Now that the holiday season is in full swing, we all are being bombarded with one word: "Sale!" It began with the kick-off on Black Friday with plentiful deals trying to convince people-- sometimes, strangely successfully-- that they need to get up at 3AM, haul themselves down to the local mall or store and camp outside in the cold in order to buy things that they probably don't need anyway (wants and needs are very different things). To be clear, I am not against capitalism or even commercialism, but I do believe that as a society we would be far better off if we questioned our purchases more regularly. Do I need this? Do I truly want this? Can I afford this? Will I want this in a month from now? A year from now? Does this align with my values from an enviromental and human rights standpoint (a lot of things sold in the US are made in countries with questionable positions on these topics)? Does this item add beauty and joy to my home and my life?
With these thoughts in mind, while you are looking for that special gift for that hard-to-buy-for special someone in your life, I invite you to choose somemthing different this year: support local and independent artists. Everything from handmade jewelry to music by indie musicians (of all genres) to prints of photography can be found online and at local craft fairs. Choosing the path of an artist (or often more accurately, being chosen for) is not an indulgence or an easy endeavor. It forces artists to encounter uncertainty on a daily basis, to come face to face with all of the things that other people can effectively push away. For many artists, confronting the bigger questions in life is necessary in order to go farther and create new works. We are asked to see beauty that others miss and report back to the world to remind us all how fortunate we are. We are asked to bring forth something that did not exist previously and without which, the world is a little poorer. And, at our best, as creative beings, we are all asked to appreciate what is around us and to find new ways to love over and over again. This is not merely the task of the artist, but the most basic work of being human. The artist merely reminds us through his or her creations that this is what we are here to do.
Has a painting or photograph ever taken your breath away? Has a song reminded you of a particularly joyful event or been with you when you needed to cry? Have you ever worn something that was hand-made and felt your perception of yourself and how you look go up a notch (and not even because of the compliments you received)? Has a book moved you so deeply that you found yourself reading a specific sentence over and over again? If so, none of these instances were accidents. They added something to your life because someone else-- someone that you may never have met or will meet-- had the courage and perseverence to heed a deep inner calling and to tune out the voices both from within and from the world that said that what they have to offer was not valid or worthy and to still offer it not just to you, but to everyone. This is no small feat. But, it is a vital one.
This holiday season, I encourage and invite you to put your money where your heart is. Find items (or even ideas-- giving to a charity that resonates with you in the name of someone special is always an excellent gift) that support the things you want to increase in the world. Somehow, armed with the knowledge that the top 5% of the population owns more than 50% of the wealth in the US, I tend to believe that maybe we don't need to increase the prosperity of multinational corporations with every purchase we make. This isn't to say they don't have a place in our economy, they do. However, there is also much to be said for supporting the little guy or gal, as well. (*However, if you do happen to be in the 5% of the earners in the US and you're reading my blog, can I just say that, my, you're looking lovely today? Have you lost weight? That's a beautiful... uh, wait, where was I? Oh yes...) So, when doing your holiday shopping, consider what you are really buying and what you are really wanting to give.
If you happen to be looking for art to give and want to inspire someone you love with beauty they can see year-round (while thinking of you), please consider checking out my prints for sale: http://www.shootlikeagirlphotography.com/ There are a plethora of NYC/Brooklyn images, as well as nature and flowers and photos taken all around the world, including in a Slovenian castle and along a canal in Venice. Notecards will be available soon!
Lastly, my wish for you is that instead of thinking of the word "sale" when thinking of the holidays, you will remember the meaning behind the season and will be bombarded with the word that describes what we are truly celebrating: LOVE!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Tribute
As I heard my mother's voice say the words, it felt like a bad dream continuing. I was still asleep, but must have instinctively known that something was amiss because before I was fully awake, I said, "What? What happened?" It was then that she said, "Pop died." No matter how much one prepares intellectually for the day when a love one will pass away, no efforts suffice to dull the pain in the heart when that day actually arrives.
I never thought that a 92 year old man would be one of my best friends, but during the last three years of his life that is exactly what my grandfather came to be. He was in excellent health until he was 89 years old when he fell. When my parents, grandmother and I went to visit him in the rehab home where he was staying temporarily, he was having a difficult day. Towards the end of our visit, he started to tear up, but was visibly suppressing it. My grandmother, aware of the mentality in which he was raised where men don't cry-- or at least not in front of anyone-- promptly said to us, "C'mon, let's go and let him be for now." As I walked out, something drew me back. Outside, I asked my parents and grandmother to wait for me. "I have to go back. I can't leave him right now," I said. I walked back down the long hallway to his room and sat down beside his bed. I told him that I understood that he was upset about losing his mobility and that I knew how hard it was to have a body that doesn't always cooperate. And then, I sat with him while he cried. There was nothing else I needed to say or do in that moment and nothing else that could have been more gentle and powerful. Sometimes, the gift of presence is enough.
From that day on, I began calling Pop every day. It began as a way for me to cheer him up and break up his day--- even after he healed enough to return home. No matter what I was doing, I found a way to call him at a specific time of day. Even when I was teaching in the evenings, I would tell the students that we needed to take a five minute break. They would see me take my phone and walk out of the room and one once inquired who I was calling. I told her and then, they began asking how he was doing-- cheering him on in his recovery and wishing him well from afar. There was no one else I would have thought of calling during those classes and the thought not to call him never occurred to me. Other times, I would call him when I was running to yoga class, on my way to my own classes after I returned to school as a student myself, when I was doing laundry, walking on the Promenade in Brooklyn neighborhood or en route to shoot a concert. It became one of my favorite parts of the day, a little ritual that was very grounding in the midst of my busy New York City life. A year and a half after the calls began, the tables turned. Faced with my own serious health crisis, Pop became my cheerleader, talking to me to wish me a better day.
By all accounts, I am a mutt that has come from purebreds. From each branch of my Irish, German and Polish heritage, I have gained specific traits and gifts through which I feel the whisperings of my ancestors edging me on with a single directive: "Live, Love." My grandfather's parents came from Poland. His mother immigrated as a seventeen year old orphan-- alone. While she was on the boat coming to the US, someone tried to steal her single valuable possession: her family's silver. Instead of letting a thief get it, she tossed it overboard saying that "if she couldn't have it, no one could." In addition to her spunk, her possessed a fierce love of and loyalty to her family-- something that she instilled deeply in her children.
Married to my grandmother for over 67 years, Pop was extremely devoted to his family and to maintaining the rituals that brought family together. I have spent every Christmas Eve since I was born in the same place: my grandparents' home. And, as death brings with it the flood of memories, I remember with aching fondness so many of the little moments, the tiny private things that happen within a family and through individuals that create a distinctness, a unique definition of "home."
My last memory of seeing my grandfather was just recently, a few days before he died. After a brief hospital stay three weeks ago, he was moved to a rehab home where it was thought that he would recover enough to return to the home he shared with my grandmother. As my parents and I were leaving after visiting him, my father told him to look out his window and we would wave from the car as we were driving away. I saw his figure watching from the illuminated window, waving as we waved back before driving into the darkness. And, it was he who stayed in the light.
I never thought that a 92 year old man would be one of my best friends, but during the last three years of his life that is exactly what my grandfather came to be. He was in excellent health until he was 89 years old when he fell. When my parents, grandmother and I went to visit him in the rehab home where he was staying temporarily, he was having a difficult day. Towards the end of our visit, he started to tear up, but was visibly suppressing it. My grandmother, aware of the mentality in which he was raised where men don't cry-- or at least not in front of anyone-- promptly said to us, "C'mon, let's go and let him be for now." As I walked out, something drew me back. Outside, I asked my parents and grandmother to wait for me. "I have to go back. I can't leave him right now," I said. I walked back down the long hallway to his room and sat down beside his bed. I told him that I understood that he was upset about losing his mobility and that I knew how hard it was to have a body that doesn't always cooperate. And then, I sat with him while he cried. There was nothing else I needed to say or do in that moment and nothing else that could have been more gentle and powerful. Sometimes, the gift of presence is enough.
From that day on, I began calling Pop every day. It began as a way for me to cheer him up and break up his day--- even after he healed enough to return home. No matter what I was doing, I found a way to call him at a specific time of day. Even when I was teaching in the evenings, I would tell the students that we needed to take a five minute break. They would see me take my phone and walk out of the room and one once inquired who I was calling. I told her and then, they began asking how he was doing-- cheering him on in his recovery and wishing him well from afar. There was no one else I would have thought of calling during those classes and the thought not to call him never occurred to me. Other times, I would call him when I was running to yoga class, on my way to my own classes after I returned to school as a student myself, when I was doing laundry, walking on the Promenade in Brooklyn neighborhood or en route to shoot a concert. It became one of my favorite parts of the day, a little ritual that was very grounding in the midst of my busy New York City life. A year and a half after the calls began, the tables turned. Faced with my own serious health crisis, Pop became my cheerleader, talking to me to wish me a better day.
By all accounts, I am a mutt that has come from purebreds. From each branch of my Irish, German and Polish heritage, I have gained specific traits and gifts through which I feel the whisperings of my ancestors edging me on with a single directive: "Live, Love." My grandfather's parents came from Poland. His mother immigrated as a seventeen year old orphan-- alone. While she was on the boat coming to the US, someone tried to steal her single valuable possession: her family's silver. Instead of letting a thief get it, she tossed it overboard saying that "if she couldn't have it, no one could." In addition to her spunk, her possessed a fierce love of and loyalty to her family-- something that she instilled deeply in her children.
Married to my grandmother for over 67 years, Pop was extremely devoted to his family and to maintaining the rituals that brought family together. I have spent every Christmas Eve since I was born in the same place: my grandparents' home. And, as death brings with it the flood of memories, I remember with aching fondness so many of the little moments, the tiny private things that happen within a family and through individuals that create a distinctness, a unique definition of "home."
My last memory of seeing my grandfather was just recently, a few days before he died. After a brief hospital stay three weeks ago, he was moved to a rehab home where it was thought that he would recover enough to return to the home he shared with my grandmother. As my parents and I were leaving after visiting him, my father told him to look out his window and we would wave from the car as we were driving away. I saw his figure watching from the illuminated window, waving as we waved back before driving into the darkness. And, it was he who stayed in the light.
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Stories of All of Us
From the time of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest known written story on Earth for those of you who slept through high school English classes, the art of story-telling has been a pivotal element in how we humans have wrestled with the eternal questions. Though the details of lives have changed through generations and by geography, the same basic questions seem to remain throughout all cultures and times. Concepts of love, loss, faith, purpose, health, family and belonging echo throughout the ages. And, though Abraham Maslow would diagree (he was the dude who theorized about the heirarchy of needs), these are as vital as tending to our physical needs.
I was reading an article recently from Scientific American that was truly was fascinating. The gist of it was that there was evidence found in caves in South Africa that indicate that humans whose cognitive abilities more or less mirrored our own existed about 164,000 years ago. The kicker is that, due to climate changes, most of humanity had gotten wiped out and that the human race as we know it likely are descendants of only six hundred individuals who hung out in these caves. Six hundred people changed the fate of history and facilitated us continuing as a species. I'm pretty sure I know six hundred people and if the fate of humankind were totally in their hands, I might be a little worried.
And yet, while these people lived very different lives from our own and would stand in awe of cars, computers and iPods, they gazed at the same sky. It's not a leap for me to imagine that after they sought sources of nourishment and shelter, they looked for means of connection and ways of communication. Somewhere along the way, art and the oral traditions began to emerge and be passed down. I believe that there is something inherently rooted in our biology at this point that knows the value of creating, of sharing what we know, of what we question and of what we dream.
Our stories are us. But, we are not merely our stories. Like most people, I could tell a thousand tales of amazing, beautiful, heart-breaking moments from my own life, but the totality would fall short from even beginning to adequately define me-- or you. Every individual interaction shapes and reframes our stories and when we are at our best, offer inspiration, comfort, joy and hope-- and remembrance to each other. Knowing what it felt like to walk along the Seine on a cold Autumn day, gazing at the Left Bank doesn't make me able to touch the greatness of those who went before--- like Picasso, Rimbaud or Matisse, but being there reminded me of my own unknown potential that always begins with stepping onto the path that calls to you-- the one that won't let go. Knowing what it's like to run down the side of a mountain in Colorado as a nine year old with my father and brother leaping somewhere between the dusty, brown earth and the wide open sky didn't just give me a taste of freedom, it gave a permanent remembrance of it, one that echoes in my cells just through recalling the story. Knowing what it was like to be tossed around in the Atlantic off of the coast of North Carolina during hurricane season didn't just offer proof of Mother Nature's power, it left me with a sense of tangible awe of my own vulnerability long before I would learn that during the years of the "stillness." Knowing what it was like to hike down the Grand Canyon on a hot July day didn't just give me a taste of true thirst, the knowledge that those donkeys probably do come in handy and the insight that the middle of summer may not be the best time to go hiking in AZ, it offered the sweet reminder that what goes down, must also come back up. Standing in the Sistine Chapel, before the Mona Lisa, in Freud's waiting room, in the bedroom where Mozart slept or high above Piazza San Marco didn't just leave me with photographs and postcards, but deep inner souvenirs that left me richer in wisdom, humility and grace-- and the knowledge that it is not up to us to decide the effects our work will have. It is simply up to us to do it whole-heartedly.
Our adventures, struggles, and triumphs bring us the ingredients for our stories and while it is doubtful that the eternal questions ever will be answered definitively, it is up to each generation to ask them and to live as if it were possible to wonder and to know. By sharing the tales of our quests, we discover fire for the second time-- over and over again.
I was reading an article recently from Scientific American that was truly was fascinating. The gist of it was that there was evidence found in caves in South Africa that indicate that humans whose cognitive abilities more or less mirrored our own existed about 164,000 years ago. The kicker is that, due to climate changes, most of humanity had gotten wiped out and that the human race as we know it likely are descendants of only six hundred individuals who hung out in these caves. Six hundred people changed the fate of history and facilitated us continuing as a species. I'm pretty sure I know six hundred people and if the fate of humankind were totally in their hands, I might be a little worried.
And yet, while these people lived very different lives from our own and would stand in awe of cars, computers and iPods, they gazed at the same sky. It's not a leap for me to imagine that after they sought sources of nourishment and shelter, they looked for means of connection and ways of communication. Somewhere along the way, art and the oral traditions began to emerge and be passed down. I believe that there is something inherently rooted in our biology at this point that knows the value of creating, of sharing what we know, of what we question and of what we dream.
Our stories are us. But, we are not merely our stories. Like most people, I could tell a thousand tales of amazing, beautiful, heart-breaking moments from my own life, but the totality would fall short from even beginning to adequately define me-- or you. Every individual interaction shapes and reframes our stories and when we are at our best, offer inspiration, comfort, joy and hope-- and remembrance to each other. Knowing what it felt like to walk along the Seine on a cold Autumn day, gazing at the Left Bank doesn't make me able to touch the greatness of those who went before--- like Picasso, Rimbaud or Matisse, but being there reminded me of my own unknown potential that always begins with stepping onto the path that calls to you-- the one that won't let go. Knowing what it's like to run down the side of a mountain in Colorado as a nine year old with my father and brother leaping somewhere between the dusty, brown earth and the wide open sky didn't just give me a taste of freedom, it gave a permanent remembrance of it, one that echoes in my cells just through recalling the story. Knowing what it was like to be tossed around in the Atlantic off of the coast of North Carolina during hurricane season didn't just offer proof of Mother Nature's power, it left me with a sense of tangible awe of my own vulnerability long before I would learn that during the years of the "stillness." Knowing what it was like to hike down the Grand Canyon on a hot July day didn't just give me a taste of true thirst, the knowledge that those donkeys probably do come in handy and the insight that the middle of summer may not be the best time to go hiking in AZ, it offered the sweet reminder that what goes down, must also come back up. Standing in the Sistine Chapel, before the Mona Lisa, in Freud's waiting room, in the bedroom where Mozart slept or high above Piazza San Marco didn't just leave me with photographs and postcards, but deep inner souvenirs that left me richer in wisdom, humility and grace-- and the knowledge that it is not up to us to decide the effects our work will have. It is simply up to us to do it whole-heartedly.
Our adventures, struggles, and triumphs bring us the ingredients for our stories and while it is doubtful that the eternal questions ever will be answered definitively, it is up to each generation to ask them and to live as if it were possible to wonder and to know. By sharing the tales of our quests, we discover fire for the second time-- over and over again.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Journey of an Artist
I remember everything about that day. It began as I woke up believing that I would enjoy the beginning of my working vacation in CA. It ended with having come back from the edge of death. The day was a swirling mix of the desert, the photo shoot, the food, the allergic reaction, the ER, the other side, the promise and the return. I've told the story before (see my note "After...shock" for the full story) and a year later, I have a different story I need to tell right now. It's not the one of how a life-altering experience happened. It is not the one that stole my health and has held it captive for the past 365 days. The story that pulses through my veins is deeper than tragedy and loss. It about honoring a promise, holding up my end of the bargain and seeing my entire life as a work of art.
I have heard people say that on one's deathbed, it won't be work that he/she thinks of, it will be the people he/she loves. In my experience though, aside from a thought of my mother, I wasn't thinking of my loved ones. I felt content with my relationships, always having given a lot of attention to nurturing my connections with the people in my world. As my vital signs were slipping and I was fully aware of what was happening, one of the key elements that kept me connected to this planet and to life itself was the overwhelming thought that I could not die without having my work-- my art-- in the world in more concrete, organized ways than I had done up until that point. The conviction that arose in those horrible moments has been what has sustained me during the past year and in very real ways, gave me new life. It wasn't simply the decision to create no matter what, it was to value my work differently.
Like many artists, I often battled insecurities and their opposite during my journey as an artist. Because my talents in writing and photography both came to light initially during times when I needed them more than breath, there was never a question of whether I would do them or not. I wanted so badly, so completely, to create, to find beauty in the world, to tell stories both with words and visually that often, I took any gig that was offered to me and worked for free. I didn't care that I was giving it away. At times, I joyfully worked three jobs to support my drug of choice: creating. I had endless conversations with a friend about my own worth, about the burden of coming from a family where the arts are hobbies and not professions and how stifling that was for me, especially since I knew very early in my life where my talents manifested. It didn't matter that I was a straight A student all the way through school. I wanted to create worlds and sanctuaries with words and images. I wanted to be surrounded by music, not merely occasionally, but all the time.
Finding my skills as a music journalist and photographer was like witnessing the heavens open. It was what guided me to move to Brooklyn where I felt like I fell in love with a whole city all at once. Seven years and a thousand beautiful and challenging adventures later, I still feel that way. Even during those first months in my empty apartment when I spent time staring at equally empty four walls, I knew that I had found a city of my people. At last.
When I faced down death a year ago-- and not for the first time, something shifted in my body and spirit. I returned with an unwavering committment to owning my talents, to being willing to stand behind them and to stand up for them. I don't work for free anymore. I realized how precious my time and energy and abilities are and how imperative exchange is.
I used to get asked a lot by people (if I offered, this doesn't apply to you) to shoot their shows. It would usually go something like this, "Hey girl! I really love your shots. I'm playing at __________ (insert Lower East Side venue of your choice) on _________ (probably Thursday if you're thought of as a particularly hip band). You can come and take picutres!" Note the lack of a question there. I began to wonder if these people would go to a restaurant and say the same thing to the chef/owner. "Hey! I'm going to come in on Thursday (uh, unless it's the day of the show). You can give me free food, even though I am sure you spent years learning your craft and a lot of money buying equipment and supplies." However, I take full responsibility for the times I actually showed up and let my desire to shoot overpower my good business sense. I guess for a long time, I didn't really have much of that. I spent hours honing my creative skills and not on finding ways to embrace the journey as an artist in its totality. I only wish I didn't have to almost die to grasp this lesson and its importance so completely.
But, the beauty of my tragedy is that the slate was washed clean that day. Suddenly, I no longer felt insecure about my calling as an artist. I felt whole because of it-- it has been the one part of me that has remained. My life as I knew it vanished in an instant, my health left me, the things that I depended on for security disappeared and what stayed shining like a beacon in the night was my desire to create, to add love and beauty to the world, to tell stories, to capture scenes that reflect how amazing life is and how amazing we are. All of us. Everyone and everything has a story and I take great pleasure in climbing inside and revealing those precious gems to the world. It is also why I share my own stories, why I am honest about my journey and why I am now, at last, so willing to own every little part of my life. And, so while I long to be back shooting a show in the middle of the night in a hot, sweaty venue surrounded by my people, whether I know them personally or not, for now, I find ways to create anyway. Anyway. And, that is really a defining word for me. If you love something and if you're lucky, something will happen that erases doubt and plunges you headfirst into immersing yourself in life so deeply there is nothing else but everything. Instead of seeing all that I lack, I feel profoundly grateful for the opportunity and challenge to see all that I have. There are endless ways to see the world and to be in the world. Regardless of circumstances, the question that I live is a daily answering of this: how do I want to move through the day? I just happen to answer it through my camera and through my pen and the result is that the art I'm creating is not merely coming into being through my articles, essays and images, but through the fullness and completeness of life itself.
I have heard people say that on one's deathbed, it won't be work that he/she thinks of, it will be the people he/she loves. In my experience though, aside from a thought of my mother, I wasn't thinking of my loved ones. I felt content with my relationships, always having given a lot of attention to nurturing my connections with the people in my world. As my vital signs were slipping and I was fully aware of what was happening, one of the key elements that kept me connected to this planet and to life itself was the overwhelming thought that I could not die without having my work-- my art-- in the world in more concrete, organized ways than I had done up until that point. The conviction that arose in those horrible moments has been what has sustained me during the past year and in very real ways, gave me new life. It wasn't simply the decision to create no matter what, it was to value my work differently.
Like many artists, I often battled insecurities and their opposite during my journey as an artist. Because my talents in writing and photography both came to light initially during times when I needed them more than breath, there was never a question of whether I would do them or not. I wanted so badly, so completely, to create, to find beauty in the world, to tell stories both with words and visually that often, I took any gig that was offered to me and worked for free. I didn't care that I was giving it away. At times, I joyfully worked three jobs to support my drug of choice: creating. I had endless conversations with a friend about my own worth, about the burden of coming from a family where the arts are hobbies and not professions and how stifling that was for me, especially since I knew very early in my life where my talents manifested. It didn't matter that I was a straight A student all the way through school. I wanted to create worlds and sanctuaries with words and images. I wanted to be surrounded by music, not merely occasionally, but all the time.
Finding my skills as a music journalist and photographer was like witnessing the heavens open. It was what guided me to move to Brooklyn where I felt like I fell in love with a whole city all at once. Seven years and a thousand beautiful and challenging adventures later, I still feel that way. Even during those first months in my empty apartment when I spent time staring at equally empty four walls, I knew that I had found a city of my people. At last.
When I faced down death a year ago-- and not for the first time, something shifted in my body and spirit. I returned with an unwavering committment to owning my talents, to being willing to stand behind them and to stand up for them. I don't work for free anymore. I realized how precious my time and energy and abilities are and how imperative exchange is.
I used to get asked a lot by people (if I offered, this doesn't apply to you) to shoot their shows. It would usually go something like this, "Hey girl! I really love your shots. I'm playing at __________ (insert Lower East Side venue of your choice) on _________ (probably Thursday if you're thought of as a particularly hip band). You can come and take picutres!" Note the lack of a question there. I began to wonder if these people would go to a restaurant and say the same thing to the chef/owner. "Hey! I'm going to come in on Thursday (uh, unless it's the day of the show). You can give me free food, even though I am sure you spent years learning your craft and a lot of money buying equipment and supplies." However, I take full responsibility for the times I actually showed up and let my desire to shoot overpower my good business sense. I guess for a long time, I didn't really have much of that. I spent hours honing my creative skills and not on finding ways to embrace the journey as an artist in its totality. I only wish I didn't have to almost die to grasp this lesson and its importance so completely.
But, the beauty of my tragedy is that the slate was washed clean that day. Suddenly, I no longer felt insecure about my calling as an artist. I felt whole because of it-- it has been the one part of me that has remained. My life as I knew it vanished in an instant, my health left me, the things that I depended on for security disappeared and what stayed shining like a beacon in the night was my desire to create, to add love and beauty to the world, to tell stories, to capture scenes that reflect how amazing life is and how amazing we are. All of us. Everyone and everything has a story and I take great pleasure in climbing inside and revealing those precious gems to the world. It is also why I share my own stories, why I am honest about my journey and why I am now, at last, so willing to own every little part of my life. And, so while I long to be back shooting a show in the middle of the night in a hot, sweaty venue surrounded by my people, whether I know them personally or not, for now, I find ways to create anyway. Anyway. And, that is really a defining word for me. If you love something and if you're lucky, something will happen that erases doubt and plunges you headfirst into immersing yourself in life so deeply there is nothing else but everything. Instead of seeing all that I lack, I feel profoundly grateful for the opportunity and challenge to see all that I have. There are endless ways to see the world and to be in the world. Regardless of circumstances, the question that I live is a daily answering of this: how do I want to move through the day? I just happen to answer it through my camera and through my pen and the result is that the art I'm creating is not merely coming into being through my articles, essays and images, but through the fullness and completeness of life itself.
Self-portrait, 08.09.10
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Anniversary
Today is the sixth anniversary of one of the days my life ended and began again. I think of July 23rd as a kind of "birthday." Instead of retelling the story from scratch again, I will allow my words from last year to tell the story. I do so not only as a day of remembrance for myself, but as a silent observance for all women who have experienced violence.
Five years ago today, I stepped off of the subway in Brooklyn and much like today, dove into the city streets through the pouring rain of a gray, steamy day. It always rains on July 23rd in New York City. A half an hour later, my mother picked up the phone in Pennsylvania and received the phone call that every parent dreads. “Your daughter was attacked, but she’s alive…”
Still living outside of Philadelphia, I was excited to be returning to NYC for the following week to cat sit once again for a friend. The energy of the city had enchanted me and my love affair with it was still fresh, new and untainted. As I walked down the empty tree-lined street to my friend’s building, the lyrics to a song by singe/songwriter Charlotte Martin prophetically echoed in my head. “Every time it rains, I know it’s good to be alive / Every time it rains, I know I am trying to survive.”
As I approached the building and began to enter through the double glass doors, a stranger in a bright red t-shirt, who I would later rename “the Monster,” dashed up behind me and nodded to me as if to ask me to hold the door open so that he too could escape the crying sky. I did and that single decision set in motion an almost immediate series of events that forever, irrevocably changed my life.
It was a little after four in the afternoon as he and I quietly stood next to each other and waited for the elevator in the lobby. I glanced over at him, clearly seeing his face—a face soon never to be forgotten—and had no clue, no inkling at all, of the danger he possessed. As we both got on the elevator, I pressed the button for the floor of my friend’s apartment and he pressed the button for somewhere he did not really want to go. As the doors closed, he swiftly moved behind me, grabbed me from behind and with his thick, muscular arm, began to choke me. Stunned, I immediately did everything I could to free myself from his grasp, but to no avail. I tried to bite him; I tried to free my arms that were pinned to my body. I tried to kick him in the groin, but his baggy pants prevented my attempts. I tried to plunge my keys into his flesh, but he knocked them out of my hand. I tried to poke my fingers into his eyes, recalling every possible self defense tip I had ever heard. I grabbed at his head where the feel of his short hair and the curve of his ear became forever etched under my fingertips. With every move, he had a counter-move ready. Almost.
Like a horrific dance he had clearly choreographed before either in practice or in his mind, he pulled us both to the ground. Fortunately, I was still wearing my back-pack and in hindsight, was grateful that I had never adhered to the axiom of “packing light.” I landed on my back, like an upside down ladybug. With strength, flexibility and calmness being the gifts of a regular yoga practice and with no choice, I mentally moved past years of the kind of socialization that teaches that women in our culture not to hurt others no matter what and kicked him in the face repeatedly. He was not expecting the bottom of my sneaker to forcefully hit his nose almost as much as I was never expecting to have to kick someone in the face while he was attacking me. The close confines of the elevator heightened the intensity of those endless moments of the slow, hellish ride.
Angered that I had kicked him, he stood up and began to unbutton his pants. Realizing what he was planning next, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that whatever he did, I had to find a way to survive this. Just survive, I told myself over and over again. But, the burst of adrenaline that came from almost being raped turned my veins inside out and I fought harder and harder. As the elevator approached yet another floor with no one on the other side of the slowly opening and closing doors, my heart sank a little farther. I realized that it was going to be up to me only to get myself out of this. Or, I wouldn’t get out of it alive. I had a sudden flash of my mother finding my dead body in the elevator and had another jolt of energy to fight. I later learned that she was calling me at the very time the attack was happening.
The Monster then grabbed my throat with one strong hand and began to strangle me, while the other hand repeatedly punched my face. I had never been hit in the face by a man before and I found it as emotionally shocking as it was physically. Instead of resisting, my head flowed in the direction of every punch. Beginning to lose consciousness from not breathing and from being hit in the head so many times, I flailed my arms and legs as much as I could. The decisive moment was nearing. At the instant I was almost no longer able to fight, I glanced up at the ceiling of the elevator and thought how profoundly ugly it was and how I hoped it was not the last thing I saw. Miraculously, as the lights I saw were fading into darkness, I hit my hand against the elevator and touched one button without looking: the emergency buzzer. The noise startled him and he could not continue to punch me and strangle me at the same time, so he let go of my throat. I had thought of what I might say to him if I had the chance and uttered: “take my money, take my money…” The elevator doors were reaching another floor as he looked at me and appeared puzzled by my statement as if he had not thought of it before, grabbed my purse and dashed out of the elevator.
I wanted to run after him. I really liked that purse. But, my attempts were futile as I tried to pick myself up off the ground and was surprised to find that I could only crawl into the hallway, a bloody weak mess whose heart was beating out of her chest. But, alive. Still alive. I yelled in a loud whisper, the most sound I was capable of, “he tried to kill me, he tried to kill me.” A blond woman holding her young son who lived on the floor came to my rescue, the angelic antidote to the Monster.
The next several hours were a dizzying mix of a paramedics, police, doctors, x-rays, counseling, looking at mugshots and a journey home to Pennsylvania when my parents came to get me. The next six weeks left me feeling both fragile and invincible. As the physical bruises and scars healed, the emotional wounds were just coming to light. I had a victim’s services counselor who affirmed repeatedly that it was okay to felt bad about what happened, but after weeks of that, I wanted to know how to feel good again, how to even feel human again and how to trust. But, that process would take years.
Like many who experience trauma, I felt like I was on the other side of glass separated from the world by a wall that I could not get through. Over the next year, I grieved the innocence lost and wondered if the parts of who I was would resurrect themselves. They did not, but I grew anew. With descending into numbness the first year after it happened, I found all sorts of methods of self-destruction and people all too willing to participate. I so desperately wanted to feel something, anything other than what I was experiencing. This was only exacerbated by the event that pushed my soul into a new tailspin right when I was finding equilibrium. In December 2004, I saw the Monster again in the same neighborhood and more hauntingly, he saw me. In one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, I decided to cover up the instant recognition and smile at him as I walked by. But, he still got away again and a subsequent police stake out yielded only his evasion.
It wasn’t until the February of the following year when I ran away to Seattle at the invitation of a friend who knew by the sound of my voice after speaking only one word when I answered the phone that I began the healing process. In addition to having intensely spiritual experiences in a city that was as far away from NYC as I could find quickly, I crossed paths with an amazing therapist/life coach/doctor whose work with me transformed everything. It was the beginning of a long healing process that would reveal more about myself than I probably cared to know, but was a journey that had such a sense of delicious forward motion that I could not resist
While I question if I will ever be able to feel completely carefree again or to live with total abandon, I have gained infinitely precious gifts from the journey ignited by the attack. For as resilient as life is, it can disappear just as quickly and knowing this, my focus has become clearer. I am aware of my days and nights and how I spend them. I can no longer muster sincere interest in surface connections with people and revel in the dance of discovering people. I was surprised to find my photography talents right underneath my need to find beauty in the world once again after feeling ugliness around my throat. Every challenge leaves us with something to use to grow.
As I often have done on these anniversaries, I walked by the building where it happened this afternoon. This time, I walked up to the front door to see if my friend who I had lost touch with and the woman who rescued me still lived there. As I stood sheltered momentarily from the rain, a man came from within the building and nodded for me to hold the door for him to exit. I did, but only this time it was much like I now live—from the inside out.
Five years ago today, I stepped off of the subway in Brooklyn and much like today, dove into the city streets through the pouring rain of a gray, steamy day. It always rains on July 23rd in New York City. A half an hour later, my mother picked up the phone in Pennsylvania and received the phone call that every parent dreads. “Your daughter was attacked, but she’s alive…”
Still living outside of Philadelphia, I was excited to be returning to NYC for the following week to cat sit once again for a friend. The energy of the city had enchanted me and my love affair with it was still fresh, new and untainted. As I walked down the empty tree-lined street to my friend’s building, the lyrics to a song by singe/songwriter Charlotte Martin prophetically echoed in my head. “Every time it rains, I know it’s good to be alive / Every time it rains, I know I am trying to survive.”
As I approached the building and began to enter through the double glass doors, a stranger in a bright red t-shirt, who I would later rename “the Monster,” dashed up behind me and nodded to me as if to ask me to hold the door open so that he too could escape the crying sky. I did and that single decision set in motion an almost immediate series of events that forever, irrevocably changed my life.
It was a little after four in the afternoon as he and I quietly stood next to each other and waited for the elevator in the lobby. I glanced over at him, clearly seeing his face—a face soon never to be forgotten—and had no clue, no inkling at all, of the danger he possessed. As we both got on the elevator, I pressed the button for the floor of my friend’s apartment and he pressed the button for somewhere he did not really want to go. As the doors closed, he swiftly moved behind me, grabbed me from behind and with his thick, muscular arm, began to choke me. Stunned, I immediately did everything I could to free myself from his grasp, but to no avail. I tried to bite him; I tried to free my arms that were pinned to my body. I tried to kick him in the groin, but his baggy pants prevented my attempts. I tried to plunge my keys into his flesh, but he knocked them out of my hand. I tried to poke my fingers into his eyes, recalling every possible self defense tip I had ever heard. I grabbed at his head where the feel of his short hair and the curve of his ear became forever etched under my fingertips. With every move, he had a counter-move ready. Almost.
Like a horrific dance he had clearly choreographed before either in practice or in his mind, he pulled us both to the ground. Fortunately, I was still wearing my back-pack and in hindsight, was grateful that I had never adhered to the axiom of “packing light.” I landed on my back, like an upside down ladybug. With strength, flexibility and calmness being the gifts of a regular yoga practice and with no choice, I mentally moved past years of the kind of socialization that teaches that women in our culture not to hurt others no matter what and kicked him in the face repeatedly. He was not expecting the bottom of my sneaker to forcefully hit his nose almost as much as I was never expecting to have to kick someone in the face while he was attacking me. The close confines of the elevator heightened the intensity of those endless moments of the slow, hellish ride.
Angered that I had kicked him, he stood up and began to unbutton his pants. Realizing what he was planning next, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that whatever he did, I had to find a way to survive this. Just survive, I told myself over and over again. But, the burst of adrenaline that came from almost being raped turned my veins inside out and I fought harder and harder. As the elevator approached yet another floor with no one on the other side of the slowly opening and closing doors, my heart sank a little farther. I realized that it was going to be up to me only to get myself out of this. Or, I wouldn’t get out of it alive. I had a sudden flash of my mother finding my dead body in the elevator and had another jolt of energy to fight. I later learned that she was calling me at the very time the attack was happening.
The Monster then grabbed my throat with one strong hand and began to strangle me, while the other hand repeatedly punched my face. I had never been hit in the face by a man before and I found it as emotionally shocking as it was physically. Instead of resisting, my head flowed in the direction of every punch. Beginning to lose consciousness from not breathing and from being hit in the head so many times, I flailed my arms and legs as much as I could. The decisive moment was nearing. At the instant I was almost no longer able to fight, I glanced up at the ceiling of the elevator and thought how profoundly ugly it was and how I hoped it was not the last thing I saw. Miraculously, as the lights I saw were fading into darkness, I hit my hand against the elevator and touched one button without looking: the emergency buzzer. The noise startled him and he could not continue to punch me and strangle me at the same time, so he let go of my throat. I had thought of what I might say to him if I had the chance and uttered: “take my money, take my money…” The elevator doors were reaching another floor as he looked at me and appeared puzzled by my statement as if he had not thought of it before, grabbed my purse and dashed out of the elevator.
I wanted to run after him. I really liked that purse. But, my attempts were futile as I tried to pick myself up off the ground and was surprised to find that I could only crawl into the hallway, a bloody weak mess whose heart was beating out of her chest. But, alive. Still alive. I yelled in a loud whisper, the most sound I was capable of, “he tried to kill me, he tried to kill me.” A blond woman holding her young son who lived on the floor came to my rescue, the angelic antidote to the Monster.
The next several hours were a dizzying mix of a paramedics, police, doctors, x-rays, counseling, looking at mugshots and a journey home to Pennsylvania when my parents came to get me. The next six weeks left me feeling both fragile and invincible. As the physical bruises and scars healed, the emotional wounds were just coming to light. I had a victim’s services counselor who affirmed repeatedly that it was okay to felt bad about what happened, but after weeks of that, I wanted to know how to feel good again, how to even feel human again and how to trust. But, that process would take years.
Like many who experience trauma, I felt like I was on the other side of glass separated from the world by a wall that I could not get through. Over the next year, I grieved the innocence lost and wondered if the parts of who I was would resurrect themselves. They did not, but I grew anew. With descending into numbness the first year after it happened, I found all sorts of methods of self-destruction and people all too willing to participate. I so desperately wanted to feel something, anything other than what I was experiencing. This was only exacerbated by the event that pushed my soul into a new tailspin right when I was finding equilibrium. In December 2004, I saw the Monster again in the same neighborhood and more hauntingly, he saw me. In one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, I decided to cover up the instant recognition and smile at him as I walked by. But, he still got away again and a subsequent police stake out yielded only his evasion.
It wasn’t until the February of the following year when I ran away to Seattle at the invitation of a friend who knew by the sound of my voice after speaking only one word when I answered the phone that I began the healing process. In addition to having intensely spiritual experiences in a city that was as far away from NYC as I could find quickly, I crossed paths with an amazing therapist/life coach/doctor whose work with me transformed everything. It was the beginning of a long healing process that would reveal more about myself than I probably cared to know, but was a journey that had such a sense of delicious forward motion that I could not resist
While I question if I will ever be able to feel completely carefree again or to live with total abandon, I have gained infinitely precious gifts from the journey ignited by the attack. For as resilient as life is, it can disappear just as quickly and knowing this, my focus has become clearer. I am aware of my days and nights and how I spend them. I can no longer muster sincere interest in surface connections with people and revel in the dance of discovering people. I was surprised to find my photography talents right underneath my need to find beauty in the world once again after feeling ugliness around my throat. Every challenge leaves us with something to use to grow.
As I often have done on these anniversaries, I walked by the building where it happened this afternoon. This time, I walked up to the front door to see if my friend who I had lost touch with and the woman who rescued me still lived there. As I stood sheltered momentarily from the rain, a man came from within the building and nodded for me to hold the door for him to exit. I did, but only this time it was much like I now live—from the inside out.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Journey
The journey of life itself travels through the winding mountains that ascend ever higher, through the lush valleys ripe with the fruits of hope and over fierce, stormy seas and in my experience, is rarely more personal than when one is seeking health. It is the most intimate kind of returning--a journey back to something familiar and yet, new and almost always through unchartered territory. A physician or practitioner may be able to direct one to modalities that have helped others to heal, but ultimately the task of healing can only be performed by the person himself or herself. Sometimes, it requires effort and specific change. Other times, it requires active surrender and stepping out of one's own way. The path to the light is only as direct as the willingness to dive into--and through-- the shadow.
It happened without warning. For all of the ways I had strived to be self-aware and in tune with my body, mind and spirit, life has managed to stay a step ahead and keep me surprised by my own life. A year ago at this time, I believed that if I just ate well, did enough yoga, surrounded myself with good people, followed my passion, and attended to my well-being with vigilence and freedom, I would be fine. I had yet to learn how fully and deeply grace plays a role in being and staying healthy. It is a concept that I didn't think much about in terms of my health. Health was something to be gained through effort, a battle to be won, a reward to be achieved, rather than what I now see it as: a blessing to be embraced, a teacher to be learned from and ultimately, a gift that allows the freedom to move through the world as you wish. Interestingly, illness can bear many of these same fruits. Even while longing for the sun, I have been finding ways to discover the silver linings in the dark clouds of illness.
On the path to healing, I have been fortunate to have crossed paths in recent months with three practitioners who are gifted in their crafts. All are intelligent, knowledgeable and strikingly kind, but there is something more that each possesses: energetic integrity. After appointments my inner resources to mobilize healing within have been recharged, my desire to live my highest purpose, to bring forth love and beauty into the world is strengthened and I am reminded that true healing is so much more vast than what we often believe it to be. By being in the presence of such gifted healers, I am able to call forth my own powers of healing and I am left not merely wanting to be healthy, but accepting of the moment as it is, open to change for the better and hungry to be an even stronger conduit of love in the world.
When I was thirteen, my eighth grade teacher assigned our first term paper. I chose a topic that had not yet even been included in books very much. I vividly remember going to my local library and browsing through the card catalog and coming up empty. My fervent search for information about psychoneuroimmunology only yielded a handful of magazine articles. It was a field that was just emerging and I'm not sure why I chose it, as it was months before my journey into "the stillness," the years of illness had begun. But, the connection between the mind, body and spirit has always captured my attention.
Even as a child, I was aware of my spirit, aware that there was more to life than just the physical. Sensitive to animals and the rhythms of nature and the emotions of others, I moved through the world distinctly engaged in a rich inner life and at times, a puzzling external one. Years later, a level of "exquisite sensitivity," as my doctor called it, remains with me and has manifested in different physical ways that make being in the world quite challenging at times. But, on the way home from an appointment this past week, I began to wonder if this level of reacting to the physical world on a physical level could have offered gifts that I may not have received otherwise. As the highway rapidly passed before me, I noticed the green trees off to the side. And, what I saw was not just the edge of a forest, but about ten different shades of lush green, each different from the next. The colors of the leaves varied from the grass and the small plants and it all was vividly vibrant to me.
When I'm photographing flowers in nature, the hues are bold and inviting. I'm drawn to colors, shapes, images and to the way light falls upon a scene and for a moment, changes it. And, in these moments, much like when I am writing, I am reminded that medicine comes in many forms and from many sources.
It happened without warning. For all of the ways I had strived to be self-aware and in tune with my body, mind and spirit, life has managed to stay a step ahead and keep me surprised by my own life. A year ago at this time, I believed that if I just ate well, did enough yoga, surrounded myself with good people, followed my passion, and attended to my well-being with vigilence and freedom, I would be fine. I had yet to learn how fully and deeply grace plays a role in being and staying healthy. It is a concept that I didn't think much about in terms of my health. Health was something to be gained through effort, a battle to be won, a reward to be achieved, rather than what I now see it as: a blessing to be embraced, a teacher to be learned from and ultimately, a gift that allows the freedom to move through the world as you wish. Interestingly, illness can bear many of these same fruits. Even while longing for the sun, I have been finding ways to discover the silver linings in the dark clouds of illness.
On the path to healing, I have been fortunate to have crossed paths in recent months with three practitioners who are gifted in their crafts. All are intelligent, knowledgeable and strikingly kind, but there is something more that each possesses: energetic integrity. After appointments my inner resources to mobilize healing within have been recharged, my desire to live my highest purpose, to bring forth love and beauty into the world is strengthened and I am reminded that true healing is so much more vast than what we often believe it to be. By being in the presence of such gifted healers, I am able to call forth my own powers of healing and I am left not merely wanting to be healthy, but accepting of the moment as it is, open to change for the better and hungry to be an even stronger conduit of love in the world.
When I was thirteen, my eighth grade teacher assigned our first term paper. I chose a topic that had not yet even been included in books very much. I vividly remember going to my local library and browsing through the card catalog and coming up empty. My fervent search for information about psychoneuroimmunology only yielded a handful of magazine articles. It was a field that was just emerging and I'm not sure why I chose it, as it was months before my journey into "the stillness," the years of illness had begun. But, the connection between the mind, body and spirit has always captured my attention.
Even as a child, I was aware of my spirit, aware that there was more to life than just the physical. Sensitive to animals and the rhythms of nature and the emotions of others, I moved through the world distinctly engaged in a rich inner life and at times, a puzzling external one. Years later, a level of "exquisite sensitivity," as my doctor called it, remains with me and has manifested in different physical ways that make being in the world quite challenging at times. But, on the way home from an appointment this past week, I began to wonder if this level of reacting to the physical world on a physical level could have offered gifts that I may not have received otherwise. As the highway rapidly passed before me, I noticed the green trees off to the side. And, what I saw was not just the edge of a forest, but about ten different shades of lush green, each different from the next. The colors of the leaves varied from the grass and the small plants and it all was vividly vibrant to me.
When I'm photographing flowers in nature, the hues are bold and inviting. I'm drawn to colors, shapes, images and to the way light falls upon a scene and for a moment, changes it. And, in these moments, much like when I am writing, I am reminded that medicine comes in many forms and from many sources.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Courage
I've been thinking about the concept of courage a lot in recent days. Last week, another medical-related experience required me to dig deep into my well-spring of courage, gather it up and inhale its breath into me. I embarked upon a test that could either yield helpful knowledge or push me into another potentially dangerous situation. In the end, all went pretty smoothly, but the echo of travelling down those long halls within-- the ones with a thousand doors I don't enter, remains with me. Life consistently brings new opportunities not to test the existence of one's strength, but to remind of its constant presence.
In recent months, there have been times with the distance between my life and my health seemed so infinite that I wondered if it were even possible to traverse it. But, often our most worthy travels begin without the knowledge of how or if we will reach our destination and with only the willingness to take one step forward at a time-- just one step and then, the next and the next. For the first time in a long time, I have allowed-- and needed-- other people to help me. Only being cast into utter vulnerability would allow me to receive what I now realize are huge gifts.
When I was three years old, my preschool teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that they didn't know what to do with me (if only they had known they were merely at the start of a very long line of people who would feel that way...). Apparently, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I would go around teaching and mothering the other children. It seemed like a better use of my time than doing something stupid like taking a nap. Even when I was sick as a teenager, I devoted my time to helping other people, to running support groups for people with chronic illnesses, to teaching people what I had learned about how to heal. With the exception of the help of my mother, whose ability to give selflessly is infinitely greater than anyone I have ever known, I haven't always allowed others to help me as much as I have needed.
But when I got very sick very unexpectedly at the end of last summer, I suddenly needed more help than before. And, my friends stepped up to the plate without missing a beat. Some who lived close to me did things like go to the grocery store for me when I was unable or have helped me with my home in other ways, like getting my mail when I haven't been there. Those who lived far offered to help me find information about my condition, to find doctors, to connect me with others who have experienced similiar ailments. Many people offered their good thoughts and prayers. Some have been my ever-present cheerleaders. Others consistently have reminded that out of sight isn't always out of mind, a huge gift to me that has allowed me to feel connected to a home and group of friends I haven't seen in person in over six too long months.
During a particularly dark time at the end of January before I had been given a concrete diagnosis that made sense, a friend sent me one word, literally: courage. On a single piece of paper was written the word-- beautifully. It had been passed on to her and then, was passed on to me. I look forward to the day when I can pass it along to whomever I cross paths with who will need it more than I do at the time, but for now I keep it close at hand and remember that true courage is not only knowing how to be strong and to endure, sometimes, it is allowing others to be strong for you.
In recent months, there have been times with the distance between my life and my health seemed so infinite that I wondered if it were even possible to traverse it. But, often our most worthy travels begin without the knowledge of how or if we will reach our destination and with only the willingness to take one step forward at a time-- just one step and then, the next and the next. For the first time in a long time, I have allowed-- and needed-- other people to help me. Only being cast into utter vulnerability would allow me to receive what I now realize are huge gifts.
When I was three years old, my preschool teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that they didn't know what to do with me (if only they had known they were merely at the start of a very long line of people who would feel that way...). Apparently, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I would go around teaching and mothering the other children. It seemed like a better use of my time than doing something stupid like taking a nap. Even when I was sick as a teenager, I devoted my time to helping other people, to running support groups for people with chronic illnesses, to teaching people what I had learned about how to heal. With the exception of the help of my mother, whose ability to give selflessly is infinitely greater than anyone I have ever known, I haven't always allowed others to help me as much as I have needed.
But when I got very sick very unexpectedly at the end of last summer, I suddenly needed more help than before. And, my friends stepped up to the plate without missing a beat. Some who lived close to me did things like go to the grocery store for me when I was unable or have helped me with my home in other ways, like getting my mail when I haven't been there. Those who lived far offered to help me find information about my condition, to find doctors, to connect me with others who have experienced similiar ailments. Many people offered their good thoughts and prayers. Some have been my ever-present cheerleaders. Others consistently have reminded that out of sight isn't always out of mind, a huge gift to me that has allowed me to feel connected to a home and group of friends I haven't seen in person in over six too long months.
During a particularly dark time at the end of January before I had been given a concrete diagnosis that made sense, a friend sent me one word, literally: courage. On a single piece of paper was written the word-- beautifully. It had been passed on to her and then, was passed on to me. I look forward to the day when I can pass it along to whomever I cross paths with who will need it more than I do at the time, but for now I keep it close at hand and remember that true courage is not only knowing how to be strong and to endure, sometimes, it is allowing others to be strong for you.
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