efforts to maneuver the medical system to ensure the best of care. Weeks later, she was in rehab, and some were there by her side. Without an immediate fire to put out, my attention waned. Months later, she became a visit I "should make this weekend" or a "call I've got to get to" but didn't.

A couple of years later, she was back at work. But if you're holding your breath for the happily-ever-after part, you better breathe. Because she wasn't back in her same leadership capacity. She was in a position that had been created for what her level of expertise now was. The stroke didn't just take away the full use of her arm and leg, it took the woman I had known. This new manifestation had similar memories and her desire to be all that she could be, but conversations weren't just slurred, they were missing the wit and wisdom that only totally firing synapses can bring.

At one point, in a workshop I was doing on change, I used a video of Tigger losing his stripes. Winnie the Pooh and the gang were doing all they could to give him a new identity since Tigger without his stripes just couldn't be Tigger. After several failed attempts, Eeyore finally points out that "just because you don't look like Tigger on the outside, doesn't mean you're not Tigger on the outside. It's all in the stuffin'." My friend approached me afterwards and haltingly reminded me that she was still the friend I'd cherished on the inside. I nodded in agreement and said, "I know."

But I didn't.

She simply wasn't my happy ending. She didn't turn out "all right in the end." She was alive, yes. She had new relationships, new dreams, new opportunities. But they weren't the ones I'd shared with her. And many emotional miles had been traveled in opposite directions for us to ever reclaim what had been.

I think about her when I see articles like the one I read today about Giffords. The media are clamoring for a that tidy end to the story. They thrust the mic at whoever is available and demand a date for when she'll be back on the House floor or racing down the campaign trail. In each line between the lines of today's piece, I heard a familiar tone, a resignation still tinged with hope but also a need to redirect expectations.

The staffer quoted is all too aware of the post-celebratory reality of most survival stories -- healing is not a return to what was. The characters have changed. The story is new.

May grace be given to all who have ears to hear.

Busy, Interesting, Challenging, Fun Days

2011-06-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

As I typed the title of this post, my fingers got a bit carried away and "fun" became "fund." Interesting because the intent of this update is to chat about that very subject.

Raising funds can be fun. And not.

For the past four years, I've been looking for what would be my new career path. Politics didn't quite work out for me. Big nonprofits didn't want me. Emerging or smaller nonprofits did, but couldn't pay me.

That's when massage school seemed as reasonable an option as any other!

Last Friday, the state of Texas finally got around to sending me my license. So now, I'm officially an LMT. I'm also the "community manager" for a breast cancer organization, a strategist for a health and human services collaborative, a mentor for fashion social enterprise benefitting Uganda school children, a consultant for another fashion forward group benefitting vulnerable women and a storyteller for one of my former employers.

So, yes, I'm legal, but no, I'm not making a living as a massage therapist.

I have a few clients who check in with me every other month or so. I barter services with my hair stylist. And I still give birthday massages. That's about it. Frankly, that's about all I could do. (Please see previous list of other jobs for the reason why my massage is limited.)

However, the day I got that license, I had somewhat of an epiphany.

I've realized the dream of several months ago when I paid the downpayment on that class.

I'm doing a variety of things that I love to do, paying off a few debts I incurred as I took the risk, and beginning to breathe a bit easier when I want to purchase the "good" cheese in the market rather than the WIC approved label I had frugally been adding to my shopping basket.

Not quite as good as a massage but definitely an ahhhhhhhh moment.

My business card doesn't say all of the above on it. I simply state that I'm "helping caring people realize their passions." If you want to know more or keep up with the professional side of my life, check out www.karencampbell.posterous.com.

Local Artist Is "Big" Supporter (another interesting press release I was privileged to write)

2011-06-08T06:36:00.000-07:00

OUSTON -- If it’s been “supersized,” chances are artist Kermit Eisenhut has painted it.
A decade ago, the Cow Parade benefitting Texas Children’s Hospital had Houstonians scouring the city for where the latest interpretation of bovine sculpture would appear. Eisenhut’s signature was on 14 of them. He completed one of 75 oversized Mickey Mouse sculptures for Disney -- also auctioned for charity.

Now he can add Pink Ribbons to his growing list of philanthropic props. As an advisory board member of Pink Ribbons Project, in motion for breast cancer, he was the natural choice to paint the first of the 7-ft. sculptures which will be part of the inaugural Pink Ribbon Parade this fall. The fundraiser and awareness builder benefits breast cancer nonprofits and the effort-organizer Breast Health Collaborative of Texas which includes more than 200 nonprofit, corporate and individual members.

Eisenhut is “big” on nonprofits. He has contributed auction items to a number of local charities including the March of Dimes, Bering Omega, Special Olympics, Vivo y Positivo, PAWS, SPCA, Houston Grand Opera, Montrose Clinic and SEARCH. He serves on the Honorary Board of SNAP, works with Big Brothers/Big Sisters and for more than 20 years has taught free art classes to people who were HIV positive, living with AIDS and, now, people touched by breast cancer.

"When people do art, they are able to forget their illness for a little while. They experience healing and increased self-esteem,” Eisenhut said. "The world enlarges for them. They are able to get out of themselves, to focus on something else.”

Eisenhut’s weekly Pink Paint classes at Pink Ribbons Project in Rice Village paved the way for his latest gift of talent and time. On June 7, he will take part in a jointly-sponsored endeavor to provide clients with appointments at The Rose Galleria, a nonprofit breast cancer organization, the opportunity to “Create While You Wait.”

Pink Days at The Rose Galleria will ensure that individuals with appointments on the first Tuesday of each month from June through November have a creative outlet. Eisenhut is the first of a number of artists who will offer instruction on subjects such as painting, needlework, card- and jewelry-making.

“Kermit’s work is incredible,” said Pink Ribbons Project Survivor Founder Susan Rafte of Eisenhut’s prolific contributions to charity auctions. “I would bid on them and I always got outbid. Now his art decorates the walls as he teaches painting to survivors, friends, family – anyone who has been touched by breast cancer.”

Rafte, a soon-to-be 17-year-survivor of breast cancer, attributes much of her recovery to the arts. Raised in a family that appreciated all forms of art, she and her sister Jane Weiner dance. Pink Ribbons Project first manifestation was as a dancer-organized fundraiser in New York where Weiner was living at the time of Rafte’s diagnosis and treatment. That effort netted FDA approval for the drug Rafte would soon need to help prepare her for a stem cell transplant. Ultimately, Weiner relocated to Houston to be closer to Rafte and to launch the organization in its Texas’ expression

“The ‘aha’ moment for me,” said Rafte, “was when we brought Pink Ribbons Project to Houston and produced the first show. I was one of the dancers. Jane had initially danced to save my life and now I was dancing to save others.”

Noting that the arts encompass many different forms of creativity – dancing, writing, painting, cooking, etc. – Rafte underscores why Pink Ribbons Project continues to provide classes for experienced artists and those who “don’t yet know how to hold a brush.”

“When people understand art they can take it to the next level and see how art can help heal, help them work through things. Art separates us from where we are and allows us to open up and work through some of those really tough issues.”

Eisenhut can relate. His art career began after a back injury and classes at Houston Community College.

“My teacher encouraged me to get involved with the community,” said the now portrait artist, muralist, furniture artist, public art creator, philanthropist, teacher, and community leader. “I urge my students to do the same. Find something you’re passionate about and go for it!”

The Rose provides services at two centers and via mobile units for both the insured and the uninsured. The 25-year-old nonprofit relies on insured clients and fundraising to offset the costs of the screenings and diagnostic services for the uninsured. Pink Ribbons Project is covering the cost of any uninsured individual who visits The Rose Galleria on these Tuesdays. For those patients who must return for diagnostic services, Pink Ribbons Project will cover those costs as well.

For a complete list of Pink Days at The Rose Galleria activities, email kcampbell@therose.org. To book an appointment during the Pink Days at The Rose Galleria program, call 281.484.4708.
For more information, visit www.pinkribbons.org, www.KermitArt.com, and www.therose.org.
The Rose Galleria is located at 5420 West Loop South, Suite 3300, Bellaire.

Surfing the Edge ... Of a Tropical Storm-10 Years Later

2011-06-02T06:11:00.000-07:00

"It's easier to think outside the box when the box just washed away." And with that the staff of Union Baptist Association launched a "hands-on learning experience" we could have never imagined months before when we were reading about chaos theory and its implications on organizations. We actually found copies of the book "Surfing the Edge of Chaos" in the mud and sludge that was all that was left of our offices. Five feet of water had rushed through our building as a result of Tropical Storm Allison.

Ten years later, I'm no longer at UBA, but the memories of those days is made fresh as story after story of tornadoes and floods offers familiar pictures of wading through the aftermath.

After a quick goodbye to the kinds of things you display in an office -- most significant for me was the embroidered piece I had brought back from my first international trip in 1989 -- we set out to check on the more than 600 churches that make up the association. One of our consultants, whose post-seminary library of hundreds of books had been housed at the office -- is a weekend warrior around the house so he was in charge of getting the info about potential structural damage. We soon learned that if the water mark was rising on the sheet rock, the walls would have to be opened up and lots of repairs would be needed.

Armed with a meter to measure moisture, we visited congregations. I remember distinctly when a pastor stood in a humble but well-kept sanctuary, describing how they had brought in fans, mops and towels to soak up the water and hesitantly but hopeful, showed me the water line. With one look, after having made the same assessment several times during the days after the flood, I explained that they would have to cut into the walls. He didn't want to hear it. The church's budget was already stretched. I wanted desperately to be wrong. But I knew officials would be advising him to do the very same thing. The potential for mold was too high for the children who gathered there for after-school programs.

Weeks later, after more and similar encounters, writing story after story of what churches were doing to help their congregants, matching those with resources to those with need, revamping a website to become a resource center that we would later utilize for the Katrina response, I shuddered when an acquaintance commented during dinner conversation, "I don't really believe all the hype about the storm. No way that much damage was done. I know my neighborhood was barely touched."

Let's just say when the Spirit moved me in that instance, it was to head out of the room in order not to hurt anyone!

UBA moved into temporary offices that we used for a couple of years before relocating across the very same bayou that had swelled to the point of swallowing us during the storm. We came back to the neighborhood with a keen sense of awareness that (as chaos theory will attest) "every change changes everything". Innovative approaches to consulting, training, starting new churches were now somehow easier. No "boxes" allowed.

Once Upon a Weekend

2011-05-23T05:52:00.000-07:00

Friday: Massages by the pool with a friend, for a friend and her friends
Saturday: A massage for a client, Set up and then check in at rodeo committee's party, followed by a birthday party for a set of one-year-old twins, followed by a dinner out with friends and ending with dessert on the terrace of my friend's new house that has an incredible view of downtown
Sunday: on my bike at 7:30 a.m. checking in artists with Art Cars for the parade, then preparing lunch with my houseguest (co-founder of Sweet Notions), afterwards it was off to a baby shower, and finally registering guests at an Equality Texas fundraiser (outside ... by the pool ... in Houston's humidity)

So ....

In one weekend I played in the suburbs, downtown, on a "farm" and poolside.

In one weekend I encountered young stressed out moms in need of massage, artists, aging skaters who provide parade support, cowboys, advocates, about-to-be moms, sailors, pirates and princesses.

I've said it before and will repeat it till my happy ending ... You can't say my life is dull.

Second Best Was a First

2011-05-15T06:36:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me this week if I had ever failed at something I set my mind to accomplishing. I had an easy answer because I had recently reflected on that time in my life.

Less than a year ago, I was second best twice in a row. Not one, but two organizations, told me I was one of two candidates that had survived the interview process for positions I thought at the time that I wanted. Neither organization went with me.

Whew!

Had it not happened, I would not have experienced Friday. And Friday was a dream manifested:

-- I woke up in a home where I can easily host guests and have done so for the last three weeks.
-- I spent some time working on social media for my client that focuses on breast cancer, in the comfort of my jammies, on a lap desk one guest gave me, using wireless another guest set up
-- A quick trip on a beautiful Houston day to my new client's office, and I was reading about passionate people willing to give extra time and energy in collaborating on how to address health and human service issues in Texas
-- Had just enough time to get back to my house, fix a sandwich for my current guest (another client who falls into the REALLy nonprofit category at the moment and is looking for an apartment so she can be bivocational and make an impact on the lives of vulnerable women), and prep for my next appointment
-- Did a chair massage for a former colleague and caught up on how inspiring she can be as she takes a pragmatist's view of making a difference in the world (I currently write what I hope are inspiring stories for the group she's with)
-- Gathered my massage materials and after another couple of hours online, headed to a table massage for someone who works for yet another client (the group who wants to convert a food truck into a job development program)
-- Drove to a friend's new place and after helping with the unpacking and a bit of takeout, gave my final massage of the day ... a freebie because I love her, she's worked hard this week, and in the move, I inherited what was once her mom's round table and four chairs.

How does mental and physical work, bartered items, and the simple things of life equal a dream?

Last July, I left a world I KNEW was not for me. I failed to help larger nonprofit organizations see who I could be in their operations. And that's when I first dreamed the dream. What if I helped small nonprofits who can't afford development directors and full-time communications managers and supplemented my income with massage?

Ta-da! Dream, meet Friday! Friday, meet Dream!

And the beauty of this new encounter? Saturday just added more fuel to the inspirational fires as I set a volunteer gig for next weekend, volunteered at a food truck festival, and spent time laughing with friends around a table ladened with good food.

Perhaps when you're second, you try harder. I've no doubt that in my case, I live larger!

Newest feature story for The Rose by Yours Truly

2011-05-10T17:10:00.001-07:00

HOUSTON – More than 500 riders, volunteers, and supporters participated in the 3rd Annual Bikers Against Breast Cancer (BABC) record-setting ride Saturday, May 7. And at least one new rider plans to make it an annual event.

Debbie Stokes has arthritis, so she never considered a long ride an option. But as soon as she heard the BABC ride would be benefitting The Rose, she immediately signed up. According to Debbie, her daughter Elizabeth is alive today because of the breast cancer organization that provides services for the insured and uninsured.

At 21 years of age, Elizabeth found a lump during a routine breast self exam. The Liberty resident had learned about the importance of breast health care when she was 19 and a t-shirt attracted her to an educational booth at Houston’s annual Buzzfest concert. Since then, she’s taken care of herself and encouraged her friends to do so as well. However, as a young mother, she told herself the lump and her needs could wait and decided not to mention it to her doctor. Elizabeth’s father Larry had other plans.

Elizabeth’s aunt (Larry’s sister) is a 30-year survivor. He didn’t want his daughter taking any chances, so he applied a bit of paternal pressure. When Elizabeth went for her six-week checkup after having given birth to son Aiden, she mentioned the lump. Aware that she was uninsured, her doctor also knew of the services provided by The Rose and referred her for a screening. A mammogram, ultrasound, and a biopsy later, she got the news from Dr. Dixie Melillo, her physician and the Co-founder of The Rose.

She had breast cancer.

Both Elizabeth and Debbie thought of her own child when the report was received. Blue-eyed Aiden inspired Elizabeth. Debbie confesses her first thought was “Why not me?” and described the experience as “the hardest thing a parent can see her child go through.”

The Rose assisted Elizabeth in accessing the state-funded Medicaid Breast and Cervical Cancer Services Program. Soon she was insured and receiving aggressive rounds of chemotherapy at MD Anderson. She finished her last round March 7 and was pronounced cancer free on April 1.

“My mom never left my side,” the now 22-year-old Elizabeth reports.

“She kept telling me, ‘Failure is not an option,’” explained Debbie.

“I had an incentive – I wanted to watch my son grow up,” Elizabeth concluded.

Inspired by Elizabeth’s courage and tenacity, Debbie claimed her own victory when she completed the 45 miles on Saturday.

“I owe it to The Rose,” Debbie noted. “I wish I could do more. I tell everyone about what a great organization The Rose is, because, unfortunately, it’s still a secret to many.”

On top of caring for Elizabeth and helping out with her grandson, Debbie plans to continue to be a vocal advocate for The Rose and for young women not having to wait until they are 40 years of age to get coverage for mammograms.

Totals for the event are still being tallied, but 2011 BABC ride looks to be another record-breaking year. The event has grown from 125 bikes raising $10,000 in 2009 to this year’s estimated 391 riders and 85 ghost riders, raising nearly $50,000 for The Rose. A new opportunity called a “ghost rider” allowed for participation for those who would not be riding but who wanted to make a donation. In addition, more than 75 volunteers assisted with the registration, silent auction, and raffle.

“I applaud the incredible Bikers Against Breast Cancer Committee led by D’Etta Casto DeLeon for creating an outstanding event,” said Dorothy Gibbons, CEO and Co-founder of The Rose. “Looking over that sea of bikes was amazing. And I celebrated as stories were shared, tears were shed, and laughter and music made for a great day. There aren’t enough words to adequately thank the riders, committee, volunteers, and staff who made this fundraiser such a success.”

Bikers Against Breast Cancer launched in the Houston area in 2009. The committee consists of volunteers, assisted by The Rose staff. In its three-year history, BABC has raised a total of nearly $100,000 to benefit The Rose.

Celebrating the South -- Observations from a Wake

2011-04-01T17:21:00.000-07:00

Road tripping across Louisiana toward Texas, I reflected on the cast of characters that I had encountered the night before at a wake for the 92-year-old uncle of Roger, my best friend. One of the bonds between my friend and me is our roots in small town life. My hometown's population may be ten times his but from what I saw at this gathering (and during my previous visits, one at which we threw a birthday bash for the then 90-year-old uncle), the people are incredibly similar.

Which is why I knew when the man with the khaki pants, cotton shirt and aviator glasses (circa 1979) introduced himself as the husband of a cancer victim, my other friend Geary and I might be in for a lengthy chat. Really, those were his first words to us. His wife had been diagnosed with two different types over the years, and he had spent time helping her during her treatments but he had also been "blessed with the opportunity" to do missionary work in South Korea. He went into great detail about how the teams were set up, what years netted what results, his own success in leading others to Christ (even gave us the numbers but I don't quite remember those), how they have changed the length of their stays through the years and much, much more.

After smiling, nodding, sharing the occasional "hmmm" or "oh, wow" I realized he was going to keep going and going and going. So I finally interrupted to ask for a bathroom break.

"Is this your church?" I inquired. (Bad choice of wording when you are talking to a zealous man.)

"No ..." pausing for effect and looking at me with anticipation that I might know where he was going with his response. I did.

"I know it's God's but are you a member here?" I shifted the words and quickly added, "I need to know where the bathroom is."

He smiled and offered instructions. Not wanting to leave Geary alone for too long and anticipating that the progress of the conversation wasn't going to be shortened by my absence, I grabbed Roger's arm as I walked by, "Get him out of that NOW," I whispered.

When I returned, Roger was still engaged and wanted to introduce me to two teachers from his grade school days. "I'll be delighted to meet them in just a minute, but I'm not kidding, get Geary out of that situation."

Walking Geary over to ostensibly be introduced to the teachers as well, Roger gave us the connect-the-dots introduction of the women that Southerners typically do. I got their professional roles, their family ties, and their impact on Roger's life all in one paragraph. Meanwhile, I look to Geary, "I had a plan for getting you out of that so don't give me that look of abandonment," I cautioned.

"He wanted to know how many souls I'd led to Christ," Geary said. "I told him, 'none.'"

"What did he say to that?"

"That's when Roger pulled me away."

We finished up with the teachers and then Geary and I shifted to different corners of the fellowship hall watching the extended family ... well, fellowship! When the deceased is 92 and there's plenty of tuna fish sandwiches, bbq, chips, colas and homemade cakes and cookies, the night before the burial truly is a celebration of a life well-lived. I took my own personal delight in watching everyone's face as they tried to determine if we were Bumgardners, Badgelys or some other branch of the family tree.

Geary and I tried to do what we could for the family members we knew and beyond that tried to stay out of the way. While it was nice to take it down a notch and stop in at Roger's cousin and the deceased's daughter's house nearby, we were fading fast. The hours on the road on top of a few hours of work and then interacting with strangers was doing me in. Finally we headed to Roger's sister's house.

Roger has a large family and through the years, I've met them all but know some better than others. We had never stayed at Betty's house before. I was rather shocked that we were now.

Betty and her husband haven't always embraced the reality of her brother. Betty is rather fundamental in her faith. Roger is gay. She spent many years ignoring that fact and the fact that her son has had a partner for a decade at least. So when we took our rooms -- mine with beautiful lace and pillows and dolls and the boys' with photos around the room, I was shocked. Note .. the boys' room.

The next day we were greeted with coffee and a wonderful breakfast of biscuit, rolls, bacon and venison sausage. Afterwards, while Geary was outside taking photos, he was greeted with much more.

"Geary, I owe you an apology," Betty told him as he snapped away at the gorgeous azaleas in her yard. "I've not always been that nice to you."

Geary, in reporting this back to me later, said he paused and was about to deflect her statement when she added through tears, "But for you to drive so many hours to be with Roger and his family, well that says so very much."

Geary thanked her and reminded her that we all love in different ways and we need only love each other as best we can.

The drive back -- which was filled with dogwood sightings and tons more azaleas -- gave me time to reflect on these two wake encounters.

And I'm pretty sure ... Geary's sacrifice of time, gas money, and energy was every bit as strong a witness as our missionary friend's many, many encounters along the Roman Road in South Korea.

Do I hear a hallelujah out there somewhere?

Another press release from the desk of KC

2011-02-28T05:24:00.000-08:00

HOUSTON -- When Jenny Mikyong Paek was referred by Hope Clinic for a breast cancer screening in July 2006, she took her first step in a life-saving journey. Fortunately for the Korean-born businesswoman and mother of two adult daughters, the journey came with a guide – The Rose.

The Rose is Houston’s leading non-profit breast cancer organization, offering a full range of breast cancer screening and diagnostic services including mammograms, ultrasounds, biopsies, breast specific gamma imaging and access to treatment. Annual gifts from customers and associates of Randalls totaling more than $1.5 million have made possible the continuing availability of Mobile Mammography Units. In fact, Randalls support provided for the purchase of the mobile unit on which Paek had her initial screening.

Paek’s introduction to the need for screenings translated into annual appointments – first at The Rose Southeast location and then last year closer to her home at The Rose Galleria. In late 2009, breast cancer was detected. Navigators from The Rose then helped her find the care she needed for her mastectomy in January 2010.

A 37-year resident of Houston, Paek speaks fluent English but is reticent to use her language skills until the subject turns to cancer. When asked to be on hand as a representative of the many individuals who have benefitted from the mobile mammography unit, she readily accepted. And she is bold when it comes to sharing her experience with friends and family.

“I talk to them and tell them they need regular checkups,” Paek explained. “I tell my friends who are over 40 years old to get a mammogram because it makes sense. It’s prevention!”

When Paul McTavish, President of Randalls Food Markets, made the 2011 check presentation for $225,000 to Dorothy Gibbons, Chief Executive Officer and Co-founder of The Rose, Paek was present. The mobile mammography unit was also in operation providing screenings for employees of Randalls.

“Randalls is honored to be a partner with The Rose and to sponsor the mobile mammography unit which takes this vital screening service out into the community,” said McTavish.

The gift comes from contributions made by customers and associates of Randalls during the annual October in-store Breast Cancer Campaign. Thirty-six Houston area Randalls locations participated.

“In difficult economic times, the large amount of monies raised -- which provide access to screenings for women who usually do not have such ease of access -- is especially noteworthy,” said Gibbons. “We are grateful to Randalls for continuing to remember that ease of access can save lives.”

Randalls’ previous gifts made possible the purchase of 1 of the 2 mobile units currently deployed to corporations, organizations, churches and clinics in Houston and 11 surrounding counties.

In fiscal year 2010, the Mobile Program traveled to 202 different sites for a total of 410 site visits, serving 5,679 women – more than 66% of whom were uninsured – across 11 counties.

Randalls is a division of Safeway Inc., a Fortune 100 company and one of the largest food and drug retailers in North America based on sales.

Been Writing ... Just Not Here

2011-02-22T05:39:00.000-08:00

In case you're wondering why I haven't been writing lately, I have! The writing I'm doing at the moment is for clients. I have six groups with whom I work -- ranging from nutritional supplements for people with AIDS, to social enterprise working with human trafficking, to an association of churches and my biggie which is all about breast health!

UBA is where I worked once upon a time when I was a bit more traditional. Here are a couple of links to stories I just finished for them: http://ubahouston.org/629238.ihtml and
http://ubahouston.org/629540.ihtml. I also have one in the wings about a man who has proven to be about faith and ministry rather than fame and millions. It's the next blog entry.

I meet lots of great people when I write features and the blog entry after the one on Pastor J is the feature I did on a 12-year-old who could teach us all a thing or two!

"Consistency” – A Watchword in Urban Ministry*

2011-02-22T05:36:00.000-08:00

Pastor Jesse Shelton, or Pastor J, as he is known in a neighborhood rife with drug dealers and prostitutes, planned on planting a church in Clear Lake. But prayers for an evangelistic outreach led him to one of the lowest income areas of the state -- zip code 77078 -- what some refer to as “The Hole,” off of Mesa and Sterlingshire. Five minutes from North Forest High School, this mixed neighborhood of houses and apartments reveals an exceedingly high number of dropouts and teen pregnancy.

Faithful to his understanding of the biblical mandate to “make disciples,” Pastor J heeded the call and began to make his presence known. Every day.

Since 2007, he and usually 2-3 from that initial prayer group, make the drive of more than 30 minutes. They walk the neighborhood, greeting people whose usual menacing presence is somehow softened at the sight of these faithful believers who have proven they simply want to make Christ known.

“The people love us,” the pastor explained. “The people protect us. We’ve developed relationships with some of the most hard core. Even the people who don’t come respect us. I can leave my car doors open.
“Consistency is the main thing. It wouldn’t be safe if we were only going once a month or once a week. They know we’re committed.”
Ministry looks the same here as in many other areas of the city. Time spent throwing a ball around with youth. Prayer. Small group gatherings in homes to search the Scripture and equip new believers to stand strong and reach their sphere of influence. Baptisms.

But the faces of those attending The Walk Church reflect a deep knowledge of transformation from the inside out. From a life of drugs, they have found freedom.

Calvin, known to the group and the neighborhood as Spider, was the first person of peace God used to open doors. Initially, the group used another church’s facility but soon discovered an apartment’s community center and resident’s house were more conducive to their desire to have a consistent presence among the people.

That consistency is key to helping Pastor J deal with the realities ministering in such a drug ravaged area. Though Spider returned to drugs, Linda soon took his place. Delivered from her own dependency, she now reaches out to her family, neighbors, and her former dealers.

“We like to call her house Solomon’s Porch,” said Pastor J. “We use her house to store our speakers, a freezer of food and our baptism pool. She has become a person of peace on a level I can’t even begin to explain.”

Acknowledging that it is discouraging to see someone like Spider fall, Pastor J, a husband and father of four ages 2-7, returns to that consistency that is a mark of his ministry.

“They are just like family. So, yes, it’s painful for him to get to the point where he didn’t recognize us anymore. But the good thing is that his family still comes – children, mother, brother, and one of his best friends, Skyler, a drug dealer, who has given up all of that and is with us every single day and is in the word. It hurts but we understand that it does happen. Even though he looks at us as the enemy, we still show our face to him.”

Recently, the Baptist Standard highlighted a particular September day when a planned baptism of three believers spontaneously grew to an immersion of more than 40 individuals. < http://www.baptiststandard.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=12108&Itemid=53>

“Some of them are still with us,” said Pastor J of those who were led to act on faith that day. “And some came a couple of times and didn’t continue.”

For those who remain, the discipleship continues. With a core group of about 15 meeting weekly, the daily bible studies with two to three can last hours.

With a background in video production, Pastor J is currently working on a documentary of stories told by the people he encounters every day. By sharing their words on the Internet as well as on a DVD accompanying a book he’s completed on urban ministry – he wants to send the message to others that “there’s hope, deliverance. Lot of the testimonies are crying out for the churches to come. They are afraid to go to church. They think they will be judged by their appearance.”
When asked what the church outside The Hole can do to respond, Pastor J returned to what led him to the ministry that captured his heart in the beginning. Prayer.

“We always include in our prayers that God would send workers for the harvest. We need leaders out of the community. Please pray.” Pastor J said.

*Feature written for UBA, an association of more than 600 churches in Houston area

Bram Lowenstein, 12, Launches Mimi's Wigs to Benefit Breast Cancer Survivors*

2011-02-22T05:04:00.000-08:00

BELLAIRE, TX -- For most of Bram Lowenstein’s life, his grandmother Carole Betty Bercutt, or “Mimi” as he knew her, greeted him wearing a wig. When she died in November 2010 after a decade of living with breast cancer, the 12-year-old Bellaire resident wanted to remember her in a special way.

Mimi’s Wigs was birthed as a service project for Bram’s bar mitzvah. The wigs she had left behind and ones he gathered through donations and purchases became the start of a program to benefit others going through treatment. In February, Bram donated 23 wigs to The Rose, Houston’s leading nonprofit breast cancer organization. According to Bram, that’s just the beginning.

“I know that I want to keep expanding on this project. I will keep collecting wigs and donating them because there are a lot of people who are in need of them, who want to wear a hair piece when they go outside, play with their kids, or be with their families. I like this project,” the seventh grader said during the wig presentation to members of The Rose staff. The presentation included a check from his family to cover the cost of even more wigs.

The Rose offers a full range of breast cancer screening and diagnostic services to both insured and uninsured women. The donated wigs will be offered at no cost to uninsured women going through treatment.

Receiving the donation, Chief Operating Officer Bernice Joseph expressed The Rose’s gratitude, “We want to thank you for your generosity and for your ingenuity. Every time someone as young as you starts thinking about giving back, it’s the beginning of a consciousness that grows and leads us all to a better place. There are so many women we treat who cannot afford a wig. Their lives will be changed,” she said.

Attending the presentation were Bram’s mother, Pam Bercutt; father, Glenn Lowenstein; grandfather, Henry Bercutt; and brother, Coby, whose baseball teammate is the son of Dr. Daniel Roubein, the radiologist at The Rose Galleria and a resident of Bellaire.

Dr. Roubein reflected on his personal connection to the family as he addressed Bram on the day of the donation, “You’re doing something with a project that’s original. The fact you want to continue doing the project is meaningful, because you’re not going to know the people these wigs go to. That’s a high form of charity.”

Bram, a student at The Emery/Weiner School, has plans to start a website to encourage others to contribute to Mimi’s Wigs. For more information or to make a donation, contact The Rose at 281.484.4708.

The Rose provides screening, diagnostics, and access to treatment for all women regardless of their ability to pay. The Rose Galleria is located at 5420 West Loop South, Suite 3300. The Rose Southwest is located at 12700 N. Featherwood. For more information, visit www.TheRose.org.

*Feature story sent to several local media outlets and on Notes of Facebook page for The Rose, a non-profit breast cancer organization.

Two Forward One Back

2011-02-09T18:09:00.000-08:00

The visionary life takes you from "Start" to "Can't-wait-to-finish" at record speed. You see. You want. You make it happen.

Reality ... not so much.

The visionary life has me thinking "Why can't I support nonprofits with my communication skills, allowing those who can pay to fund my life needs while those who can't teach me new lessons? Why can't I do massage and fill in the financial gaps left by the nonprofits? Of course, I can ... and in fact I will!"

Reality ... shows me that people are people and nonprofits have their fair share of cynics and those quick to assumptions and judgement, as well as the sacrificial almost-martyrs who are mostly living on passion. Reality also includes ice storms that cancel last classes, full schedules for state testing sites, and only so many hours in the day to accomplish the endless needs of entities desperate for comfort and/or funding.

Much like the other day when I wanted to simply make a home cooked meal. But first I had to deal with the smoking oven. Then I had to clean the smoking oven. Then I had to prep the vegs. And, finally, I got to roast them.

Two steps forward, one step back. I'm moving ahead but patience must be a companion on this journey.

Taking Stock

2011-01-24T19:13:00.000-08:00

-Two feature stories a month for UBA's website
-Helping get a concession stand converted into a food truck for Mission Houston
-Working behind the counter a few weeks and serving as team captain for the Houston Buyers Club AIDS Walk team
-Increasing the number of insured women who receive mammograms at The Rose Galleria, a local center with 25 years of serving the insured, underinsured and uninsured
-Serving as storyteller and occasional editor for Matryoshka Haus, a resource reservoir for social enterprises

And massages.

As of Feb. 5, these are the days of my life. I could use one more gig that pays but overall, I'm thrilled that the dream is about to become reality.

This is getting old ... but I can give a good massage!

2011-01-17T11:48:00.000-08:00

One classmate is a expert at needlework and is working a new pattern. Another colors pictures ... from a coloring book. One took a nap under the table. Another is reading a book.

Such is life in the classroom in the last semester of massage class.

I alternate between trying to write, reading my emails, and playing spider solitaire.

What's the instructor doing? you might ask.

Well, we don't start until 9:15 a.m. Roll call taking such a very long time when you have 19 students (and yes, my tongue is firmly planted in my cheek). Next we review the muscles we "learned" the day before. In actuality, he reminds us what he told us to underline the day before because they are the EXACT things that are on the quiz. Then we take a break. After, we read about more muscles and underline more portions of the text. With such a taxing schedule we are now ready for the hour and a half lunch period.

Returning from lunch we wait for everyone to arrive. That's another 15-20 minutes. We then take the test on anatomy. Of course, that's ONLY AFTER we've reviewed. And what is the review of? Were you listening? That's right -- the exact questions that will be on the quiz. We take that quiz, read the next section of anatomy, underline, and at that point it's 2:30 or 3 p.m. and wow ... that was such a full day we now just ... sit.

Or do needlework, color, nap, or read.

I'm looking at three more weeks of this.

Can you say, ARGH?

Another Day in the New Life of Me

2011-01-09T19:31:00.000-08:00

Spent the day counting nutritional supplements and healthy options for everything from hand creams and shampoos to power bars and energy drinks.

Then set up an AIDS Walk Houston page for the Houston Buyers Club (where I was doing all that counting).

Came home and read the incredible tale of the young man who worked with Congresswoman Giffords before trained medical assistance could arrive. I began to cry as I thought of all the interns and staffers I've worked with and how every one of them had equal degrees of passion, intelligence and courage.

So when I opened the door to my two expected guests, I was in tears. I then explained why and proceeded to (a) try to stretch and knead a constricted neck muscle on my friend, then (b) give her daughter her third-ever massage.

After, I received a text message from the friend which I will treasure forever: "I hope someone says about me what my daughter said about you, 'I felt like I was her friend after 5 minutes in her home.' (Emphasis on the 'I'.)"

Today was the day I've been working toward for the last several months ... non-profits, caring people, addressing pains, providing pleasure.

Ahhhhh . . . I think I'll sleep well tonight.

A Dark Day

2011-01-08T20:19:00.000-08:00

If I were in a relationship, today would be the kind of day I'd call and ask him to come over and hold me for a while.

Mid-afternoon, Facebook activity increased. The word at the time was that a Congresswoman had been killed. Later we learned that while Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head, she was actually alive. As of this evening as I'm typing, we're told six people were killed.

Among them are a 9-year-old girl who recently had been elected to her school's student council, a federal judge and one of Giffords' aides -- Gabe Zimmerman, her community outreach director who was engaged to be married.

Every loss today was senseless. Every life should be recognized and treasured. But I was particularly moved at the thought of Zimmerman.

As a former staffer for a state representative who organized plenty of town hall gatherings like the one that was scheduled for today, I could identify with his last moments. I know what it's like to get somewhere early, make sure the staging is set, greet the representative, ensure she has all she needs to be comfortable and then stay on the edge of activity, alert to who shows up, who looks friendly, and who might be trouble. Never did I ever think I would have to scan the crowd for a shooter. We did hire security on a couple of occasions but it was more for crowd control than actual fear of violence.

I have met so many young men like Gabe, believers who want to make a difference, who dedicate hours upon hours for little monetary reward, and who have so much potential you can almost see their future office-holding in their eyes. No one should die at the hand of a crazed gunman. Knowing just a little bit about one who has makes the loss so much more real.

I don't have a pithy comment about the U.S., about the demise of social decorum, or about how one side or the other might have brought this on. I have no clue why things like this happen or how we can keep it from happening again.

What I do have is a great sense of the void widening today. Dark, deep and wide it's kinda scary. And I could use a hug.

In one day ...

2011-01-04T17:52:00.000-08:00

-- Got a great email from a friend who reads this blog and likes it. Since she's a published writer, I was incredibly moved.
-- Had lunch with a friend who runs a coalition of organizations that focus on health and human services as well as education and after bemoaning how bad it's going to be for them in the 82nd Legislative Session, we mapped out what could be an education/awareness gig for me.
-- Opened a reply from a non-profit providing mammograms and breast cancer awareness for uninsured and undrerinsured that was advertising for a full-time communications person but was open to a part-timer with 25 years experience (that would be me) and have set up an interview on Thursday.
-- Connected with my client based in London but who is now in Alaska visiting her ailing mom and made plans for a communications overhaul
-- Remembered why I love my life . . .

Creating new habits

2010-12-31T07:33:00.000-08:00

I needed a bit of inspiration this morning. This week has been rough -- saw the reality of aging parents and the stupidity of hospital systems seemingly absent of both heart and mind plus got the news that my streak of being great at relationship building continues. The man I dated for a couple of years is now engaged. Since the last man I dated became engaged after we were a couple I'm thinking I may need to get the word out that if a man wants to marry he should date me first. I'm guaranteed gold in the "ring-on-someone-else's-finger" department. That way I would have a few dates and marriage stats would go up significantly.

My problem is that I couldn't quite figure how to launch a new blog entry that didn't sound like a bitter woman making light of her romantic woes. I'm not bitter but readers can't see me smiling as I type. I'm actually quite happy for the new couple. They are both getting what they wanted. And, since I didn't want to get married again, so am I.

That's why I went exploring. I googled "best blogs of 2010" and found Time's list. That took me to zenhabits.net. I think I'm going to like this one. I had to laugh though when I saw that while the writer emphasizes minimalism he still wrote that his blog had "helped the minimalist movement grow by leaps and bounds." Does anyone else see the humor? Wouldn't a "growing minimalist movement" be an oxymoron?

I checked out a few others on the list and discovered everything from tech toys to failures has a blog about it. Since I'm streamlining my purchases and giving up the daily paper, I bookmarked several options to check out.

Encouraging creativity in others is easy for me. I am passionate about creating and love to help others do so. Sometimes, though, I get stuck. Since I've been feeling a bit mired in the last year, I'm glad to be shedding baggage, looking around, and staying alert while waiting for the next big thing.

Perhaps I'll pick up a few zen habits of my own to blog about.

Doc

2010-12-28T19:45:00.000-08:00

My stepfather spent many decades as the town doctor. He was known for his ability to diagnose a problem. He also was recognized as one who would refer a patient elsewhere if he thought he lacked the needed expertise. I came into the world in the operating room of the four-bed clinic where my mother usually served as his nurse. After his wife died of cancer, they married and will celebrate a silver anniversary in 2011.

At least I hope they will.

Doc has been on dialysis for three years. He claimed 86 years of life on Christmas Eve but he wasn't celebrating much. He's got heart problems, prostate cancer, something's been wrong with his esophagus for years, his blood is thin and he's constantly "leaking" somewhere so that frequent transfusions are necessary.

Today as we struggled with getting him ready for a visit to the ER after a night of vomiting and diarrhea I was reminded of the portrait of Dorian Grey. Instead of age and past sins being visited upon a painting of himself, I visualized that all the diagnoses that he was famous for were somehow now manifesting themselves in his body.

I didn't cry then though. Nor did I at the thought of the indignities the sick and aging must endure such as Doc giving up a penchant for always wearing dress slacks and suspenders because sweats would make it easier to get to the bathroom. Or the independence ... like when, over expressed objections, others tell you that no matter what you have to go to the hospital to restore the fluids you lost.

Watching him moan in the van beside me as I drove he and my mother to the ER, seeing him clutch the bucket in his good hand in case he felt nauseous once again, wheeling him into the waiting area in a wheel chair ... these didn't prompt the flood gates.

It was walking away. After he was moved to a larger hospital, secured in ICU, color returning, and complaining about the order that would net him no food until the morning, I began to feel the weight of it all. As I exited the building with my mother safely tucked away in the family waiting/sleeping lounge and him monitored to the hilt, I cried.

Being the long-distance daughter has never been an issue for me or my mother. I think she reveled in my freedom and celebrated all my unorthodox choices as small victories of her own. But tonight when I hugged her small frame goodbye, I felt the magnitude of those miles. While tomorrow I will board a plane and return to Houston, she will be there, beside him, and still in the midst of his continuing and daily transformation from doctor to patient. In that hug, I traded places with her. I wasn't the little girl any more and she felt frail. She was tiny in my arms and the forces engulfing us both were so beyond our control that while I felt larger than life holding on to her, I knew we were too weak to stop the inevitable.

As soon as my eyes welled up, I walked away and reached out to friends and family. Thanking God for them, I updated each on Doc's status and asked for prayers. Of course, they quickly came.

Now, I'm waiting for life to go back to "normal." Yet, I know I passed through that door at the beginning of this trip. Those days of "normal" will never again exist because I've seen up close what day to day "life" is for Mom and Doc.

I'm sure I'll be back this way very soon.

Feliz Navidad and Other Airport Adventures

2010-12-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

When the news reported the security delays, weather delays, and holiday delays for flights, I determined that I would lessen my stress by getting to the airport in plenty of time. I figured that if I allowed an hour or more to make the 45 min trip to IAH, an hour to get through ticketing and security, I'd still have 90 min or more to grab a bite and read a book before boarding.

The drive took only 30 minutes. I got my bag checked and was through security in less than 10 minutes. When I was on the "other side" and finished with all my responsibilities, I was three hours early. One half-cooked personal deep dish pizza later, I was 2 hours and 45 minutes early.

So rather than bury myself in my book, I thought I'd see what living in the moment would net me.

Settling in a seat near my future gate, I watched the crowd. Parents were desperately trying to subdue children under the influence of Christmas candy and visions of Santa dancing in their heads. Weary souls seemed desperate to become under the influence with the next drink or two. Santa hats were askew. Teenagers were texting, listening to Ipods, and chatting live and in person all at the same time.

Soon a nice looking white haired man a few years my senior and casually well dressed motioned to the seat beside me. Attempting to not only let him know that it was available but also that I was not opposed to conversation, I nodded and replied, "Sure but I hope your pizza is better than the one I just had ..."

Before I completely finished the thought, he interrupted, "No English."

Hmmmm ... thinking that this revelation would test my in-the-moment-making skills, I asked, "Lingua?"

"Italiano or spana," he replied.

"Lo siento, me espanol is muy mal," I apologized for my lack of vast knowledge of his second language and indicated that I knew nothing of his first.

Then he told me in Spanish that I was doing fine, he was going to visit his daughter, his son lives in Chicago, and would I like a slice of pizza?

I asked in very broken Spanish if he was an abuelo (grandfather) and he feigned great shock that I would think so and declared this to be a complete falsehood. We laughed and chatted just a bit more about where I learned Spanish and whether he was on time and in the right location for his flight.

I assured him he had at least 20 minutes and then two minutes later they began a rush boarding of his plane.

"Ahora!" I pointed at the line and began to help him gather his things. He struggled with closing the pizza box and then stood searching the area and looking as though he thought he were forgetting something.

Suddenly, he looked at me, bent down, exclaimed, "Ciao!" and planted a kiss on me with more gusto than I've experienced in a while.

"Feliz Navidad!" I said with a smile.

"Feliz Navidad!" he shouted and was off.

And so goes the story of my Christmas kiss.

Enflamed by the sweetness of his gesture, I determined that I should reach out to a few other folks who by virtue of a recent loss could possibly be dreading the holidays. I called each one and either left a message or had an incredibly sweet conversation with each. One chat lasted 45 minutes! When it was all said and done my experiment of "the moment" had totaled several great conversations, touching texts, and numerous smiles as I determinedly walked the concourse with a grin and made the effort to actually make eye contact with my fellow travelers.

Now that's a secure way to beat the holiday stress blues!

Feliz Navidad indeed!

Shy Moon and a Heat Wave on the Winter Solstice

2010-12-21T05:59:00.000-08:00

Never one to embrace "normal", Texas maintains its independent spirit on this first day of winter. The forecast suggests we're heading for a frosty 82 degrees today. Brrr ... may need to take a coverup for my swimsuit today as we "study" hydrotherapy at massage school.

A quick review of Facebook updates reveals that our perspective on the lunar eclipse last night was stymied by clouds. However, a few patient and sleep-deprived souls did report capturing a glimpse of the real thing.

I was playing hostess to Stan and Roger with a "cleaning-out-the-fridge-before-traveling" meal when the two community college instructors determined that with no school today they would head out of the city lights in order to catch a better view of the lunar activity. Passing, due to the actual strain a day of reading a textbook aloud can create, I packed up to-go bags and sent them on their way.

When I discovered the fact that their efforts may have been hindered, I was sad. I was counting on living vicariously through their playfulness today.

Educationally speaking, the presentation of the curriculum for my massage class is less than stimulating. I'm trying to hold on to as many story threads as I can so that I can entertain myself during the agonizing ordeal of poor teaching practices.

Today I'm going to ponder a shy dark moon, a balmy winter day, and friends over 50 who still have the spirit of adventure.

REK -- Another Texas Phenom

2010-12-19T10:07:00.000-08:00

I know of Robert Earl Keen's persona more than I know his music. Poet/storyteller backed by a steel guitar and a steady beat, he's a Texas singer/songwriter. And with a couple of decades in the business, he more than earned the right to move beyond beer soaked stages at dimly lit honky tonks to the likes of the Verizon Theater in downtown Houston where I saw him last night with a few hundred of his closest friends.

'Course after an evening of hearing his work up close and personal, I wondered if he's not just as comfortable in some New Mexican cantina than in the well-lit venue (save for the shadow falling on his face due to the large cowboy hat) with the great sound. After he used the signage of a Idaho motel to pen one of his numbers and with topics ranging from the ghostly visitations of Hank Williams to a dysfunctional family Christmas, I was fairly convinced he didn't care where he was as long as he got to recreate his musical characters on a regular basis.

The crowd knew his music by heart. I relied on the good sound system and leaning toward my friend and one of the legion of his fans to ask, "What did he say?" But one line was crystal clear and took my breath with its purity and clarity:

"Feels so good feeling good again . . . "

Yeah.

I'm not sure if such a statement is wasted on the young. They may simply equate it with the day after the morning after. But for me and mine, the line holds the truth behind letting go of years of stress and strain, of releasing one's worries about what other people think, of living in the simple reality that everything isn't necessary and enough is truly enough.

Listening to an artist practicing his craft is just one more means of my own "feeling good again." So glad I did.

Chronicling

2010-12-16T22:28:00.000-08:00

I probably should have seen The Heidi Chronicles by now. As a woman sometimes called a "feminist", I find it hard to believe I haven't. I know that I at least thought about seeing it when the playwright Wendy Wasserstein died in 2006. But good intentions didn't purchase the ticket so I have been ignorant lo these many years.

Until tonight.

One of the smaller but nevertheless very substantial theaters in town is presenting it. Roger invited me to go and, never one to turn down a free night at the theater, I said yes.

As we journeyed back in time with this product of the 50s whose consciousness was raised in the 60s and who began to wonder about her choices in the 70s only to realize her unhappiness in the 80s I alternated between feeling somewhat cheated to great relief and finally deep satisfaction.

When I heard the dialogue between the women who were discovering their voices and shouting with great passion and solidarity at the obstacles in their path, I wanted to have been there, to have participated in something other than a small town's attempt at disco fever as I did in my formative years. But when the conversations of "what if" turned into "what else" and a whining quality crept in, I was pleased to have skipped that level of angst. Finally, when our heroine discovers that she may be living into the heroine of the 21st century as she coos at her newly adopted daughter, I found my ahhhhh.

For I truly am satisfied. I don't live in regret. I celebrate who I am and am ok with not having done what was socially prescribed for a woman of my age during the various decades of my evolution. Choices -- both those that were thoughtful and based in compassion as well as those that were selfish and could have caused pain -- have made me ... well, me. And I hold no sadness that I am somehow not what I set out to be. Having never had the capacity to dream bigger than my reality, I'm thrilled with what's happened to me thus far and anticipate what's next with almost a giddiness.

Seeing it with my dear friend made the play that much more meaningful. Heidi has her doctor and I have my Roger. When we exited the theater, I told him I would have to wait a few moments to say something because I knew when I started to speak I'd cry (as I had done numerous times in the play) and didn't want to be seen sobbing as we walked to the car. I finally found my words when I told him, "Seeing plays like this -- it's a play from the 80s, so someone has to have AIDS -- reminds me that I am so fortunate to have encountered the gay world after the decade that took so many. I am selfish and I can't imagine losing any of 'my boys.'" Having just heard one friend speak of that time as he told of going from six parties in one week to going to six funerals in one week, I hold close the fact that while some friends are positive (though actually very few) and deal with medications that are sometimes horrific, they are still here. They are alive and bring life to my world.

Also, seeing it with Roger was significant in that as I have reflected of late on my lack of a love life, I could honestly tell him that because of him, Stan, Geary, Jerry, Shane, and others I know I will never be lonely. I may be alone, but not lonely.

So now I'm glad to say I have seen The Heidi Chronicles but not lived it. My march may lack some of their fury but it is no less significant. And while I am grateful for the doors they broke down, the ceilings they crashed through, and the paths they forged, I am no slouch. I revel in being present with young women today, answering their questions when they arise, sharing a story or two when appropriate and listening.

The Karen Chronicles continue...

Let's Talk About Men

2010-12-15T12:03:00.000-08:00

I used to offer a workshop on how men and women communicate differently. Given that I worked for a woman's organization with over a million members and most of them worked with pastors, the majority of which were male, that made for a popular topic. Rather than use the pop take of the time that "men were from Mars and women from Venus", I pulled from Deborah Tannen's linguistic studies about communication differences between genders.

For instance, her research showed an inordinate use of the phrase "I'm sorry" when females were speaking. The key is that while women sometimes used the phrase as a filler as in ... "I'm sorry. Since you were late we started without you but you can catch up during the break" was often consider a sign of weakness on the part of a female leader of a meeting. The speaker may not have felt any responsibility at all for her choice to move forward, in fact, usually didn't. The apologetic greeting was simply a way of softening the blow of what could have been seen as a reprimand. However, men often heard weakness rather than control and strength.

I'll never forget the time I taught the workshop and a woman well past 70 years of age walked up to me and said, "Thank you." Thinking I'd given her the key to work with her pastor, I said, "I hoped it helped." She responded, "Oh my, yes, after 55 years of marriage I finally get my husband!"

I bring this male/female difference to your attention because as I think about the men in my life I truly am sorry. I'm sorry that I have sometimes chosen men who I thought accepted me for me -- when in fact they accepted me for the moment. When "me" showed up with all my loyalties, passions, and diverse viewpoints, they ran. I'm sorry that I settle when it comes to male companionship. And most of all, I'm sorry that I don't always know how to reveal how much I appreciate the men who stick by me, no matter what.

"No matter what" can mean a lot of things. Divorce is probably the furtherest end of the spectrum. And yet, my ex-husband recently and absolutely showed why I had good taste in men once upon a time. He, who is from Houston and now lives in my home state of Tennessee, drove 2.5 hours with his preschooler son to visit my mother and ailing stepfather in Greenfield. He did so because he had learned of Doc's illness and wanted to check in on them. After asking me in brief emails as to whether it would be ok and receiving the needed contact info, he made the journey.

My mother fell in love. I have no idea what she and my ex may have discussed but after checking in with her I can tell you in detail what she and the curious but respectful preschooler did for the length of the visit. She went on and on about his enthusiasm for her Christmas Village (wall to wall display cases filled with replicas of the perfect little snow-covered wonderland), his gratitude for the books she gave him, and his desire to stay with "Miss Margarett" when his father said it was time to go.

I'm not writing this piece with any kind of regret. I know that my ex is in a better place as the result of the fact that he's with a woman who can be who he needs her to be in ways I could not. I also know that I am in a place of wonderment and excitement that probably wouldn't have been possible had we tried to endure. But I am absolutely filled to the brim and possibly running over with gratitude that this man was part of my life, helped to shape me into who I am, and is proving to be the minister he always wanted to be.

I know in one long car ride he proved it to me. Ministry isn't about sermons, graveside prayers, and great programs. Ministry is reaching out to people who need you and providing at least a moment's relief.

I get that on a regular basis from the male friends in my life who check in with me, have dinner with me, make sure I get out to as many fun events as we can endure, and overall provide me with a male perspective that a single woman could sometimes lack. And this week I also got it from my ex.

I thank God for the men in my life.

Another Day in the Life of a Food Truck

2010-12-11T07:21:00.000-08:00

The roads were rough ... the higher than average number of potholes suggested that pull with the city wasn't something anyone really pursued in this area of town. The failing economy was also evident as many of the warehouses were obviously unused and tagged with graffiti. Once upon a time, the number of wandering homeless folks and street corner deals going down would have been enough to turn the VW around and head for home.

But I was on a mission!

A local non-profit wanted and received a donated beginning to what they hoped would be an income-generating enterprise for the impoverished area of Houston they serve. In their dreams, a former high school concession stand would be transformed into a taqueria or food truck and women from the neighborhood would learn good business practices and earn cash for their families. While the dream became reality in the initial gift of the trailer, the transformation process was taking a while as the non-profit's staff was consumed with their ongoing activities that reach more than 80,000 annually.

Enter me.

After discovering that I was looking for additional income while going to massage school, the director contacted me about serving as a project manager. The gig sounded interesting and I love it when handouts are put aside in lieu of hand ups. So I committed to learning what I could about city requirements, food services, and refurbishing.

Since food trucks are an emerging trend in Houston, I was able to connect to some of my network and discover one of the best and most reliable groups working on transforming old U-hauls and buses into restaurants on wheels. Hence my journey into the land of the not-so-easy-to-find.

As soon as I pulled up in front of the building my concerns about locale vanished. Yes, the street number was haphazardly spray painted on the wall of the metal warehouse. Yes, there were numerous large trucks parked on the street and in front of the only entrance I could find. But there was also a vibe. I heard the radio blaring music from Mexico. I saw three young men on top of a truck working with more enthusiasm and fervor than anyone I'd witnessed in a while. As soon as they saw me, smiles broke out, then words of welcome and offers of help. When I asked for Daniel, they ensured he was on his way.

Daniel is originally from Mexico and came to Houston by way of California. He's the better English speaker of the two brothers who run the shop. Inside the warehouse that day were as many as 9 or 10 trucks in process. The place was orderly and running with the smoothness of a fine automobile. Added to the men on top of the first truck were guys working in one area with sheet metal and men in the back dealing with plans. Efficiency and cleanliness were evident at every turn.

As I drove Daniel to the location where the trailer is currently parked, I explained the non-profit's dream and what we'd done to date. He said little except to inform or correct me about city ordinances. When we arrived at the Center ten minutes later, he quickly set to the task of assessing our situation.

A few minutes passed with him using his measuring tape and crawling under cabinets and then he emerged with a bid at least one fourth less than the first quote I received. He acknowledged that it was only his best guess and vowed to get to work as soon as possible on a pen to paper version.

I dove him back to his facility and along the way was impressed with not only his knowledge but his respect for the non-profit's plans. He knew the value of giving people an opportunity.

I want to call the truck Salud! but since it's a word used for toasts and the non-profit is a religious group, I'm doubting we'll go there. But I think it's fitting. Daniel and his brother have found and offer opportunities for financial health regularly. We want this truck to offer good Mexican (not fatty TexMex) options and we want the staff to enjoy such monetary gain as well. Even if we don't name it "to your health," in my heart I'll know that's it's true identity.

Coaching Beyond the Finish Line

2010-12-07T05:52:00.000-08:00

To inspire others, to live with such authenticity that people trust without question your words and seek your guidance, to move people beyond perceived limits ... these traits of a leader are personified in an amazing story populating headlines and newscasts last week.

Some stories get me teary. Some make me sob. Guess which response this prompted ...

Moaners, Groaners, Boners and Stoners

2010-12-06T06:27:00.000-08:00

We've got quite a cast of characters in this theater of the absurd known as massage. I've mentioned before that the intern massage room is a large space divided into smaller ones with a series of curtains on rings. The two most frequent sounds I hear are the rattle of the rings (sort of like a massive zipper effect) as someone enters their space and the wretched wrenching of plastic when a face guard isn't functioning properly.

But plenty of other sounds abound!

Moaners are those clients that -- once the effleurage has begun -- forget they are in public or simply don't care. They express their pleasure with sometimes muted (and sometimes not) "mmmmmmm"s and "yessssss, yessss". Usually they make me smile.

Groaners are hurting. We have a 64-year-old accupressurist from China in our class. His pressure is now legendary and his space tends to be the source of most of the groaners. I tell my clients that it's supposed to "hurt so good, not hurt like hell." He tends to get the ones who are game for hell. Groaners walking out of there are often heard sniffling as well.

Boners are not exactly a sound category unless you note the eery silence. I've had one guy (out of 95 client hours thus far) who didn't say a word but left me evidence of his pleasure on the massage table sheets. Since this is a bodily function that's just a fact of life, I tend not to be too concerned. Now the guy who asked me, after I had completed what to him felt like a tortuous range of motion/stretching sequence, "Are handcuffs next?" is another matter.

And finally, the stoners who, again aren't that much about the sounds, but rather the smell. Seems that lots of folks like to have a toke or a drink or maybe even several pills before they come for a nice, double-your-pleasure-massage. Problem is, they don't realize that whatever you have in excess in your system is going to come out of your pores. In the case of two of our clients the smell of weed was so prevalent that other clients were wondering if the therapists weren't off in a corner chilling. That prompted management to intervene and the sounds I heard were the swishing of the rings, the robotic "My instructor has advised me to terminate the session immediately. Please get dressed" and the pattering of feet as a troop of authority figures rushed the two downstairs for a refund and an escorted exit. In my own client base, I have a pill popper who gives off a metallic aroma that can't be masked any more than her constant fidgeting and lengthy tongue tied explanations of how a wreck a year ago continues to cause her constant pain.

One of the hesitancies I had when considering a massage license years ago was the fact that you often don't get to choose your clients and the concern that I would get one that would just be too difficult to deal with. "Hairy backs" said with a shudder was my punchline then. Funny. Now that I'm introduced daily to a new set of characters, I'm strangely intrigued. Like a theatrical experience without the stage and lights, clients mesmerize me as I walk them to the massage room door, discover more about their roles through touch and attention to sights and sounds, and then see the storyline resolved in 60 to 90 minutes.

To all our Moaners, Groaners, Boners and Stoners ... Bravo!

Just Another Day in Paradise

2010-11-21T06:25:00.000-08:00

- One therapist worked an entire hour on his client's foot. (Not "feet", "foot".)
- Another spent an hour on one knot in a runner's calf.
- And yet another had a guy who wanted a two hour massage but couldn't handle any more pressure than what you might apply when squeezing a new tube of toothpaste. My friend said it was like petting a cat for a couple of hours!

Those are but a few of the more "out there" experiences of a massage school intern. Mine haven't measured up to that degree of oddity. But I certainly have stories to tell.

One day three women came for the beginning a "girls' day out." What made them interesting to me is that they were obviously from a Pentecostal background -- long hair, no makeup, skirts rather than pants. My client was the mom and said she'd had a massage before. I'm learning that doesn't always mean what you think it means. Some have had a chair massage in a mall or airport. Some have had a friend rub their shoulders. But not all who say it mean they've gotten naked on a table and had someone apply the pressure!

Mom was apparently suffering from some bad knees and warned me to be careful. I could see her discomfort as she walked down the hallway and I explained what she needed to do to get ready on the table. I used my standard instructions, "Please disrobe to your comfort level and then lie on your back, face up under the covers."

When I got back into the space, I saw she had followed the instructions perfectly. However, her level of comfort was to keep her RED bra on and put the covers under her arms. So the first sight I saw wasn't something I was expecting from someone so conservative in their outer attire.

I smiled when I did the first bit of pressure on her neck and she ahhed with such abandon. When she added, "You have a nice warm, firm touch" I knew she was going to enjoy the experience so much more if I could relieve her of a bit more clothing. I suggested she pull down the bra strap and she quickly complied.

As I continued, I prayed. Everyone on my table gets a blessing of some kind. Some times I focus on their needs outside our "walls" throughout the entire experience. Some times I wait until the end and wait for a word to pray into them. On this Mom, I prayed throughout. So when I made it to her knees I was only partially surprised to feel a heat coming out of my hands and into her aching joints. I don't know if she felt it but it was a real phenomena. By the time I completed her front and was rolling her over, she was pretty much under the spell of total relaxation. So when I mentioned that the back massage would be that much better with the bra strap un-buc ... she had it off before I finished my whispered suggestion.

The smile on her face when she was restored to her conservative attire was a sweet reminder that our work goes beyond the physical.

A second out of the norm experience came when a woman came in as a walk-in and my friend and I were in the reception area at the time. My friend looked at me and held up her little finger. The reason was because the woman was not much bigger than that. Seriously, she may have weighed 80 pounds. My friend whispered, "I'm afraid I'd break her." In a few moments, I learned that the woman who shared my height but was less than half my weight would be my client.

I tried not to stare as I asked about her concerns. She didn't want anything done to her scalp, face, or feet. AND she wanted a light touch.

Without being able to demonstrate on you, I'll just have to say that imagine you are trying to find a lost contact on a tile floor. You don't press very hard, right? That's the degree of pressure she wanted. I had to ask three times to make sure I got it right.

My thumb and forefinger would wrap around her upper arm with room to spare. Her calves only required one hand to be completely engulfed. Her thigh fit into my cupped palm.

When I got to her back it was a bumpy road -- literally. Her ribs protruded so much that there was no true way to do effleurage because there was no way for a long, smooth stroke.

I wear a bandana around my head because I usually have to worry about dripping sweat on folks. This time I worried that if I kept tearing up I'd be dropping those. I fought - with limited success - the worried and stressful responses her appearance generated because I believe that my emotions can be felt through my hands. And I prayed like never before.

I had no idea how she liked it. She only acknowledged at one point that her arm was tender because of "so many needles". Otherwise she said nothing and never explained why she was the way she is.

At the end of the 50 minutes I felt a real sense of urging. So I bent down and whispered, "I have a crazy question. Have you ever had your ears done?"

"No."

"They say it's like a full body massage and I know you don't want your scalp done but I thought you might like it. It's kind of Eastern!"

She agreed.

Halfway during the ears (and I did it the way my mentor taught me) I realized why I had felt the urging to do it.

That was the only time in the entire massage she got to be treated as normal. Her ears could handle the "normal" amount of pressure with no problem.

Afterwards, as we rode down in the elevator, she said that part of the massage was the most amazing.

That's when I saw it -- a jeweled pink ribbon pin on her lapel.

If cancer was indeed what had gotten her to that state, the massage should never have happened. Massage increases circulation so the cancer cells have that much more speed in moving around the body. The only time massage isn't contraindicated is when the patient is already terminal. But my client didn't check the box on the intake form asking if there were any medical conditions to keep her from receiving a massage, so I gave her what she wanted.

When I showed one of our receptionists the small amount of pressure she had required, the rather expressive woman declared, "That's not a massage! Why did she come here?"

"To be touched," I replied and, in that moment, the rightness of it all seemed absolutely clear.

Hurry Up and Wait -- The Details

2010-11-15T06:55:00.000-08:00

I've been slow to post many details about massage school. In the first weeks of class, we were told of the need to respect client privacy and not even acknowledge a client when out shopping unless they said hello first. But stories keep landing on my table -- inspirational, humorous, and curious ones. So, while I haven't settled on how much I can and cannot say, and of course, names are out of the question, as a storyteller, I am compelled to say something.

Today, I'm tackling the subject of "hurry up and wait."

Our course is divided into three sections. First we hit the books. Next, (and where we are now) are our official days of internship with 50 "hands-on" hours required and most of us adding another 70 due to the need to cut costs of tuition. Lastly, we will go back to the books and practice tests so that we can pass what the state puts before us.

Most of my cohorts and I have heard similar comments about massage:

"How do you deal with the nastiness of feet?"
"What do you do about the big guys?"
"What's it like when you roll them over and see a hairy back?"
"What if a guy ... you know ... gets aroused?

The reason I know my cohorts have heard the same questions is that we have lots of time to talk. When more than 25 people are available for massages and you're depending on walk-ins to get the hours, we spend a great deal of time chatting. Supposedly, we are to wait in a small 10 x 10 room until the front desk calls to say we have an appointment. But (refer again to the above note on how many of us are in this program at this point) and you can easily deduce that space might be limited in what is known as the "intern room." Since you will rarely see me on a crowded elevator or on the escalator at a huge sporting or concert event, I take my slightly claustophobic self down to the cafe and set up a make shift office.

With my Mac, wireless access to email (but, curiously, not Facebook or YouTube), and a discount that ensures I'll have something to drink throughout the day, I'm good to go. I'm trying to keep my bills paid, so the time for freelancing is of great value.

However, I've learned not to count on long spurts of productivity. Inevitably, if I arrive at 8:45 a.m. and am set up by 9:15 -- with both my massage table and makeshift office ready for action -- I've got a visitor by 9:30. That small intern room starts overflowing downstairs to the cafe fairly quickly. That's when the storytelling and laughter begins.

We compare how many hours of actual massage we've accumulated. We wait to see who had the biggest surprise -- "I worked one hour on only a calf." "My young client moaned the whole time." "I got 'shooshed' by one of the instructors because my tapotement (tapping) was too loud." And we keep waiting for the receptionist to peek around the corner and call one of us away for an actual appointment.

Some adjusted their hours as soon as we realized 9 to 5 wasn't going to net us many massages. Though our class schedule is set, our massage schedule is adjustable. I now go in at ten and stay until 7 or 8 p.m. Mon-Thurs and add Sunday afternoon for good measure. Saturday is THE day to be there but my freelancing and volunteering usually have me booked. Plus, back to back (get the massage humor?) massages are hard on me now that I appear to be dealing with a pinched nerve.

When we do get a client, we're off! We make our way to the reception area where we are given the intake form. That's the source for finding out any issues, what degree of pressure is desired, and whether we are giving a 30, 60, 90 min or 2 hour massage. HINT: 90 min is perfect. Two hours means the intern is trying to fill the time. 60 min means you're going to miss out on something and especially if you have an issue. After 50 hours thus far, I can tell you, everyone has issues!

We then greet the client and have the time it takes to walk 50 feet to the elevator, ride up one floor, and walk another 50 feet or so to find out more about their needs, explain where they can take a restroom break, tell them to turn off their cell, and go over the procedure so they aren't too alarmed when we start working on their forehead the minute we get into the mostly quiet massage room.

"Mostly quiet" refers to the fact that there are only curtains surrounding each table, those curtains are on rings, those rings make noise every time you open the entrance to your space or hit the "wall" with your hip. Also we've got "soothing" music (if you don't count the track that is mostly static), men snoring, therapists whispering instructions, and plastic bags of laundry being collected and new bags being opened (you know that sound).

We take the client to the space, explain where to put clothes and that we need them to get "under the covers and face up" and then leave to let them get comfy. Those few minutes of waiting are usually filled with getting some info down on their intake form and adding them to our collective list of clients so that our hours are accounted for. I have the additional pleasure of getting my bandana tied. You see, I'm a sweat-er and if not properly attired I will drip.

Then, hoping my client has already closed his/her eyes, I enter Ninja-like and begin with breathing together and the face. By the time I've done the neck and shoulders, I've got my stride. Arms, legs, and back follow. We conclude with the scalp.

If I've done my job well, the client has a drugged look on his/her face when emerging from our curtained habitat, clothed and ready to evaluate me. I walk the same path back down to the reception area, leave them with the evaluation paper, and thank them.

Then I'm back up to the second floor to change the sheets on the table, check to see if any laundry needs to go to the collection area downstairs, and finally back at my makeshift office in the cafe.

And it's hurry up and wait all over again.

More on those round the table conversations in the next post . . .

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon

2010-11-14T08:11:00.000-08:00

For the last three days, we've been celebrating my friend's birthday. On the actual day of her birth -- Thursday -- the plan had been to make beef bourguignon, a dish we'd done together before and had enjoyed the effort of trying to follow Julia Child's instructions.

I took the cast iron dutch oven and a cake pan by her house before heading to massage school. She was also doing her mother's chocolate cake recipe (an enterprise that another friend and I had attempted once, and only once, for her and one, we now agreed, for which we would always offer our support but never again attempt its complexity). The idea was that she would get off work a bit early and I'd meet her at our girlfriend's house as soon as I completed my last massage of the day.

When I walked in, something hit me. I wasn't sure what it was but I knew the situation wasn't what it should be. I dove into the fray and added fresh rosemary to my chopped potatoes and since they were going to need to roast at a higher temperature than the beef, I asked what the timing on Julia's recipe was going to be.

"I don't know," she said. "I haven't taken a look yet. Let me see."

Reading aloud, she got to the source of my concern. "3 to 4 hours."

"We'll be doing takeout tonight," I replied.

Fortunately, we are all quite affable in the kitchen so in the middle of the laughter we found the Thai takeout menu and ultimately enjoyed some spicy delights while smells of beef broth, wine, luscious beef and vegs wafting throughout the dining area. I didn't stay for the unveiling of only the first step Chef Child's French cuisine. I had an early start to my Friday but I did get to taste it on Saturday evening.

Friday we enjoyed a taco bar back at our favorite kitchen with games following. Friends around the table laughing at each other's foibles with dominoes and Rummy tiles emit sounds that energize my soul.

After a half day on Saturday in a board meeting, I ran a few errands and then met the birthday girl at my house. We had a sleepover planned. First we'd finish the beef dish, then we'd hook up with a massage school friend, attend an art show and finally, she'd be treated to a birthday massage.

All went off like clockwork.

At the end of the night, as I said goodbye to the massage therapist who had been deemed "unbelievable," I realized that even the reality of few funds can't keep creative women from a good time.

Celebrate? You betcha! Wonder what we'll come up with for the holidays?

I May Not Be an Iron Chef, But I Rock the Hospice Kitchen

2010-10-23T16:15:00.000-07:00

We don't usually have opportunities to connect with the residents of the AIDS hospice. Many come to us too late. With only weeks to live, they have no time or energy for sharing their stories or the steps of their journey to this quiet 8-bed haven for their final days. Usually most of the residents are from the streets and are at or very near the "actively dying" stage. So as volunteers, we concentrate primarily on food, clean sheets, and mopped floors.

Today was different.

Most of the 8 residents were eaters. Two were very alert. Two would have been even more communicative if only I'd known their heart languages. So today I started my shift as a short order cook. Betty even wrote down the orders so we could keep the oatmeal/boiled eggs separate from the fried egg with toast! The first hour or so we were boiling, flipping, scrambling, and buttering fast enough to impress Houston's The Breakfast Klub.

And like most family cooks, as soon as breakfast dishes were in the sink, I was searching for what lunch would be. Omega House does an incredible job of making the most of all donations. I can't begin to list all the reasons I'm impressed with Sandy and her leadership of that place. Still somedays I'm just not inspired with what I find in the fridge and freezer. I know better cooks than me could have manifested a feast out of what I found there, but I didn't see it. So I announced to my fellow vol that I was heading to the supermarket. As per her character, she gave me cash to split the bill.

Consulting with her by cell from the aisles of the store and after I discovered a special on chicken, we agreed a King Ranch Casserole was in order. Back at the kitchen counter, I overheard our trainee discussing life with one of the residents. Soon we were all engaged in hearing about histories, desires, and even funeral plans. No one tried to "shush" him. No one tried to pretend that we weren't sitting in a hospice for the dying. We all just shared information about what we knew regarding the end days. And even our youngest vol had knowledge of that.

When the buzzer rang from Bed D, I had just sat down for a cup of coffee (ok and a doughnut ... but really those things are always there and I just couldn't let them go to waste!). I rose and discovered that one of our only two female residents was awake and wondering where her husband had gone. After a brief look around, I suggested to her that he might have taken a walk.

"Ok," she said. "I just go in and out so much I had wanted to tell him something while I was awake."

Clearly, she cherished the moments when the drugs didn't take her away. So I asked a question. She responded. I asked another and her story grew longer. That's when I sat down and let the journey unfold. I left a few twists and turns later to get her a salad and grateful for the opportunity to put a story to the woman in Bed D.

Back in the kitchen, the timer went off and we pulled the brown and bubbling (as all casserole directions suggest they should be) concoction from the oven. Cheesy goodness topped chicken, chiles, sour cream and tortillas to a calorie-laden delight. Since everyone had been smelling the sauteed onions and baked goodness for almost an hour, I had a line of folks ready to test it.

Our most talkative resident proclaimed it "heavenly" and it received good reviews from vols and our favorite nurse as well. But the best moment came when our French-speaking African agreed to a taste after I pulled the word for "chicken" from the recesses of my limited French vocabulary. After one bite, he smiled up at me and said, "Yes, more."

Somedays the length of the conversation doesn't matter. Merely a connection will do.

For the Art Lover in All of Us

2010-10-23T15:51:00.000-07:00

I marvel at beauty. This week has been a masterpiece in the making.

My massage internship resulted in views of intricate tattoos, athleticism and grace unhampered by the years, mother/daughter bonds celebrating risk, and the generosity of friends. Like a first time visitor to the Museum of Fine Arts, my jaw sometimes dropped in awe.

While some might dismiss my assessment, I know without doubt that this week my hands were instruments of good, sometimes offering restoration beyond what "cross friction for better circulation could provide" and going straight to the mystical, spiritual realm.

I know there are massage therapists who will be able to go deeper than me, endure longer than me, and ascertain causes and solutions for stress and strain better than me. But I'm not swayed. Because my newfound "ministry" isn't about being the best. I know that I give rest to the weary, comfort to the tired, and blessings to each body on my table.

I am 49 years old. I am an instrument of good. And, because of that, I am my own work of art. I thank God for the inspiration.

Campaigning for a New Way

2010-10-18T06:09:00.000-07:00

If I had to make my living by phone banking every day, I'd call it quits.

If my livelihood depended upon me blockwalking on a regular basis, I'd take steps to make a change.

Oh ... wait a minute ... I did.

Life on the campaign trail is difficult. The work is never done. More lists are always popping up -- calls to make, doors to knock on, funds to raise, mailers to design with just the right message that help folks know a candidate ... in three paragraphs or less.

After one season, I knew the grueling pace would never be a race I could master. While my current studies keep me busy, I have found a degree of balance between fun and facts, between what I want to do and what I have to do. In the last two weeks, I've attended a few campaign events (because I wanted to, not because I had to) and standing at a distance I've had my decision confirmed.

I wonder if the public would agree that a new way is viable, that they would be willing to be educated on choices without calls, mailers, and a knock on the door on a Saturday morning. While I hear plenty of complaints about the process, the gurus bring out stats each time a naysayer suggests cutting back on campaign communications that dispel the idea that those complaints have any merit. They easily convince the campaign planners that disconnecting from phone banks or closing the door on blockwalking would shut down a successful campaign.

And what do I know? Maybe they're right.

But as for me and my ears, feet, and heart . . . we'll be going in new directions.

"Live Like You Were Dying" Has Implications

2010-10-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

I must admit to tearing up a bit at every hearing of Tim McGraw's popular country song that includes a "bucket list" of activities ranging from sky diving to bull riding to sweet talking and forgiveness. I get emotional when I think people might not realize the value of each day, that unaccustomed to sudden lost, they might assume that every day is a given.

Because I learned at a very early age that nothing is guaranteed, and had that theory reinforced when I hit my mid-30s, I have attempted to cherish the moments, to accept most challenges that come my way, to embrace the unknown and try to learn what I can.

As a result, days can be packed.

Last weekend I spent all day Friday helping artists load in to a downtown festival that happens only because the a festival staff of three, the city, and countless volunteers make it happen. For 13 hours, I ensured that I answered as many questions as possible, smiled at the weary (artists come from across the country), and took a moment every now and then to appreciate the orchestration that makes this celebration of art benefitting local charities possible.

On Saturday, I went from one side of the Houston area to the other dressed in rodeo clown attire. You haven't seen surprise and smiles until you've pulled into a drive thru in between rodeo gigs. On this day, I held on tight as a pygmy goat kept me going in rapid circles, blew tons of bubbles that little boys seemed thrilled to burst (a metaphor for my love life?) and tasted chili from 26 different cook-off teams to judge which was the best. A couple of hours later and sans the red cheeks and fake freckles of Cornbread (my clown name) I attended a benefit for a group that supports persons living with AIDS and then spent some time with a friend who has recently experienced loss and wanted to get out for a while.

Sunday I was back at the arts festival. More questions, more volunteers, and support of artists by way of water, sodas, crackers and cookies filled the afternoon hours until we finally were ready to assist with load out. Once again, I marveled at the willingness of individuals donating time and energy so that others might enjoy a great day.

When the weekend concluded I was wiped. At least I thought I was. Then I got word that my stepfather was not doing well. In ICU with complications to infirmities to numerous to list, I wondered if he would make it through the week. And due to my "to the walls" attitude all weekend, I was physically and emotionally drained.

A tear fell after a phone update from my mother. That's when the angels swooped in. Except, they were "angels unaware." The young man in massage class who was bored as we waited for our next instructions on a routine isn't usually the touchy-feely type. Yet, out of the boredom, he said, he wanted to rub my feet. One woman who knew what was happening with my family kept checking with me and took care of my back. Another lit a candle and said a prayer. And another classmate closed us off from the rest of the class so that she could practice her routine and I got quiet and a full massage before leaving.

The day served as a great reminder. I'm going to continue to remember that living has no contract, no guarantees. But I'm also going to ramp up the gratitude and be aware that others are living . . . and literally dying all around me. A pair of feet, shoulders, or maybe even a needed prayer could be around the next corner. Wonder if there's a pair of wings in my size?

Definitely Tired. Definitely.

2010-10-04T19:09:00.000-07:00

Class all day. Prepare a dinner that doesn't reek of "I'm single and don't merit anything beyond microwave frozen diet meals." Spend time on freelance projects. Do the laundry so that clean sheets and scrubs are available tomorrow. Check in on the sick and afflicted in my family. Bed time.

I'm sure that for a few months I can do this. But "sure" is definitely not a definitive response to "definitely tired."

Massage Lessons ... I'm Learning

2010-10-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

As when anything you want to be good -- preparation sets the tone.

The sheets are clean. The lights are low. The music is on but not overwhelming. Just a few simple acts so that the unspoken declaration is clear, "Welcome."

When you are on the table, grounding can begin. My fingers are lightly on your shoulders and then with a few deep breaths -- breathe in and out . . . in and out . . .

The transformative power of touch is underway.

In classes, I'm being shown the methods by which I can glide, compress, strip, and friction at least some of your stress away. What I can't do is wipe away the cause of the pain. The more I connect via massage, the more I wish it could be true.

How incredible to offer you the ability to identify your trigger point -- that place that's the source of pain but of which you are unaware -- and go deep enough and for long enough so that relief occurs. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally. While I can offer a temporary, physical nod in the right direction, I can't do the same with your mind.

For now I'll leave that to different kinds of therapists. But if you can't yet find the words, my table and touch are ready. You are most definitely welcome.

Networking by any other name . . .

2010-09-28T05:50:00.000-07:00

While reading a story about how the creation of social network content has hit a plateau, I realized some of the language seemed very familiar. The church -- a social network of its own and one in which I spent much of my career -- would identify with the classifications of participants:

Creators
Conversationalists
Critics
Collectors
Joiners
Spectators
Inactives

The study's findings reveal that in the past year, no measurable growth has appeared in the Creators category and in the U.S. that group (of those creating social content) has actually declined. Social networking is still on the rise, however. But this study suggests that the average user "feels most at home taking more passive actions."

If I were still in the church consulting business, I'd have a workshop outlined in a matter of minutes after digesting this one!

Just When I Thought I Couldn't Go On . . .

2010-09-28T05:36:00.001-07:00

The temps dropped below 90!

Now I remember what a cool breeze feels like.

Amazed and marveling ...

2010-09-26T06:41:00.000-07:00

I've had a lasagna-making, Omega House-mopping, party-hopping, rodeo-clowning, slow-cooking kinda of weekend and it's not over yet.

I'm marveling at the kind of life I lead ...
-bottling mead at one party for friends who own a Renaissance Faire,
-singing "For He's a Grumpy Old Man" to a friend younger than me -- with all his friends and family dressed in old man attire at a cafeteria,
-cooking for friends, people with AIDS, and more friends,
-and filling in at the last minute at a rodeo event that's helping to raise awareness and funds to "beat the hell out of melanoma."

In less than two days, I've done that and more. When leadership gurus used to tell me to envision my future and write it down I always said I couldn't imagine a future that exceeded my reality. I still can't. Rather than setting a course and moving toward a status/objective/goal, I have chosen to cherish each moment as best I can and take every opportunity to milk the life out of every experience.

So far, so very, very, very good.

A time to live and a time to . . .

2010-09-21T08:04:00.000-07:00

Before E was born, his father walked out on E's mother and her then eleven children. E, the baby, never knew him and, in some ways, always sought that relationship.

Yesterday when my friend visited E, E was already in a coma. My friend knew the implications of his condition should he survive. He told E, "It's ok to sleep. And when you wake up, you will be in the arms of a Father who will never leave you and always love you."

Last night E died . . . surrounded by his family and my friend.

Peace that Passes Understanding

2010-09-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

My friend's friend is quite possibly dying. E contracted a parasite of some kind several weeks ago. He's in his mid-30s, adventurous (especially when it comes to street taco stands), in great shape and then suddenly he's unable to keep anything down and is losing weight rapidly. Three weeks were required before doctors could identify what the problem was and attack it. Antibiotics -- two rounds -- were thought to help but in his weakened state he got slightly better only to get a lot worse. Last week the thought was that he might be rebounding. This week he's in ICU and the doctors say he's added meningitis and possibly pneumonia to his problems and the first batch of parasites have been replaced by something else.

His mother arrived from Mexico on Friday.

My friend is assisting as best he can, trying to be there for E, and at the same time trying to stay out of the way of the family. Since E has 11 brothers and a sister and they are all Spanish-speaking while my friend is not, that's not the easiest thing to do. Still he is there. He steps in when possible and, in the meantime, stands and waits for his turn to see the shadow of his lover.

E hasn't hidden any aspect of his life from his family. They've known since his youth that he plays hard. But in the last few years, he's traded much of his life on the edge for the pursuit of something longer-lasting. He's earned his GED, started work towards a college degree and held down a demanding position as the go-to guy with a catering company. All the while, he cajoles, jokes, and debates his way through conversations and relationships with a laugh that will make anyone forgive his unbridled fervor and, soon enough, applaud his desire to constantly be learning.

Extremely attractive and proud of it, E has retreated as the pounds and muscles fell away. Only family were allowed to care for him. He pulled away from my friend in a vain attempt to shield him from the sight of his deterioration. My friend took the retreat in stride, knowing that when E is determined, there's no option but to oblige him.

E gave his power of attorney to his brother this week. That's the last conscious act he's verbalized.

The brother now serves as gatekeeper to the ICU visits, hearer of the doctors' dire updates, and translator for family members and friends. Since our little chosen family focused on our friend the night before, praying with him, laughing with him, eliciting stories and tears, and then distracting him when he wanted, I decided the brother was my focus yesterday.

Tall, robust, long dark curls framing his face, the brother's obvious strength and love for E was evident from the first hello. Wrapped in a blanket from the night's vigil at his mother's side as she wept over her baby, he was holding on to the edges of both the material and his courageous facade. "I schedule time for crying," he said. "I'm the one my brother wanted to take care of things. Call me silly, but, I can't let them see me cry. That's my time. Last night, I didn't get it because I stayed with my mother. I'm in great need of tears at the moment."

I looked at those arms, the blanket, and eyes that implored the Universe to make this better somehow while every word indicated his resignation to what was to come. I knew in an instance what I wanted to do.

"Hon, I'm a little strange. I know you just met me. But I want to massage your hands. Do you like massage? Do you mind?"

"Are you kidding? Of course. Oh, you are incredible! Yes, yes."

We sat. We chatted. Then we talked, really talked. Mixed between the stories was laughter that sometimes surprised the other visitors in the waiting room. I looked up once to see a woman watching with what looked to be envy and a smile in her eyes. I envisioned that she wanted what we were sharing -- the freedom to just be, to not pretend to hope for things when our hopes are detrimental to the good of the one we love, to accept, to stare down expectations and social mores and just do. I worked his forearms and heard of how E came to be not just his brother but his friend and confidante. On his metacarpals and carpals I got the story of E's youth. Turning the pages of time and my massage attention to toward the fleshy parts surrounding his thumb I got the lowdown on family dynamics. And by the time I was working his fingers we had declared our love for one another.

When Mama came away from the morning visit with E she was ready to go home so I took her lead and exited as well. But I also took the morning's moments with me throughout the day. Later in the evening, when I stood backstage at a fundraising gala for the AIDS hospice where I volunteer, I heard the music with a new poignancy, the speeches with a keen alertness to the myriad of emotions that comes when you minister to the dying and those they love. I was amazed at how my one day underscored the connectedness that a person of faith feels when faced with friendships, struggle, love, aspirations, frustrations, and more. I held no answers but I embraced peace.

And then . . .

Feet announcing with every throb they were ready to head home, secure in the knowledge that once again the power of volunteers had produced an enjoyable experience for supporters and a profitable one for the organization, I stood ready to make a quick departure after the traditional toasts and desserts with cast and audience. I greeted one of the organizational staffers and her husband who I had met briefly earlier in the afternoon. We did a checklist of how everything went and then she walked away for a glass of water.

I turned to her husband. "So as I recall, your beautiful wife told me that you were in marketing as well. Is that right?"

"Well, yes, in a way. I work in communications for the Mexican consulate here in Houston."

Gasp. Hand to chest in disbelief. Was it really only hours ago that I sat with E's brother discussing what we thought was needed to help others of his siblings to cross the border and see E? And here was the man who might have those answers.

I regurgitated what I hope was a concise version of the story. He nodded in understanding, letting me know that indeed he'd heard similar stories before. Then he outlined the steps needed, gave me his card and said the most beautiful words a woman blessed with the ability to connect the dots can hear, "Have the brother call me."

Facing disease and perhaps death is never easy, pleasant, wanted, or any other positive term I can come up with. But with love, touch, patience, grace, and an openness to allow for each person involved to be who they are and how they need to be, peace can come.

I thank God that I don't just get to see this happen, but am an active participant. For that and so much more, I thank God.

Twists in the Conversation

2010-09-17T06:56:00.000-07:00

"History shapes generations and generations shape history." That's a line I've borrowed from Strauss and Howe and used many times standing before leaders who are desperate to cross the generational barriers they often see rising up in their organizations.

My massage therapy class is no different. This week I started singing "I'm a little bit country . . ." and my generational cohort completed the line a la Marie Osmond (pre-Dancing with the Stars and Nutrisystem commercials) and one of our younger brethren in the class said, "I remember that. They did it on South Park."

Next up was talk of movies like X-Men and Mystique's body paint compared to the gold paint of Goldfinger. More of the youthful brigade had joined us and acknowledged that while they hadn't see the 007 flick, they knew the reference because of Goldmember in Austin Powers.

And so it goes, seems that history also shapes parody. My youth is being recycled.

So I'm glad to have my cohort in the classroom. T is an incredible artist via knitting, embroidery and some things that one does with needles that I'm not too familiar with but look beautiful! She's smart, witty, and savvy on events past and present so that we have shared more than one look of "been there, done that" when classroom conversations have taken any number of the twists and turns.

That's why when she asked to speak to me -- and had a rather serious tone in her voice -- I quickly wrapped up what I was doing to see what she wanted.

"Do you go straight?" she queried.

Now, I've been very up front about who I am and what I do with various non-profits, political organizations, and my friends. While my instructor has labeled me a liberal and playfully gives me grief on a regular basis, T has struck me as a woman who takes things as they come, doesn't jump to judgement and while possibly disagreeing with someone, doesn't feel the need to preach or lambast them for the differences. So I was somewhat shocked that she went from conversations that had primarily been about pop culture, good web reads, family life, and cooking shows to what my sexual orientation is.

"Uh, what?" I asked in return.

"Do you go straight?" she said again. But the repetition was a tad bit slower since it was obvious that I was confused.

I didn't want to be defensive and yet, I still couldn't believe we were having this conversation in the hallway.

"Straight? Yes, I'm straight," I said while also ensuring that I didn't indicate I thought there was anything wrong with the alternative. At least, I hoped I was doing that. Mostly I had a very confused look on my face. So I added, "Are you asking me if I am straight?"

"No!" she declared emphatically and also gave Seinfield's now famous "not that there's anything wrong with that" look before she really slowed down to say, "Do you GHOST WRITE?"

"Why, yes, yes on both counts. What do you need?"

Lessons learned this week: Massage and laughter are both great stress relievers.

Alone Doesn't Mean Lonely

2010-09-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

Reminders that I live alone come every day:

- When I have to apply a Icy Hot patch to my sore back and can't quite get it right the first, second or third try.
- When I see something on the floor and know that no one else is going to pick it up but me.
- When I cook a recipe as written and eat on it for days because they usually feed 4-6 people.
- When bills have to be paid, even if I don't have a regular income at the moment.

Reminders that I'm rarely lonely are fairly frequent as well:

- When a friend agrees to spraying for bugs in my kitchen while I'm away for a few days.
- When another friend texts that she admires the path I'm on and the steps I'm taking to care for myself and others.
- When any number of individuals from the various non-profits with whom I work comment on my energy level and networking skills.
- When I'm driving in my car and tempted to make an unhealthy choice and instead call any one of the speed dial numbers programmed in my phone.

Loneliness creeps in during dark days or at night and waits in the shadows until I invite it to get a bit closer. That choice is usually because there's a tearjerker of a movie on or some memory just got the best of me. Ironically, when loneliness hits, it only takes minutes and I'm not alone. Friend/family are always there. And for this and soooooooo much more, I'm grateful.

Observations from a Massage School Newbie

2010-09-16T05:22:00.000-07:00

1. The student nightmare that usually occurs before the presentation is due -- that you are making the presentation and then look down to realize you're naked -- is fact, not fiction, in massage school. Your fellow students will see you naked. You'll be draped. But you will be naked.
2. Massage school is one of the few learning institutions where homework means remembering to shave your legs.
3. During the first weeks of "hands-on learning" bruises happen. Lots of bruises. I sort of wear them like battle scars. I may soon suggest a game of trying to identify shapes, kinda like what you do on a sunny day with white puffy clouds. The best I can do right now is that the one on my forearm (anterior view) looks like an eggplant. Unfortunately, the one on my forearm (posterior) is directly beside an age spot and is blending in way too well. The ones on my thighs? Well, let's just say it looks like I've been having more fun than I really have.

This Southern Girl Doesn't Glow -- She Sweats

2010-09-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was so intensely hot that sane people were indoors with air conditioning.

Sanity is not my strong suit.

By 9 a.m. I had donned three layers of clothing and was searching for shade at a Special Rodeo. Eleven other clowns and I were among the entertainment for a half day of fun for children with special needs. We were photographed with them. We danced with them. We cheered at their karaoke. Some did rope tricks (note that that wouldn't be me). And all of us sweated.

At one point, I found a way to stand with my arm around Confetti for a photo (we all have rodeo clown names) without touching her wet shirt. She had a leather patch on the back of her suspenders. When Valentine or Geranium stood close to me, I cringed each time a hand would press into my back because I knew visions of wet rags had to be dancing in their heads. One hour in and there wasn't a dry hair on my head. Thankfully the cowboy hat disguised that fact somewhat. But I did fear that some of the smaller kids in wheelchairs and strollers might truly be afraid of the deranged looking woman in crazy makeup, suspenders, bright yellow shirt and wearing leggings. I would have (if it hadn't been me!).

The kids were incredible. Some were inspiring. One girl of probably 9 or 10 but looked to be the size of a 5-year-old and who needed a walker, belted out "God Bless America" with the fervor of an American Idol. Several teenagers dominated the dance floor. One girl could do cartwheels. Her friend happily thought she could too as she bent at the waist and motioned with her hands toward the floor. One young man caught all of our attention as he did a rapid fire reading of the words to "Take this Job and Shove It" occasionally allowing the music to catch up.

The "regularness" of their lives was never more evident as they helped each other, as siblings were jealous of attention paid to the others, as Moms giggled at their antics, as a grandfather helped his acrobatic grandson jump high in the air . . . over and over and over again. They were simply kids having a great time on horses, in wagons; playing with rabbits and laughing at the prickliness of a hedgehogs; and turning their lips blue with cotton candy and snow cones.

My heart was warmed as well as my body!

I had just enough time to drive home, shower (ahhhhhh), and load up the car. Why? Because I'm not content to do one event per day. Noooooooo. Crazy woman books a rodeo event and an Equality Texas gig in one day. In defense of what little grip on reality I have, the rodeo event was purely volunteering. ET was paying me to serve as the event coordinator. And in these lean days, that meant saying yes to them even though I already had something on the calendar.

Minutes after drying my hair, the sweat started pouring once again. I had to drive to the store to pick up ice and lemons. More sweat. I loaded my friend's car with supplies I'd been storing at my house. More wetness. We drove separately to the Heights (about 20 minutes away) and my persnickety AC in my car kicked in about ten minutes into the drive. Yet more moisture. We unpacked at this incredible house that was once a flop house but was now the location of many a gala. With a wraparound porch, huge backyard, art throughout, and both a state-of-the-art kitchen and wine cellar, it's truly the bones of a great event.

I had enlisted friends to make this event one of the great ones. They came through as always. We arranged, rearranged, set up the bar, set up the food, and traversed the emotional landscape of a host with one party in the evening and a Sunday brunch scheduled for the following day.

We transformed ourselves into party-goers with quick changes. My hair was still not dry. And served, photographed and mingled well. Just when I thought that I might not look as though someone threw a bottle of water in my face, the crowd grew to such a level that the AC couldn't keep up. Donation cards became fans. The host felt sorry for me and showed me the one vent in the kitchen I could stand over for immediate relief. I'd almost dried off when it was time to clean up, load the cars and enjoy the convection oven that I now know as my Beetle with the bad compressor.

And yet, when people commented on my performance at the party, I most often heard "energetic." Now when you are a year shy of 50, you've dripped in front of strangers in a strange land, and you still get remarks like that, it's not a bad feeling. A smile is a wonderful form of makeup. Sincere interest in what another is saying adds light to the eyes and complexion. What I lack in physical composure, I make up for with attitude.

A day like yesterday was all about attitude. I learned from the young. I shared with the advocates. And I took a shower when I got home.

Life is still very good ... a little warm, but very good.

Facing Fears and the Table

2010-09-09T06:05:00.000-07:00

For some anxiety-ridden students facing the return to classes, the nightmare of standing before your classmates and realizing you're naked is a familiar one. The relief of waking up is sweet.

My nightmare has no such ending. I'm in massage therapy class. I won't be waking up. I will be naked.

Even before I hit the one-year-to-the-big-50 mark, I wasn't that comfortable with my body. I've always been aware of the extra pounds and now, of course, there's the reality of aging skin. I'm not convinced that I'm some crone but I'm also not that excited about a swimsuit.

So joining a class that requires you to shed clothing and jump on a table so that 20-somethings who cycle, play in rock bands, and bartend can beat on you makes total sense, right?

I can't say that I was surprised when we were told this week that we'd need our lotion. That was the cue that our clothes would be coming off. We've been practicing with scrubs on, learning to drape the sheet so that some degree of modesty is maintained. But with the introduction of strokes, we had to be moving to the big day.

What did surprise me was my reaction. Suddenly, I saw myself in such a negative light. Every pound on me seemed heavier, every blemish got darker, every wrinkle looser. And when we were told on the second day on "hands-on lab work" that we had to have a male partner if we hadn't already had one . . . well, gulp, I had to face the fear.

I looked around the room and there was the one guy in the younger set (yes, we've somewhat self-organized by age) who actually laughs at my jokes. He caught my eye, we did the raised eyebrow dance of inquiry and both nodded that we would proceed.

I worked on him first. He's the cyclist and may weigh as much as my two thighs. He's never had a professional massage. On this issue, I definitely had the upper hand.

I followed the class procedure of strokes, got the instructor to use him as a model so that my new young friend could have an incredible glute experience, and got some good response for my degree of pressure.

Then we closed the curtains and I stripped.

When he came back to the table, we had to practice the turn. If he does the draping correctly, he can't see but the move requires a rollover in which the client's breasts are potentially exposed. I rolled and positioned myself and took a deep breath. In that moment, I realized the truth of the words I uttered more than once during his practice of strokes and in response to his effusive apologies for getting some part of the practice wrong. "We are students. We are here to learn. We'll make mistakes but if we can't learn on each other, we can't learn."

My fears were faced by reframing. On that table, I am not a middle-aged woman with "issues" about her physical contours and sagging skin. I am an object lesson, a means to greater understanding. In learning mode, the experience made sense and, in fact, was essential.

Massage really does help relieve stress.

Let the Good Times Roll

2010-09-07T18:58:00.000-07:00

We started talking about the trip about a month ago. Our new friend -- who had only recently joined our cooking crew of Wednesday nights -- has a condo in the French Quarter. The long Labor Day weekend afforded all of us -- two unemployed (but I am a student) and two employed but with limited vacation time and equally limited funding -- the chance to pool our resources. With some cooking in and wisely chosen dining out options, we could make a dream vacation happen.

We did it!

Driving over on Thursday night, I asked each person to make a wish and I, the official fairy duster, would help to ensure their realization via my positive energy (and a flourish as I waved my arm in lieu of a wand).

"I want to order the right thing. I always wish I'd tried something else."

"I want to meet someone new."

"We need to be safe and have fun."

"I want to see myself in a positive light."

"I want to survive health care reform."

The last one came from our insurance salesman and we agreed that might be out of the purview of my wish granting abilities.

Every other wish came true. We dined well on Cajun and Creole delights. We met tons of new people at parties and even on the streets. We laughed until we teared. We made up ratings games for the time we spent on the balcony watching the crowds who took one street over (ours) to avoid Bourban. We had scales for intoxication ... 0 for he's a glass or two to 10 for "soon he'll be praying to the porcelain god." And another for "that's unfortunate" fashion statements.

We were five adults who hadn't seen their 20s in a while who were wise enough to say "when" and go off on our own as needed and pitch in and make whatever should happen happen when that was required.

Driving home we knew that wishes and dreams were still within our reach. And we all smiled.

Do Not Bend, Fold or Mutilate ... Ok, Maybe Sometimes

2010-08-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

This week we're focusing on draping. Massage therapy classes thus far have consisted of reading about anatomy, ensuring that we have all our -ology's straight, and integrating the terminology of the Swedish massage into our around-the-table discussions. Draping is the first hands-on (get it? massage therapy . . . hands-on) experience.

To fully appreciate how happy this makes me, one must know that I'm a visual or experiential learner. For the better part of five days, we've read the text aloud, stopping only to be told what portions to highlight because they are important "testically" speaking. (Even spellcheck notes how wrong this word is, but it's the instructor's, not mine.) Any chance we get to stand up (away from the massage tables doing double duty as our desktops), stretch and start applying what we've learned is one I gladly embrace.

This week it's how to wrap a sheet around a client so that comfort, warmth, and modesty can be maintained. I fully accepted that I'm a massage nerd when I almost giggled with joy over now being able to secure the sheet in such a way as to actually get at the thigh. My informal training and three years of massaging friends for birthdays, etc. had never had me travel more than a few inches up the thigh. I was always too nervous that my buddies would be nervous.

Well, now, I've got you covered. Really.

Seems it's all about the folds and tucks of that all-important sheet.

Glute work ... here I come.

Eureka! Euphoria!

2010-08-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

Euphoria.

Not something that's a daily occurrence for me. Typically happy, I usually land just shy of "a feeling of great happiness or well-being." Something is usually nagging at me -- an upcoming bill, a concern about a loved one, a conversation not-yet-had. But yesterday I crossed the line and lingered in the land of euphoria.

Funny thing is that there was no particular reason for it. Here's the day in a nutshell:

1. Finished a story on a ministry to prisoners for which I will be paid and I was praised.
2. Had coffee with a new mom and her baby. She needed a shoulder and he did too.
3. Lunch with an acquaintance who wanted to celebrate my birthday and treated.
4. Phone chats with two friends with whom I do a bit of coaching. Both had questions, and I had answers.
5. Meeting with a non-profit exec who wants my services and is eager to find a way to pay for them.
6. Exercise.
7. Volunteering as an usher for a fun musical about girl groups called The Marvelous Wonderettes, tearing tickets and making it my mission to make sure everyone who entered the theater did so with a smile.
8. Late night supper with friends.

See? Nothing unusual (at least not for me). But in the middle of laughing around the table and just before midnight, I realized it.

I'm giddy. I don't know exactly how I'm going to pay my bills. My distant family is recovering from illness but is recovering. I'm surrounded by people who love me. And in this moment, on this day, I have known euphoria.

First Day of School and I Packed My Own Lunch

2010-08-23T19:09:00.000-07:00

Today I started massage therapy school. Dressed in my hunter green scrubs -- neatly pressed the evening before -- I swiped my id card through the meter and the gate lifted for me to park at the spa and school that will be the site of my newfound education for the next five months. I had chased away the nightmare equivalent of standing before the class naked. In my version it was "what if I'm the only one who wears scrubs the first day?" And I was feeling fairly confident with my backpack and lunch bag over my shoulder.

The class has 24 students but we are divided into two groups. One instructor laid out the rules in an almost militaristic fashion, referring to the on campus labyrinth as something "you moonbeam people" might be interested in. Didn't surprise me when I learned he was Army. The other instructor acknowledged privately to me that he was indeed one of the "moonbeam" types. Guess which one is my instructor?

He's not that bad though. And he has a wealth of knowledge to share. I'm going to learn something from him. If I don't take him out in a two out of three cage match first. Did I mention that to cover the material we are supposed to cover and not have to read at home we are reading the chapters aloud? Yep. That would be me. The trainer who loves to experience learning hands-on, reading from Chapter 1. I'm just counting on the fact that most of the course is an internship. That's hands-on to the max!

I tried not to stand out with this guy. But when we were telling what we had done, why we were there and what we wanted to do, I mentioned that I had worked in politics and now wanted to supplement an income that I hope to generate in working with non-profits. He wanted to know what politician, what party, etc. I could tell by the way he asked the question which side he was on. I said, "I prefer not to offer details at this time since I'm assuming you're the one who'll be grading me." He laughed and then said, "Democrat" as though the syllables might stick in his throat. I told him I knew how to keep my opinions to myself if he did too.

The class went fine and I've already learned something so I'm not going to fault him. He seems dedicated to making us good therapists -- just not the moonbeam kind.

And oh yea, he called out to me when I left class at 5 tonight, "See you Liberal." When I repeated that we really didn't have to go there, he said, "But I like a good debate."

After two failed relationships with guys who started off smiling at my views and wanting to debate, I'm thinking politics is definitely not going to be on my class syllabus!

Looking forward to the Movie

2010-08-22T18:06:00.001-07:00

Eat, Love, Pray was a pivotal book in my life. Just not in the way everyone assumed it would be. After 23 years of employment within the Southern Baptist denomination, I determined that I could no longer sit across from pastors who knew I believed exactly as they did when, in fact, I did not. With no plan but to walk away from one of the best teams I will ever work with, do some traveling, volunteering, and lots of learning, the book made an excellent “here’s-to-your-new-adventure” gift.

I hated it.

Well-conceived, written, and marketed, the tale of one woman’s attempt to redefine her life through food, a spiritual quest and new experiences should have inspired me. Instead, I knew the ugly truth (several if you really want a critique of the book). With its release, anything I had hoped to write chronicling my yearlong pursuit of a new life would be considered derivative. So for me, what was supposed to be inspirational was a buzz kill.

Did I laugh at her accounts of carbing her way around Italy? Sure. Did I resonate with her attempts at clearing her mind for meditation? Absolutely. Did I celebrate with her discovery of love on an island? Absolutely not.

I mean,, really. I had already released any hope of pitching my search for truth on $2000 a month to a publisher because she’d cornered the market on women on a quest. But as I turned the final page, I was livid. We began her journey with the realization that a man wasn’t going to be her answer. We ended her journey with her smiling in the arms of a man.

Argh.

So now I had to confront the fact that IF I had a book in me, it was going to be turned down because another female writer was savvy enough to tell a tale which contradicted itself.

Consistency be damned.

Almost three years later, the movie trailers are cleverly appearing on every female-oriented network I watch. Julia Roberts’ smiling face consuming pizza interrupts my weekly obsession with the Iron Chef. Javier Bardem in his pre-Penelope Cruz unattached state declaring that she doesn’t “need a man, she needs a champion” eases the guilt of having spent another hour with real housewives on Bravo. But with each commercial break, I am confronted yet again with what I didn’t do.

My year – carefully crafted to include open ended experiences for learning and growth yet not so defined as to fill like another trap – became three. The three years ended with me at least 30 pounds heavier – from stress eating and not freshly made Italian pasta – and fighting the sense that as a lover of options, I had none. Not exactly the makings of an inspirational story guaranteed to feed the need of women everywhere who want to believe there’s something outside the mundane 7 to 11 work day (cause really, who’s work is ever 9 to 5?).

Sure, I launched my journey with a hot air balloon ride, studied and taught English as a Second language in one of the most diverse cities in the U.S., drove with friends along Route 66 in a VW Beetle convertible, wrote erotica, relished in the kindness of strangers and friends, volunteered in Africa, and ran the field work of a state representative campaigning for reelection. But Tanzania to Texas politics proved to be a beginning of the end of sorts and not the celebratory and revelatory final chapter that would launch my new career. In fact, those preachers began to look rather alluring by the time I concluded that I was once again trapped.

Of course, I’m completely aware that the corner I’d carefully crafted for myself was one of my own making. When the campaign was over and my commitment to my friend, the campaign manager, complete, I could have walked away. The fact that we were in the beginning days of a recession suggested the adage about the bird in the hand was worth noting. I can’t help but wonder what might have been if I’d only looked at the bush! Instead, I signed on for the legislative session – 140 days of Texas shenanigans up close and personal. Ignoring the months of micro-managing I’d already endured, I convinced myself that learning how the state governs would be beneficial to my intentions to return to the non-profit arena. And, hey, religion, academia, politics, why not try them all?

Now that I know the rest of the story, I’ve discovered soooooo many responses to that question.

Welcome Home

2010-08-19T07:39:00.000-07:00

The conversation around the table was deep and wide. Religion/spirituality/church work -- check. Human rights/individual rights/denial of rights -- check. Family/growing up/yet to be born -- check. Stupid jokes/lengthy anecdotes/updates in incomplete sentences because not all nouns need verbs -- check.

We enjoyed the kind of night that old friends who feel like family can enjoy. After months spent apart, put food in front of us and let the overlapping voices, laughter, and empathy begin.

No one would say our gathering was without its share of quirky participants -- a former minister-turned-videographer with progressive politics but a growing sense that government may know too much about us, a current minister too young to be sending a child to college and yet in the city for that very reason, the student who vacillates between girlish giggles and trying on the role of wise woman, her childhood friend who quietly absorbs the character-driven conversation, a teacher just back from vacationing on the West coast and weary from a day of playing catch up in his office, a decorator/real estate agent/minister who in his mid-60s is ramping up his career options, and me, formerly in the ministry, then politics, and now heading for new lessons around a massage table and through networking with non-profits worldwide.

If I hadn't been included, I would have wanted to be!

Sensuality . . . A Must for Good Strategy?

2010-08-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

Read a review of a new release called Chastened. Described as a mix of "memoir with history, sociology and biology for a heady cocktail that feels anything but virginal", the book chronicles a year in the life of a British journalist in which she gives up sex. I share this background only to give context for the line in the review/interview that caught my eye. The implied question is posed:

"For a book with no sex in it, this was a pretty racy read."

The author's response:

"You don't have to be having sex for the world to be a sensual place."

You know, I somehow sensed that.

In fact, prior to reading the Sunday paper where the review appeared, I had just described what I would consider the ultimate job for me -- and it included an emphasis on sensuality. Clients would come to me for a day of finding leverage. We would look at their passion and purpose and find the points of high leverage in the long term and short term. Interspersed in the day would be a break for a massage and a meal. These breaks would be to remember that within the senses is life. Leadership without remembering that is lacking.

Obviously, the quote hit home.

New Adventure - Week 2

2010-08-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

Read my third book since beginning the new beginning. One inspired me to try my hand at writing. While I loved the author's focus on living the life of a sensualist in the kitchen, her overuse of simile was like really getting on my nerves. If she can find a publisher ... Another was evidence of the fact that if you have a following, people will publish you. Julia Childs knew how to make a cookbook zing. Stories told by her when she was in her end years about her first years in Paris were less than compelling. And one was authored by a friend of a friend. Story well told. Not too complicated. Walked away thinking I could do that.

So ... last Saturday I woke up and wrote the prologue for what might be the next chapter and the next.

Did an event for free, sweating in the overwhelming heat but all went well. Finished a gig for pay without physically harming anyone and since it wound up being for less than minimum wage, I put it in the "Lesson Learned" category. Secured a position with a group as their official storyteller. Won't give me any more money but will open a few doors. Hosted lots of friends at my place.

Life is still very good.

New Adventure 2010 - Week 1

2010-08-04T06:54:00.000-07:00

The "first day of my new life" included so much potential and possibilities that I found myself smiling throughout. Coolest thing is that it began and ended with me "listening and guiding" rather than "wanting and needing." On the docket this week -- meet with existing clients, reach out to potential clients, make the massage therapy classes a reality, continue to see emotional and physical balance.

Day 2 -- Signed the paperwork to start classes. Did a little coaching on the side. All I needed were some pompoms and a zit and I'd be in a repeat of 1979. 'Course I'm a far distance from that frightened, faith-in-a-box freshman who was seeking to make the grade rather than gain wisdom. In leadership workshops that I now teach I sometimes ask the participants, "What would your teen self have to say about your current self?" I'm fairly sure my 17-year-old version would be saying a prayer for me . . . while quietly envying the freedom.

Today's 'what ifs' included -- What if I joined with my entrepreneurial/missional friend Shannon to write a book about her adventures with social enterprise? What if I could make a go of freelancing and not have to take Eric up on his generous offer to hire me at The Chocolate Bar? While I'm not "too good" to work the counter, I'm wondering if that would feel like wasted time at a lower hourly wage -- time that I could be researching grant writing and gaining clients.

Day 3 -7 -- Added two new freelance gigs. Felt confirmed in my creativity, an experience that has not been mine in some months. Enjoyed time with girlfriends. Headed to Louisiana for time sitting by the lake, jumping in the lake, being pulled to the point of bruises in a innertube, laughing and loving with a great family.

Aspiring to Such Plain-ness

2010-08-03T05:56:00.000-07:00

Leonard Pitts is a plain speaking writer. Ok, that reads weird but it's true. When he offers up his weekly commentary (I happen to read it in the Houston Chronicle but he's out of Florida) I "get" him. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I don't. But I always understand what he's saying.

For instance, this week he dares to suggest that teachers should be accountable and teacher unions should encourage rather than obstruct such accountability. Check it out. I'm sure there are lengthy arguments to contradict what he's stated so simply here but when you get past all the words, doesn't it make sense that those who give them should have to make the grade?

Precious Memories

2010-08-02T20:47:00.000-07:00

Mother walked toward me with her hands cupped. If I were 6 and her white hair only peppered with salt, she would be clutching a doll or cookie. Since we were celebrating her 80th birthday, I was fairly sure toys and sugar were not what she was hiding.

With the mischievous grin she usually donned for her grandkids, she said, "For you" and revealed her gift.

The framed photo I had taken more than 20 years ago when she and her then new husband Doc walked hand in hand in front of me on a rainy day as we climbed a hill in the Smoky Mountains made me cry out. "Really?" was what I uttered but my own grin revealed the extent of my pleasure.

"You were always so proud of this picture and I want you to have it," she said.

I must admit I wondered if the gesture was some kind of eery foreshadowing -- like maybe she was disposing of prized possessions, knowing that there wouldn't be another opportunity. But I let got of that morbid thought fairly quickly and hugged her.

Mother was always proud of my creative side but, since she only picked up reading late in life, my writing wasn't something she kept up with. The fact that she too had valued this attempt at art on my part always made it even more precious to me.

Now, sitting in its place of honor in my Texas home, it is priceless.

Smiling

2010-07-26T20:55:00.000-07:00

I've been interviewed seven times in the last few weeks. I've written twice as many cover letters -- all customized for the audience. I've made a daily ritual of checking the non-profit job boards.

I'm not fretful about having to job hunt. I'm fretful that I'm getting in too good of a groove!

To date, I've had to refrain from smiling at least once in each interview . . .
-when the exec said for the third time how much he thought of me but that he wasn't sure if the organization could look outside the box enough to hire someone with my limited qualifications in fundraising,
-when the staff was asked if they had questions for me, and they didn't
-when the board member asked if, in the chance that I didn't get the job, would I still volunteer my time (something I've been doing for 15 years!)
-when the two introverts and I were alone in a warm, white office with nothing but a few pieces of paper, a table, and the quiet between us
-when the young man with a list of questions he must have collected from his interview days asked me what my long term career objectives were (at which point I thought about my response to the older man who interviewed me for my first post-college position and said, "You know we only pay minimum wage, and you're getting your masters." To which I replied, "You know I'd like to eat.")
-when the gum-smacking admissions counselor apologized for the gum -- not for the smacking but for not offering me a piece

And the list could easily go on.

How interesting to be on this side of the desk. Reminds me of the many artists, editors and editorial assistants I interviewed through the years. I hope I always left them feeling heard and affirmed in some way. For the most part, that's certainly been true of my experiences this go around.

I've yet to try what one man pulled with me. He explained that I had to hire him because God had revealed it unto him. One of us was obviously not listening to the same God channel. He was pious, yes. He was NOT a good artist.

I am a good interview. I'm an even better employee. And someday soon, I'll be employed again. Until then, I'm still smiling.

Day in the Life of a New Adventure

2010-07-25T07:41:00.000-07:00

"What was you favorite subject in high school?" said the gum-smacking admissions counselor with the smoker's rasp.

"Anything to do with writing," I offered, smiling at the fact that the form she was filling out was based on the assumption that the person on the opposite side of her desk would be recently graduated from high school or a GED recipient.

"What was your least favorite?"

"Math."

"I could have told you that was what you were going to say. Happens all the time during these interviews. If someone liked English or writing, they are going to say they didn't like math. So, if it makes you feel better, you're predictable."

"That maybe the last time you say that during the entirety of this interview."

She laughed, coughed, and smacked some more as we made our way through the form she was adapting on the spot. At one point, she apologized for the long pauses, noting that her usual intake wasn't with people as forthcoming as me. Seems that where she frequently had to pull replies from her candidates, I answered one question with enough information to fill half the application.

For instance, as to why I wanted to receive certification in massage therapy, I responded, "I love working with non-profits but they can't afford to pay me. So I need a skill that will allow me to have the flexibility of working with them -- and thus feed my 'habit' -- while at the same time, help to pay the bills. Also, I believe my life is about rest, restoration, and refreshment for others. I can't think of a better way for me to accomplish that than through the gift of touch."

I think that must have covered questions 6-9 on the form.

She continued to apologize throughout the interview and tour of the facility. Once it was for checking her cell phone. Another time it was for the gum -- not the 'chomping' as she called it (and correctly I might add) but for not offering me a piece. Then it was for the speed at which she talked, the scattered approach, the fact that she had to comply with state rules and tell me everything about the school's offerings, the speed at which she walked. Initially, I replied with "I understand" and "No problem." But after a while, I just let the apologies go.

By the time the tour was half over and I had been introduced to my third bulletin board of students in health professions, I knew I needed to call it quits. But I continued. When she couldn't show me the mall-based storefront where interns offer cut-rate massages and underscored twice that they had increased security after five break-ins in the parking lot, I was fairly sure, I didn't really need to talk to the financial adviser. But I did. The price tag sealed it.

I won't be going to this school.

A short ride later, I walked into a posh spa with the required bubbling brook sounds and water installations around every corner. Everyone was in scrubs. The place smelled of eucalyptus and lavender. The lights were muted. The music and water sounds created the score for the tour. Hydrotherapy, a waterbed massage table, and the fact that by becoming a student I would be given free membership to the gym, pool, and exercises classes sealed the deal. Oh, and the fact that though no financial aid is available, the cost was half the previous place and I get a massage chair when I am finished.

I felt like a snob when I resolved that I was choosing the spa over the mall. But if relaxation is what I want to be about, the decision wasn't a difficult one.

Now I await word from the fulltime position I interviewed for. If that job is offered, then classes won't begin for me until spring 2011 when the next round of night options begin. If the job isn't mine, then I can start in a few weeks.

Either way, I've settled that my next step is not a either/or option. I'm all about the both/and. And this time, I'm getting both learning and position, both education and atmosphere.

And I'm one step closer to that woman I am becoming. (No gum chewing allowed.)

Matter of Perspective

2010-07-15T19:09:00.000-07:00

I once had a maid, a yard guy, a house with a home office, and . . . the constant feeling that I was failing.

Today I dropped something on the floor and realized that if I didn't pick it up, no one would. A couple of days ago, I weeded the weeds on my front stoop and was satisfied that they looked close enough to wildflowers for me to let them keep growing (at least they are green). I'm typing on a Mac permanently stained by Tanzanian dirt and plugged into the wall because the battery died and I don't want to incur the expense of replacing it. And I am happy.

New Life, the Sequel to the Sequel

2010-07-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

Once July got here, the reality of my situation began to sink in. I'm leaving my job (for which I'm paid regularly) because I no longer want to work in that environment. However, I have no new environment on the horizon. So I'm listening to what others are saying and trying to pay attention.

"Karen, you should let people pay you to do that."

"We'd love to have your skill sets, but as a non-profit with no steady income, we can't afford you."

"You need to be in a creative space."

"Karen gets her energy from touch."

"You're not old."

As a result of comments like these and remembering the inspiring examples of my friend Cam and Larry who both stopped the road they were on and went back to school for a new one, I'm looking at massage therapy school. A program starts Aug. 23. I could be through in six months. I could freelance at night and on the weekends to try and make ends meet but I am also looking at whether I could use my retirement funds without penalty in order to go to school.

I'm nervous, excited, maybe a little worried, and ready.

Writing I Didn't Want to Do but Was Honored to Complete

2010-06-23T05:50:00.000-07:00

I was asked to write an obituary for a remarkable woman, truly what people would call a "character", someone who made my "family I've chosen" better with her presence, her candor, her unsappy approach to compassion. After writing it, I gave it to her husband Bill for him to give to the newspaper. Unfortunately, a snafu meant that it didn't appear the day before the funeral. I intervened, tried logic, then asked for humanity to prevail and unfortunately, the bottom line was the only thing the business side of the paper was interested in. At more than $800, I thought the charges were excessive when the item wouldn't appear until the day of the funeral. So I switched approaches. A call to the News Desk resulted in a feature story, celebrating her volunteerism, that appeared last night online and the day of the funeral on page 2 of the City Section and above the fold.

Carolyn would not have enjoyed the attention, but would have been thoroughly pleased that we beat the system and got it all for free. They didn't use my version of the story and as a result got a few great quotes from Bill that I didn't. But in case you never had the privilege of meeting her, here's my introduction to a great woman who loved and lived life to the fullest:

Carolyn Sharber, 75, died June 17. Her sudden death occurred as she was fulfilling one of her many volunteer roles – assisting Texas Lovin’ Cloggers prior to a performance in Branson, MO.

Born in Elizabeth City, NC, Carolyn spent 39 years in classrooms in New Orleans and Houston. She and her husband, Bill, recently celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary. Childhood sweethearts, they attended grade school and high school together and graduated from East Carolina University.

Upon her retirement from teaching physical education, Carolyn began a second “career” of volunteerism. Her commitments included Braes Interfaith Ministries, Omega House (an AIDS hospice), Interfaith Care Partners, and the Livestock Committee of the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo. She was a member of Willow Meadows Baptist Church where she faithfully did whatever task needed to be done.

Known for her sense of humor, compassionate spirit, and practical approach to work and play, Carolyn was able to bring a lighter side to many of the serious issues connected to her volunteerism. Fifteen years ago, upon being told that hospice volunteers were needed for cooking, cleaning and patient care at Omega House, Carolyn quickly acknowledged that she would happily do the laundry but since she kept her cookbooks in her oven at home, she wouldn’t be cooking anywhere else either. At the church, her aversion to cooking prompted other volunteers to capture her one experience in the kitchen on film.

Upon hearing of her death, numerous friends and acquaintances began recounting their experiences with Carolyn’s selfless acts of befriending the outcast and recruiting of others to join her in her volunteer activities.

“Carolyn gave her life to service, caring for everyone but herself,” said her husband Bill. “You would never find a better friend. I could never have found a better partner.”

Carolyn is also survived by a sister, Mary Ann Knight of Garner, NC; two nieces Sheryl Holbrook and Donna Barefoot; a nephew Randal Hardesty; and close friend Buncy Nemec.

The funeral will take place Wednesday, June 23, at 10 a.m. at Willow Meadows Baptist Church, 4300 West Bellfort. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the church youth programs to scholarship youth activities.

Truly a sanitized version, the best things about Carolyn were her approach to doing good deeds, her aversion to cooking, her total disregard for anyone who didn't want her smoking in the church parking lot, her willingness to do ANYTHING except cook, the way she approached anyone she didn't know and made them her friend in minutes, and the way she never saw what might keep others from lending a hand -- dirty clothes and hair, a shady past/present, a furrowed brow that looked menacing -- and instead just treated humanity as humanity.

I, and many others, will miss her.

A Saturday in Houston in June

2010-06-20T06:05:00.000-07:00

The fan on my VW is belching hot air and hot air only. I can't make up my mind as to whether I should put the windows down where the temp is already near 90 before 9 a.m. or keep waiting for the cold air to come.

I drive the almost empty freeway to my workplace where I am greeted by similarly clad folks in campaign t-shirts. I'm thinking that this will be my last blockwalk and while that pleases me the thought of the next few hours does not. The interns have the situation well in hand and I await my marching orders. A volunteer (who came to us in the last campaign and worked as she subsequently got the news she had lymphoma and then began treatment) and I have four streets to cover in Bellaire.

We take her car.

The process of blockwalking is well thought out. I have a clipboard of papers for one side of the street. She has the other. We knock. We wait. We greet. We tell what we are doing. We offer the brochure. We smile and go to the next house. Simple.

I HATE IT!

Who wants to be bothered by politics on a Saturday morning? Especially when the election isn't until November and this is a hot day in June. I did encounter one woman eager to hear me and even though she votes the other ticket most of the time, seemed to be open to what I had to say. AND she offered me water.

Two hours into it and I'm wet all over. Now, not only would I not open the door to me, I would be fearful of the sight if I happened to check out my window!

Finally, we've covered the route and head back to the office. Then I head to my next gig -- babysitting.

Brian asked me to come over because he now has twins and a 2-year-old -- plus he's giving a party that afternoon. I get a quick orientation as the moment I enter there's crying and changing and feeding to be done. They are big dollops of cuteness and despite my lack of experience with small versions of humanity, I walk away without traumatizing anyone.

Next up is a phone call that lasts two hours. Interesting ... Intriguing ... Not enough to write about yet.

And finally I head to see what Fiona needs. She's a friend who is a on a similar journey of discovering the next thing for her life. I wind up filming her on a graveled path with a great view of the city behind her (this after trying a rooftop and then climbing through a stranger's window to check out her "patio" view). She does several takes describing her passion for equal rights, equal respect, and equal responsibility. Then we head for a brief catch up that turns into a lengthy discussion of options, possibilities, and passion.

I realize that passion is addictive. I love the fire it puts in someone's actions, the light it brings to their eyes, the sense of purpose it provides. I want passion in my life and I am beginning to realize that mine is ignited by others'.

Nice day in the life of me . . .

Hands in the Air, Anticipating the Ride

2010-06-18T05:48:00.000-07:00

Experiential learner that I am, many of my aha moments are accompanied by "doing" metaphors. I illustrate the ying/yang of the art of leadership -- keeping the urgency taut as you move toward a vision while clearly understanding current reality -- as the motion of cross country skiing. These last few days I've been feeling the hills -- the strain of climbing, the anticipation, the release and pure joy -- of a roller coaster.

First I returned from not only a fun trip but a truly stimulating one. My time in London with friends/entrepreneurs there inspired me. I remembered how much I love helping a person of passion move toward achieving their dreams. The second day back I interviewed for a position with an organization where I have volunteered for 15 years. I enjoyed meeting the staff and could begin to see that it could really be a good match for me. I made the "cut" (5 candidates were simultaneously in this process) and met with board members the next day. At the conclusion of that one, a board member thanked me for my enthusiasm. I hadn't realized how long it had been since someone commented on that (used to be a fairly regular observation folks made about my presentations) and was optimistic but cautiously so. Seems my lack of the title on my resume for the position the director was seeking to fill continued to be a concern for him. He just didn't see how my church experiences would translate into a health non-profit fundraising and volunteer management role.

So yesterday, he called to tell me that they had gone a different direction. And honestly, I felt released. I wanted to work for a group who "got me", who could think outside the box and be ready to creatively answer questions that nagged them, who matched my passion and provided me a challenge and a playground for new ideas. If my lack of the title he wanted to see boxed him in, then that's not the place I want to be.

And if that realization weren't enough, I then got a call that a dear woman and one of the reasons I call Houston home, had died. Carolyn was an incredible force wrapped in a body that was 100 pounds possibly but only when wet. Her story will be another entry on another day when I can tell it without tearing up and jeopardizing the keyboard.

But truly, how can a concern over a career path even compare to the loss of a loved one. I called her husband Bill and simply said, "I love you and am praying" and I went to my next event with the knowledge that my chosen family here is incredible.

The event I attended for my current boss included doctors from the area. One couple heard me mention Tanzania and came back to talk. They've only been married two years. She ran a center for AIDS orphans in Namibia before coming here. I explained a bit about the work I'd done with the organization I'd known as Minnesota International Health Volunteers in 2008.

This morning I decided to see what MIHV was up to. For one thing, they've changed their name. Now Wellshare International they are currently looking for a Communications and Volunteer Manager. I sent my resume.

I've also sent my number to a friend who says her friend wants to introduce himself to me. No clue what that means except . . .

The anticipation begins again.

Paris/London Postings: Written Two Days after Arriving Home

2010-06-16T05:32:00.000-07:00

Though I worked at least six days out of the 12 we were gone, I absolutely loved this vacation. The work allowed me to remember who I am, what I ought to be doing, and I was able to give the gift of time to friends I love. The reward was their gratitude and some of the most incredible sites (some not listed on any tourist map, some only highlighted in a footnote, and some that fall into the category of "must see").

Rather than offer up a day to day narrative, I'll provide a list of images and sensations:

- the English version should be the picture beside the definition for "rolling countryside"
- pub life cannot be compared to dropping by a bar in the U.S. . . . there's a whole culture that we don't come near to reproducing, plus the drinks aren't nearly as expensive
- when a bride and groom are both artists, their dreams of a wedding are like no other ... so if you are picking up the responsibility of ensuring those dreams are realized, it's good to get all the details before the other help start arriving
- jam jars and tea cups make for delightful drinks at an afternoon reception but removing almost 100 labels is a rather sticky job
- transforming a 500+year-old-hall into a meeting room/dining room/dance hall takes all hands on deck and it's great when many of those hands are artistic
- I'll never be able to produce dove bunting the way Rob can
- I'll never see a bride as romantically attired and beaming quite as brightly as Aimie was
- I love it when people who love to cook all wind up in a big kitchen together ... when the accents are Irish, French Canadian, Indian, Philadelphian, British, and Texan, it's even more fun
- When asked to prepare food for such an eclectic crowd be prepared to be asked if this, that and the other thing are gluten free ... several times ... with increasing levels of frustration on the part of the gluten free eater that you can do nothing for (other than suggest they eat the items that are obviously sans gluten)
- Never underestimate the ability of a Brit to hold his margarita, whiskey sour, Proseco, bellini, and wine. Amazing fortitude!
- An English countryside "hill" is a Texas mountain ... when climbing up it, take note and walk with the woman with the cane because you look good for "helping" and you are allowed to stop and breathe without looking like a fat wimp
- Weddings planned by spiritual artists who love visual and word art as well as the theater are quite spectacular
- You probably can't imagine but you may want to try ... on top of a high and windy grassy opening, overlooking rolling countryside which make their way to the sea ... all in view as the vows are exchanged
- Items included in the service: sticks transformed into wands which form an archway through which the women walk through, oil from the Holy Land, binding cloth, bread/wine, a girl wearing her fairy wings and a boy clad in a kilt to deliver the rings, a dog running through the circle that surrounded the couple and an embarrassed teen apologizing, biodegradable dove balloons released, and audience participation
- When the hall is stone and includes a smoke-stained Rueben, there's pretty good bones for a breathtakingly beautiful dining experience but add in garland and wildflowers, glass decanters and tealights, and 90 friends and family and it's beyond description
- Brits like written speeches rather than toasts at their weddings
- 1st course: lentil soup; 2nd: meat/veg/gluten free pies with 5 salads served family style; 3rd: cheescake for all and choices of 8 homemade cakes (including 3 which were gluten free)
- The barn dance reminded me of contra dancing ... and Rob and Aimie's friends like to spin . . . a lot
- Releasing biodegradable Chinese lanterns toward the stars . . . WOW
- The realization that the hired help had put in a 14 hour day and I had shared overseeing duties for at least 17 as I made my way to bed
- Listening to the sound of storytelling and singing by the fire through my open window . . . completely spent but pleased at having given the gift of peace of mind to my friends.

Paris/London Postings: Written as Email Update to Family

2010-06-16T05:28:00.000-07:00

Thought I would at least tell you that I am alive and very well in London. Roger and I had not one single international incident while we were in Paris! We found our apartment (small though it may have been) and it was in a 300 year old building with a window overlooking a charming courtyard. Within minutes of arriving, Roger made friends with the chef at the restaurant beside us and he not only gave us water (we were a little surprised by the heat), his wife/partner allowed us to leave on bags at their flat when we had to vacate our place on the last day.

We took in all the iconic structures of Paris -- on foot, on bike, by bus, and by boat. We learned the Metro and were able to traverse from the highest hill to the highest building. We fell in love with our bike tour guide who gave us the best tip of the trip -- an entrance into the Louvre that had NO lines on the free day. While the rest of Paris stood in the sun in a entrance line that was at least the size of a football field, we walked right in, took two flights to the Mona Lisa, went into the catacombs to see the Roman antiquities and were back out on the streets in less than an hour. I know that some of you probably think we should have spent the day there but we had miles to go before we could say we had seen and done Paris.

Thanks to great input from my buddy Jocelyn, we were well prepared for the food situation and enjoyed light and inexpensive fare while we were there.

The train ride to London allowed us to meet an interesting woman now living in London but originally from Morocco. A Muslim, a teacher of French, and brilliant conversationalist, Roger and I enjoyed her immensely.

When we arrived at the airport, Rob and Aimie were waving giddily and had flowers for us. We hugged and kissed and hugged some more then they went south to the wedding location and we got in the cab they set up for us and headed to Shannon's. She was finishing off a chicken marsalis and quinoa dish that was delicious. We slept well and on Monday I worked with her and her team while simultaneously biking to some of her favorite spots. Roger took the Big Red Bus to lots of different tourist attractions. We met up for drinks at the city's oldest pub and sat in a cave lit only by candles. We then headed back to her neighborhood and enjoyed live music with members of her team and then prepared a healthy salmon and veggie dinner.

Today, Roger took a boat ride as Shannon and I worked on more strategy. We have a park to visit and some Indian curry to enjoy before the day is out. Tomorrow we head south to Devon to meet up with folks for the wedding. We are looking forward to making homemade salsa for 90 people as part of our requested contribution to the weekend -- that and talking Southern so all the couple's friends can enjoy our accents.

So that's it for now. Love to all. Cathey and Kelly, please share with Mom.

Pre-Vacation Ramblings

2010-06-02T05:53:00.000-07:00

Ever met one of those all-or-nothing-kids? Usually a phase, they focus on one item of clothing, food, or action. For instance, they can't go out without their scarf -- even if it's 90 degrees. Or they must have peanut butter for breakfast every day.

I don't recall being that fixated as a child. But I have grown into some peculiarities as an adult.

Like an artist in his blue period, I have had months of PBJ starts to my day. Lately, I've started the mornings with the ritual -- Facebook Scrabble, email check, enter two online sweepstakes, check the job openings. Every day, the same.

Even this blog comes in phases.

Not sure if there's a direct correlation but a good therapist might point out that my tendency to dwell and then move on explains my relational tendencies. If you are in my life, you are central, critical, foremost. But when you're not, you're not. No worries. No anger, No pain. Just here and then gone. Perhaps it's why I understand the news of a 40 year marriage in the public eye now ending. Life goes on and sometimes in different directions.

Sometimes balance is better and striving for more would be advisable. But the ebb and flow have taken me to some pretty radical places (both figuratively and literally) through the years. However, I'm pretty excited about a bit of change coming my way. I KNOW that the feeling of being trapped has caused me to make some pretty unhealthy choices in the last year. So I'm ready to breakaway, to startle myself, to redeem the childlike wonder.

Now ... where did I put my scarf?

Puttin On the RRRRITZ

2010-05-26T05:52:00.000-07:00

Do good and good comes back to you. Most days I live that. Now, mind you, I don't do good things ONLY because I want good returned to me. I simply have seen the truth of the statement over and over again.

Last night is an example. I volunteered with the Bayou City Arts Festival a couple of months ago. Previously, I was a "day-of volunteer" but this year I upped the ante and dedicated a few vacation days to learning what the Artist Support Committee was all about. I had an incredible experience and met some very nice folks.

One of those hard-working individuals was a staffer. Kelly is in charge of many things -- including my committee. Last week she asked if I wanted to be her guest at a performance of Young Frankenstein. They had gotten some tickets and were sharing the bounty.

Of course, I said yes. Not so much because I'm all about the musical but it sounded like a fun night and it included an after party with the cast.

The musical is pure Mel Brooks. That being said, if you like him, you'll like the musical. If burlesque isn't your thing, don't go. The fun part for me was remembering all the great performances from the movie. 'Cause, really, everything is just a caricature when the original nailed it the first time.

I spent the whole night feeling like I was in the middle of a series of jokes where the teller keeps saying, "Wait for it... wait for it" and then the payoff came time and time again. Frankestein's dance with the top hat and the shouted line, the big knockers, the moving hump on the back, and of course ... Oh sweet mystery of life.

Perhaps it's not such a mystery but I'm glad I found that positive things we do with good intentions can surprise us with their results. I didn't expect a night on the town when I offered a weekend of my time. I didn't know that good friends and interesting new stories would introduce themselves. I just did what needed doing.

That's the good life.

Still learning ....

2010-05-22T11:50:00.001-07:00

Once the line in the sand was "Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?" I was in my 20s then and the women with whom I worked would speak of the 60s and early 70s as formative years for their youth/young adulthood. I knew I was but a child and had much to learn because the answer to the question for me was "in a crib."

Now I've become the woman on the other side of the new timeline (though the question varies and is not nearly as dramatic, there's still some point in history that reminds me, "OMG, they don't remember _________" .... and maybe it's when we didn't speak in OMGscript). I spent today with some incredible young adults and I smiled when I realized they were listening to me and working alongside me just as I had my mentors almost 25 years ago. In fact, most of the people in the office today weren't born when I first got into the professional realm.

I thought that when my turn to be the "sage" came due, I'd be bothered by my age. I'm not. I celebrate it. I've managed to do a lot of living and pack in an incredible variety of experiences in a little over two decades. I might wish my curves weren't multiplying and my skin wasn't sagging but other than that ... I'm all good.

So I'm wondering what lessons I've learned that I'd like to pass on to my newest recruits in the "I have to work with Karen so I might as well make the best of it" team. I'm thinking . . .

- When you suspect that life sucks, realize you've got your hand on the air valve. Change is always possible; maybe not practical but definitely possible.
- Go somewhere where they don't eat like you do and chow down. Then, if you must know, ask what you just ate. You'll be a better person for culinary adventures outside your culture. And if getting to that table involved a plane ticket, you get extra points.
- Don't commit to a career; find a path. I am so glad that one day I realized I was more than my resume.
- Grace isn't just a word in an amazing song. Grace offered on a regular basis will forge friendships that feed your own soul. Hard thing is releasing the right to judge quickly and hold grudges. Reward is that grace can be both given and received.
- Keep laughing.

Don't know if I should start making t-shirts or cross-stitching on pillows or if maybe that's not a bad start to some lessons I need to capture in some form. But since countdown-to-the-next-version-of-me has now begun I thought I would at least remind myself of why I like me.

Sweet Notion

2010-05-21T02:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I attended an event focusing on "up-cycling" rather than recycling with proceeds going to social change. The group -- Sweet Notions -- is on to something. They do what they do with high quality, even though some of the donations don't always look that way when first received. They also have a conscience and a plan to ethically make an impact on lives and the environment. (Here's their link ... http://www.sweetnotions.org/)

I'm having a sweet notion moment in my own life. I will soon be upcycling my skill set and embarking on a new career path. I want to pursue development at a non-profit. Trouble is ... just as some of the potential guests I tried to explain the evening to only heard "donated jewelry", thought "chains-a-la-Madonna, circa 1985" and couldn't fathom the beautiful art old broaches and belts can become in the right artist's hands ... so goes it with trying to translate the two decades of experience I've had in the church world to execs and HR folks in my new targeted work realm.

My new notion is to start offering my services on a trial run. "Satisfaction guaranteed in 60 days" with no commitment required. Seems to me I could show my stuff in 60 days.

The irony in much of my hunting to date ... and I've been out there, believe me, is that most of the groups I'm applying with make specific mention of faith communities as being part of their target audience. Wouldn't a former communications consultant TO churches make sense then?

So if anyone is out there still reading this from time to time, and if you are so inclined to pray/think positive thoughts/pitch my plea out to the Universe, then I think that is a very sweet notion and thank you in advance.

And by the way ... once I'm no longer tied to the very public realm as I am now (i.e. when I no longer work for the state's best representative but in a job that is not quite right for me) I will return to a more frequent updating of this blog.

New Vision to Pull Me Forward

2010-04-14T06:18:00.000-07:00

I want to open up a place in a community frequented by travelers and call it "The State of Grace." All who enter will know that they are welcome and will be heard and well fed.

I'm now contemplating the decor. License plates come to mind. Wonder what our State plates could look like? Hmmmm . . .

More to come.

Dream Dies but Hope Remains

2010-03-07T07:43:00.000-08:00

The dream home will not be mine.

I visualized it. Meditated on it. Imagined it for the greater good. But alas, if the New Mexico prize HGTV is giving away were mine, I would have had a call by now. The reveal of the new owner is this week and since no camera crew is at my door to tape my astonished expression upon hearing the news, the news, for me, is not good.

Still, the hope generated by living within the dream remains. I hope for something better. This morning I probably went so far as fantasizing when I read of an artist who, because of a spouse's income, was able to give up a paying position to stay at home with her child and in so doing discovered the artist within herself and now has a different, self-prioritizing career. I must confess that there are times when the fact that there is no socially acceptable or financially viable reason/way for me to quit my job, stay home, and create is just a bit tedious for me. But then I recall the number of parents I know who are ready to trade in their teens for a new model and the number of husbands/wives who feel trapped and I know that my life is my life and I'll find my way.

If folklore is based in some reality, the "in between" places are filled with trolls and darkness that can easily overwhelm. Doorways, window sills, and the midnight hour are those locations and times in between where the unseen can cause havoc. But there is invisible good at play as well says the story books -- fairies and light ready to provide a glimmer of hope. I choose to focus on the fairy dust possibilities as I live in my "in between" state at the moment. Some days I battle with the trollish babble of "you're stuck," "you've lost your edge," "you can't always enjoy what you do to make a living, but you have to do something." But for the most part, I keep pushing toward the light and the call of "you have much to offer," "you can make a difference," "listen to your drum and keep marching."

So here I sit in a home I love because of what's inside it, ready to share with any friend in need, and take a moment to remember that every day of life, love, and laughter is a day when I can easily declare myself a winner.

Confessions of a Confused Mourner

2010-02-20T21:16:00.000-08:00

My friend called me late one night this week to tell me that the young woman in the news who was killed in an early morning collision was the waitress that took care of him and his buddies on their semi-regular breakfast gatherings at a local diner. She was in her 30s, he thought, and had just dropped off her two kids and was heading to work when the wreck occurred.

Tonight, while reading Facebook status updates, I learned that another mother of two small boys had passed away. She was an incredibly creative woman, volunteering untold hours to create photographic inspirational journals of mission trips, pouring her wisdom into her children, and supporting her equally gifted husband -- all from a wheelchair, or bed, or feeble stance because arthritis robbed her of ease of mobility.

I am not a mother. Never have been, never will be. But today I felt the incredible joy of having a three-year-old hold me tightly as we spun around until we were both so dizzy the world kept spinning even when we stopped. She loved every rotation and, even as she weaved and held my pants leg to steady herself, held up her hands to me, and demanded, "Do it again, KK. Do it again." Because I love her and the giggles our merry-go-rounding produced, I complied, and complied, and complied.

Later, I was overwhelmed with emotion as this precious bundle laid her head on my shoulder when she was momentarily overtaken by a coughing spurt and I comforted and quieted her. She held on that time with no doubt that I would be there for her and, secure in that knowledge ,she raised her head up, took my face in her small hands, and kissed me.

My brief experience today made the news of the loss of these two women even more confusing.

Children surrounded by love are fearless in their expectations. Children expect mothers to drop them off and be back to pick them up, to be behind the camera and in the photos, to comfort their ills and cause their laughter.

These are not unrealistic expectations.

Things that Made Me Smile Today

2010-02-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

-- From someone's Facebook status: Women are angels. And when someone breaks our wings...we simply... continue to fly... on a broomstick. We are flexible.

--Saw a sign at the neighborhood supermarket indicating "pork shoulder butts" were on sale and wondered why I had never before wondered about that particular anatomical perversion.

--My friend texting me after she heard my sqeaky voice (due to cold) and the two of us deciding my Muppet name should be Snotty Spice

--Everyone's reaction to calls from the District Director for the State Representative (that would be me) calling on official business today and sounding like a Muppet or Munchkin or

I'm a Sap ... but I've also been sick so forgive me

2010-02-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

I cried.

Booth and Bones were expecting nothing less than a horrible Christmas. Booth's son was heading to the mountains with his ex. Bones' dad is in prison. Even though she arranges for the "conjugal" trailer to be used by her brother, his wife, their kids, and her dad, she was going to Peru for an anthropological study. But even the trailer is a bust because they can have it but no decorations.

There's also a body and a killer and blah, blah, blah.

But the last scene got me. Booth's son doesn't go to the mountains and they get Christmas day together with "two trees." We don't know what that means. Cut to Bones who doesn't go to Peru and is in the trailer with the fam. Bones calls and tells her he and his son want to give her present to her. She says, "Later." And he says, "Look out the window."

There Booth and his son stand beside a Christmas tree with multicolored lights plugged into the car battery.

I cried.

Some day some one is going to know me well enough to know that that simple act would have made it the best Christmas ever for someone like me.

Until then ... I cry. Sappy, I know.

Lost and Found

2010-01-31T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure why Evangelicals get so upset with Dan Brown. (Then again, I'm not sure why most ardent believers get upset with anything that upsets them. If they truly believe God is in control, then maybe chilling out a bit would be an act of faith.) If anything, they and the Masons should thank the author of The Da Vinci Code and The Lost Symbol. He's made belief seem kinda cool.

The Masons should especially write him a thank you note. They couldn't have produced a better recruitment flyer than Brown's most recent work of fiction. Sure the bad guy infiltrates the ranks of the highest order but all the other secret-holding, fear-defying followers are successful, stoic, and seemingly brilliant. Since I only know of one Mason in my sphere of friends and he has held up his end of the bargain by remaining mum on the subject, I'm here to tell you that I was intrigued by what few insights I was offered. I'd think about joining ... oh wait, I can't. That whole "fraternal" deal and all. (Hmmm....guess that's a blog for another day.)

So back to the pros of the book. Early on in its pages, we're introduced to the idea that one can scientifically prove the power of prayer exists. Karen's translation is as follows: Like sands on a beach, each one having mass and therefore gravitational pull, so can thoughts have mass and if the collective is large enough can affect a gravitational pull or cause an action to occur. At one point (and seemingly for no point other than to make this point), they even measure the weight of a soul! So making old Dan out to be the big bad seems silly to me. He's saying, "Hey folks, there might be something here! And wait, I can prove it!" Of course, that just plays havoc with faith and believing in that which you cannot see IF you measure the importance of it all in how much faith you have rather than in what you put your faith in.

Ok, so it is a work of fiction ... something all the naysayers seemed to have a hard time coming to terms with when the Code was released. But frankly, in the Symbol, when we get the lowdown on the number 33 and the fact that we have 33 vertebrae linked to the sacrum (or sacred bone) well, my first thought was that will preach! Hello? Your body as a temple? How come I've never heard that in a sermon before?

I think the answer to that and to the underlying issue here rests partially on our great desire to want to believe in something bigger than what we can imagine and our utter fear that we won't ever get our heads around it. I love symbols and rituals and the suggestion that there is more here than meets the eye. And I gave up trying to be the smartest person in the class a long time ago. I'm deeply satisfied with not having answers. I'm even happier when I hear someone ask a question I would never have thought to ask. All this "unknowing" makes me know that there exists something far beyond me and rather than feel lost, instead, I'm most definitely found.

Congested TV

2010-01-29T20:19:00.000-08:00

I've been sick for three days. This post is not a complaint however. All I have to do is read the paper and see a photo from Haiti and I silence my cough and say a word of gratitude that there's a pharmacy nearby and soup in my fridge.

So what am I doing on a Friday night posting about not complaining about being sick?

I'm watching bad television. Actually, the shows haven't been that bad. Medium intrigues me and Numbers is pretty cool with geeky eye candy. But what's caught my eye today/tonight are the commercials.

--Michael Jackson in 3D at the Grammys. Really? I get having yet another tribute to him since he was a musical presence for so long, but his music isn't enough? We need 3D?
--Texas is promoting voter registration and they have a young woman in a school hallway saying, "My kids asked me if I was going to vote. Duh!? I'm a teacher ..." She lost me at Duh. She really lost me when she added that she didn't know if she was registered.
--Other than Eric Clapton looking really, really old, why should I look twice at the new Fender phone?
--The new McDonalds series featuring sexy people talking sexy to a sandwich, skinny models eyeing the male clothes horse because he's eating a wrap? That's the draw? He's cute and broke, girls! Or else he'd be eating at the Olive Garden!
--The attack of the Wheat Thins ... a male version and a female version ... both of them bite.

Many commercials are movie shorts -- creative and enticing. Others are like the phlegm in my chest I can't get rid of.

Chop It Up, Spit It Out

2010-01-26T19:38:00.000-08:00

Ostrich, black-eyed peas, small bananas.

Open up a basket and those are the ingredients waiting to become a main course. Excuse me?! And then three "chefs" get to judge what some non-celebrity (i.e. they've never been in front of a camera) cooks whip up in 20 minutes. If not all goes well, the cook is Chopped.

Please ... really?

I hurt every time host Tom utters the word as condemnation, "You have been chopped." Partially, I'm cringing at his over annunciation. And the other part of me, just cringes that a non-chef is suffering from such over inflation of ego.

And don't get me started on the judges. They are glib, rude, and arrogant.

Yet, most Tuesdays, the show is on and I'm half watching it, glad there's a mute button, and waiting for grace to come forth from someone's mouth. Since this is supposedly reality television, I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen.

Family Vacations

2010-01-24T16:42:00.000-08:00

A dear friend is nearing the end of her Texas stay. She's going to graduate a daughter in May and then pack her kids and Texas memories and relocate north where snow comes more often than once a decade and a husband who has already picked up stakes awaits her.

This weekend we added to her photo album with a trip to Austin. Though she's been a resident for eight years and seen some great Texas sights, she had yet to experience the capital city. Another buddy had a birthday this week so we loaded up the car on Friday afternoon and the three of us made our way there to commemorate and celebrate . Home base was at the place of yet another member of this chosen family. He was host, tour guide and general champion of all things fun.

South Congress shops amused us with funky pins, posters, magnets and toys for grown ups. We experienced great food (including the best pork chop I've ever consumed at a place called The Woodland) at venues cheap and upscale. A tour of UT and a women's basketball game (that they somehow lost until the last minutes of overtime when Iowa State took the lead and kept it), music, walks around the lake, climbing the hills to take in the vistas and some of the most incredible sunsets -- these were all captured on film and in our hearts.

I took one very memorable photo of the three of them. The idea was that I was going to get this incredible wide shot with them in the foreground and the hills behind. Instead, I zoomed in. Each one smiled for their own reason. One because one more year was being recognized by those who loved him. Another because he knew he'd made another convert to the city that claimed his passion years ago. But hers was the widest, the most compelling. Her eyes were bright and the moment of perfect clarity was there for all to see. Her face conveyed what we all knew ... these moments are rare and few and while the future is bright, "now" is to be cherished.

I'm glad the viewfinder on these digital cameras work so well. My tears made it really hard to focus.

Riddle Me This, Batman

2010-01-21T20:37:00.000-08:00

I stood in line today so that I could be told which line to go stand in. Arriving at the front of the line, I received a slip of paper ensuring me I had a place in line saved just for me as I sat to wait. When my number was called, I was pointed to the next and last line. Where I paid up, smiled, and it was over.

What government agency was I visiting?

MLK Day -- A Day Off and A Day for Remembering

2010-01-18T08:29:00.000-08:00

"In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force." -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

I read again King's "I Have a Dream" and sought to be moved by the words in a fresh way rather than just focusing on the parts that have become a part of my oral history with its singsong cadence and rising vitality. I wanted to see, not just hear, what he had to say that day. Just as with any good writing, returning to the text regularly will offer you new insights based on where you are in your own journey. This MLK Day proved no exception.

How many times, I wondered, as the quote above stung me, have I been so driven by my own sense of righteousness that I gulped greedily from the cup of bitterness. Sarcasm and snide remarks, dismissal of another's thoughts merely because of the "side" they represented was not my own -- these have more frequently than I care to admit, been my weapons of choice. No matter the injustice that I want righted and how important or critical I think immediate attention should be paid, my cause is not helped when the fury of my emotion drowns out my point.

MLK knew that. To read his text is to be educated. To hear his words spoken that day is to be lifted up, but not to the place of an "eye for an eye". Instead, he shouts to us a lullaby, soothing our anxious spirits with the comfort of knowing that we are not alone, painting a picture that is impossible to see without standing on the shoulders of those who have gone before us but with a bit of effort, is visible.

The day is coming when I once again will feel passionate about a cause to the point of indignation, when my blood runs hot with the desire to shut "them up", shout "them" down, stop "their" stupidity. When that day comes, I pray I will I have the soul force to satisfy my thirst with the cup of overflowing grace so frequently offered to me.

Quote that Made Me Stop and Think

2010-01-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

"Our politicians seem to be at least as sinful as their electorate, with professions of religiosity just adding a layer of hypocrisy." -- Rick Casey in Houston Chronicle

Choo Choo

2010-01-17T08:05:00.000-08:00

For those of you who already think I have a permanent ticket on the crazy train, you're going to do little more than shake your head at this one. . .

I'm dreaming the dream of the HGTV Dream Home. Every day I enter to win.

The significance of this ritual is that I don't do it thinking I'm going to win a house. I do it and dream I will. Years ago when I worked with organizations encouraging them to develop vision statements, I did so with amusement because I really didn't have one for my life. The closest I could get to such a thing was, "I see myself in my 50s on a mountain in New Mexico, wearing colorful blouses and skirts that flow in the wind, walking out to greet the numerous guests who come to me for rest and restoration."

The new dream home is in New Mexico . . . on Campbell Ranch. (But I just learned that last part.)

Since the Rose Bowl Parade when I first saw the ad and went online to see what was happening, I've begun to tell myself a story:

I own the home. Situated between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, it makes for a great bed and breakfast. I live in the casasita that is attached to the main house via a walkway. Writers, pastors, priests and folks who just need to breathe visit regularly. I work with local artisans, chefs, and community leaders to provide a creative environment for retreats or events. Whatever is earned goes back into maintenance and then a foundation is established to handle the rest and begin to establish something that focuses on young women and either writing or cooking or leadership or all of the above. With the $500,000 that's part of the package, I have the funds to do the start up and possibly keep a place in Houston since home is where your people are and many of mine are here. At first I thought, I might convert the office to another bedroom for more income but now I'm thinking that the book I've wondered if I had in me could be birthed there.

The vision grows every day. Will I be disappointed if the call never comes? No. Because what this exercise has done for me is remind me that I can't stop dreaming, that the creative exile I've imposed on myself was my own doing, and that the gorgeous vistas of the world are open to all -- rich, poor, or dreamers with tickets on the crazy train.

Perspective . . .

2010-01-17T07:17:00.000-08:00

This week I dropped my wallet at a restaurant. The wallet was retrieved as was my insurance cards. My license and credit cards were not. Still, as soon as I had the leather pouch back in my hand and I had steeled myself for what was ahead, a wave of absolute ok-ness washed over me. Hours have now been spent canceling, arranging for new, transferring direct monthly payments, etc. but people have been great to work with, I actually have a $50 check coming to me that I would have never redeemed from points collected on one card, and . . .

I don't live in Haiti.

The news of the devastation that just a few seconds of the earth's fury can cause leaves me in tears and speechless. Having stood in the midst of ruin when Tropical Storm Allison sent 5 feet of water through my offices, I can recall the utter sense of helplessness of being surrounded by what had once meant so much to me and now was literally a pile of crap (and I truly mean crap) at my feet. And having said that, I also know that my experience doesn't compare in the slightest. When I left the stuffy, stinking confines of that condemned building, I still had a bed to go home to. I had a means of knowing -- without a doubt -- that there was light at the end of my tunnel. The Haitians didn't have much light before the quake.

I don't usually compare my circumstances to others to make me feel superior but I do sometimes reflect on others so I can remember to be grateful. Maybe my job is sometimes frustrating, but the paycheck comes, I have insurance, and every day I get to work with interns and volunteers who inspire me with their dedication and passion. Maybe I'm overweight and facing more physical nuisances than I did ten years ago, but I can walk those pounds off and do so without the use of a cane and with the knowledge that nothing is eating away inside of me. Maybe I don't have a man in my life to say "I love you as you are" but I have friends and family who will answer my calls, eat my food, laugh at my stories, share their children and dogs, and challenge me to take that walk, see that film, write, laugh, play, LIVE!

Gratitude isn't a big enough word to capture how I feel when I get it all in perspective.

A Day in the Life ...

2010-01-11T19:55:00.000-08:00

The air was crisp and unusually cold for Houston. The sun demanded squinting or shades. I was on a mission and the environ seemed right for action.

Saturdays are not always that full for me. I play on Friday nights and some Saturday evenings but the weekend daytime hours are my protected zone. Saturday is not quite as sacred as Sunday but nevertheless, I don't always find that I'm quite as driven as I was this weekend.

The morning rituals complete -- newspaper, a breakfast that requires some creativity in the kitchen, checking in with some of my Food Network favorites -- I headed to lunch with a friend. We caught up and I heard how holistic medicine was possibly changing her life for the better. Since it's been pretty rough for several years, I was equal parts celebrating and keeping my fingers crossed that this wouldn't be another disappointment. Next there was shopping for clothes, dropping off winterwear for the homeless, shopping for groceries and then ...

I called my walking buddy to see if she was up for a last minute walk. We'd have to bundle up -- still only about 40 degrees when we determined we'd do it -- but the beauty of the day simply called to us as well as any siren.

We took in my neighborhood. Runny noses, gloved hands, jackets zipped up to our necks, but it was invigorating.

I came home and soaked my chapped skin in the moisturizing bubbles of my tub and bit down hard on the washcloth so as not to scream at the needles digging into my skin. But afterwards, I was pleased with myself and my day.

I rewarded my productivity with a dinner party at yet another friend's house. I went over early to get creative with appetizers. We wound up with an olive tampenade and a mushroom/tomato/onion concoction for bruschetta. Then I cleaned the shrimp for the lemon fetuccine. When our other buddy arrived before the guests of honor we enjoyed a toast and I reveled in the bounty that flowed from the countertop and my life.

Thoroughly enjoyed the conversation -- though the children kept shushing us because our laughter was drowning out their movie -- and even felt somehow complimented when the married guest of honor decided he would investigate my love life (or lack thereof) and declared it impossible for me not to be taken. His words, "You're awesome!"

And on this day, and this night, I agreed.

Keeping Christmas in My Heart

2009-12-20T17:16:00.000-08:00

Friday I hosted the staff and volunteers at my house -- cranberry/pomegranate punch, stuffed mushrooms, sweet peppers with mozarella, pulled pork with bbq sauce, chicken with veggies in wine sauce, roasted potatoes with rosemary, roasted cauliflower and carrots with a curry dusting, and peppermint ice cream with chocolate cookies. I woke up at 4 a.m. to put the slow cooking stuff on.

Friday night my buds and I ate leftovers and then piled in the VW with the top down to look at Christmas lights around the city.

Saturday was my day at Omega House. Spent most of it cleaning. Then Cyndi and I shopped for my nephews and she was a most excellent elf! The evening found me tired and not too eager to attend the birthday party I had said yes to but when Brittany said she would chauffeur Shane and me, I went for it anyway. Made it to two parties and met neat people and still was in bed by 11.

Sunday I woke up refreshed and glad that my offer to let someone take my place at the annual Goldwing Children's Christmas Party had been declined. I've done this event sponsored by a motorcycle club for three years now. My fellow rodeo clowns and I entertain foster kids and their parents as they munch on burgers and hot dogs, watch cloggers and listen to singers, and then lead the group outside to watch the Goldwings, Harleys, and more parade by in their Christmas best with Santa in tow. This year I held a 2 month old as her foster mom got a rare quiet meal. We danced with the cloggers and she held on tight. Her mom said she doesn't usually go to strangers. Don't know if that was just her way of saying thanks to me, but you would have had to convince me the world was in danger of no longer turning on its axis to get that precious bundle in pink out of my arms. After we led singing and cheers waiting for Santa, we went back inside and I followed up my dance with a 12 year old blind girl who was on some sort of portable oxygen tank with a dance with a 15 year old boy in a wheelchair. I swear I felt like Cinderella at the ball when we made our way around the dance floor.

After shedding the clown wardrobe and donning my own gay apparel, I helped a friend get his grandchildren's Christmas morning started. He's helping out his daughter's family and she has a baby boy and a preschooler. I'm now quite the informed one regarding Fisher Price and Play Doh.

This diary type entry is not a pat on my own back. Instead, it serves as a Christmas card to myself, a reminder of sorts. My life is so very, very good. I am so very, very fortunate. There's food in my fridge, friends to call on in need and in fun, and opportunities to give back everywhere I turn. Nothing beats the "good tired" I'm feeling at this moment.

I missed seeing Scrooge this year because I couldn't make my usher date. Somehow though I feel I lived it . . . by truly keeping Christmas in my heart. No matter your beliefs, this time of year should be about something beyond ourselves and looking within helps make that possible.

I thank my God for every remembrance of my grandmother, mother, sister, and brothers who made my Christmas heart what it is today.

Amen, Ms. Parker, Amen

2009-12-13T07:31:00.000-08:00

Last night, news reporters announced that our newly elected mayor's plans for today -- her first post-campaign day -- were to go to church and then begin the task of selecting a transition team.

Not exactly big news but nonetheless significant, and for many reasons.

Church and state may not get to cavort with one another when it comes to governance but plenty of folks from the church world have plenty of influence. And lots of folks want Christians in office. What's interesting is when the Christians get what they want -- one of their own behind a mayoral desk for instance -- but she also happens to be a lesbian.

I received one of the mailers that featured a photo of her previous swearing in as City Comptroller with her partner by her side that pleaded with me to ensure that hers did not become the face to represent Houston. As a matter of Christian principle, I was asked to vote for someone other than her.

I could have easily gotten on my own soapbox but I learned a long time ago that we Americans are rarely ever "we Americans." We're individuals and rarely will you find one of us in total agreement with another. We are just not a collective society. So I wasn't surprised when I was told by a friend who has frequently consulted with our new mayor and who is much more conservative in her faith than me that she had the great opportunity in the last two weeks to experience the following.

Tired and a bit leery of being accosted when she was with some of her even more conservative friends who knew she was backing The Lesbian, my friend was attending to some church duties when a woman approached. The woman verified that indeed my friend was helping with the campaign and then said, "I just want you to know that I pray every day for this city and from the beginning of the mayoral race, I prayed for every candidate. After we needed a runoff I continued to pray for the two who were left. But this week (two weeks before the runoff), I realized I was no longer praying for him ... that I knew she was going to win and so I continued to focus all my prayers on her. . . "

My friend was thrown and not quite sure if the woman was going to drop a bombshell or not, when the woman continued and said, "I think she'll make a great mayor."

Believers come in all shapes and sizes. Some have small little boxes they try to fit God and Creation into. Some have larger ones. But, to me, the best ones don't just throw words around, they act on their beliefs.

I have no doubt that Mayor Parker will both make me proud and irritate the hell out of me. That's government. But I'm glad to know that she's pretty well aware of her need to make a strong start and she did so by looking up.

Doing the Peanuts Dance

2009-12-08T18:23:00.000-08:00

Just watched Linus' rendition of Luke in answer to the real meaning of Christmas.

Nobody does it better.

Scary Tactics

2009-12-06T06:55:00.001-08:00

Yesterday at the AIDS hospice, several new volunteers showed up at once. As a result the "usual" had a bit of an unusual feel to it. Perhaps that's why no one acted on the first red flag.

Nurse: "And the resident in Room C is actively dying. . . "
Volunteer in Cap: (interrupting and with a degree of shock) "What is that?"
Nurse: "His body is worn out. It's giving one last try at surviving but every breath is laborious. He's in the last stages and will probably die sometime this week. He's pretty bad . . . Karsi Sarcoma is covering his lower body and his legs are swollen."
Vol in Cap: "Can we see?" (moving in direction of room)
Nurse: (somewhat taken aback): "Not until after report."
Nurse continues with report and gets a call which he takes.
Vol in Cap: (to woman standing beside him) "Interesting shoes."

Ok, so in hindsight the situation is clearly strange. The Vol in Cap is not only color coordinated wearing pressed khakis and a somewhat expensive windbreaker type jacket -- something you just don't do in the bleach-based environment that is hospice life, but his tone is off, the delivery of his comments strikes me. After we break from report, I mention it to the nurse.

"I think this guy is autistic," I said. "And, by the way, he's not a part of our group."

He acknowledged that he too felt the man was a bit off by a quick smile but in the crowded hallway, could only respond. "He came in with the new guy," and then walked to Room C to introduce the Vol in Cap to the situation.

The other newbies and I went down to Room A to strip the beds and assess the cleaning needs. Most of the residents were heading to church with a pastor who regularly picks them up on Saturdays and fills a few hours of their day with worship, food, and much-needed time away from the house.

Then it happened. The nurse came to check again that indeed the Vol in Cap wasn't with any other volunteers. Seems that he had asked to wash the resident's feet. The nurse thought he meant to help clean him for his family who was coming. Instead, the water was being used for prayer, anointing, and healing. The nurse tried to explain about hospice (that it is actually for the dying) and the concerns of trying to force spiritual beliefs on someone who had not asked. The Vol in Cap ignored the nurse and just prayed louder and started calling for a resurrection.

What he got was the other nurse in charge of training -- who asked the Vol in Cap if he had received any type of orientation. When the Vol said a few minutes ago, the situation was clear. This was no true volunteer. He was asked to leave, then told to leave, then ordered to leave.

His reaction was to drop to his knees in the hallway, rebuke those who would exorcise him from the house, and then call them out as evil . . . though he did add that he was still supposed to love them.

One nurse responded, "I love you too but you're still leaving."

When our unwelcome guest made it outside I had the strangest visual juxtaposition before me. The pastor who regularly ministers to people who don't make it easy to do so (many of the residents are from the streets, some have mental problems, and lots are demanding) was loading up his van.

So before me were two ministers -- one answered the question of what would Jesus do with judgment, unsolicited ministrations, and obligation rather than compassion. The other expresses his faith with his continuing presence.

Supposedly both represented the religious world -- but they were worlds apart. And as for me and my house? ... We're going with the guy in the van,

Sabbath

2009-12-06T06:46:00.000-08:00

I've said before and will most likely continue to repeat myself, "I love Sundays."

As a committed extrovert, I tend to fill every day with work and play. I'm out there living life to the max and usually sharing the experience with family or friends. But Sunday is a different matter. Quiet walks, the paper, something warm and delicious concocted in the kitchen as I'm mindful of every cut of the blade and stir of the pot, some writing, maybe a bad Lifetime movie or a good book -- these fill my hours until the Sabbath ends. By that time, the Food Network has my attention and my hours of self-imposed solitude conclude.

I never understood the power of pausing until I practiced it. Took me a few attempts before I got it right but now ...

I love Sundays.

Thanksgiving Eve

2009-12-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

We sit around a table
laden with pre-turkey day indulgences
and each say our words of gratitude

for friends
safe travel
family
school being on hold for the holiday
and life

While my prayers are silently offered to a familiar name and unknown face,
he limits his thanks to those around the table,
she to that which can be scientifically explained,
and yet another speaks to the Universe.

The holding of hands, the common smiles, the warmth coming more from our hearts than the food . . .
Assures us all, that we've each been heard.

And we remain grateful.

Four Stars

2009-11-21T08:51:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched a young woman -- who at our first meeting was mommy-ing her little brother and sister with a seriousness of responsibility that belied her preteen years -- own a theatrical stage.

She's a dancer, so the majestic quality of each step, each movement was no surprise. I've seen her perform in ballets, modern dance, a couple of musicals and once, she even held her own above the crowd in a cirque de soliel type of acrobatic display using ribbon-like ropes. Every time I've seen her with stage lights shining in her face, she glows. The artificially induced wattage has nothing to do with it. She simply has a smile that brightens people's day and has a an energy of its own. Add that to the sparkle she can manifest in her eyes -- on cue ... and well, she is, as they say, a natural.

The beauty of the performance last evening was that her role -- though very substantial since she served as narrator -- was a balancing act. The other high school performers were playing over the top caricatures of middle school stereotypes -- the Eagle Scout, the Forgotten Child, the Sloppy Fat Kid (which in a delightful turn became the romantic lead), the Over Achieving Depressive, the Airhead Creative, etc. While they twisted, twitched and agonized as part of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, she played the mature long-ago winner, still dedicated to introducing children to the power of the bee.

Even though a few were outstanding in their solos, what made my young friend command the stage was her understanding of it. She knew the power of a smile over a guffaw, a slight touch over a hearty slap on the back, a raised eyebrow over an glaring sneer. She performed as though this were her birthright.

I pray that's true. That her desire becomes her destiny. That's the plan -- an education where her love of the arts can be nurtured as it has been here. And I want it for her. I want the dream to be a reality, and practicalities like rent, insurance, and paychecks to be delayed for just a little longer. Because the world needs artists like my friend Audrey, who believe ... and for a few moments can make you believe as well.

I've been "cationing"

2009-11-08T09:19:00.000-08:00

My vacation/staycation is coming to an end. I must admit that this week off was needed and appreciated. I must also admit that life continues to surprise.

For instance, on the cruise (cheap one that was within my budget and didn't take the whole week to enjoy) . . .

-the couple my friend and I ate dinner with each night were actually kind of interesting. We took our chances with assigned seating and the guy is a prison guard and the woman does real estate. They were in the beginning days of a reconnected (from high school) relationship. The cruise was fun for them but according to asides I got from the woman, it also marked the ending days of their relationship!
- when you are open to chatting, you learn lots. Watching football in one of the lounge areas on Sunday netted me a companion for the wine tasting later that afternoon and a new friend who looked out for me at fun times like bad karaoke. She made it better by alerting me to when to plug my ears and by giving me the lowdown on all the folks she'd met. A retired school teacher who was widowed young, remarried a principal/athletic director, and now lives part of the time at the bay and part of the time on ships traveling here and yon, she was the kind of woman I aspire to be.
-cooking on excursion is more fun than you might think. We ate well and met more fun folks and still had time to hang out on the beach.
- the ruins of Mexico, Peru, and Cambodia have way too much in common to be coincidence. Fascinating to now have seen them all.

On my staycation, I enjoyed Houston. One night at the House of Blues, the next at the Mucky Duck and last night at Miller Outdoor Theater means I got plenty of music. Yesterday I walked for two hours hunting alligators at the local state park. By the time, my buddy and I had packed a picnic dinner and made our place on the hill on Miller's hillside, the night had descended and so had our tiredness. But the air was cool, the blanket was warm, the R&B was perfection and I ended the night with a sigh of pure contentment.

I haven't said this in a while, but it bears repeating and remembering ... I love my life.