Curtain Call

I can't pinpoint the exact day it started - the event or the habitat or the trigger that became the catalyst for this inexplicable inclination to avoid and flee from anything remotely uncomfortable or unfamiliar.  This uncanny knack I've perfected, of ducking and dodging, of numbing and wading subconsciously through various phases of life, intended for growth and maturation.  I don't know exactly how or when I decided to cheat myself out of facing new opportunities, to change, to evolve, to reform, while fully engaged.  When did I lose that courage we're born with - that natural curiosity, that eagerness to embrace life?


I don't know.  All I know is that it left me, long ago - long before I first recognized insecurity, years before my first kiss, my first love, my first loss.  I perfected the art of avoidance well ahead of those formative teenage years.  I'm not sure I realized it then, but Fear and I became acquainted very early in life.  I don't think anyone is born with an innate sense of trepidation, so it must have slipped in on me somewhere.  I wish I could figure it out, go back, and intercept it.  So many of my life-altering decisions have been skewed by weighing in against Fear.  So many days spent hiding from truth and action, from challenge and change.


I'm petrified of conflict.  I can assimilate with anyone, in any situation.  I'm like a shock absorber for tension.  I take it in, diffuse it, represent it in a non-confrontational way.  There was a time when I thought I would make a good lawyer.  I can create a defense for anyone.  I can see both sides of every situation.  I know all the angles, I'm a sucker for vulnerability, and I assume guilt like I'm taking bullets for a cause.  The fact is, I would have made a terrible lawyer.  All I really want to do is make the conflict go away.  I don't want a black or white, a right or wrong.  I don't want to take sides.  I just want the boat not to rock.


Maybe my acute sense of weakness compels me to defend and protect.  Maybe managing the dynamics around me helps me maintain some semblance of control.  It's the only explanation I have for why I'm drawn to the one thing that pains me the most: Conflict.  For me, turning away from tension is like ignoring a drowning man.  I can't avert my eyes.  I have to dive in.  I need to take that bullet.  Right or wrong becomes less of a question, and more of an afterthought.  It's all about evening the playing field.  Digest the situation, accept the fear, the weakness, the vulnerability.  Take it in, make it yours, absolve the others of their pain.  You own it, now.  You're in control.

But am I really?  What does rescuing others do for me?  I ingest tension, negative energy, pain.  I'm like a sponge, soaking up weakness and anxiety.  I carry it, like a weight on my shoulders.  I feel it, like a sickness in my soul.  I've become a chameleon.  I have so many faces I don't even know who I am anymore.  I'd rather carry your burden than mine, face your fears, compensate for your weakness.  I'd rather address your vulnerability than my own, control your life - than live mine.  I use you, to avoid myself.  I need you, to give me purpose.


And all of that brings me back to why?  Why do I struggle with instability around me, but refuse to address my own imbalance?  Why can't I let go of the rest of the world, and take hold of my own life?  I've finally realized that all of my life I've been gliding along in a semi-conscious state.  I've been afraid to be seen, afraid to take chances, afraid to tip the scales.  All of my life, I've been weighing in against Fear.  All of my life, I've been afraid to be vulnerable.  All of my life - afraid of losing control.


And how can you fear losing a thing you've never really had?  How can you mistake avoidance and flight for control?  Lack of engagement doesn't constitute empowerment.  You're not in control - you're in hiding.  You're not a hero - you're a coward.  And there you go.  You've finally recognized yourself for who you really are - or rather, for who you're not.  You finally understand the scope of the emptiness within, and it astounds you.  You wonder how you never grasped it before.  You look back at your life, and the signs are there, plain as day.  It was you who chose to avert your eyes.


As a kid, I did anything I could to get out of gym class or Field Day.  I feigned injuries, I missed the bell, I took detention.  I was insecure and afraid, and it was easier to avoid feeling vulnerable, than to risk being watched and judged.  The funny thing is, I can almost guarantee that no one was watching or judging, or even cared either way.  The only person watching and judging was me.  And I never gave myself a chance to try.  For many years I repeated this pattern, and it became so ingrained in me that I still catch myself doing it today.  I can only leave my comfort zone without an audience.  I can only try new things and take risks when no one is watching.


As I got older, the art of avoidance became more complicated.  There was more awkwardness to experience, more unknowns to fear.  By then, I'd learned to hide - and if I couldn't hide, I separated.  I remember my first real kiss.  It was a numbing experience.  And it wasn't that I didn't like the boy - I did.  But the second he kissed me, I left the scene.  My body was there, my mouth was there, but my mind was somewhere else.  I went through the motions, and didn't feel a thing.  A new pattern.  Enter intimacy, cue my exit.


And then I learned other ways to deal with being uncomfortable.  I learned that drinking broke down some of the social barriers and communication hurdles, and I never had a first kiss without a drink again.  In fact, I became quite the avid kisser - although I hardly remember any of them quite clearly.  I'm not really sure what it feels like to want to kiss someone for the first time, without a few drinks.  I still think it would take a miracle for that to happen.  It's like a protective shield comes down, just as I'm about to open up.  It won't let me be vulnerable - it won't let me feel.  I just leave the scene.  Separated.


One of those alcohol induced first kisses led to a long term relationship, where I practiced avoidance for almost a decade.  Everything inside of me told me it was wrong, but I needed direction and motivation and guidance.  I needed someone to tell me who to be.  I still hadn't found the courage to be vulnerable, to look at myself, to take chances, to stay present in a moment.  I became an expert at reinventing myself.  I struggled to be everything he wanted, and cried every day, still not knowing what I wanted - but knowing it wasn't what I'd become.  I was lost.  I brushed hurt under the rug, I averted my eyes, I steadied the boat.


Finally, I found the courage to walk away.  I left with nothing, but this person I'd almost become.  I think I rebelled.  I did everything I couldn't do while I was trapped there.  Trapped by my own need to relinquish control.  I looked for something else, someone else to tell me who to be.  I didn't realize right away that it was ME I was looking for.  It was my cue to be a walk-on in my own life.  It was my time to take the reigns.  Somehow, I still couldn't do it.  I'd been practicing avoidance for so long, I just kept going.  There were times when I moved in the right direction, and times when my motivation was pure.  But the general anxiety remained.  The fear stayed with me, and the void kept growing inside.


Over the years I've made many positive changes.  I have a good a job, a loving husband, supportive friends.  I've grown tremendously, and learned so much about myself.  I have regrets, but I'm thankful for the mistakes I've made, because in a sense - they've shown me the way.  I recognize the voice inside my head, MY voice, and I listen to it now.  I can't help wondering who or what I could have been if I had stopped and really listened long ago.  I can't help questioning why I chose to take the long way around, and why I've needed crutches along the way.  I don't know if I'm ready to cast those crutches aside, and my first instincts are still avoidance and flight.  I prefer living with anesthetic, and I still struggle to control things outside of my control.  I'm uncomfortable 90% of the time, and I don't like people watching and judging.  But at least now, I look for answers inside.  I'm still afraid of what I'll find, but I don't hide from myself anymore.  One day soon, I know I'm going to wake up fully present in a moment.  I'm going to look at my life head-on, without crutches, no separation - and cue my entrance.


- L.

In Trying Times

It's been a trying year.  I say "trying," not in the negative sense - not in a defeatist fashion - but matter of factly.  I've spent the year "trying."  Trying to move forward, trying to learn, trying to grow, trying to put the obstacles behind me.  There were days when the trying was too much for me, and I reverted to avoidance.  There were weeks when I felt like I was only treading water, and there were months when I thought I might not have enough left inside to keep swimming against the current.  I never thought of going under, but I floated on my back for a while, letting the tide carry me along.

But that's what life is about, isn't it?  Learning to swim?  Diving deeper than even you knew you could, and resurfacing, rejuvenated, empowered, encouraged to keep going.  Life is about challenge and change and transformation.  Life is about recognizing your strength, your drive, your passion.  Life is about learning what moves you, what propels you forward in the most trying of times.  And life is about testing your limits, embracing your unique composition, the ever-changing, impressionable being that You are.  Life is about acknowledging what makes you happy, and about giving thanks.

On Thanksgiving Day, I'm reflecting on the year that's past, and all I've been through - spiritually, emotionally, physically.  I look back on a year of months where hiding was easier than taking that dive. A year where I barely kept my head above water.  Oddly, the year is somewhat of a blur.  I feel almost as if I hadn't lived it at all.  It's like I'd forgotten how to find pleasure in the simple things.  How to enjoy a beautiful day, a drive in the car, a quiet morning alone.  I forgot that a smile or a hug or a kind word could make the difference in someone's day - and a lot of the time, that smile or hug or kind word came from me to someone else - and could have made the difference in MY day.

While I sit on my deck, in this beautiful sunshine, turkey in the oven, family relaxing inside - I can smile - knowing that the simple things are starting to bring me joy again.  I'm thankful for my incredibly patient husband, who knew I was still in there somewhere, trying to come up for air.  I'm thankful for my amazing friends, who no matter how lost I was to myself, continued to remind me of the things I used to like about Me.  The friends and family who never lost sight of the person I am and the person I want to be.  I'm thankful for the encouragement and the loyalty and the love I feel every day, from countless people in my life - from new friends and old.  And I'm flattered that I can still be a sounding board and source of inspiration to other people who were also trying - and continue to try.  Deep breaths, my friends.

It may have been a trying year, but it was a learning year, and a growing year.  And for that, I have a deeper sense of gratitude.  Thanksgiving means something more than usual to me today.  It means recognition, it means acceptance, it means hope and rebirth.  It means I'm thankful for my life, and for everything in it, and it means I'm moving on - head above water, paddling for the shore.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone !
- L.

Collective Bargaining

For many people, February is a month of doldrums.  The holiday season has passed, the cold settles deep in our bones, and Spring seems like another idyllic promise - dangling uncomfortably out of reach.  For me, it all starts with the day after Superbowl Sunday.  The NFL season comes to a close, the numbness takes over, and unless you're Mel Kiper, the Draft is too far off to even consider.  For football fans, February and March are bitter pills to swallow, and their effects are barely buffered by the media's coverage of March Madness and Spring Training.  For us, the weeks between the Superbowl and the NFL Draft might as well be spent in hibernation, with no ESPN, no NFL Network, no sports talk radio.  Nothing generates the same spark. We become zombie-esque, non-committal sports fans, clinging to our days with a limited amount of static electricity.

The inevitable time of mourning comes every year, but in 2011, it hit a new low.  This year, the NFL Player's Association (NFLPA) and the League Owners gave us quite a scare.  While attempting to renegotiate the NFL's 10 year old Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA), they stumbled on a stalemate.  Neither side appeared to budge, and the media speculated that this year, not only was the Draft in danger, but without some sort of concessions on both sides, the 2011 NFL Season was in jeopardy.  The bitter pills we swallowed annually were chased with antacids and anti-anxiety medication.  For those of us who build our springs and summers around the NFL Draft, Free Agency, Training Camp and Fantasy Football prep, our center of gravity was pitted from our cores.  We were lost, confused, hollow.  What did all of this mean?

For the first time in NFL history, a full-fledged lockout was ordered.  Players couldn't enter practice facilities, coaches couldn't make contact, statements from the NFLPA and the League Owners were succinct and enigmatic.  Media reports were vague and uninformative, and all League activity had been frozen.  February and March took on a deeper shade of bleak.  March came in like a lion, but where was the lamb?  Enter April, and the freeze was still on.  Without dual ratification of a new CBA, the NFL season would never be born.

Those who know me understand that a blow of this kind would be devastating, and I might not ever fully recover.  A summer without Fantasy Drafts?  A Fall without the NFL Ticket? A Winter without playoffs and smack talk?  No Superbowl???  I get ogeda just thinking about a scenario this drastically unfathomable.  How can the owners and players be so far apart?  They have common goals - is there no common ground?  I mean, aren't we all men here?

And oddly enough, something dawned on me.  I'd reached a similar stalemate in my own life.  Me the Player, Life the Owner, never quite being able to reconcile.  Constantly moving in different directions, causing friction, until one day - I just stopped really living.  The CBA standoff made me realize my own life was at a standstill.  Who I was and who I wanted to be were so far apart that we too had no common ground.  We didn't recognize each other anymore.  It was like I'd been locked out of my own life, as if I'd been frozen in my tracks.  It was time for me to renegotiate.

In sports, the owners are the businessmen.  They invest their dollars, they dictate terms, they barter, they hire, they fire, they promote.  The owners come from all different backgrounds, have different ideologies and personalities, but they have one common goal - to WIN.  There's not an owner in the league that doesn't want to take home a Lombardi Trophy, and reap all the benefits that come along with it.

In life, the owners are similar.  Their investments are necessary for us to walk these paths.  We need terms, promoters.  We need something bigger than ourselves, to help us bring home those victories.  But the owners come from different backgrounds, with different ideologies and personalities.  In life, the owners don't always share a common goal.  Life's owners can help you win, or lead you astray, and in life - it's even more important for the players to step up, and protect themselves.  With the right collective bargaining agreement, we can be achievers.  With the wrong one, we can disappear.

So, who are the owners in my life today?  Family, Work, Geography, Confidence, Commitment, Fear, Anxiety, Love, Guilt, Regret, Loss, Change.  Probably many more.  They can all work for or against us, depending on our contract terms.  Depending on how we've negotiated.  I don't have an agent.  And I haven't even looked at my life this way in such a long time.  Like the NFLPA, I've been operating on auto-pilot for at least 10 years.  I've been up and down, lost and found, but never revisited my lease on life. I think it's time to take a new look.

So, with the new CBA ratified by the Owners and the Players, we can finally look forward to the season.  Players reported to camp, and I planned a trip to Lehigh.  One of my favorite days of the year is the day I make a road trip to watch the Birds practice.  It's the first day everything feels real - like the first day of school - a fresh start.  I get so excited, I can't wait for the preseason.  I can't wait for a new reason to feel engaged.  And maybe it's silly to feel that way about a game....but I do.  It's part of my world, part of what feeds me.  Right or wrong, I would be hollow without it.  I'm lacking in things to root for, and maybe the NFL helps me fill that void.  Maybe someday I'll replace it with something else, and maybe not, but if I do - it won't be in the next decade.

Happy Football Season, Y'all.

- L.

Dogged Loyalty

I thought I learned my lesson with Old Yeller, Hooch and Marley & Me.  I thought I proved I can't handle anything even remotely dramatic, when it comes to animals - especially dogs.  But sadly, I got sucked into another tear-jerker of a dog film this afternoon. 


"Based on the 1987 Japanese film Hachiko Monogatari, as well as on a true story, Hachi: A Dog's Tale, stars Richard Gere as a college professor who finds an abandoned dog and takes the poor lost animal in. The film follows the two, 
as the man and animal soon form a strong and unexplainable bond."

          
It all seemed harmless to me.  How could watching a movie about "Man's Best Friend" actually becoming a man's best friend, be a bad way to spend a rainy Sunday?  How could two hours of canine comfort for the soul turn into an afternoon poorly spent?  Here's how:  My eyes are still swollen, my nose is still running, and my teeth still ache.  I can't stop thinking about the real Hachi, about the screen play, about that fact that this movie isn't just a movie at all.  I can't stop feeling this heart-wrenching anxiety, this unbearable sorrow, over an animal I've never met, over an Akita who was renowned to possess a kind of dogged loyalty I didn't even know existed.

Hachi is reliable, pure, inexplicably steadfast.  He walks Professor Parker to the train station every day, and then goes home to wait - meeting and greeting the people he sees along the way.  Each evening, he comes back, sits patiently, and watches for the Professor to exit the terminal.  He's greeted warmly by his teacher, by his savior, by this amazing family man, whose life was unexpectedly turned inside out and upside down, by a lost dog.  I cry.  And I can't stop crying.  What a beautiful story.  Dog and human, brought together by circumstance, kept together by recognition of an obvious attraction, merged by the dedication and loyalty each holds deep in his soul.


And then Professor Parker dies.  A heart attack strikes, mid-lecture, and he collapses to the floor.  The family comes looking for Hachi, and finds him waiting.  The trains go by - one, two, three.  He's confused, but he waits.  He's lost, yet he waits.  The family tries to pull him away, make him a home.  They move from the neighborhood, and take him along, welcoming him into their house.  Hachi follows the Professor's daughter and son-in-law reluctantly, but with every chance he gets, he escapes.  He returns to the station.  He goes back to the old house.  He waits, for the Professor to come home.


Finally, the Professor's daughter tells Hachi that she misses him too, that she understands, that she constantly thinks of her father - every day.  She says she loves Hachi, and she wants him to live with her, but if he needs to go - she understands.  She opens the gate, he licks her hand, and he leaves.  Back to the station.  Back to wait for Parker.  More tears.


The commitment Hachi shows is unlike anything I've ever witnessed.  He doesn't know the term "discouraged."  He doesn't know the word "good-bye." He only knows "patience, dedication, love."  Hachi exemplifies dogged loyalty.  Unwavering, unfaltering - for nine years, he returns to that station, day after day after day.  I'm without words.  My heart breaks for this dog, for this sentiment, for the realization that Hachi may never understand that Parker is NOT coming back.  And for finally understanding that it wouldn't matter if he knew.  He wouldn't care.  He'd sit and he'd wait - every day - just in case.  He'd accepted that role, and he planned to honor it, to the end.  That's what heroes do.  And that's why Hachi is special.


I cry, and I cry, and I cry.  I can't stop crying - considering this amazing expression of loyalty, wanting to be better than I am, knowing I've never come close to a commitment of this kind.  I cry hard, and I seek out my own dog, hoping to find comfort in her face.  She's laying in the guest bed, taking a nap, and when she hears me crying, she jumps to her feet.  She kisses me quickly and lovingly, addressing my sobs and tears.  She knows.  She feels my angst.  She shows genuine love and concern.


I often say, we can learn a lot from dogs - and I still think that's true.  Animals are real.  They do what they feel, and they believe in us, every day.  They stand by us, no matter what - and they live to keep doing it.  We don't ask them to stand guard, to kiss away our tears, to wait for us every day - but they do.  And they 
will.  They always, always will.

- L.

Fit for a Queen

Smiles by Stevens, Visit #4:  The Coronation  

Appointment with Dr. Shea Stevens, DMD.

Today was my final visit (crosses fingers) with Dr. Stevens.  And nothing against my 31 year old dental/mental miracle worker, but I'm hoping the next time I see him will only be in passing - after my newly "routine," 6 month cleaning with Tina.

During Visit #3, we embarked on a mission to excavate a damaged and badly decayed molar.  We hollowed out the filling, scraped away the decay, and exposed the remainder of the unaffected tooth - though little but the root remained.  And don't underestimate the strength of a root.  It's deep-seated, steadfast, unwavering.  Roots are like soldiers.  They dig in, anchor down, and refuse to let go.  It's rare for a root to crack - and I was happy to learn that mine had been able to withstand the pressure.  In all honesty, I wasn't quite sure they were capable of holding up.

Had I needed a Root Canal, I would have accepted it.  Doc Stevens explained that they simply extract the nerve pulp from the root, seal it off, and the pain is gone.  But imagining that process is painful in itself.  The vision of the nerves, clinging to their roots, fighting to stay entrenched in the comfort zone they've come to know as home.  And what then?  When the pulp is removed and dies off, the root is filled and sealed.  The pain is gone, but what remains?  The root has nothing left to fight for.

Maybe this procedure is genius in the dental world.  Root Canal = Instant Pain Relief.  The tooth keeps on chewing, goes on functioning, nothing is lost.  But what about a mental root canal?  What happens when the pain that plagues us is so deep that it lives in the very pulp within our roots?  What happens when that vulnerable pulp is who we are?  We can't extract it, and move on.  We can't seal it off, and continue to chew on life's lessons.  Close that off, and we cease to function.

And let's face it - everyone needs a little anesthetic once in a while.  People choose different ways to fill their voids, to shut out the noise, to numb the sensations when they get to be too much.  No one has infallible roots; no one gets by without a little self-protection.  And when do we fall into the trap?  When does self-protection become too isolating?  When does protection start extracting the pulp, and sealing us off?  When do these anesthetizing habits become debilitating, and force us into a life of going through the motions?  Chew, chew, chew.....

And the truth is, it's a fine line.  And it's a blurry line.  I'm not sure we recognize the point when self-love turns to numbing out, to avoidance, to negating the self.  I think we have the best intentions.  We're just trying to be soldiers, rooted and honorable and true to ourselves.  We're just trying to do the best we can.  And I think there comes a point when we recognize that we aren't going about things the right way - that the defense mechanisms we've built for ourselves are closing in around us.  I think we're befuddled when our choices seem to backfire, when our coping agents turn around and attack us.  We're disarmed, and we don't quite know how to fight back.

We lean back on our roots.  We hope they're strong enough and capable enough to withstand the pressure.  So, I went to Dr. Stevens today, proud of my roots, and ready to be crowned.  I went, anxious to shed the temporary casing - grateful for the perfectly molded fortress coming my way.  In 30 minutes, the temp was gone, the future was in place, and I felt like me again - whole and safe and protected - roots and pulp still intact.

And as I bit down on some gauze, cementing the crown, Doc Stevens gave me some solid advice:  Don't eat for an hour.  Rinse with salt water.  Gradually reintroduce chewing.  Don't eat caramel, taffy or anything tacky.  When you floss, pull through - not up and down.  In essence, go easy on the crown.  It's permanent, it's solid, it's built for protection.  The crown will do it's job - but don't make that job harder.  Leave room for a little weakness.  Don't invite unrest.  When rehabilitation is working it's magic, sit back and watch it take shape.  Don't question the illusion, don't poke holes in the beauty, don't break it down.  When you're healing, dentally and mentally, go easy on yourself.  Don't move too fast.  Don't bite off more than you can chew.  Don't test yourself.  Trust the process.  Trust your roots.  They're stronger than you think, and they'll fight for you.

- L.

And so, this is Easter.....

And so, this is Easter.  My, how it's changed.  I remember being a kid, dressing up, going to church, visiting family.  We dyed eggs, ate ham, hunted for our baskets.  Every year, my grandparents sponsored an Easter Egg Hunt.  Plastic eggs, filled with candy and money and prizes.  What fun. The red and white egg always held a $5 bill.

Through college, sometimes I came home, sometimes not.  If I didn't, I spent Easter with another family, who went to church, cooked amazing meals, and insisted on dying eggs, regardless of that fact that we were all past our formative years.

I woke up this morning, not quite knowing how to respond to the day.  I woke up feeling more than a little lost.  I understand that Easter is clearly the most important Christian holiday.  I want to pay homage, and yet, I'm not particularly religious.  I envy those who believe, and I wish I could do the same - but the fact is, I feel like a fraud, when I go to church.  I'm not vested in the beauty of the story.  I don't believe with my head; I don't feel with my heart.

And it's hard to admit to my Christian family and friends, that I'm still skeptical.  It's hard to say that I think I'm Agnostic, and most likely Atheist.  I'm not sure how to introduce those feelings, how to talk about them, how to push them aside, so that people still see me for me.  I'm not a bad person - but I struggle with faith.  To be honest, I envy the people that cast their doubts aside, and believe in this higher power.  I admire my religious friends for the truth they hold in their souls.  And have no doubt - my Christian friends are the most beautiful and inspirational people I know.  I'd be honored to be welcomed into their fold.

And everyone says - just come to church - just read the Bible.  I get that.  But understand me.  The Bible is inspirational - but to me, it's a story.  And everyone knows how much I love a good story.  I believe in the power of fiction, but I still believe it's partially a dream.  So, in essence, I buy into the Christian methodology....but I don't buy the dream.  I can't have faith in something I don't know - in something I can't prove.  And to my Christian friends, this is a sin - and I'm sorry for that.  I don't mean to hurt you.  I don't mean to shy away.

And yet, when I go to Church, I feel so out of place - so isolated.  I can't fake a good feeling - nor, do I think it would be honorable to try.  I'm not the kind of person who puts on a face, and pretends to be real. I'm proud of that.  I believe in the power of good and evil, and I do my best to support the good - but don't ask me to lie.  I'm not a good liar.

So, today - I woke up wondering what Easter was going to mean for me.  And I considered the Christian truths, and I paid homage to Christ - although I don't know if he's real....but I appreciate the story, the truth, the emotion, the sacrifice.  And then, I wondered what I would do if I had children?  Because children make Easter special.  And then, I wished I had children....because then, they might make ME special.

And then, I went to the store, bought some good food, and whipped up a meal.  The Husband and I celebrated Easter like any other Sunday, and it was disheartening a bit, but the food was good - and the company was good - and I guess, that's all you can ask when you don't believe.  I think that's the price you pay for being skeptical....for challenging everyone else's reality.  Maybe that's the cross we carry for being different.  And I'm not saying I'm proud - but at least, I'm honest.  Happy Easter, Friends!




- L.

Everybody's Goin' Off the Deep End

"Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend."


Well, Lover Boy, you may be right.  We see proof all week.  Posts about dreading Monday, welcoming "Hump" day, TGIFs.  Those of us who work a standard Monday through Friday yearn for the end of the five day jail sentence.  We sit at our desks, wishing our lives away, however sad that may be.

So, what do we do when we get to that Friday?  What do we make of an open door, a free pass, a pardoned sentence?  I guess it all depends, and I can only speak for me, but lately it's been disheartening.  I wish the week away, only to embrace a weekend of anesthetizing, procrastinating, avoiding and lamenting.  I tell myself I'm overwhelmed, I need a break, I have to get away.  I justify my lack of presence by saying I need some escape from reality. I need some mental nourishment; some food for the soul.

And then, I wake up Sunday morning, after a Saturday of self indulgence, dreading Monday, and knowing that I squandered the weekend away.  I wake up cold and tired, realizing the avoidance was all for 'naught;  that I'm no better off, than I was on Friday.  No further along, than I was last Monday.  And the guilt washes over.

What have I done with my weekend?  Where has the time gone?  Why am I still so overwhelmed?  And what is it, really?  Why can't I get some relief?  Why do I feel like I'm wading through cold water - why do I feel so behind the tide?  It doesn't make sense.  I took a break.  I fed myself.  Didn't I?

And then, it hits me.  A wave of realization.  I did nothing of the sort.  Avoidance isn't feeding.  Avoidance is just that.  I put my life aside, for a weekend.  I ignored ME.  I thought I was taking a break, and in reality, I was nailing myself into a coffin.  Sounds a little harsh, but it's basically true.  The more you look the other way, the more you disappear.  And when you do it, week after week after week, you continue to support your own burial.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't want to work for the weekend.  I want to work for ME.  I realize most of us aren't fortunate enough to get paid for what we're best at - to get compensated for the work that feeds our souls - and I accept that.  But don't we owe it to ourselves to NOT squander our free time?  Shouldn't we be working for our weekends?  Shouldn't we be using them to feed ourselves, heal ourselves, get back to good?

I think so.  And I'm not looking forward to another guilt-ridden Sunday.  I want to go into the week with a good attitude.  I want to work for the weekend, knowing I have a purpose.  I want to wake up on Saturday morning, feeling like life is waiting for me.  I want to feel like everything is still possible.  Because it is, isn't it?  We're all working for the weekend, and there's a reason for that.  There's promise in the weekend.  "Everybody needs a second chance. "

-- L.

Silly Putty for the Dentally Challenged

Smiles by Stevens, Visit #3:  Caulking & Crown Molding

Appointment with Dr. Shea Stevens, DMD.



Those of you who've read my blog, know that I've written a couple of pieces about my dreaded experiences with The Dentist.  This morning was my third visit to Dr. Stevens' office, and the most dreaded, yet.

Today, I had to have four teeth filled, and one filling removed, replaced, filed down, and crowned - all on the right side (Right Brained, Right Handed, Right Chew Dominant).  In a 3.5 hour visit, I was told I could have it all finished - decay defeated, teeth protected, temporary fortress in place.  In 3.5 hours, I could build a defense policy against future invasion, prevent any potential infractions, eliminate all evidence of destruction.  Like an oral lobotomy.  Beautiful.

Doc Stevens is amazing, and put me at ease right away.  He explained the process, joked around, even sang a little - however poorly.  He continually asked how I was doing; if I was OK.  When I felt the drill, he applied more anesthetic.  It made me wonder if Doc Stevens would consider shrinking.  Numb me up, address the pain.  Hit a nerve, and medicate some more.  Keep probing, keep drilling down to the roots.

Thankfully, I didn't need a root canal.  The damage went to the gum line, but didn't penetrate any further - no evidence of tissue or bleeding - no deep seated decay.  Thankfully, my mouth isn't as deeply affected as my brain.  Thankfully, this discomfort will go away, this pain can be reversed.

So, there I was - sentenced to 3.5 hours in the chair, and doing my best to stay open, focused, resilient.  Wishing this dental work could be mental work - knowing I could use the cavity fillings, the protective wall, the defense mechanisms.  I sat there, wanting this experience to encompass more than just remodeling my mouth.  But I guess that's on me.

I think the parallels between dental and mental health are strong.  I've started to floss daily - figuratively and metaphorically.  I fight to rid myself of the plaque that causes decay.  I do my best to ward off the intruders that fill those spaces with negatives, those enemies that sneak in, and make themselves at home.

It's been a while, but I've found my way back to the right track.  My mouth is making a comeback, and my psyche is following suit.  I've finally come to understand that damage is reversible - with a little anesthetic, a little pain, and a little work.  Nothing is easy, nothing is free - but anything is possible.

As I was leaving work today, Dr. Stevens called me.  He wanted to know how I was doing.  He'd told me this morning that he was going to call, but the fact that he calls his customers to check on them was so pleasing to me.  I smiled ear to ear, while I told him I'd had some pain when the anesthetic wore off, but I took some Advil, and I was doing well.  I restrained myself from asking if he would be willing to switch fields.  I seriously think he'd make a great Psychiatrist.  I'm crossing my fingers that he comes across this epiphany on his own.

After I talked with the doc, I called the Hubster to meet me for dinner.  Some more anesthetic, some soft food, a little empathy.  A few hours of this kind of therapy was just what I needed.  Dental Pain/Mental Pain - great food, good wine, a little love - and all is right again.

So, next up - The Coronation.  Permanent crown is introduced and seated.  Looking forward to the new fortress.  Stay tuned.....

- L.

Something to Chew On

(As promised, the sequel to my previous blog:  http://lincolnsideup8.blogspot.com/2011/03/like-pulling-teeth.html)

Smiles by Stevens, Visit #2:  Cleaning, Polish, Fluoride Varnish.  

Appointment with Tina Royer, R.D.H., Dental Hygienist.  

Tina is as nice as she looks.  In fact, everyone in the Smiles by Stevens office is warm, receptive, informative and friendly.  Tina performed the "scaling" treatment, on my last visit.  She removed the splinters of tarter from under my gums, the shards of unwanted intruders, known to cause irritation, inflammation and discomfort.  

MESSAGE:  Once removed, they  heal, and relief comes almost instantly.  I started thinking about the splinters in my brain.  Sharp reminders of pain points, prickles of discomfort, shards of regret and defeat.  Wouldn't it be nice if we could do some internal scaling; if we could instantly remove these splinters from our brains?

Tina told me to floss daily - to eliminate build-up in the spaces between the teeth, plaque deposits that harden, accumulate, and promote decay.  

MESSAGE:   I think about the spaces in my life - the holes, the voids, the gaps - the spaces between who I am and who I want to be.  And I consider - what gets in the way?  What promotes decay?  Grief, regret, anxiety, fear - to name a few.  They're attracted to the spaces, they fester in the voids.  And I know she's right.  

I learned a lot from my last visit, and I went back today, grateful for an opportunity to continue on the journey.  Dental care basics are surprisingly similar to life's fundamentals.  I never realized it, until I forced myself back into that chair.  It's surprising how fear can transcend through so many layers of consciousness, and permeate such a broad scope of life's experiences.

I looked forward to my visit today.  Today was about cleaning, polishing, varnishing.  Today was about scraping away the build-up, probing, prodding - tough love.  Today was about shining the Me underneath. Shedding the unwanted dirt, and showing up pearly white.  Today was about protecting.  Fluoride Varnish = Vitamins for the Teeth, according to Tina.  How can you go wrong?  

So, I did my time in the chair.  Tina asked me how I've been doing with flossing, and I couldn't quite come clean.  I told her I've been trying - maybe 3 times a week.  She said the more I floss, the less my gums will bleed....and I suppose that makes sense.  

MESSAGE:  We need to floss every day.  We need to fight the decay, with everything we have.  We need to protect ourselves from the invasions.

So, like us, our gums build up a tolerance.  Push them around a little bit, and they respond with resilience.  The fact is, they need the intrusion - they want to be challenged, on a daily basis.  They're more than willing to stand up for themselves.  I suppose we could learn a lot from our gum tissue.  

Tina took some measurements today.  Tooth by tooth, she measured the gap between tooth and gum.  Oddly, those spaces are significant too.  As it turns out, the pockets she evaluated can determine whether or not a patient has periodontal disease.  Tooth by tooth, I wondered if my years of avoidance would result in a harsh sentence. Frankly, I was surprised when they didn't.

According to Tina, I have a little Gingivitis, but it's completely reversible.  Wow.  How about that?  Imagine going to a shrink, and having her tell you that anything you've experienced to date, is easily deflected.  Any hurt, any trauma, any self-inflicted damage - no problem.  Just floss.  

And I'm not stringing you along.  Flossing is recommended by all dental professionals.  I'm only suggesting that the concept be introduced on different levels.  At the risk of quoting another DMB song, "The space between the tears we cry, is the laughter - keeps us coming back for more."  How beautiful and true.  Keep those spaces open and clean.  Let that laughter in - and realize it's all worth it.  

In any case, my teeth are scraped, polished, vitamin induced, and ready for Smiles by Stevens appointment #3 - The Fillings, the Crown, the potential Root Canal.  

Stay tuned, Folks.  

- L.  

Be The Phoenix

A few of my friends have been going through some rough times, and when asking one of them how his weekend went, he told me it was good, because he'd been able to "shut off his brain."  While I was glad he was able to characterize his weekend as "good," I was surprisingly disheartened by his explanation.  Red flags went up immediately, and I thought - We shouldn't have to shut off our brains to get by.  If we're closing off our minds, how are we fine?  And why are we burying ourselves, to create this illusion of peace and contentment?

And not that I fault my friend.  I think we all do this, to some extent.  It's easier to suppress, ignore, avoid, than to face those inner demons.  Easier to drown out those internal and external cries for help.  Let's put up a wall, let's buffer our hearts, let's hide from the rest of the world.  And then, we can pretend we're happy.  Who wouldn't be happy with a shield against angst?  Who couldn't be content with a fortress to keep our psyches safe?  And yet, we're muting the very thing that makes us who we are.  By isolating the brain and its responses, we're ignoring the single-most, central part of ourselves.  And yes, the brain tells the heart what to do, most of the time.  And yes, segregating the brain, can mean losing heart.  

But shouldn't we be switching ON our brains?  Shouldn't we be tapping their energy, and letting them drive us?  Our brain power should be able to charge through the muck, weed out the bad, and dispose of it.  If we neglect to encourage this process, the muck will grow and suffocate us.  There's a point where extraneous litter builds to trash, and trash continues to pile, and piles become too overwhelming to sort through.  Who wants to live in an intellectual and psychological dump?  Who wants to be a pain and anxiety hoarder?

So, I considered all of the ways we choose to suppress ourselves.  We use everything from lack of confidence, to substances, to verbal and physical abuse - and even suicide - to negate who we are.  We turn away from ourselves, when we need ourselves the most.  And why do we do it?  Why do we need to escape so badly that we let other people decide for us, and control us.  We let addictions take over.  We let codependency convince us that other peoples' lives are more important than our own.  Why aren't our brains protesting?  Why aren't they crying for help?

And the fact is, I don't know.  And maybe it's not the same for everyone.  The truth is, I understand my friend's need to shut off his brain.  I know what it's like to be malcontent.  I have my own nagging subconscious, and I struggle daily to mute it.  I'm only suggesting that maybe we should stop trying to silence our thoughts, take a listen, and invest in ourselves a bit more.  Maybe paying attention will wake us up.  Maybe reconnecting will create the spark that fuels us, and moves us forward.  We all deserve to experience that fire inside of us.  It's who we are.  Don't be content to put it out, and move on.  Let's not live the rest of our lives in heaps of smoldering ashes.

- L.  

Living the Dream

I wake up every day, wishing for a day to sleep in, rejuvenate, refresh.  Last night, I went to bed with the Little Naked Dog, snoring husband out of town, nothing on tap for the morning.  Enter 6:45 am.  Awake and anxious, unable to sleep.  Determined to get some rest, I stayed in bed, fell asleep around 9:30 am, slept until noon.  Enter bad dreams.  Restless sleep.  Unrewarding time spent.

So, what does it take to rejuvenate, refresh?  Obviously, sleep = fail.  And I started thinking about movies.  When I get the chance to hide for a weekend, I choose movies.  I watch, and I relax.  I watch, and I cry.  I watch, and I find this renewed hope.  Something about spending a weekend watching movies, makes me feel more attached to life.  What is it about fiction that brings me back to reality?

I've always been drawn to the imaginary, to the dream, to the ideal.  I've always said, if we can comprehend it - it should be possible.  So, why do movies fill me up?  Why am I able to refuel?  I think it's because they reinforce the dream.  They feed that part of us that believes in the intangibles - faith, religion, love, perfection.  Movies believe in all of those things.  And if watching makes us feel good - Why are we guilty for buying into the comfort zone?

And explore this:  Why do we live every day, watching movies that dig out our deepest emotions, crying about fictional victories and defeats, applauding wins, and mourning losses - Why do we cling to fiction?  Why do we believe in the arts, and continue to pretend that the intangibles aren't accessible within?  Why do we doubt faith, religion, love, perfection?  If people can create art, based on visions of these things - then they MUST exist.  Maybe the visions are dreams, but dreams are still possible.

And how many times have we lived a "dream," and not been fulfilled?  How many times have we smiled at lovers holding hands on a beach, or watching a sunset - and been touched inside - only to find that doing it in person is unrewarding?  How many times have we walked down a beach, hand in hand, only to find that it's not as romantic as we thought?  Seriously.  Reality is lacking a dimension.

But Fiction is a genre worth considering.  A good book, a good movie, a good song - can change your mood, can change your day, can change your life.  A good piece of art can show you how to believe.  If what we can build in our minds, can move us all - There's something more to it.  We're moved, because we believe.  We cry, because we feel.  We smile, because we know it's all still possible.  And imagining the dream is what keeps us all alive.  So, I have a hope in tomorrow.  I still believe in today.  And I know that there are other people in the world who feel the same.  And I think that's what movies are all about.  And I love fiction for consistently bringing me back to reality.  I love fiction for making me feel.  I love fiction for being real.  

There's nothing more profound in life, than knowing what you imagine is possible - and doing your best to make sure you realize it.  Life is real, but fiction leads us.  Tap into your souls, embrace the intangibles, live your lives.  Watch movies, listen to music, do whatever you need, to fill yourselves up.  It's all worth it.  

- L.  

What's the Difference?

I've always shied away from writing about racial stereotypes.  I think I tend to over-simplify, by saying that to me - they're really no different from gender stereotypes.  Men and Women are different.  We see things differently, we feel things differently.  Isn't it OK to categorize our differences?  Isn't it OK to point out the fact that women are typically more inclined to express sensitivity, and men are more often afraid to cry?  Isn't it natural to poke fun at our respective insecurities, our weaknesses, our habits, when we know in our hearts that our cores are the same?  That we have the same internal organs, the same basic needs, the same primal appetites?  Stereotypes are just natural categorizations, based on generalizations about certain groups of people.  Participating in racial stereotyping doesn't make us racist.  Hastily labeling and compartmentalizing gender roles doesn't make us sexist.

I realize there's a sensitivity with racism, slavery and civil rights.  I get that oppression is real and true, and still exists today.  I empathize with the mistrust, with the skepticism, with the underlying bitterness.  I have to admit, I would feel that too.  Who wouldn't?  If your ancestry, your history, your life was shadowed by a past that relentlessly followed you and your culture, and refused to be buried or ignored, wouldn't you be bitter?  I know I would be.  The darkness in those shadows becomes a part of who you are.  You owe it some recognition.

And all of that said, Women aren't strangers to the Civil Rights movement.  The whole Male/Female correlation isn't completely out in left field.  There are plenty of men who still want women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.  There are still places where women are glossed over, ignored, and even abused.  There are still men out there who think women shouldn't have a right to speak about things like business, politics and sports.  There are men who say that American women are too aggressive, who covet the demure, submissive, East Asian prototype.  The woman who smiles, rubs his feet, has his dinner on the table every day, and never asks for anything in return.  Sure, there are.  But I'm not a feminist.  I'm a realist.  And those women have minds of their own.  They decide whose feet they rub, who's mouths they feed, whose kitchens they occupy.  At least, in America they do.  There are plenty of places where women still don't have a choice, and that's a whole different playing field.

When it becomes difficult for me, is when my African American friends are affected by this disconnect.  When those friends are the victims of ignorance.  Men often accuse each other of not being "Man" enough, but it's typically in jest.  Guys seem to subscribe to the religion of Machismo - always trying to call each other out, for not being tough enough, not being strong enough.  My African American friends are often accused of not being "Black" enough.  Seriously?  Man or Woman - not being "Black" enough is an extremely sensitive topic.  I've experienced first-hand, the gravity and weight that label can carry.  When I was in college, my beautiful, extraordinarily sweet and intelligent roommate was often caged by that generalization.  We had many late night talks about what it meant to be "Black."  We lived together for two years, and she was one of the closest friends I've ever had, and yet - the only real dinner I ever shared with her was on her wedding day - with at least a hundred other people.  And post-college, I've had heartfelt talks with more than one exceptionally intelligent, charismatic, male friend, who can't seem to get away from the judgement - men who waver between letting the criticism roll off of their shoulders, getting angry and fighting back, or just bowing their heads, and accepting the crosses they have to carry.

And yet, we simplistic folk can't talk about race, without fear.  Fear of being scorned, fear of being judged, fear of being wrong.  Only the Chris Rocks of the world can make fun of the Black/White debacle, with a sarcastic tongue, and not be labeled as racist.  And yes, I went there - but only briefly.

While I'm disgusted with the African American culture for scorning my friends, I'm not sure how to respond.  It's a sad, sad world when being "Black" means hiding your true selves, dumbing it down, stifling your creativity.  And not only that, but proving you're tough enough, showing you're street enough, for their standards.  Keeping it real.  As Rock would say, "Keeping it real?  Real DUMB."  And I commend my friends who refuse to fall prey to this trap, who joke, and pretend it doesn't hurt.  But don't we all just want to belong?  I wonder how I would feel, if I went home, and my friends made fun of me for being successful, for making decent money, for writing, for speaking correctly.  If I was told I didn't fit, because I wasn't White enough.  If proving myself to my race meant going against my moral and intellectual grain.  If being White meant selling a piece of my soul to the Devil.

But in all honesty, I didn't set out to talk about racism or sexism.  All of the above got me thinking about a different kind of compartmentalization - a different way of stereotyping, based on intellect and creativity.  It definitely exists.  From a young age, the smart kid in class is the "Brown-Noser," the "Nerd," the "Geek," the "Goody-Goody."  The smart kids often get bullied, or get criticized for being un-cool.  While not all smart kids are excluded from the "In" Crowd, it becomes apparent early that advertising your IQ can only get you Brownie Points with the adults and teachers.

So, why do we shun intelligence?  Why do we discourage an eagerness to learn and create?  Is intelligence really so restricted to that upper echelon, that elite few, that the common folk just can't relate?  I find it really hard to believe.  I can't write music, but I still enjoy a song.  I can't paint a picture, but I'm still in awe of its beauty.  If you aren't a Rocket Scientist, can't you at least appreciate the person who is, and what he contributes to the world?  What is it about intellect that scares us?  Why do we do our best not to stray far from the mediocre?

We criticize the dreamer.  Any man who's ever been a pioneer in this world has been doubted, beaten down, crucified, and sometimes feared.  Dreamers and idealists of the past have paved the way for modern day thinkers.  And yet, society continues to doubt the very people they lean on to lead them.  It's always been this way.  People who can't lead, follow, but it doesn't stop them from judging.  It doesn't stop them from hating.

In any case, discrimination against the intelligent and the creative is nothing new.  It's been going on for ages, and I suspect it's just a cross the Different have to bear.  What's really frightening is when this genius starts to separate not only the person from society, but the person from himself.  How many creative people have been clinically depressed, had substance abuse problems, attempted suicide?  How many have gone through life feeling ostracized and alone?  How has intelligence and creativity become such a curse?  And yet, doesn't it seem like depression is a catalyst for beautiful works of art?  How often does a happy song, or funny movie, become truly cathartic?  It's almost as if the pain gives birth to the beauty.  And the beauty creates the euphoria.  At least for me, an element of pain is inherent in a good work of art.

It seems like there's a theme in all of this.  There's a price to pay for being different, for being creative, for being smart.  Whether you're white, black, male or female, intelligence is a blessing and a curse.  It means being questioned, criticized, isolated, and sometimes hated.  It means being plagued by more profound feelings, being infected with malcontent.  It means sacrificing normalcy for greatness.  And I know that letting the jeers roll off of your shoulders is difficult.  Being criticized for who you are is unfair.  Being told you don't belong is hurtful, and painful and cold.  Gifted people aren't content to be nobodies.  As Adam Duritz (Counting Crows) sings,

"I don't want to feel so different, but I don't want to be insignificant.  And I don't know how to see the same things different, now."


We struggle with the need to be significant, and yet, not feel different from everyone else - least of all our own race or gender.  When our gifts separate us, when our peers insist on secluding us, when our own minds pull us in opposite directions - what choice do we have?  We're growing against the grain, but we have to to keep fighting to be significant, we have to accept that it's OK to feel different, we have to know how to see those same things, Different - NOW.  




- L. 

Like Pulling Teeth

I spent 3.5 hours in the Dentist's office today.  I haven't been to a Dentist in at least 5 years, probably more.  It's funny, because I'm religious about brushing my teeth, and constantly conscious of my oral hygiene.  Just, something about what that chair represents - enduring the invasive exploration, the unwelcomed intimacy.  I cringe when I consider how vulnerable I feel.  And true to character, I avoid, shy away, ignore.  Four plus years in the little 'Burg, and I had yet to find a Dentist.

Enter Sinus Trouble, Gum Infections, Pain.  Eventually, ignoring the problem became too difficult.  Finally, I knew I had to face my fears, and ask for help.  I got a recommendation, made an appointment, had a consultation, and left the office today feeling like my mouth had a new lease on life.  Enter Acceptance, Gratitude, Relief.

While I was in the chair today, I started comparing the process to the bigger picture.  Wouldn't it be grand if we could take our psyche in for an overhaul, after 5 years of beating it down, holding it in, refusing to acknowledge the negative effects of avoidance?  Wouldn't it be freeing if we knew we could shed our emotional shackles in less than 4 hours, and leave with a newfound hope?

The Hygienist scaled my teeth, removing small bits of tartar from under my gums.  She said they act like splinters - sneaking their way in, and creating irritation, inflammation, discomfort.  Once removed, they  heal, and relief comes almost instantly.  I started thinking about the splinters in my brain.  Sharp reminders of pain points, prickles of discomfort, shards of regret and defeat.  Wouldn't it be nice if we could do some internal scaling; if we could instantly remove these splinters from our brains?

So, she asks - How often do I floss?  Flossing once a day is her recommendation.  Flossing prevents plaque from depositing between the teeth; prevents food particles from getting stuck in the spaces; prevents these invaders from promoting decay.  It makes perfect sense, yes?  And doesn't that premise hold true everywhere?  And I think about the spaces in my life - the holes, the voids, the gaps - the spaces between who I am and who I want to be.  And I consider - what gets in the way?  What promotes decay?  Grief, regret, anxiety, fear - to name a few.  They're attracted to the spaces, they fester in the voids.  And I know she's right.  We need to floss every day.  We need to fight the decay, with everything we have.  We need to protect ourselves from the invasions.

I have some work to do - some polishing, some fillings, some commitment to caring for myself.  The biggest risk is a cracked tooth that was filled many, many years ago.  The metal filling shows through the side of the tooth, and the wall is so thin that it might just collapse when the Dentist tries to replace the filling.  If this should happen, he'll need to crown the tooth.  Sounds OK to me.  Crown - like a fortress, for a tooth.  A protective wall to reinforce the exterior, to maintain the integrity of the original casing.  Is that a bad thing?  What if we could do that with the psyche?  Take a cavity, hollow it out, fill it back up, seal it in, and encase the exterior to cover the cracks?  What if we could protect ourselves from falling apart, by putting up a wall?

And there's an additional risk that the crack might spread, that it might move down to the root.  If that happens, a root canal is warranted.  Enter Fear, Panic, Flight.  I'm not sure I can face this right now, and I ask the Dentist - What does it mean?  How much will it hurt?  He tries not to scare me, and I appreciate the consideration, but what exactly is a root canal?

"A root canal is a treatment used to repair and save a tooth that is badly decayed or becomes infected. During a root canal procedure, the nerve and pulp are removed and the inside of the tooth is cleaned and sealed. Without treatment, the tissue surrounding the tooth will become infected and abscesses may form."


According to the Doc, the root canal is a much simpler procedure these days.  Clean out the root, seal it up - and you're good to go.  And again, wouldn't that be grand?  What if we could take a look at our roots, extract the toxic, remove the vulnerable pulp, seal it up, and move on?  Wouldn't we all be lining up for root canals?   Wouldn't we welcome these new leases on life?  


So, I guess my point is - I stumbled on a lot of parallels today.  By opening my mouth, I opened my mind.  By allowing myself to be vulnerable, I welcomed an opportunity to be reborn.  And I think you can learn a lot from visiting the Dentist.  Scale down, floss daily, polish regularly, protect yourself, and keep your roots in perspective.  When it's time to extract and move on - try your best to do a mental root canal.  It's not as clean as a dental procedure, but it's worth a try.  


Next cleansing, April 12th.  Stay tuned.


- L.

Peace, LOVE and Understanding

"Time. We all think that we have an endless supply of time. We take time for granted....."


Missy Love began her "Support Trey Love" update with these words, last night.  An anguished mother, putting every ounce of her being into praying for a miracle - shedding her pride, and shamelessly asking for help from anyone who can give it - because she feels utterly helpless. I can barely read through my tears, and I ask myself, "What can I do?"  I don't know the Loves personally, and I'm in awe of their strength and the community's response to their plight.  There IS good in this world.  There ARE kind people everywhere, willing to share their love, their support and their prayers.


I ask myself, "What can I do?" - and I'm instantly ashamed.  What can I do?  I'm not in the area, I don't know them personally, I don't have extra time or money - I'm immediately overwhelmed.  I'm overwhelmed, and I'm ashamed because I have no right to be overwhelmed.  My struggles are nothing compared to what this family is going through.  They pray for a miracle, and I continue to ask why.  I'm afraid that the prayers are falling on deaf ears - because I can't understand why a miracle is necessary.  If there is a God, and God is good, wouldn't He have spared them by now?  And I realize I'm no good to the Loves.  I can't help, if I don't believe.  I can't help, if I don't make the time.  I can't help, if I'm focusing inward.


And what if Trey Love is an example?  What if this little hero was put on this Earth to make me - and others like me - see the truth?  What if we lose him, and the spirits of his mommy and daddy die with him, and we still think we have an endless supply of time?  So, I considered the lesson a young man like Trey Love can teach us.  And I considered the sacrifice he may be making for all of us.  And I considered how unfair all of that is, and how horrific, and sadistic and cold.  But, I considered it anyway.  If Trey Love is fighting this battle, what can make the battle worth fighting?  What can make his pain worth enduring?  And maybe nothing can come close.  Maybe nothing is enough.  But at the very least, we have to say we didn't waste the time we had.  We have to hold up our ends of the bargain.  We have to do everything we can to validate our existence on this Earth, if Love is fighting for life - and especially if Love could be lost.


I took a look deep inside, and I know I'm not living up to my end of the bargain.  I waste time, I waste money, I waste ME - repeatedly.  I've gotten accustomed to the art of avoidance, and I live in a world where hiding is my first defense.  Enter discomfort, and I turn away, run away, hide, or protect myself with some form of anesthesia.  Discomfort isn't an option.  Escape is the only route to safety.  And what am I saying to this brave little boy?  This innocent child who doesn't have a choice?  This family who desperately prays for a miracle?  I'm a cop out.  And I know I'm not the only one.  But that doesn't make it any easier on the conscience.  


So, my commitment to Trey is to think of his example, when I'm tempted to run.  To consider his bravery, when I just want to hide.  To stop looking for an escape, when I know that my time here is limited.  Of course he has my prayers and my support, but he also has my commitment to be a better ME, and I'm letting him hold me accountable.


Here's to Faith, Hope and Trey Love.  


- L.

The Meanest Fans in America

GQ writer, Adam Winer, recently published his list of The Worst Sports Fans in America.  I have to say, I'm not at all surprised that our City of Brotherly Love ranked high on his list.  Haven't we heard it all before?

Whiner - Err...Winer - writes:

"Over the years, Philadelphia fans have booed Santa Claus as well as their own star players. They've even booed a guy who just helped the city win a friggin' World Series title—while he was getting his ring. Boooo! Admittedly, there are some things fans have cheered. Like Michael Irvin's career-ending neck injury and a fan being tased on the outfield grass. Things reached their nadir last season, when Citizens Bank Park played host to arguably the most heinous incident in the history of sports: A drunken fan intentionally vomited on an 11-year-old girl. The truth is this: All told, Philadelphia stadiums house the most monstrous collection of humanity outside of the federal penal system. "Some of these people would boo the crack in the Liberty Bell," baseball legend Pete Rose once said. More likely, these savages would have thrown the battery that cracked it."

Blah, blah, blah.  I have one word for GQ:  "BOOOOOOOOO!!"  Seriously.  If I have to hear the "Philly booed Santa Claus" argument one more time, I'm going to puke on someone, myself.  Since when is a drunk guy in a red suit not deserving of a little heckling?  St. Nick is just a fairytale, after all.  It's not like we're booing the Pope.  Although, let's not put it past us.  

And consider for a minute, the Winer's side - We cheered when Michael Irvin went down.  Wrong?  Sure.  Insensitive?  Absolutely.  No one wishes injury on anyone - but put a bunch of drunk people in a stadium, playing their arch nemesis, and seeing the opponent's star receiver get taken out?  The cheers might just slip out.  It's not like anyone knew the injury was career-ending for Irvin (who was known for smack talking and drug abuse, by the way).  And if you want to talk about Pete Rose, let he who's without sin cast the first battery.

My point is this:  Get a bunch of drunk people together, add in some passion, sprinkle it with a little stupidity, and you have a recipe for disaster.  Philly isn't the only habitat that acts as a greenhouse for obnoxious fans.  Maybe sometimes it seems like they're more concentrated here, maybe they just get more publicity, or maybe we feel a slight tug toward living up to the rep - but I have to say, these things don't JUST happen in Philly.  I lived in Pittsburgh for years, and I've been abused by many a Yinzer.  Don't let the blue collar Philly haters fool you.  They sell "F*$% Philly" shirts at every Steeler/Eagle match-up at Heinz field.  They also insist on hating the Green, regardless of the fact that we aren't in the same conference, and we share the same hatred for "America's Team."

Let's rewind to 1989.  As a young Troiani, I was christened by fire.  First live game:  Veteran's Stadium, Eagles vs. Dallas, ice balls everywhere, referee down, Jimmy Johnson escorted off the field by policemen on horses - not to mention the bounty Buddy put on Zendejas.  I learned quickly, "It's not easy being Green."  I remember my dad telling me "Wait here.  Don't talk to anyone," while he used the facilities.  I also remember a guy with a blow up Dallas helmet, who went into the restroom behind him.  I heard a scuffle, a couple of expletives, and a loud, "F@ggot!" The gent came hobbling out, with a deflated ego....and helmet.  

So, yes.  Philly fans are passionate.  And we have some drunks.  And we all know that passion and alcohol don't mix.  Add in a little stupidity, and you're spelling trouble.  No matter where you are.  All I can say is, we love our teams.  If you don't want to be heckled, don't come to our house, and disrespect us.  I don't condone violence, but the world of sport isn't for the weak and weary.  Show up in a Cowgirl jersey, and we'll punch you in the mouth.  And we won't feel sorry about it.  No, not at all.  We're proud of our teams, we stand up for our teams, and when it's necessary, we give our teams some tough love.  Our guys can take a boo or two - and that's what it means to be strong.  We might ask a lot, but we're willing to bleed - and that's what it means to be a fan.

- - L.

Read More http://www.gq.com/sports/lists/201104/worst-sports-fans-in-america#ixzz1HHYf65W2