lessons learned in passing.

"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."

J.D. Salinger's first line in The Catcher in the Rye.

Thanks Mr. Salinger, I agree. I just don't feel like going into it. At least not the "whys" or the "why nows" or the "when did you knows" or the "how did you knows" or really any commentary on how it all happened, at least not right now. All of the analyzing, coping, struggling and enduring drained me. As of the very end of the year, I'm now divorced. It's over and I just need a breather.

Mr. Salinger lost his life in 2010, as did over 200 'notable' Americans that make the type of list that we see in nearly all year-end broadcast news features. I'm always a little stunned to see the list, forgetting some of the names from earlier in the year, or never having heard about their deaths at all, but mostly the names remind me of the profound impact these souls have had on our culture and our lives.

Manute Bol, the 7'7" NBA shot-blocker, died at the age of 47. I remember watching him in his early years with the Washington Bullets in the mid to late 80's, then picking up with him again in the early 90's when he was with the Philadelphia 76'ers. NBA basketball is my favorite sport to watch on television (1. NBA basketball, 2. professional tennis, 3. college football...if the official ranking is of any remote interest). Growing up out west, I preferred teams like my own Seattle Sonics, even loved-to-hate the Portland Trailblazers, the Phoenix Suns' Barkley years, Drexler's years with the Houston Rockets, the Lakers...we had plenty of things going on out here to keep my attention, but Manute was well, Manute. I think (I need to check this) he's the only NBA player to have more blocks than shots. I watched him because he was consistent in only one area, which was intriguing. Too tall, really, without the more well-roundedness of many pro-players, but he had a role and he perfected his one talent. I watched him because I knew I'd see some killer blocks. There is value in consistency.

Staying on the basketball theme, the legendary UCLA basketball coach, John Wooden also passed away this year. If you know anything at all about college basketball, you know he was an All-American player and then a revered coach that took the likes of Bill Walton and Kareem Abdul Jabbar through winning seasons. I think he took the Bruins to ten national championships, seven of which were in a row. All of this happened prior to his retirement in 1975, so at the age of three, I was hardly aware of his influence. What I do know and remember is his influence after those years. His very simple take on how to be successful, not only on the court, but in life. One of my favorite John Wooden quotes, which my mother would certainly appreciate is, "If you don't have the time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?" Enough said.

Richard Holbrooke, a passionate veteran US Diplomat that served under four presidents, died suddenly in the last quarter of the year. He most recently was serving as special envoy to Pakistan and Afghanistan, arguably one of the most difficult posts in today's environment. He was known passionately as a "warrior for peace." As a personal friend of two of my friends, I picked up that Mr. Holbrooke was an irreplaceable colleague, a mentor and a diplomatic lion. One quote that always struck a chord with me is (said upon reflection after an intense Global Initiative Conference spearheaded by former President Bill Clinton): "The controlled chaos is one way to get creativity. The intensity of it, the physical rush, the intimacy created the kind of dialogue that leads to synergy." Seems to me that maybe he understood that there is power in leveraging and working with the highly emotional tenor of complex situations.

Miep Gies, the Dutch woman who, with her husband and close friends, helped hide Anne Frank and her family from the Nazi's in a secret set of rooms in Otto Frank's company offices in Amsterdam, died in January of this past year. How could anyone possibly understand the stress that she lived with during those years — the fear of being discovered, the fear of the discovery betraying the lives of her friends? And yet, showing up to work day in and day out with this enormous secret just on the other side of a door. Yet, when asked if the worrying consumed her, I am humbled by her response: "No, on the one hand the workload did not allow any time for worrying and on the other hand, we had the satisfaction of doing the right thing."

---

So after reflecting on these "notable" deaths and what I learned from their lives, what I am interested in saying is: thank you. It was not the worst year of my life. It was the most challenging for sure, but there were many, many lessons, some that were downright soul filling, tucked into that year. It's fitting that much of the events of the entire year came together at the very end and fell on the heart and mind of a woman who feels it all. So as I sit here, mere days from it having slipped into the archives, I can say with absolute certainty that in many ways, it was the year of my life. The one where I’ve never felt so alive, so human, so scared, happy, desperate, awkward, empowered, loved and inspired.

Perspective is a powerful teacher and I’ve had more cause to reflect this year than any year prior. Just as with the reflections on the lives of the "notable Americans" who passed, the stories and moments that others have been willing to share with me during this past year were powerful. Moments that were incredibly honest, sometimes shocking, always illuminating, and always a reminder of how complex we are as humans. I was grateful to hear, witness or experience these moments, so in honor of them, I'll end by envisioning a year in which the following might have happened. I would love to sit and talk about any or all of them, whether they happened to me or someone else, because if we let our life’s stories be heard, they might tell us what’s next.

This year…

…you might spend two hours in a snowy hot pool with your pre-teen daughter and her friend, having the conversation of a lifetime, while an entire bar full of twenty-something après skiers are just on the other side of the glass and you, not being a twenty-something, might start out feeling self-conscious (maybe it’s because you are in a bikini), but an hour in, you might look up into the sky, let the snowflakes fall and melt on your eyelashes and feel very, very happy to be your age and stage.

You might sit at a dinner table with a woman who’s husband walked out on her, her boyfriend who’s daughter wanted to change her last name after he and her mother got divorced, and a husband and wife whose relationship led to the divorce from a close friend of yours (who obviously was not in attendance) and find yourself drinking champagne and talking about their crazy neighbor and too-spicy penne ala vodka.

You might have many EVCFs (Email Volley of Confusion and Frustration). So many in fact, that you might create an acronym for them.

You might receive a wildly expensive gift on a first date, making that (too bold of a move) the precursor to it being the last date, and secretly wonder if you could sell it on Ebay to pay your legal bills.

You might write your ex a manifesto on love, life, self and marriage that ends up falling on deaf ears, but you might save it and think you should present it to your next love and say, “This is what I want. Are you in?” You might think it’s silly to waste a good stream of consciousness.

The greatest two words all year might be “or not,” also known as: "not your responsibility."

You might feel so incredibly fucking excited about the life that is opening up all around you that you can't stop yourself from singing at the top of your lungs while driving down the street and wondering if the people in the neighboring cars are as happy as you are. You might think not.

You might be obsessed with all forms of electronic communication, so much so that you might experience the unfortunate event of someone accidently opening the bathroom stall and you not being sure what is more embarrassing — the texting or the partial nudity.

You might find that your already close relationship with your mother actually had room to grow. You will be eternally grateful for her support.

Your best friends might have the best timing and they might save you, over and over again.

You might find yourself in a hot tub with half a dozen singing choral opera singers.

You might lose your cell phone in a hot tub, when you are not even in the hot tub, because a man trips and knocks your wallet out from under your arm because he might have been stunned to see a woman try to kiss another woman. That might not be only time that year that you get propositioned by a woman.

You might experience the toughest moment of your life when you tell your daughter that you are separating from her father, and over the next year, she might blow you away with her transparency, her intelligence, her responsibility and her resilience. It might be the most difficult, but the most inspiring thing you will see all year.

Your funniest childhood friend might say that you are funny.

You might discover that your 20 year old college nickname is actually spelled with an 'i'.

You might not know how to tactfully change your relationship status update without sparking awkward commenting, while your ex just simply unfriends you and then posts a photo of you on his Match.com profile. It might just make you laugh hysterically.

You might find that bacon is good in every scenario, including emergency abdominal surgery.

You might believe in fate.

You might lose sleep, your appetite, your confidence, your money, your momentum, your faith in some and your confidence in others, but you might gain yourself.

You may find that some friends are necessities and some are luxuries.

You might realize you have to stop putting yourself in these situations!

A convertible ride along the lake, or a walk over the Golden Gate Bridge, or an hour and a half wait in line to eat breakfast, or a conversation on a rooftop bar, or radishes and dip on a summer's day, or racing your daughter down the ski hill, or dancing by yourself, or having your photo taken in Chelsea on a luminous night by someone who thinks you are beautiful, might be salve for your soul.

You might spend three hours with nothing more to do then sit, drink a few beers and debate the President’s handling of the economy, the concept of Jumping the Shark, inventing a leather coat life vest, is there a good Catholic democrat?, giving your children a sense of their Jewish background, and the fairness of how the snow removal debacle in 2008 lost the mayor his job. The last one might spark more debate than any of the others, but that might be due to what number beer you are on.

You might have the best and most interesting conversations of your life.

You might learn that you should put the oxygen mask on yourself first.

Your faith might be restored over a cab ride in your favorite city in the world.

You might look like a fool, feel like a fool, be taken for a fool, but not have any regrets and that includes the hysterical crying when you put the cat down and the psychics (plural), just to name two.

You might cry every day, just once.

You might find new perspective on friendship, motherhood, ambition, humility, patience, endurance and loyalty.

You might receive the birthday card you've always been dreaming about.

You might apologize…a lot.

You might disappoint, but you might inspire.

You might be disappointed, but you might be inspired.

You might be congratulated, pitied, hit on, avoided, smothered, rejected, helped, hurt and saved. It might be overwhelming at times.

You might find yourself not knowing what Florence and the Machine are actually signing about, but not caring because in the way she sings about Happiness, for the first time in your life, you might feel it coming at you like a freight train.

---

"Dont ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." — The last line in The Catcher in the Rye.

I don't know if I agree with that one Mr. Salinger. I would have rather shared, learned and then maybe lost, then never shared at all. This year, more than ever. So I think I prefer: "What'choo talkin' 'bout Willis?" Are you smiling? Me too. Rest in peace Gary Coleman (1968—2010) rest in peace.

And here begins, a new year...

over the limit.

This entry will be short and sweet...I'm so sorry for the email barrage that may happen as a result of the re-publishing my blog! I took it all down and now it's all back up and if you subscribe (thank you!) you may receive all of them, again, in your inbox. Just know that I don't think so highly of the entries, or myself, that I felt you would want to take another look. Haha!

Happy New Year! I've missed this outlet and will be back soon...

for the love of madonna.

I went to church this morning on my way into work. Last night, I tried going to the small, neighborhood church that is affiliated with my daughter's school, but I couldn't get into the sanctuary, so I chose to go to a different one this morning that I thought might have a better chance of being open.

St. Joe's is a large, beautiful Catholic church built on a hillside in a dense residential area minutes from downtown. The whole site is really a compound taking up an entire city block with a large K-8 school attached. The sanctuary itself probably holds several hundred people and it's stunning with two-story high, rough hewn wood ceilings, stone walls, luminous stained glass and of course, well-worn dark wood pews. It is the church that I went to when I first moved here in college, and the church where my daughter was baptized eleven years ago. It's affiliated with the Jesuits, which has a history of social justice, so they were respectful of our decision to select Jewish Godparents, provided my mother, a lifelong Catholic, stood with us during the ceremony. I honestly, no question could feel God in the moment the priest made the sign of the cross on my daughter's head with holy water dripping down her cheeks.

I heard on the radio this morning that the other Madonna (Ciccone), is opening up a string of ultra-luxe fitness gyms around the world called Hard Candy. None of them, initially, will be in the US. Once again—way to go Madonna. Ingenious. Make us hungry for it instead of letting us be the first to trash it. The first one is opening up in Mexico City on November 29, then other places like Argentina, Russia, Brazil and of course Europe will follow. Another reinvention, she rocks. So here I was, sitting in traffic, on my way to church, reading my horoscope on my phone and thinking about two Madonnas.

The sanctuary visit was my mother's idea. About ten years ago, when trying to sell my house in the downturn after 9/11, she came over and buried a small St. Joseph figurine in the backyard, upside down. We got an offer within a week. Today, I'm trying to finally put my divorce to bed, and in light of the tears that I cried over the disappointment of it all the other night, she said, quite simply, "go light a candle." So I'm sitting in my car, the taillights in front of me glowing red in the reflection of heavy rain drops, the sound of the wiper blades cutting through Madonna's Hard Candy news report and reading my horoscope on my phone, which had the ominous advice to not let myself be 'emotionally blackmailed.' I never like horoscopes that have good advice but imply that something will happen that requires the advice. Ugh. Will someone try and emotionally blackmail me today? That sounds fun.

What would Madonna do?

I am a very spiritual woman. I was raised Catholic, my mother even taught my Catechism classes (!), and I love that I share this cultural background with 1.1 billion other souls on the planet. Ok, ok, let's be honest, it's the most culture a white girl from a small'ish agricultural community in the Pacific Northwest is ever going to achieve (well, technically I have a Jewish step-family with a Japanese sister-in-law, and I'm twelve and a half percent Cherokee, but that is definitely another blog entry...stop laughing, you know who you are).

I love that you can go to a Catholic church in a different city and the mass is still essentially the same. I believe in the meditative quality of the rituals and I absolutely believe in God. I believe in the concept of worship and the intellectual study of religion and faith. I was raised a Jesuit, which is anchored in the aforementioned concept of social justice, as well as humility. I am decidedly not the most humble person I know, but I do try and I whole-heartedly believe in the Big Idea of humility as it plays out in and around our lives. Therefore, I am not interested in tackling the issue of priests and celibacy, but I strongly respect the notion that they have humbly reduced their lives to the very simplest of devotion, and thus, this is a person that I am comfortable talking to me about God. I believe in a lifelong investment in your own spirituality, which for me means it's highly personal, grounded in the humility of accepting what we don't know, and working hard to have faith. I am on the farthest end of evangelism as you can get. So much so, that I would venture to say that most of my friends do not know how spiritual I really am. That being said, I am always interested in discussing faith, religion or spirituality, but I often listen more than I contribute.

I'm a fan of both Madonnas, having grown up with both of them, but the modern day holder of the moniker had me thinking this morning. About disappointment, about reinvention, about survival. For as incredibly strong as she is, I bet she's been emotionally blackmailed a time or two, but she survived and thrived. So did the original Madonna. Both of them are survivors and both of them reinvented themselves. Mary went from being Joseph's wife to, well, you know the rest of her story and Madonna Ciccone went from being Madonna Ciccone to, well...Madonna. How dare I compare the virgin mother of Jesus to an oversexed single mother, you ask?...humility. I think you do the best you can and I think the Virgin Mary would agree with that.

This morning, the sanctuary was totally empty and very dim. The candles previously lit by other visitors were peacefully flickering in the corner. I stood there for a minute and let the magnitude of the quiet settle over me. I've been meaning to come here and have a talk with God. I wanted to reconcile the disappointment — mano y mano. In that cavernous, dim, empty, beautiful sanctuary, I lit candles for my daughter, for a friend of mine with a child my daughter's age who had a brain aneurysm a few weeks ago, for my friend who is beating ovarian cancer, and one for those struggling with or enduring a loss of any kind, then I sat down in a pew and prayed. Prayers of gratefulness, guidance and reconciliation. I am doing the best I can and whatever drives the Madonnas' resolve and reinvention maybe we will never know, but I'm inspired by it and if someone has the audacity to emotionally blackmail me today—bring it...I'm channeling "Like a Virgin."

pumpkin spice and all things nice.

In some ways, I am still 10 years old wanting to make cookies just so I can lick the beaters. My stomach hurts and I am sure I gained about 2 pounds tonight from doing just such a thing. I was never known to be a good cook. Together with my closest friends from college, we started a dinner club about twelve years ago. For at least six of those years, my contribution was bread, store bought, not kidding. For the longest time, I was the only woman with a child, so I used that as my crutch. To be honest, I don't think anyone, including me, had faith that I could contribute anything that was homemade and edible. Although I think they will cringe when I say this (even though we all know it's true), not unlike a lot of mid-to-late twenty-somethings, we went through a phase where we were trying to impress each other with our culinary skills. There was a whole incident involving boxed brownies that, as the "Bread-Bringer," I found highly humorous. Somehow they knew I couldn't take the heat in the kitchen, pun intended, so they let me out. I was always the butt of the dinner club jokes, but that was ok. I thought they were right.

By that point, we had been friends for years and they knew that I was the girl who went through my entire childhood without ever having eaten a mushroom. My favorite "foods" were white bread and 7-Up. I never, ever recommended a restaurant, and I certainly never ordered something that we all would share. I never once had a dinner party where others didn't contribute the bulk of the food. I categorized foods that I liked and disliked by texture - avocados, out, melba toast, in - and I still to this day don't like mustard or mayonnaise. I also didn't like warm fruit or banana flavored anything, but I did like bananas, although I preferred them to be more green, less ripe. As you can tell, even to date me was a total nightmare because I ordered like Sally in "When Harry Met Sally," minus the fake orgasm scene, which might have helped my case. Nevertheless, I was a food disaster, I know. One of my best friends has a long-standing joke claiming that I never shared my food either. She attributes that to me being an only child, but in reality I think it's because I just didn't like ANYTHING so I was afraid if someone ate my food, the only thing I liked, I would starve. This, coming from a college kid who easily gained the freshman 15 by regularly ordering late-night pizzas that I could down all by myself if need be. Hardly starving.

So I didn't have the best track record of eating, or ordering, or cooking, or sharing good food. When my daughter began eating solid foods, I was in Heaven because it was easy food - no sauces, no spices, everything was simple and separate. Cool. Then as she got older and her palate matured, I reluctantly started to cook.

This is the point in the story when a beam of light starts to grow from behind this computer and a choir starts singing.

I can cook! This was, quite simply, a revelation. I went from stretching myself to pour a 7-Up, to cooking an entire sit-down filet and roasted vegetable dinner with plated crab and pomegranate endive salad for twelve. Hallelujah! Where had this talent been hiding? Cooking, I have found, is creative. It's an art. Timing, intuition, creativity, orchestration and technique. And all of my skill is genetic, there's just no other explanation for it. My mother is an amazing cook. She is the oldest of six and literally churned butter on the farm where she grew up. Sadly, I didn't know what a good cook she was until after she started to cook for my stepfamily, a family of three boys and my stepfather. It was a decidedly tough crowd having raised me prior to that with my dad who loved his pork chops, tomato slice and Ore-Ida fries on Saturday nights. Finally she had some serious mouths to feed and I was blown away. So by the time I started to cook for my daughter, I just tapped into those genes and the "Bread-Bringer" was transformed.

I made my first Thanksgiving turkey last year and I still have a long way to go in terms of planning the nightly meal, but discovering that I can cook opened up this whole world of good food for me. Today, there are very few things I won't try at least once, and I now have an incredible respect for cooks and chefs of all caliber, including my dinner club friends who are amazing cooks and I now know how to appreciate their talent properly. I have picked and recommended restaurants and my palate has matured right along with my daughter's, who incidentally tried escargot and caviar before she was even ten years old. I now have even more respect for my mother's talent and as usual, am humbly grateful that she is passing along everything she knows. I have learned to love food and to love to cook.

Today I have the confidence to be a rather good baker and of course, cookies are high on the repeat-offender list. I like to experiment with recipes and a couple of years ago, my daughter and I started making our own Halloween shaped sugar cookies that taste like pumpkin pie - a seasonal favorite of hers. This year I added a maple glaze to our concoction and since it seems fitting to share a recipe for this blog entry, here it is (below). Give them a whirl and if you don't like them...keep it to yourself. Fragile chef-ego over here, still in development. (Wink)

(Side note - the last time I publicly shared a recipe, I was in junior high and I had a lead in a local production of the musical, "Babes in Toyland." As a result, the local newspaper featured me, in my costume, as a 'Guest Chef' and they printed my picture with one of my own recipes. Of course, I didn't have any, so on the advice of my now stepfather, I modified a traditional Rice Krispie treat recipe to make it more seasonal - peppermint Rice Krispie treats! Brilliant. Only...I never actually made them. Turns out, when you crush up the peppermint and then stir it into the hot marshmallow mix, the candy melts, only to turn as hard as a rock when it cools down again. If anyone actually made my published recipe, they could use the squares as doorstops. Dozens of years later, when I could actually cook, I just added peppermint oil and, well...sometimes success comes later in life.)

Pumpkin Spice Rolled Sugar Cookies

by...Dot & Dot.

Whisk together and set aside:

3-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice*

Beat on medium speed until fluffy and well-blended:

2-1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened

1 cup sugar

Add and beat until well-combined:

1 large egg

1 tablespoon of milk

2-1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

*That's the "I'm in a hurry" method, which is my preferred route, however if you want to go all-in, substitute 1 cup packed light brown sugar for the sugar and add 3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger, 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg, 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice and 1/8 of a teaspoon of ground cloves to the flour mixture.

Combine the flour mixture into the butter/sugar mixture in three parts, mixing each until well-blended and smooth. Divide the dough in half. Roll out to 1/4 inch thick and cut with Halloween shapes.

Position rack in center of oven. Bake at 375 for 6-9 minutes or until the edges are slightly brown.

While the first set of cookies are baking, make the glaze.

Maple Glaze:

1-1/4 cups confectioners' (powdered sugar)

1/2 cup pure maple syrup

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Combine all the ingredients until smooth.

Set up a cooling rack with a paper town underneath to catch drippings. When the cookies come out of the oven, transfer them to the cooling rack and immediately brush the glaze onto the cookies while still warm. Sprinkle with clear decorator's sugar before the glaze hardens.

Happy Halloween and happy cooking! Oh and if you need a doorstop, here's that recipe:

love, love.

A friend of mine's daughter started Kindergarten last month. A big transitional time for any kid, any family, and so far their transition has had the relative ups and downs that are to be expected. More ups than downs, but regardless, he started adding a little bit of predictable fun into the morning routine whereby they run around the playground together for a few minutes before he kisses her goodbye at the classroom door. Occasionally the fun also includes a bit of a race and of course, my friend lets his daughter win. Just the other day, however, she looked up at him after the race and said, "next time let's hold hands so that it will be a tie." Insert audible, heart-warming sigh.

What she said struck a chord with me. First off, I love the demonstration of compassion and desire to include her dad in the win, and secondly, let's be honest - that's damn smart for a five year old to come up with the idea that holding hands would be the perfect strategy to prevent one person from winning, which means you would tie, which means the fun will be fair. I like this little strategic, yet compassionate thinker. I like strong-willed girls who have ideas. Bravo! Ever since my friend told me the story, I also can't shake the analogy of it. The idea that when you love someone, you don't always want to win, that sometimes you'd rather hold hands and tie.

I'm a tennis player. Tennis is a sport that goes in and out of fashion and currently it's back on the rise, which honestly I have mixed feelings about. When a sport like tennis (that requires very specific playing surfaces, weather protection and equipment) gains in popularity, there is an increased demand for courts and time, and this can ace out people who maybe can't afford it or who don't have the time or wherewithal to navigate the complicated lottery systems, waiting lists, etc. I am not naive, I know how tennis is perceived in many circles, but it drives me crazy when it is considered to be a "rich kid's sport." I grew up classically middle class in a small town. We could not afford the local private tennis club, so I learned how to play tennis from this quirky, energetic and talented young guy who offered lessons out of a converted apple warehouse. It. Was. Awesome. I loved it! In order to get on the (one) court, you had to hit a ball up against the smooth concrete wall 100 times with only one bounce, or you had to start over until you did. That was only the start of the crazy, competitive drills we feverishly endured, and we genuinely loved it. He put us into regional tournaments and these scrappy kids that came out of the warehouse typically fared pretty well. In the summers we moved to the public courts by the community college and came home sunburned and sweating, with iced towels around our necks. He really believed in competitive play. He believed that we would learn more about how to win by playing as many matches as possible, reminding us that all the technique in the world couldn't give you a "W" without strategy, experience and mental toughness. He drilled into us that each match is like a new start: Love, Love. Each time we stepped on the court, it was anybody's game.

Over the years I've had some memorable moments on the court. I had a drag-out 2-1/2 hour match where I ran to the back fence, jumped up to reach the ball with my racket, and proceeded to slide down the hard grey cyclone with my face as the buffer. I once played a Japanese duo that didn't speak any English, but grunted "YUH" every time we served. Yep, when we served, not them. I totally McEnroe'd it one time when my ex slammed an overhead into my shoulder — surprised we didn't get divorced right then. Conversely, in another match, I hit my partner in the back of the head on a serve, which required her to get an MRI. Thankfully not until after our win. I lost a mixed doubles match to a guy who used a wooden racket...no, not in 1978, in 2008. I've played with a sprained ankle, a sprained knee, a sprained wrist, one contact missing, a bloody toe, blisters, overused muscles and even a plantar's wart right in the middle of the ball of my foot. That required about six Advil for the pre-game warm up. I nearly always have at least one intentional racket drop per match - just for self-deprecating, bad-shot comedy - and I'm known for the basketball-esque bum pat after a quick strategy talk with my partner. I played a singles match on Court One against a girl about 15 years younger than me and endured her family cheering at every winner, which was nearly every point because she was creaming me. And one time in a tournament, I was losing badly and a girl who was a much better tennis player, yet my peer, kept mouthing to me "popcorn feet, popcorn feet!" which is the grade-school term for "keep moving." Humiliating and ultimately...didn't work.

I've had dozens of razor-thin wins and losses, great excitements and frustrations, gallons of Gatorade and beer, varied partners, courts, clubs and coaches and it continues to be one of my passions. I still play competitive tennis today. I'm a marginally above-average player with a decent record and I'm known to play hard, develop solid on-the-spot strategies, talk a lot of self-promoting and deprecating smack, all while scrapping my way through some solid match-ups. Sounds just about like my personality summed up in one sentence. I am often an evangelist of the sport - wanting to win, but loving the camaraderie of the sport and still glowing even after a loss. The things that I learned in that drafty apple warehouse are still true today and of course the ideals spill over into my personal and professional life. That's what happens when you invest in anything in your life, right? I feel lucky and grateful that my mother sought out that coach so long ago and it's no wonder that I can still smell the faint scent of fresh-picked apples when I walk on a court.

Tennis aside, we are a competitive society. I'm of a competitive generation and I'm also the product of the 1970's/80's ideal, "women can do anything." I am admittedly competitive with myself, wanting to always have that internal voice (and let's face it, my mother) say that no matter the outcome, I did my best. That I came onto the court highly optimistic with grounded confidence — Love, Love.

So what I love about the story of my friend and his daughter is that I think it can be a hard thing to balance a strong, competitive, confident spirit with compassion and empathy. With the willingness to try hard and develop skills, but also love the game and want to invite others to join the fun. That there is much to be gained just for showing up. And life is the sum total of all of our experiences, right? No doubt my friend's daughter will play sports, or be in the school play, or enter an art contest, so the opportunity to continue to develop these skills will continue throughout her life, but how fantastic that they exist for her today? So I applaud my friend for doing what many of us forget to do - stop, take the extra ten minutes and be present for our kids in a predictable and meaningful way that is clearly giving her an opportunity to demonstrate the complexities of her developing personality. It means something. And in turn, his daughter is learning more than just that her dad loves her, or to outrun him, she's learning that it's great fun to see him with her at the finish line. And all before the bell even rings...love, love.

Oh and by the way, my daughter is learning to play tennis in a converted airplane hangar.

happy anniversary.

Today was my 14th wedding anniversary and Sunday is my 38th birthday. The last time I celebrated my birthday as a single woman, I was 23 years old (technically, I was 22 because I met my ex shortly after my 22nd birthday). Yep, that makes my jaw drop too...all the way to the ground. No longer (quite) that young woman, I will be celebrating this milestone birthday with my best girlfriends this weekend, and when telling the plan to another friend of mine (male), he laughed, saying we were cleverly disguising a divorce party behind a birthday and he's sure it will likely turn out more like a bachelorette party. (Which in our case is more of the "dance party" variety rather than the male-models-jumping-out-of-the-cake variety, just to be clear.) Of course, if that were the case, this time I am being sent out of marriage rather than into it and therefore, there are some mixed emotions. It's nearly the perfect scenario in which to use the word, 'bittersweet.'

My wedding anniversary and my birthday have fallen in the same week for all of my adult life, so it shouldn't have come as any surprise that these two milestones would once again butt up against each other this year, but honestly?...I nearly forgot. And I definitely didn't appreciate the significance of the two events until today. Five days separating the last anniversary that I will officially be married and my first birthday on my own. Surreal. I had several friends pause in their day to send me encouraging messages, and of course my mother went above and beyond, leaving flowers on my desk before I even got into the office, and I was once again finding myself grateful and humbled by their affection. But what does it all mean, all of this emotion? To say goodbye to a significant part of your life and turn around and celebrate all that remains, and all that is still ahead? What an odd paradox, but I'm also finding it oddly comforting to address both things back-to-back.

I watched a movie recently that was set in India and there was some brief discussion about Kali, the Hindu Goddess of Destruction. If you've ever seen her, she can be deemed as a fairly disturbing image. In one hand she wields a macheté-type of sword that she uses to hack off the heads of men, many of which she has strewn around her neck in a form of gruesome garland. She is standing over a conquered soul and in general, she emanates terrifying power and strength, with blood dripping from her sword. I started reading and then thinking about Maa Kali and the idea that maybe sometimes we have to endure the destruction of something to make room for something new—a better way, a more enlightened path. Like how a forest fire ravages a hillside, but we also know it's a necessary cycle to life, to the re-birth and the very sustainability of the forest.

Maa Kali is indeed the Goddess of Destruction, but she is said to represent the death of the human ego, of all that is evil, false and phony. She is depicted with four arms, two of which she is using for this great battle, and two to bless her devotees. She is seen as a mother figure and is one of the few goddesses that never married and renounced all worldly pleasures. It's said that those who look upon her image and tremble, do so because they are egotistical and attached to worldly pleasures. If you find the sweetness and compassion in her image, you can be released from your ego and can more easily reach spiritual enlightenment. But who among us divorces ourselves from our ego and worldly pleasures that easily? Exactly. Thus enters Maa Kali.

I know what has been destroyed in my life to make room for the change that is needed. Change in myself, change in my life. Some of it painful, as a proper 'destruction' promises (insert tongue-in-cheek emoticon), but not without the awakening that is inevitable from such a drumming. And this idea of Maa Kali battling it out to bring forth a better path translates to everything I can think of in the human experience - nature, death, society, science, the economy. This is a universal idea, but ironically such a tough, tough thing to accept. We fight fires, we fight death, we build stronger sea walls and bail out banks. Trust me, I'm not suggesting that we stop doing any of those things, and I'm not even pretending like I understand what we should and shouldn't fight for, but I do find the concept of accepting destruction as a means to a better thing as illuminating. Think of the incredible ingenuity that often comes from destruction, like houses being built above the high-water mark that are affordable and easier on the environment, and a return to the power of the small business operator, after the fall of large national companies, on who's backs we are re-building our economy, just to name two from recent memory.

Don't we learn more from our failures than our successes? Don't poignant, beautiful things often develop from the ashes of destruction?

I remember exactly one year ago sitting at an incredibly over-priced restaurant, arguing with my ex and eventually crying at the table on what was then, our 13th anniversary. But all couples fight. Someone ends up crying some of the time, right? I don't think that meant we were destined for failure, but it is interesting to fast-forward one year and to be sitting here at midnight, penning a blog entry about destruction. Choosing it, enduring it, accepting it and letting it unearth a new path.

I have no plans to celebrate the end of my marriage, that would be totally disingenuous to who I am as a person and what I really believe about marriage and my marriage in particular, so I am honoring today's milestone with humility and appreciation for the life in those years. For the good that it did bring, most especially our daughter. And in five days I will celebrate my birthday and be truly grateful for all the years of my life, including how good I feel today and how optimistic I feel about what is to come. That, I am comfortable celebrating and honestly, I can't wait. Maybe it would be fitting if I were to buy myself a Maa Kali statue and have THAT come out of the cake?! That would be a destruction that would be utterly painless...my friends and I would devour that cake bite-by-bite, I am certain of it, and maybe I'm onto something...

free fall.

"There is a solid bottom everywhere."

— Henry David Thoreau

The above is one of my all time favorite quotes and one that was always comforting for me. I take it as an idea that I'm not in a free fall, that there is a foundation in all experiences and that I will land at some point, preferably on my feet. In my mind, I always saw "bottom" as this spongy, pliant thing that, as much as it caught my fall, it also propelled me forward, back up towards the sky. "Bottom" meant stability, home base, grounding. Today, however, when I think of that quote, I visualize the ground speeding towards me at an unfathomable pace, hard and smooth as polished rock, and I can hear my bones breaking and my life being crushed on impact. Yes, there is a solid bottom everywhere...and I think I hit it recently. I should say that I hope I hit it because God knows I wouldn't want to do that twice.

It's been months and months since I sat in the smallest room in my house and asked my husband of fourteen years to separate. If I had had an inkling of what was to follow, I'm not sure I would have believed it, I know I couldn't have absorbed it, and honestly...thank God. Ignorance not only is bliss, but I think it is also the seed of courage. I faced many fears leading up to that moment, and there's no question that I feel I made the right decision, but I might not have been able to see my way through this experience if I truly understood all of the areas in which I needed to have courage...if I had known that I would have to face myself above all else. But in the end, thank God for that as well. It's been a gift.

Now, looking back, it's no surprise to me that the story line that I tried to live and believe in for sixteen years, is the exact same story line that I used to convince myself that we were going to have an amicable, smooth divorce. What I struggled for years to manifest in my life and my marriage transitioned too smoothly over to how I wanted my divorce and future relationship with my ex to unfold. In other words, the exact reasons I wanted a divorce are the exact reasons why the divorce wasn't going to go well, but I was still hanging on to my old rational that kept me in the marriage year in and year out.

Neither one of us liked conflict. We had so much history between us and we had suffered through and survived obstacles. We laughed enough. And of course there was our gorgeous, amazing daughter that we both love. We were at least friends, weren't we? At one point, these half-truths blinding me, I used Bruce Willis and Demi Moore's post-divorce relationship as a verb. (I'm sure the definition will show up under "amicable divorce" in the newest version of the Dictionary of Cultural Literacy). I said to my ex (feel free to laugh), "I want us to Bruce and Demi this." Wow. I've been known to say some memorable one-liners, but this one ranks up there and ironically, I think it's the tongue-in-cheek tag line of my renaissance.

I had some hard lessons ahead of me..most of them about myself. I knew who my ex was, what he and we as a couple were capable and incapable of, and I had reconciled my decision to get a divorce. But in order to survive the divorce, I needed to face myself.

Here's what hitting bottom finally showed me, and I will rely on the wisdom of Albert Einstein for this one, "Everything that can be counted does not necessarily count, everything that counts cannot necessarily be counted." When not in crisis, it's easy to give lip service to the idea of losing things that can be counted...money, professional success, financial stability, a home you own. But until you face the real possibility of losing it all, all at once, you can't as clearly see what's embedded in these things that you have built, things that can't be counted.

I spent my marriage trying to hold up all four legs of a table. I wanted to be in love, be married and I invested in the life that we were living. I remember saying to our couples counselor, that I was capable, reliable and responsible. That even though I didn't want to, I could do it all, that I could hold up the table legs. He said, "no you can't"..."Yes I can, I've been doing it"..."No you can't, you are here, aren't you?" I know, pause for obvious effect. The me that wanted to Bruce and Demi-it is the me that thought I had to hold up all four legs of the table, even in the divorce.

Hitting bottom crushed me, I can't lie. It was dark, ugly and scary. I couldn't lift a fork, or shut an eye, I was so burdened by the things that were happening to me, around me and within me. There had been a slow descent for sure, and the actual impact hurt like hell, but it shattered some walls that I unknowingly, but painstakingly, had built around myself. Crushed and hurting, I was finally truly vulnerable. Vulnerable enough to surrender to my life and I felt all the things that count rush in...faith, devotion, humility, strength, forgiveness and love. I found myself and that counts. It counts for my daughter, my mother, my family and friends. It counts for me.

These days I'm thinking of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" and remembering why I originally loved the Thoreau quote. Maybe sometimes we just need to surrender to our lives. Sit down long enough to let the sum of our experiences settle over us, let go and free fall into a place where we can heal and grow, even if it hurts.

gut it out.

I recently watched a 2005 commencement speech given by Steve Jobs. He said many, many illuminating things, one of which is that "...you have to trust in something. Your gut, destiny, life, karma. You have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future, believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart, even when it leads you off the well worn path, and that will make all the difference."

I was so enthralled with the speech that I paused it time and again and let what he was saying register with me. Let it mean something and speak to me in the midst of all the pain and turmoil that I have been experiencing. What ended up ringing true for me is that after all of my choices, all of the questioning in the face of huge fears, learning how to be more vulnerable, accepting some failures, knowing that my heart and intuition are worthy guides and being less sure of things, helped me ask the questions that I believe will lead to greater happiness. What do I want out of this life? What values am I most committed to and want to see in those whom I love? Who's life do I want to be living? How can I balance vulnerability with strength? What changes do I need to make within myself? What do I trust and what do I believe to be true?

Faith is hard work. Trust is hard work. You have to be in action and conscious of both for either to be valuable in your life, right? Otherwise they are just empty words, empty notions. I have to trust that my gut, intellect and support system will lead me to make decisions that are in the best interest of my daughter. I have to have faith that my basic soul's desire for someone to really understand me and love me is reasonable and attainable. I have to trust that my genuine hard work and thoughtful intentions will lead to the stability and prosperity that I crave. I have to have faith that my mind and heart will be open to the lessons that my failures and mistakes humbly bring with them. This is all active. I am conscious of all of this, day in and day out.

A close friend recently shared with me that a counselor recommended an exercise by which you wear a rubber band around your wrist and every time you see it, you are to ask yourself what emotion you are experiencing at that exact moment. We laughed and said how limited our emotional vocabulary really is: "ummm...tired? Hungry? Frustrated?" But the idea of this is fun to explore because with this exercise we can learn to listen to ourselves in a specific moment in time and that's very hard to do. It's easy to understand and feel emotions when they are at their apex, but how do you tap into your feelings when maybe they are more subtle or nuanced? A long history of subtle, quiet emotions can have a much bigger impact on our lives as they compound. They are still there. They are very real, whether we choose to let them settle over us or not. Imagine reaching across a table to hold the hand of someone you love and seeing that rubber band — a ha! I'm feeling it! I trust this feeling! I want to hold this hand! In this moment, this feeling is not lost on me. Or how about the opposite — seeing your hands folded together, the rubber band causing you to connect to an emotion in that moment and realizing that you feel alone even though someone is sitting across the table from you? What does that feel like? I know what it feels like and I wish I knew about the rubber band exercise long, long ago. I would have snapped it and felt it sting so I wouldn't forget, so I could learn to trust it and build on my own emotional intelligence.

It's always easier to look back and connect the dots that led you to where you are today. Trusting that any of them are the right ones today is incredibly hard. This is why I think both what Steve Jobs said and what that counselor recommended are so powerful. Feelings lead to action, or inaction, right? Balancing the incredible gift of emotional awareness with rationality feels like the right place to start. This is intuition at it's best..our gut giving us things to trust, things to believe in, and ultimately, giving us a map. Jobs also so wisely said, "Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become."

the new busy.

Are you kidding me? Every time I see Microsoft Hotmail's new campaign slogan, I make a face and shake my head. "The New Busy?" Seriously? I know some goofball(s) made a lot of money off of that "idea" and I shake my head at that too. (By the way, isn't it us, the Gen X'ers, that get made fun of for using air quotes? Well, perhaps we also over-use quotes in general, however I think air or typed quotes also add the perfect dash of tongue-in-cheek, don't you?)

As a friend of mine, ironically a former Microsoftie (or is it MS'er?), said to me over the weekend, "What even is the New Busy? What does that mean?" Weird. Who wants a new Busy? Find me someone who actually wants a new Busy. Seriously, call me. I will talk some sense into you. I want less Busy. I want a mini-Busy, a Busy salve, a Busy tamer, a Busy reliever. Honestly, I actually want the Old Busy. You know, the Busy where you had to juggle changing your home answering machine message (so that you sound like Wolfman Jack) and make dinner in time to catch "People's Court." Or the Busy where waiting in the grocery line for the man in front of you to pay with a check didn't make you want to go postal. Or how about the Busy where making a mix-tape took the same amount of time as it did to listen to it? Or the Busy where it was hands-down more fun to get a dirt clod thrown at you than try to respond to 287 emails before bed. I hate the New Busy and I hate that Microsoft is trying to sell it to me. I KNOW what the New Busy looks like and it isn't me trying to figure out how to fit in yoga. Bottom line: anything that is selling New + Busy scares the shit out of me.

Here's the New Busy:

How many times have you called the cable company to have them explain to you the very best deal, triple-whatever, including digital-whatever, taking up at least 45 minutes of your evening, only to get to the very end and they say that "Whoops, that price is not available in your area." Exactly. Me too — once was enough. So the New Busy stuck with basic cable and had to call and order stupid digital boxes that I had to set up on my own, which required at least one support phone call, upon which they tried to sell me the digital upgrade, which had a great price (!), only to discover that alas...not available in my area. Honestly, the New Busy is exhausted just from writing this paragraph.

How many times have you told the grocery checker that you forgot your club card, but could they please give you the discount this one time? Little do they know that the New Busy intended on signing up, but after I filled out the card, I realized that I have to bring that card back into the store. You can't mail it. You can't do it online. I have three neatly completed applications in the bottom of my New Busy purse. You find them.

When you've made your pet boarding reservation, did they tell you that the required boarding-specific immunizations are not up to date, only to discover that your vet can't see your pet until the week after you return from your trip? The New Busy had to find a new in-home boarder.

I called in my prescription refill. Easy. Then fought for thirty minutes to find a parking space. Hard. Only to be told by the pharmacist that they can't give me my prescription because my insurance only covers payment on the last week of the month. No, I'm not kidding. The New Busy had to do it all over again...two days later.

The New Busy keeps re-sending emails to myself so they appear at the top of the list.

I carry any and all liquids in ziplock bags all the time because I've been burned by running out of FHA-required one-quart bags on airplane travel days.

I tape my parking pass to my coat on the last day of the month so I remember to put it on my rearview mirror that night.

Trader Joe's' steam-in-the-bag vegetables almost make me cry with relief.

I cancelled home milk delivery because paying the bill online and remembering to email them every time I needed to reduce or stop delivery took more time than just buying it at the store.

Finding time to read "Real Simple" takes a real commitment.

I use Pert Plus.

An ad for a 5-minute dinner recipe makes me laugh like a mad scientist.

I pay my daughter to make her own school lunches.

I email during traffic jams, text on elevators, and return phone calls while grocery shopping.

When I'm out jogging, I have to carry both my iPod and my phone because no, I don't have an iPhone. That would require switching carriers and that's a rabbit hole I don't want to go down anytime soon.

The smaller garbage cans, which the City promotes to reduce waste, are only 12 gallons less but they don't have wheels.

One staple of the New Busy purse is three different power adapters. Enough said.

The only folks who are making it easier for the New Busy are the paid parking lot owners, who's online over-time fine payment system is a breeze.

Ok, ok. This could go on longer than the New Busy has time for. I'm from Seattle and I do appreciate Microsoft from a regional economy stabilizing angle (that was a mouthful) so, I will give them a break. They didn't invent the New Busy, and honestly they have some legitimate tools trying to help us wrangle it. It's not lost on you either, I know, that the "New Busy" campaign is supposed to be doing exactly that — selling a Busy-wrangling tool. Maybe that should have been the campaign. A cowboy, Busy in the role as the villain, MS as the cowboy's rope. Cowboy + Rope = Busy being wrangled. Works for me! Microsoft?...Call me. If you get a busy signal, don't worry, there's an app for that.