tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45498845232545617872024-02-19T03:05:21.371-05:00MolehillsMatterSomeone once said I make mountains out of molehills. I took it as a compliment.Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-40596083937524999572023-10-10T05:00:01.310-04:002023-10-10T05:34:43.443-04:00LIFE @ 49: The Year of the Tarot<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zuHqAmv8ACs" width="320" youtube-src-id="zuHqAmv8ACs"></iframe></span></div><u><span><div style="font-family: arial;"><u><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></u></div></span></u><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">According to the infinite number of tarot readings that have graced my earbuds over countless evening commutes (some much more insightful than others, and all imparting various levels of wisdom, or lack thereof) accompanying me as the soundtrack to my daily errands and meanderings all year long, the blueprint for life is as follows:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Success</b> (Star, Wheel of Fortune, Ace of Cups) is always just up ahead, in the viewable distance, after a hard fought journey immediately preceded by a <i>Tower Moment</i> (Death, or the Tower, are the metaphors within the Major Arcana), in which the Universe rids your life of some person or presence with whom, or with which, you had allowed yourself to become entangled; which connection was built upon an unstable foundation and ultimately did not serve your highest good. Alas, what is built shoddily must crumble, giving way to the opportunity for you to start anew (the Fool's journey). What begins from that point is hopefully a more solid foundation built upon valuable lessons learned and the exercise of free will.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Romance</b> (Lovers, Two of Cups) remains ever at arm's length, and might possibly involve yourself and a <i>Twin Flame</i> (your Earthly counterpart), whose problematic traits mirror yours in order to teach the both of you those relationship lessons you have yet to master, ideally within your lifetimes so that your stars just might align before you die. On occasion, however, you may instead be dealing with a <i>False Flame (</i>an abusive connection from whom you should immediately flee once the first signs of that hidden toxicity have been revealed). Other times, chemistry may occur amid <i>Third Party</i> dissonance (Devil, Three of Cups, Seven of Swords), in which at least one of you exhibits what is non-judgmentally referred to as <i>Player Energy</i>, because, hate the <u><i>game</i></u>, right? Sadly, permutations involving Romance in Tarot rarely reach Happily Ever After status. So, if you are currently in Happily Ever After status </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">(Sun, Chariot, Wheel of Fortune, Ten of Cups Upright)</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, consider a full Tarot reading inapplicable to your life story at this time. No two lovers in the prime of their romance should ever need advanced notice as to if and when their blessings shall ever end (Death, Three of Swords, Five of Pentacles). Never let a Tarot reading spoil a glorious <i>Wish Fulfillment</i> (Nine of Cups).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Suffering</b> (Ten of Swords, Seven of Wands in Reverse) and all things painful, burdensome, or confusing, could have just occurred in your recent past, and will require patience (Temperance) and healing (Hermit), whether from you or the person on your mind. In the 3D (Earth realm), if the suffering has been caused by separation or discord between two individuals (Five of Swords), the offending party will have typically assumed the role of the Hanged Man or High Priestess (stubborn or stoic silence) which will have caused a present stagnation -- likely the very circumstance which has led you, the listener, to trap yourself inside the comforting and protective omniscience of the Tarot to process and heal from your predicament.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Whereas the 3D might be filled with Wands and Pentacles (power moves and financial gains), the 5D (psychic realm) might be filled with Cups and Swords (emotions and defenses). As intangible 5D energies swirl about, fusing together destined connections and actualizing higher purposes for all sentient beings, their recalcitrant mortal counterparts will, time and again, withhold deep desires and divert manifestations, through that notoriously self-limiting Devil (lack of discipline, pride and ego, short-term gratification -- or sometimes envy and jealousy, if pulled simultaneously with either Knight of Cups or Three of Cups). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In this context, our daily lives are elucidated in Tarot by relatable imagery, helping us comprehend from a third eye perspective those difficult engagements and social exchanges in which we are presently entrenched, possibly among dating prospects, significant others, friends and work colleagues, strangers in a queue, family members, as well as relations between nations and among public figures in the world at large. Suddenly, we can see the interconnectedness of humankind; a butterfly flaps its wings and causes a sovereign to be overthrown. It will occur to us, in case we needed the reminder, that nothing is ever really entirely new under this Sun. History repeats itself in micro- and macrocosms; only the cast of characters re-generate, and only their acts of free will can change the tides.</span></p><p><b style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The Appeal</i></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>If nothing else, the mass appeal of the Tarot is that it offers no surprise scenarios beyond that which can be explained within a finite set of 78 artfully illustrated playing cards (Rider-Waite-Smith is a beloved classic) packed with centuries-old allegories that hold up to this day. The unique circumstances depicted within a chance spread (Celtic Cross is a go-to standard), channeled through your preferred mystic (lately I enjoy Baba Jolie Tarot and San Tarot for existential life concepts, and Spiritually Fit Tarot and Baddison Tarot for more light-hearted concepts -- all available and free on YouTube), either resonates or does not. </span>Imagine the entire spectrum of human emotions and predictable behaviors being held in the palm of one's hand. </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Only take it if it resonates</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, is the common prelude to a reading, and is the fortune-telling equivalent to today's snarkier social media darling: </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">I don't know who needs to hear this, but...</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> but much less preachy and passive aggressive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">All it takes is a complete deck, wiped clean of any opportunistic dark energies -- which recommended cleansing would be in the form of circular smoke rings rising from the burning embers of dealer's choice: a stick of Palo Santo or tied bundle of dried Sage -- being shuffled by the capable hands of an intelligent storyteller who is, at times, genuinely clairvoyant. Among my other superstitious rituals, I will only entertain a reading in which I am able to view the cards being shuffled at all times, and by a reader who channels with the disclaimer "only for the highest good." Once in a while, I will make an exception to a full-view speedy shuffle if I find the reader's interpretations to embody aged wisdom and thoughtfully processed life experiences. Personally, I find that a reading is only as good as one's ability to discern among a seemingly endless array of readers; the range is wide.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Bad Rap</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ever wonder why Tarot, aka <i>tarocchi, </i>was banned -- similar to certain library books are today -- and propagandized as 'evil', at least as far back as 16th century Europe, but still to this day and including in certain provincial pockets of the United States and the world?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Tarot intimidates the status quo because it is a tool of self-empowerment, much like therapy sessions, except that I am not endorsing the substitution of one for the other. I am simply making a comparison that, both methods assist us in looking within and studying ourselves as the emotional and reactive human beings that we are, in raw form, as well as learning how to comprehend and manage a predictable range of human emotions and behaviors to help us deal with other human beings, whose raw forms are hidden or blurred behind egos and super-egos.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In understanding the recurring universal themes in human behavior, Tarot trains us to recognize our innate abilities to:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">(1) acknowledge the drivers of human behavior, such as desire and the need for connection, as well as greed, jealousy, envy, the thirst for power, and the appetite for destruction (for example, how have certain public figures who were once admired for their business acumen come to fall from grace via federal indictments and grossly unethical business decisions, which destroy countless livelihoods, ultimately including their own family legacies?);</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">(2) critically assess the motivations and incentives underlying otherwise confusing or uncomfortable personal interactions (such as when first impressions no longer match a current dynamic -- how to trust your intuition, acknowledge red flags, and act upon that <i>Spidey sense</i>); and</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">(3) control third party access to our innate gifts and marketable talents, which might be called upon to fulfill someone else's purposes (how to speak up and exercise free will, avoid succumbing to covert manipulation, and assert one's boundaries against individuals who habitually encroach upon them -- whether or not those others wish to be aware of their unacceptable behaviors).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In other words, once you unlock the secret of the Tarot (which of course does not necessarily have to be Tarot, <i>per se,</i> so feel free to substitute with your preferred media for studying humanity, whether it be a daily affirmations app, self-help audiobook, health and wellness podcast, perhaps a pop psych IG influencer page, or standup comedy -- the list is seemingly endless), you can no longer be anyone else's Tool. And that alone can feel rather disempowering to certain individuals, entities, institutions and organizations that have normalized the exploitation of the Many to empower the One. To those who abuse their power to control large groups by, for example, shaming anyone who might tend to 'go rogue' (ie. form their own opinions and exercise their own free will), the idea of an individual reclaiming their personal power is a Threat. As such, throughout history, individual self-empowerment in its form <i>du jour</i> is feared by authoritarian institutions, which typically have the financial resources to effectively propagandize such self-empowering tools as Evil. But really, we all should have figured out by now that, in the context of good versus evil:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span>(1) Individual self-empowerment is good; and </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span>(2) Fearmongering propaganda is evil.</span></div><p><b><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Truth Beyond Tarot</span></i></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Two pieces of unsolicited advice, each worth two cents plus a possible lifetime of happiness, come to mind after reflecting upon the most popular topics covered in Tarot readings:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Chase your passion, not your success.</b> YouTube is congested with Tarot readings covering career and finance. Listeners want to know whether success is imminent. My question is: what makes us crave success so badly? What do we think it means and how do we define it? I suppose when we acknowledge that we have not met a goal, we are left wanting the success of meeting it, and thus feel deprived of it. Is it the deprivation that causes the craving? We might feel as though we have failed at something or failed someone. But what if, rather than perceiving a failure, we simply allow ourselves the freedom to modify the goal that we did not meet? Would that then extinguish the craving? Would we merely set a goal and meet it; or else simply change the goal and meet the modified one? After several goal changes, we may even end up meeting that original goal eventually. But we would have spared ourselves a lot of yearning in the interim.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think of individuals I consider successful, and how they might perceive their success, if at all. For example, when the late Steve Jobs enrolled at Reed College in Portland, Oregon, did he set the goal to earn a college degree? When he later dropped out of Reed College, did he feel deprived of success? Or, did he merely change his goal? Did he live a life chasing a certain definition of success? Or rather, did he chase his own personal passions, ultimately leading to a series of events that, at least from the outside looking in, appear to be a lifetime of success?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Love is complicated and painful, and there is no way around it.</b> So many Tarot readers cover the topic of love because so many people obsess over a certain idea of it. But the obsessive kind of love is nothing like the healthy kind of love that builds over time and through a series of microassurances that cultivate a foundation of trust and respect. Tarot readings often speak of a version of love that begins with a certain pursuit or possessiveness, and inevitably leads to abandonment. Sometimes, it is a short-lived affection that embodies a momentous desire between two people whose affections show no patience or appreciation for long-term connection. Other times, it is a deception pretending to be loyalty, that reaps benefits upon the person declaring such loyalty, until all the benefits have been depleted at which time loyalty is replaced with betrayal. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">O</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">nce in a while, it is a true love characterized by friendship, mutual respect, honesty and transparency, support and reciprocity; in which a pair of individuals act with integrity towards each other and their commitment, whether platonic or romantic. At some point, however, and without exception, all types of love will lead to pain, be it by death, divorce, distance or deception. That is not to say that true love is a bad thing. In fact, true love between friends, family, or a romantic partner, is arguably among the most abundant blessings one could ask for, and what makes life worth living. This is just a reminder that true love will sometimes feel uncomfortable. And the more you love, the more it will hurt. And so, especially in those times when life has placed you in a fragile state, the best way to get through that phase is to choose the people with whom you exchange your love wisely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-21926153077977097202022-10-10T04:00:00.025-04:002023-10-08T13:07:59.459-04:00LIFE @ 48: Four Dozen Years of Rosy Memories<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtrazu-VHS3vIi5_G4qAky-T6LS7H8u7_k5qvS9mDwIcDW6TOJfNH3WCMmi0HJ3BruCLLsTNx-lK2-R96YQwGt-fm2KH01ngbQStS5YnD5sQkGSEiq2nxNBcdi20uj9tr9N6oIDzAIX9KwZb4MKHP3KflTY6iflkLLXo7VDuqWDYJrbzycLhaFIhl/s1509/IMG_3061%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1509" data-original-width="1509" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtrazu-VHS3vIi5_G4qAky-T6LS7H8u7_k5qvS9mDwIcDW6TOJfNH3WCMmi0HJ3BruCLLsTNx-lK2-R96YQwGt-fm2KH01ngbQStS5YnD5sQkGSEiq2nxNBcdi20uj9tr9N6oIDzAIX9KwZb4MKHP3KflTY6iflkLLXo7VDuqWDYJrbzycLhaFIhl/s320/IMG_3061%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Forty Eight. This time around it takes all of me to resist the pressure to censor myself out of fear of being offensive to people I have no interest in getting to know better. As I tap out my reflections on this keyboard, I am having to remind myself repeatedly to bring my focus back to the energies I connect to and align with, as opposed to the energies that find my truth inconvenient to conflicting agendas.</span></div><p></p><p>Enough with that. This year I gave serious attention to my intuition. I learned how to trust it, and I learned that it was trustworthy. This realization illuminated those frequent moments in which, socially, we are conditioned to discourage one another from relying on our intuitive voices. Why is it that, when we divulge a truth that our intuition has brought to light, which might upset us, in return the person we share this truth with is quite often conditioned to immediately soothe us by suggesting that we should not rely on our intuition -- insisting that it is false -- and that what is in fact the truth is the version of reality that would make us (or them) feel better. This year I found myself repelled by such avoidant interpersonal exchanges, and disheartened by the pervasiveness of such an undermining pavlovian response to intuitive knowledge generally.</p><p>I know, a bit heavy for a conversation starter. There is much more to explore in terms of this normalized dismissiveness towards intuitive knowledge. But, my intuition tells me that an extended discussion about it is best served in person, maybe over drinks, with open curious minds.</p><p>Speaking of in person drinks, this year I was finally coaxed into setting foot upon that lowered drawbridge and across the moat to Post-Pandemia.</p><p>My social calendar in 2022 was heavily curated. For the most part, I chose solitude. When I did choose company, it was strictly limited to those with whom I have developed a certain level of trust and comfort. I was shy to new and unexplored territory. Although, in retrospect, I did end up exploring quite a bit. But when I did, my antennae were up and defenses at the ready. Heading out the door, I routinely checked my back pocket for that rapid covid test kit and protective vial of guarded skepticism.</p><p>A major milestone for me, at 48, was discovering that I could actually fall in love again. It had been so many years, and at some point I secretly believed I was well past whatever life phase would still permit it. Too many moments over time seemed to allude to the idea that falling in love was child's play, and I had already had my fill. By 48, coupling up would have to feel more like companionship with mutual exchanges of kind and caring gestures. But <i>falling in love</i> -- all that loss of control and willpower, the magnetism, the yearning mixed with fear of an impending heartbreak -- after all this time, I finally fell prey to it again. And as painful as it was, ultimately, to have to walk away with shards of my bleeding heart in my hands as they were forced to let go of another's, I will readily admit that I was grateful to know that my heart could still be broken. And that, frankly, it will be a while before I am willing to be so vulnerable again.</p><p>My daughter asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, "<i>besides wanting to spend time with [her]" </i>(my usual answer), and it didn't take long for me to respond that if I got flowers for my birthday, I would not want anything else at all in the world to go with it (except her, of course). It got me thinking about how memorable it has been to receive flowers from various people in years past -- boxed long-stemmed roses waiting for me after a romantic dinner out, two dozen beautiful red ones delivered to my office in a tall glass vase, a delicate bouquet of strikingly elegant irises presented to me at a lunch date on a quiet park bench by a pond, to name a few, and several thoughtful bouquets that were brought to my door this year, which served to light up my little life as did the person who came bearing them with a warm smile every time. </p><p>If I have to sum it up, 48 is the year I have come to realize that all those sweet memories of all those lovely bouquets, and the symbols of love they represented, were worth every single heartbreak.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/S5Ne1C3-IG0" width="320" youtube-src-id="S5Ne1C3-IG0"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-75202264300126880812021-10-10T05:00:00.110-04:002021-10-10T05:00:00.203-04:00LIFE @ 47: The Tide Is High<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6MIBje25BVct85Ah72fQ1EJ2cUBBpTd6TMjkPDI-HJLtI14R7rRVL9p2uRt7jxiMYlShyphenhyphenTYfhq61PezM0XPq96laLi_rVJ-eie-DJt-YT9dO60jQBImZYDqB90Zk_ltoKXJyxmpgEw8/s2048/928962A1-FFD2-420F-89B1-10C056727B98.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6MIBje25BVct85Ah72fQ1EJ2cUBBpTd6TMjkPDI-HJLtI14R7rRVL9p2uRt7jxiMYlShyphenhyphenTYfhq61PezM0XPq96laLi_rVJ-eie-DJt-YT9dO60jQBImZYDqB90Zk_ltoKXJyxmpgEw8/w400-h400/928962A1-FFD2-420F-89B1-10C056727B98.JPG" title="Gail Montemayor. MOON. Oil on canvas. 2021." width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span> </span>My next birthday has arrived and there is much to process. I proclaim this year to be one of the most existentially eventful of my life. As I declare this, I realize that I am actually reflecting back on not one but the last two years, which in my mind have melded together like one giant sticky slimeball of racism, misogyny and virus. This time last year, I could barely bring myself to acknowledge my birthday. Instead, I switched on autopilot as I moved in lockstep with an entire population of moderate-to-progressive minds who possessed the requisite sanity to foresee the impending doom that was hellbent on engulfing the civilized half of humankind, unless in that instant we committed our minds, bodies and souls to destroying the modern day weapons of gaslighting, misinformation, pretextual voter intimidation, and plain vanilla stupidity disguised as homegrown simplicity. To a large extent, we emerged victorious, yet we continue to have our work cut out for us as we stay vigilant and persist.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>Beyond what has conveniently been dismissed as 'politics' by those of us devoid of conscience, this recent blob of time beheld more loss of lives than I have ever bore witness to over the course of my nearly half century on this planet. So many loved ones were mourned; mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, grandparents, neighbors, caregivers, storeowners, employers, employees, best friends. So many modest livelihoods were mercilessly disrupted. And still, there was flagrant denial of humankind being on the brink of a universal breakdown. Insidious unfounded suspicions were directed towards peer-reviewed science and scientists.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>I have begun this annual reflection on such a dark note that no subscriber to toxic positivity could possibly still be reading this. But now I turn towards the light; that which I found in humankind. It sounds contradictory but really it isn't. I found the light in others who found the light in me. I managed to find like-minded individuals out of sheer will to form purely genuine connections. The more authentic I presented, the more supported I felt by the environment that formed around me. This was key to surviving a global pandemic that polarized the Earth into those of us who wanted to help as many people as possible to live, versus those of us who wanted to allow as many people as possible to die.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>This year more than any other, I witnessed the limitless power of human connection. We supported each other through Zoom- and other virtual-platform-enabled gatherings: to celebrate birthdays and milestones; to help each other cope with depression, anxiety, grief and loss; to strategize for better days ahead; and to foster a sense of continuity and perseverance. We opened our windows to collectively cheer on who we now know to be the real heroes. We engaged in contact-free delivery protocols and pod arrangements to access our proverbial villages. We found ways to tap into our most precious resource: other people.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>On the dating front, my beloved village of purposeful singles and vicariously concerned onlookers forced the issue until I gingerly complied. It began as a soft launch with a neighbor. Too soon, the pandemic forced us apart and the matter was dissolved shortly thereafter, albeit amicably, by a lack of common interests. Next, I spent a grand total of three weeks engaged in online banter with liars and wishful thinkers until affixing my focus on a brilliant conversationalist with much life experience to share. It lasted until the unhealthy patterns, and failure to effectively address them, turned our relationship's tiny red flags into one giant white one. Today, as I emerge every day a bit more welcoming to romance than yesterday, I implore my fierce guardian girlfriends to trust me when I say, I have found something promisingly healthy, there are no obvious indicators of serial killer madness, narcissistic dismissiveness, or other controlling behaviors present, and I am enjoying being treated very well whilst asserting my preference to leave unanswered any predictions of what tomorrow may bring.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>Looking back under the glow reflecting off the heels of a New Moon in Libra, I perceive this year to have been a giant tsunami whose aftermath has washed ashore sound guidance on how to live without regret, without wasting time, and while loving myself without guilt or other-people-imposed obligations. I have been pulled under, tossed about, spit up, and I have welcomed the catharsis. Till next tide! <br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Above: Gail Montemayor. <i>Moon</i>. 2021. Oil on canvas.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span> <br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="372" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8Ak06IseGgg" width="447" youtube-src-id="8Ak06IseGgg"></iframe></div><br /> </span></span></div>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-65097389052197483682021-08-08T05:00:00.367-04:002021-08-08T05:00:00.164-04:00Equal Partner Wishlist, Revisited<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYNidBkwDg6s01u0wm9RTJMiaT-fVcSJdlGWFPr8mk_wYiJptX3OIPCtIDqe18qBQTPwnTf90L77brI1NLac7GrfF2V5Z2vF_vh5vrgmX72ajguw9XW8uQ11Na4pR6786YRuxmW1fG68/s2048/Twollamas.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYNidBkwDg6s01u0wm9RTJMiaT-fVcSJdlGWFPr8mk_wYiJptX3OIPCtIDqe18qBQTPwnTf90L77brI1NLac7GrfF2V5Z2vF_vh5vrgmX72ajguw9XW8uQ11Na4pR6786YRuxmW1fG68/w400-h400/Twollamas.jpg" title="Two Alpacas" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Jersey Shore Alpacas</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let's face it. I will never have a romantic partner who will be able to listen to me, empathize with me, or support my ever fluid life decisions in the nurturing ways that my best girlfriends do. At the same time, however, I will never have a best girlfriend who will be able to enthrall me with the fiery seduction, loving affection, and bodyguard-like protection that a solid boyfriend-on-his-best-behavior can. If I am being honest, I have zero interest in going on dates and romantic getaways with my girlfriends (however sexy and engaging they may be), just as much as I have zero interest in bonding at intention-setting life goal workshops with my lovers (sorry boys, it's a girlfriend thing). Some individuals are inclined towards confounding the two, whereas I personally prefer to compartmentalize.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Given this gender-based dichotomy, heterosexual men with healthy relationship potential will have to remain part of my existential equation. I cannot very well write men off completely, although I may still attempt to postpone their insertions into my daily routine. They must simply remain a possibility, a welcome disruption, an as yet unknown variable that promises to yield excellent results. They will undoubtedly change the overall way that I live and exist, but never (read: dealbreaker) at the expense of the other variables that I treasure: friends who are family, family who are friends, my ethics and principles, and how I decide to contribute to the world, workforce and community.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A boyfriend presence should add to my life, like a breeze that causes a lake to ripple and glisten, revealing a serene beauty wherever the two may meet. I want a boyfriend who lives his best life, and in so doing, enhances mine. He should be able to put a smile on my face as would a clever post on an Instagram feed. He would not diminish the beauty he perceives in me, as if I were an incandescent flower being plucked, so that he may claim my brilliance at the expense of my natural life. He would not dismiss, question, invalidate or become angry with the pains I might express to have suffered in his care. Like the better Facebook Group house rules read: no dirty deletions allowed on our threads. If you've hurt me through your patterned behavior, acknowledge it, accept it and do not deny your role in it. In that same realm, I desire the kind of self-reflecting individual who can stomach the criticism necessary to assess the flaws which lead to recurring pitfalls, and with humility and grace, take steps to correct them.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I acknowledge my privilege in being able to give or take a theoretical equal partner. I embody enough ambitions, curiosities and assertiveness to thrive without the need for a validating human prop beside me. I am what my former-husband-now-co-parent once described as "self-contained" in that if left alone on a giant bare rock in the middle of the sea, I would be able to find a host of ways to entertain myself. That is not to say that I eschew company, only that I enjoy my lonesome company very much. (Like now, as I write this.)</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I have come to terms with this: there is something to be said about a (safe) romantic partner in one's life. The pleasures (both physical and psychological), the companionship, being challenged to accept and reconcile another's point of view, trust and intimacy, and a willingness to build a mutual reality together -- these add value and are worth considering, however offsetting the incorporation may be into what might already be a perfectly balanced fulfilling life.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Around this time three years ago, I set up a wishlist, mainly to keep myself from diverting from my planned course of action. My life goal was to have safe, healthy and mutually satisfying connections. No more projects, no more projections. Over the last three years, I've had many chances to revisit my wishlist; a set of non-negotiable traits that I would look for, in the event a potential life partner opportunity arose.<br /></span></span></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">KIND</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">RESPECTFUL</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HUMANE</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">FORWARD THINKING</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">PRINCIPLED</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">THOUGHTFUL</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">CREATIVE</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">INFORMED</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">FASHIONABLE</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">STRONG WORK ETHIC</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HEALTH CONSCIOUS</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">REALISTIC</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">ARTICULATE</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">OPEN MINDED</span></span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, I realize that a list of words cannot quite capture the nuances that inform whether that individual would be an ideal match for me. So I've added a few questions, in the hopes that the answers would be revealing. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They are not lighthearted, but hearing the answers early on (maybe on the second or third date and after a glass of wine?) may just save the both of us a lot of time and heartache.</span></span></span></span></span></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Has your partner ever told you something she experienced that you did not believe was true? What caused you to distrust her, and how did you handle it? (a) ignored it; (b) told her I didn't believe her; (c) accused her of lying; (d) asked more questions to check if maybe I misunderstood; (e) other (please explain)<br /></span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Has your partner ever disappointed you? How did you feel and how did you handle it?</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Have you ever felt remorse for something you did to your partner? How did you handle it?</span></span></span></li></ol><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We all know that communication is key to a successful relationship. In communicating, how we perceive and handle conflict is telling. Do we sweep things under the rug? Do we perceive a slight or attack when our partner says or does something that triggers feelings of pain within us? Do we resent them when they are not willing to give us what we want? When we feel pain, how do we soothe ourselves and what role do we expect our partners to play in the healing process?</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"If you continue to pursue the goal of salvation through a relationship, you will be disillusioned again and again. But if you accept that the
relationship is here to make you conscious instead of happy, then the
relationship will offer you salvation, and you will be aligning yourself
with the higher consciousness that wants to be born into this world."</span></span></i> </span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>-- Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now</i></span></span><br /></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's to a happy and healthy future filled with self-reflection and relationships that nourish.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-16688636521549771032020-10-10T07:56:00.020-04:002020-10-10T08:37:53.164-04:00LIFE @ 46: Dismantling the Myths of Voting in Person After Mailing in Your Ballot<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kV3H2CYcurvIFu_ie1SxCOWx97ZWpgu_xsh-gwyWFxJzGERDGfGpylSMI-N-9Wy82heBgzL-HdpbvPHTzhxhQE_uP7rlTnPRRcKhZ8sF3nr1CDGF3PazLDIGiiFVEarbdWq-8enD25Y/s893/1F2E0A74-019A-48AF-B4AF-1D7D1FB54936+%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="893" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kV3H2CYcurvIFu_ie1SxCOWx97ZWpgu_xsh-gwyWFxJzGERDGfGpylSMI-N-9Wy82heBgzL-HdpbvPHTzhxhQE_uP7rlTnPRRcKhZ8sF3nr1CDGF3PazLDIGiiFVEarbdWq-8enD25Y/w400-h400/1F2E0A74-019A-48AF-B4AF-1D7D1FB54936+%25281%2529.JPG" title="Vote by mail; Vote early; Vote! Vote! Vote!" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"> Today is my birthday and all I want this year are: (1) competent leadership and (2) an online search function that will filter my daily news feed to contain only objective truths and professionally fact-checked reporting.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> I am doing what I can with my time and energy to contribute to a better future for myself and my loved ones. As such, I decided I would use my birthday reflection time to answer this year's looming question:</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><blockquote style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;">May I opt to vote in person </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;">after I have already mailed in my ballot?</span></span></blockquote></h3><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> Voter laws vary per state. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In the interest of time, I have limited the fruits of my research to only the battleground states:</span></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">ARIZONA</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NO, you may only vote in person if you have not returned your mail-in or absentee ballot.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you request an early ballot, your name should not appear in the roster at your polling place, which means you will not be able to vote a REGULAR BALLOT. Provided you have not already returned your ballot (e.g., it was lost or destroyed, or you change your mind and would like to vote in person instead), you are allowed to vote by PROVISIONAL BALLOT.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you already mailed your early ballot and want to be sure it has been received by Election Day, you may track it online here: <a href="https://my.arizona.vote/AbsenteeTracker.aspx">https://my.arizona.vote/AbsenteeTracker.aspx</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here: <a href="https://azsos.gov/elections/voting-election">https://azsos.gov/elections/voting-election</a></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...</span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">FLORIDA</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">YES, <u>IF</u> the elections office confirms at the polls that it has not received your vote-by-mail ballot.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you pick up a VOTE-BY-MAIL BALLOT but later decide to go to the polls to vote, ideally you should bring the ballot with you (marked or not) so that it may be CANCELED at which time you will be allowed to vote in person via a REGULAR BALLOT.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you arrive at the polls WITHOUT THE VOTE-BY-MAIL BALLOT (e.g., it was lost or misplaced, or you forgot to bring it), you MAY VOTE IF the supervisor of elections' office confirms that it HAS NOT RECEIVED your vote-by-mail ballot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If the supervisor of elections' office confirms that it HAS ALREADY RECEIVED your vote-by-mail ballot, or CANNOT CONFIRM that it has not received it, you MAY NOT VOTE UNLESS you believe you HAVE NOT ALREADY VOTED, at which time you will be allowed to vote in person via a PROVISIONAL BALLOT.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">If you already mailed your early ballot and want to be sure it has been received by Election Day, you may track it online here:</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span><a href="https://registration.elections.myflorida.com/CheckVoterStatus">https://registration.elections.myflorida.com/CheckVoterStatus</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here: <a href="https://www.dos.myflorida.com/elections/for-voters/voting/vote-by-mail/">https://www.dos.myflorida.com/elections/for-voters/voting/vote-by-mail/</a><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...</span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">MICHIGAN</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NO, <u>UNLESS</u> you submit a written request in advance to do so.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you have already voted absentee but change your mind because you want to instead vote in person, you may SPOIL YOUR ABSENTEE BALLOT, stating that you wish instead to vote at the polls, by submitting a WRITTEN REQUEST to your city or township clerk, either by mail delivered no later than 2 p.m. on the Saturday before the election, or else delivered in person at the clerk's office by no later than 4 p.m. on the Monday prior to the election. However, you CANNOT SPOIL AN ABSENTEE BALLOT ALREADY RECEIVED BY THE CLERK ON ELECTION DAY.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you already mailed your early ballot and want to be sure it has been received by Election Day, you may track it online here: <a href="https://mvic.sos.state.mi.us/Voter/Index">https://mvic.sos.state.mi.us/Voter/Index</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here: <a href="https://www.michigan.gov/sos/0,4670,7-127-1633_8716-21037--,00.html">https://www.michigan.gov/sos/0,4670,7-127-1633_8716-21037--,00.html</a><br /></span></p><div><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...</span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">PENNSYLVANIA</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NO, you may only vote in person if you have not returned your mail-in or absentee ballot.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you ALREADY SUBMITTED a mail-in or absentee ballot, you CANNOT vote at your polling place on Election Day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you have in your possession your mail-in or absentee ballot, but you have changed your mind and want to vote in person, you may SURRENDER YOUR BALLOT together with the pre-addressed outer return envelope to your polling place to be VOIDED, sign a DECLARATION, then vote a REGULAR BALLOT.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you DO NOT HAVE in your possession your ballot but also DID NOT RETURN IT, you can still vote by PROVISIONAL BALLOT. Your election workers will then VERIFY that you did not vote by mail before counting your provisional ballot.</span></p><p></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here:<span> </span><a href="https://www.votespa.com/Voting-in-PA/Pages/Mail-and-Absentee-Ballot.aspx">https://www.votespa.com/Voting-in-PA/Pages/Mail-and-Absentee-Ballot.aspx</a><br /></span></p></div><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...</span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NORTH CAROLINA</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NO, you may only vote in person if you did not vote your mail-in or absentee ballot.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you request an absentee ballot, you may still vote in person during the early voting period or Election Day, as long as you do not vote your absentee ballot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You may submit your absentee ballot in person during the early voting period from October 15 through 31. However, you MAY NOT DROP OFF your ballot at polling places ON ELECTION DAY.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you already mailed your early ballot and want to be sure it has been received by Election Day, you may track it online here: <a href="https://northcarolina.ballottrax.net/voter/">https://northcarolina.ballottrax.net/voter/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here: <a href="https://www.ncsbe.gov/voting/vote-mail">https://www.ncsbe.gov/voting/vote-mail</a></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...</span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">WISCONSIN</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">NO, you may only vote in person if you have not returned your mail-in or absentee ballot.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you request an ABSENTEE BALLOT, but have not returned your ballot, you may still vote in person at the polls on Election Day. You may also drop off your mail-in-ballot in person, at your local municipal clerk's office or polling place, by no later than 8 p.m. on Election Day. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you mail in your ballot, unfortunately the state voter website currently does not seem to provide a tool to track receipt of your ballot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Make sure to fact-check my summary here: <a href="https://elections.wi.gov/sites/elections.wi.gov/files/2020-09/Uniform%20Absentee%20Instructions%20-%20Current%20-%20By-Mail%20Voters.pdf">https://elections.wi.gov/sites/elections.wi.gov/files/2020-09/Uniform%20Absentee%20Instructions%20-%20Current%20-%20By-Mail%20Voters.pdf</a></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> It has been a rewarding experience pulling this information together. Every year, I ask myself what I might know this year that I didn't know last year. At 46, I know that <b>New York State's Board of Elections' process of permitting me to vote in person despite my already having mailed in my ballot</b> (<a href="https://www.elections.ny.gov/VotingAbsentee.html">https://www.elections.ny.gov/VotingAbsentee.html</a>) - knowing that my election workers will simply set aside my absentee ballot if I should be able to make it to the polls - is such a sensible and fair policy that I feel so lucky to be living in this competent, humane, Democratic-run state.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> May all our wishes come true in November.</span><p><br /></p></div>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-57742416043940476242020-04-05T18:30:00.000-04:002020-04-05T18:30:00.290-04:00No Goodbyes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCnyVz6WrfZlWvYByU2EWlkIBB_fYPCyV8Y_5Q-2suE80tjCD8AV-fmoXvIpj7JpBF4iKSJcAlwwEk8RJSpB8ba2qOkItM5KhcUeoCJGBqvVoagyCT3emm7cFkN_0zil7mlL3G0r4g2c/s1600/IMG_3996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCnyVz6WrfZlWvYByU2EWlkIBB_fYPCyV8Y_5Q-2suE80tjCD8AV-fmoXvIpj7JpBF4iKSJcAlwwEk8RJSpB8ba2qOkItM5KhcUeoCJGBqvVoagyCT3emm7cFkN_0zil7mlL3G0r4g2c/s640/IMG_3996.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heading Home Along the Hudson</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
No better time like the present to discuss goodbyes. Including the most painful ones -- like when the chance to say goodbye never comes, or when someone simply chooses not to say goodbye before taking off. The result is the same. At some point, inevitably, we get left behind and whether we want to or not, we will grieve. Until the grief subsides. And in between those impossible pangs of heartache and emptiness, hopefully we will allow ourselves to reach out and bond with someone else who might share a similar experience in one form or another, who can cry with us about how much it hurts, without judgment or unsolicited advice. And then life moves us forward. And then we experience within ourselves the indestructible resilience that we did not realize we possessed. Believe it or not, it is inside us somewhere.<br />
<br />
Every loss we experience shapes us. It strengthens us, by either shielding us from future pain, or else by providing us with the vulnerability we need to break through those encasing walls of self-doubt and into our next life stage. We can be hardened and protected as we travel through our next stage, or we can welcome vulnerability and use the depth of our emotions to expand us into unchartered versions of ourselves. There is no right or wrong way to move forward. There is really just one way and that is to continue living. Life handles the rest. There are many explanations as to why and how we do what we do in life, but in the end, that we breathe and experience in our own way is what matters.<br />
<br />
Every living being that leaves us behind, leaves a mark. Whether we are aware of it or not, that mark becomes a part of us. It is a tremendous gift that you cannot receive from leaving; you can only receive it from being left, abandoned, let go. It is permanent and it is a legacy to the precious meaning of that fragile connection we formed in the opportunity of co-existence. Be it with a neighbor, a friend, a family member, a pet -- we are an amalgamation of all the connections we have formed throughout our lives, which are no longer present, but which have left a permanent mark.<br />
<br />
So. Who cares whether we get a chance to say goodbye or not. That we experienced a connection and grew from it after that connection ultimately dissolved -- is where we can spend our time healing. We love, we lose, we break open, we grow.Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-7965685252336247132019-10-10T04:00:00.000-04:002019-10-10T04:00:00.648-04:00LIFE @ 45: It's Been Surreal<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64VAV3NAeMg4iQZV23CfrJ8oeWa0uBBwyN5QZEBX0QDErk0cD-FU_HLFSaJgzmcCuGP9FcpRXnRv6fqsn_3g-Q9uPFXpTC9wVX0u2_W9tP_cGOHtHyUOCB_S2YRn1vc3Vqi1WHXGT-lE/s1600/IMG_1363.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64VAV3NAeMg4iQZV23CfrJ8oeWa0uBBwyN5QZEBX0QDErk0cD-FU_HLFSaJgzmcCuGP9FcpRXnRv6fqsn_3g-Q9uPFXpTC9wVX0u2_W9tP_cGOHtHyUOCB_S2YRn1vc3Vqi1WHXGT-lE/s400/IMG_1363.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting the poet, the artist, the icon, the tastemaker, the legend himself. <br />
At Q-Tip: The Collection, Bonhams New York, September 2019.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Year
45 was generous to me. There is nothing extraordinary to report other
than a series of auspicious moments embodying elements of life that
I consider to be virtues and blessings. A handful of times, I was floored by
gestures of kindness. I can feel love emanating from the people who vibrate at my frequency, and I know I am exactly where I belong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On
this presumably mid-sequence trip around the sun, it felt as though some mystical being were
writing the script of my life as I proceeded to dream it up. Most times it felt empowering, yet on occasion I admit it felt a bit eery to have so much seeming control over the narrative. Which came first, the hope
it would happen or the moment it happened? The balancing act was to maintain
composure as events played out before me as I had hoped they would -- without the
need for my prodding, just my intention. I learned to accept that I deserved
what was happening to me, and that what was happening to me was making me
happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
think the universe was trying to reassure me that yes, leaps of faith can lead
to unlikely rewards. And rather than fearing the consequences of my actions, I
should simply continue to trust that which is inside me which causes me to act.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If
you have ever felt your inner world crumble to the point where you simply could
not move forward in your compromised shell any longer, at least without collapsing beyond repair into absolute nothingness -- and so decided that you would put every tiny
little thing you had left in you on the table and then risk it all -- then lo
and behold you came out standing in a brand new shiny space -- then you must understand how I feel. This
was my year, my turn at being the phoenix. I committed to the unmapped journey I was destined to take; embracing every injury
and misfortune as yet another gilded layer to my armor; acting without
hesitating and purely out of principle; receiving and welcoming the benevolent
gifts some might need to believe I was too immoral, too selfish or too
unappreciative to claim; and most importantly, stripping the aesthetics down to bare facts, examining them for what they were, and trusting that which I know to be
true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This
year, you might have been a mentor to me, or else a comforting companion in momentary
misery. You may have been my cheerleader, or else cried with me as our hearts
broke over the depraved depths of humanity. Maybe we were there to
remind each other that we cannot save the world from its karma. I may have been drawn to your light, or else it was your darkness. Whatever it was that
connected us, I am grateful for it and I grew from it. You have helped me to gain
certainty in who I am, who I am not and who I do not wish to be; in what I
require, what I will allow and what I do not put up with. In gratitude, I
hope that I have helped you too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-58687209458800594342019-07-09T08:28:00.000-04:002019-07-09T08:28:00.290-04:00Meet You At The Deathbed<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMqNI5XQQzRk7JtH_u-fRxkXkWZSCOIbdXYEpx-rTAqlvK8HvKV9ihMD6WOK_mSQituXEMOZlvUQgh7wyqufwK99afDSVn7WkunW4DEUdkhAURxMuLG9pH6pfukdOM97p4v7UpA2LxAQ/s1600/Chakrasamvara+in+Union+with+Vajrayogini+tibet+14th+Century+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMqNI5XQQzRk7JtH_u-fRxkXkWZSCOIbdXYEpx-rTAqlvK8HvKV9ihMD6WOK_mSQituXEMOZlvUQgh7wyqufwK99afDSVn7WkunW4DEUdkhAURxMuLG9pH6pfukdOM97p4v7UpA2LxAQ/s320/Chakrasamvara+in+Union+with+Vajrayogini+tibet+14th+Century+copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chakrasamvara in Union with Vajrayogini. <br />Tibet, 14th Century. Rubin Museum of Art.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
have been following this trending idea that is backed by empirical data, that marriage
may increase happiness, unless you have a meaningful social network, in which
case marriage may inhibit happiness or have an insignificant effect on it in
the long run. That is my takeaway from the research anyway. These days what I
dwell on is a future without a life partner; an unhappy one. I fear that in the
present moment I am enjoying my friends and loved ones so much that I am not
adequately planning ahead for my sunset years. Yet I have been through this
line of reasoning before, several times. I always end up in the same place.
Nothing in life is guaranteed. There are no certainties. Strategizing towards,
worrying about or settling for a life partner now does not guarantee me a life
partner at my deathbed, nor when I might need support the most. Besides, I am
not even guaranteed that deathbed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What
guarantees me the support I need are meaningful relationships with people who
can reciprocate my love and concern for them. People who know how to take care
of themselves and, in a time of need, are compelled to take care of their loved
ones as well. And that does not necessarily come in the form of a husband, or a
boyfriend, let alone a subservient boytoy or a housemate with benefits. In this
regard, no sacred bloodline nor airtight contract nor formidable alliance can
create what it is that I crave in life. It is simply being aware of how someone
treats me each time I engage with them, and how I treat them in return. No
matter the relationship or social construct. If they bring out the worst in me,
I have no energy for them. If they bring out the best in me, I am there for
them. If together we can overcome conflicts and obstacles that stand in the way
of our closeness, I am in for the long haul. We need not claim each other
exclusively, nor make public vows so that others may bear witness to our union.
We simply care for one another in a way that makes the other one feel good,
feel hopeful, feel valued, feel uplifted. Especially during the darkest most
difficult times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
have people in my life who are in beautiful partnerships. However imperfect all
relationships are, there is a certain level of support that is palpable between
them. An unspoken pact that they are in this journey together and they care
about the other as much as they care about themselves. Over time, I have
listened as they thoughtfully answer that paramount FAQ: What is the secret to
a lasting happy marriage? Kindness. Respect. Appreciation. The top three
answers that make so much sense to me, someone who has successfully journeyed
through fifteen years of marriage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">True,
I am no longer married. I had originally mentally prepared for a five-year run,
and at the time I could only hope for two additional consecutive five-year
renewal periods, followed by what ideally would be an amicable dissolution in
the best interests of everyone affected. And astonishingly enough, that appears
to be how it all played out. So that, to me, is success. Why, you ask, could we
not get to that novation extending the union in perpetuity? Kindness. Respect.
Appreciation. These slowly eroded over time until they were sorely missing.
Does it matter that we also grew apart in profound ways? Yes, that was huge.
Could our marriage have survived our evolving separate selves had we worked on
kindness, respect and appreciation? Who is to say, and who is to say what good
might have come from lengthening the tenure of our marriage? What really
matters is that, today, as we live out our separate lives receiving the
emotional rewards of healthy connections with other people who are not each
other, when we do interact, we now use kindness, respect and appreciation. Even
if sometimes it must be capped to a five-minute exchange. In dissolving our
marriage, we reclaimed what was truly important in our relationship.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-64441549940564849252019-02-14T05:00:00.000-05:002019-02-14T05:19:16.500-05:00Happy Valentine's Day, Gorgeous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Havana Central, NYC, February 2019.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had to laugh out loud even as I sat in solitude. The sound reverberated throughout my newly minted girlcave -- no one around to disrupt its flow or judge its loudness. I was finally alone and able to read the text that my beautiful friend had sent me earlier that day. It was a word-of-mouth recommendation for a dating app used by a close friend of hers, with relatively higher standards. She thought I might be ready to go live.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I do understand that online dating is nothing to laugh at these days. It is mainstream now, I get it. Enough people have told me as much in recent years. Being online is how we keep in touch with friends, produce work product, create and imagine, inform ourselves, shop, share, and manage our resources. So, it makes complete sense that we might take advantage of its efficient sorting and grouping capabilities to cultivate love relationships as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ok, so online dating is far from funny and its normalcy is far from news. Except if, like me, you had been safely confined to a long term, monogamous and relatively transparent love partnership for the last two decades or so and find that, suddenly, by virtue of a major change in your relationship status, you have been pigeonholed as potential prey (or predator) in the vast (and quite frankly, often discouraging) dating pool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I received that text from one of my nearest and dearest, I was both flattered and amused. Flattered because she seemed to believe that I was a viable contender for what I imagine to be quite a superficial and competitive arena (an online shark tank, really). Amused because it was already after 8 pm when I had finally returned home from the office and been able to give due attention to her message. For the third day in a row, I had worked for over ten hours straight in a single day, doing what I love and fueled by nothing more than a communal sense of urgency and desk-friendly midday meals, such as instant cups of organic bone broth ramen and what my officemate could not finish of his Chipotle taco order. And I was only able to fully digest my friend's text because that night, my daughter happened to be spending her evening with my co-parent (formerly husband). So, no quality time kissies, huggies and girly talks over cheeseburgers this evening; my soul-searching grownup "Me" time would officially begin before 10 pm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This Valentine's Day, I think I'll pass on the romance. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hope not to be mislabeled a cynic, and if so I would disagree. Romance is in the queue, on the bucket list, I promise I'll get to it as soon as possible. Just not today. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am currently quite in love with my life as I take my time rebuilding it to serve me uniquely. Completely grateful for all the people with whom I connect and share myself. Completely assured that the effort I put into what and whom I treasure will continue to enrich me with profound rewards. I am full of love and giving it.</span></div>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-22327265144757887892018-12-22T05:00:00.000-05:002019-01-13T20:09:17.043-05:00DATING A COVERT NARCISSIST: What to Expect<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My loved ones warned me, to no avail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"You're very vulnerable right now. You are."</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I insisted that he was a very kind and gentle person. He made me feel
special. We met randomly one slow summer afternoon, and fast formed a habit of
carving out some quiet time alone a few mornings a week, talking intimately
about our feelings and our histories and our pain. He would listen intently and
give thoughtful feedback. I would empathize with his hardships and
sensitivities, of which he seemed to have an unfair share. If we had the time
to spare, we could talk for hours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Months later, these mornings were still our ritual. Within seconds of
parting ways, he would text me to say that he missed me already and couldn't
wait to see me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me,
those in-between minutes and days of being apart felt like torture.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It felt amazing to receive that level of affection. I could not remember
the last time I had fallen so helplessly, if ever, and I never thought it was
possible for me to be that desirable to anyone. It was <i>unreal</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"He just seemed aloof."</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For better or worse, my best friend always made sure to call me out on
my flights of fancy, which oftentimes dealt with matters of the heart. At times
she was more in-your-face than others. This time, she was subtle and simply
unconvinced.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"He's just private," I explained. And he was <i>very</i> private
indeed. So private that it always took me longer than usual to notice that the
special things he had been doing for me, he happened to be doing for certain
others as well. He never admitted as much and would simply dismiss such
observations, except when and until he no longer could, which is when he would
clumsily reconcile his previous statements to suggest that I had simply
misunderstood or misinterpreted a situation, or that if I were to attempt to
press for more clarity, I would be overreacting or insecure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet pieces of the unspoken truth always managed to scatter before me
like a jigsaw puzzle; how other women who visited the shop, like me, seemed to
regard themselves as uniquely special to him in an uncannily similar way. A few
of us could be surrounding him at the same time and strangely, we all seemed to
think that we were secretly entitled to that special attention from him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"They're just regulars," he would insist about those other
women who would pop in anticipating special attention. "That you could
even put yourself in the same category as them is beyond me. That's
insane."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Given the validation I felt whenever he troubled himself to reassure me
of my special place in his heart, I could not resist giving him the benefit of
the doubt and continuing on with this charade. I just needed to quiet my
instincts, for just a little while longer, until I stopped needing that
emotional fix so badly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Does he have any ambitions?"</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why did that question come up so often? Why was ambition a requirement
here? I had a law degree, half an MBA, and a raging fire inside to get myself
back on track after a six year hiatus of SAHM-ing and WAHM-ing -- so between
the two of us there was plenty of ambition, thank you. What was so wrong with
allowing myself to be enraptured temporarily by this mutual game of
make-believe and leave it in the hands of the universe to decide when to
mercilessly rip us apart? I mean, the universe never failed to eventually rip
apart every good thing, so what was the rush here? I needed this. Please, just
back off and let it play out on its own, I prayed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He liked to tell stories and he liked to perform. And he did those two
things incredibly well. I even suggested that he should try his hand at improv,
or pitch for a slot on The Moth Radio Hour. And I wasn't the only one. The
people around him, who saw what I saw, absolutely adored him. He was
indisputably a crowd pleaser and we, his narcissistic supply, loved being
around him when he lit up that way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In between mocking people who had crossed his path and rubbed him the
wrong way, it filled him to recount his brushes with fame. He would recall
serendipitous run-ins with celebrities and moments he found himself at the
right place and time -- and it served to confirm his belief that innately, he
was exceptional; he had a magnetizing gift that set him apart from everyone
else and for that he was worth our worship.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He <i>was</i> exceptional in my eyes. My only concern was that he regularly
failed to act on anything that might feed his sense of self-worth, empowerment
or accomplishment. I know, to the less alpha among us, I must sound like a
helicopter mother or overly involved life coach or a quack psychologist with a
Ph.D. from Google Search Engine University. It is just that I could not help
but notice that there were frequent disconnects between what he claimed he
hoped to have one day (e.g., a house) and what he did towards those aspirations
(i.e. nothing). Something about it unsettled me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He also seemed to perpetuate a victim mentality. His life stories often
painted a picture of someone whose ego was battered and bruised by misfortune,
injustice and cruelty. Initially, I was gratuitous with offers of contacts and
resources. But it quickly became clear that he had zero interest in either a
teach-a-man-to-fish type of helping hand or a constructive brainstorming
session. In fact, he did not intend to solve his problems, rather he used them
to bargain for pity, tips and gifts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I grew accustomed to his pattern of inaction and groaning, as well as
the steady accumulation of broken promises and plans that never came to
fruition. So long as he stroked my ego with a daily dose of sweet words and a
constant desire for my company, this co-dependent romance still had some life
left in it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Please forgive my stupidity."</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was his response the first time he could not deny his lie. And it
worked; I stuck around. It was not as though I was not getting what I needed
out of this fantasy either. Finally, a handsome man was putting in the work to
try and sweep me off my feet, and it seemed I had landed helplessly on my head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No matter that time and time again, he failed my tests. Deep down I knew
that something was off; his stories rarely added up. But by now, I was
hopelessly addicted to those intoxicating romantic lies. "You're the most
beautiful and the most amazing," "you're the best thing that ever
happened to me," "we're soul mates," "I want to take care
of you and I want to provide for you," "let's get married," --
all above and beyond the ever reciprocal daily "I love you"s.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could not remember the last time I felt like the glorified object of a
handsome man's attention, if ever. Against my better judgment, I resisted the
idea of giving up the fantasy for something much healthier and long term.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"He Forgot Your Birthday?"</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once in a while, I would be thrust into a moment of distressing clarity
and I would wonder privately, why on earth was I still engaged in this
increasingly hurtful affair?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It became a habit for me to wear my rose-colored glasses every time we
got together. I overlooked all the young women who stopped in to
visit him at the shop with comments such as "so... have you been
hiding??" or "look, I got my moviepass too, so now we could go
together!" In my presence, he would just stare at them and try not to respond
too much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But beyond those visits from women I will never really know the truth
about, there were very obvious acts and omissions that I brushed aside despite
their dispositive nature, such as when:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">1) He forgot my birthday despite two conversations about the
exact date during the two weeks prior to the date.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2) He suggested exchanging Christmas gifts, but when the day
came and I gave him a thoughtfully curated box of little yet meaningful items,
he had nothing for me in return and did not seem to notice or bother to cure
that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">3) Having given him four months to decide and plan, he could
neither commit to nor decline joining me on a trip, until at the last minute he
admitted that he would not be going, and by that time it was too late to invite
someone else to join me, so I traveled alone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">4) I presented him with a birthday gift, to which he
explained that it was not his style and based on my selection, it was as if I
did not know him at all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">5) He grew increasingly possessive and jealous when I engaged
in any communications with other men in front of him, no matter how platonic or
reasonably unthreatening the circumstances.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">6) He would either suddenly give me the silent treatment,
withdraw affection, or blow up with rage over certain decisions I had made or
opinions that I had formed, that he did not agree with, or whenever I expressed
disappointment about something he did that I felt was unkind or unfair to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">7) He grew contemptuous and began to insert aggressive
remarks into our otherwise pleasant conversations, labeling me so as to
humiliate me for who he saw me to be or what he considered to be my
shortcomings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Over the course of one year, things had grown considerably worse. And
by that point in time, I have no idea why I did not simply walk away. Was I not
much smarter and much stronger than this? Why was I permitting myself to be
mistreated?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All I remember was that I had grown to love this man so deeply (was it unconditionally or blindly?) that despite his imperfections, I felt an overwhelming compassion for his unfortunate life experiences and inability to process them, overcome the trauma and reverse the damage. I wanted to see him happy. I did not take personally his mistreatment, disrespect and selfishness. Rather, I saw the pain and insecurities underlying those behaviors and I wished so much for him to be willing and able to dig deep and address what he might find.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"I can't make you feel better and you can't make me feel better. I don't know what else there is left to say."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> And that was it, save a bit of drama to secure the promise to go our separate ways and never look back. We had reached the end of our time together; neither of us could be who the other person needed any longer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> In less demeaning circumstances, I would have been more than willing to be there for him, to help him reach a better state of mind. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What I was not willing to do though was hand over to him what of mine he felt he was entitled to, that I did not agree
he was entitled to. I had already given him the loyalty and respect that he demanded, both of which he only pretended to reciprocate. It was my resistance to acquiescing to his material demands that caused his growing resentment towards me, which inevitably ripened into contempt. And it was in those final contemptuous vituperations that I discovered an unrecognizable beast, who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the sweet man who once held me together and provided me with gentle comfort. The man I met and fell in love with was merely an avatar with an expiration date.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> He would not miss me because he was no longer short of fresh "supply." New fans would continue to sprout up at the shop, willing to acquiesce to his material and psychosocial needs. He would continue to whisper to one about the other, holding himself blameless and creating the perfect mix around him that would fill him indefinitely. Chew, spit, repeat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Albeit utterly crushed, I was lucky for
the clean break.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"I'm not a crier, but I do remember crying a lot during
that relationship."</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While still in a fog, I had met an intelligent insightful articulate woman
who volunteered a listening ear and kindred spirit. She was someone who could
accurately relate to what I had just gone through and how it felt. She walked
me gently through my confused and fragile state. And, together with the most
loyal of my loved ones, I made it to the other side of the abuse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, aside from never failing to rip apart every good thing, the universe
also never fails to catch me when I fall. It sends me the right people at the
right time, such as in those moments I believe I can handle on my own, but that
have actually led me to my breaking point.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ultimately, I was spared what could have become a rather dangerous
scenario, with far more damage to my psyche and likely to my financial security
as well. That is not to say that the breakaway was not incredibly painful and
that I do not still suffer its aftershocks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But relative to other stories that have been shared and that have proven
sobering and clarifying, I feel lucky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Do you think... maybe... he was using you?"</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It took me some time to face the reality of the situation; to admit to myself that I knew all along what was happening, and I let it
happen. I reasoned to myself that, materialistically, so long as I never gave
more than I was willing to give without expecting anything in return, no one
was getting hurt in this co-dependent fake romance. It simply had to end when
what I was willing to give was not enough for him, and so he found what he
needed elsewhere. It was primal. How could I blame him?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, as to whether he was using me, I cannot seem to sum up the entire
experience in those terms. I do not think that from his perspective or from
mine, it would be considered a fair or complete or precise assessment. I
grapple with this: do we not all "use" each other? For love, support,
all the benefits of human contact and connection? Is taking someone's time less
egregious than taking someone's money? Is it unacceptable for one person in a
couple to subsidize the other in a situation of disparate incomes?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the end, it came down to this: I wanted love and emotional support,
and what I got instead was a superficial romance that blew hot and cold. He
wanted a trained alter ego who could provide him with financial security and I was
neither willing nor able to fill that role. Were we being used (i.e. taking
from each other)? I am sure we were.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"It's interesting that you were willing to suspend disbelief."</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The whole experience made me wonder, what was I missing inside me so much that I so badly needed from him, despite the esteem-quashing side effects? Deep down, did I not love myself enough? Why not? Was I incapable of validating myself? Why and how did I become so addicted to this fickle romance?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the book of life lessons, this chapter was a difficult one to get through. But the positive result is that it has taken me deeper inside myself and allowed me to question my subconscious needs; why they exist and why I have not been able to provide them to myself thus far. I imagine that one day, with enough introspection and work, I will find myself whole again and arrive at the happy ending to my story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"In my playbook, you still remain a strong, resilient,
brave and fearless woman, more afraid of not taking risks than of taking them,
despite the harm or loss that may come as a result. That is gutsy, my friend.
But it's you."</b></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, I receive an abundance of support from the most loyal
of my loved ones, who continue to help me through the aftermath of my
disastrous decisions.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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</style>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-55307032143376678402018-10-10T05:00:00.000-04:002018-10-10T05:00:00.959-04:00LIFE @ 44: Taking Stock in Bonds<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMrzoQ8WIJk_9qjJt51dzlxsXJngy-G2ri3Z9ubONG-jJ9ZQllyMmVtqW8x13nvftFQcVDvtss93l1fdC37vXaD_gZaYnh02ZySTkPkvaTWg2CMQQetiYOGxyf57TBfxKhg6kPA2sLgY/s1600/IMG_6736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMrzoQ8WIJk_9qjJt51dzlxsXJngy-G2ri3Z9ubONG-jJ9ZQllyMmVtqW8x13nvftFQcVDvtss93l1fdC37vXaD_gZaYnh02ZySTkPkvaTWg2CMQQetiYOGxyf57TBfxKhg6kPA2sLgY/s400/IMG_6736.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rockaway Beach, September 2018.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">At forty-four, I continue to be a work in progress. I hope
to age gracefully and be able to look back on this period as the year I
discovered how strong I could be on my own.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Imagine waking up
every morning to a familiar sound. A ping. Uniquely comforting. A sweet whisper
of affection, attention, love. And hearing that same ping, throughout the day
-- sometimes spontaneous, other times responsive. Imagine a whole entire
blissful year of them, holding your hand through one of the most arduous
painful journeys of your life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">And then one day,
nothing. And soon that nothingness becomes your new reality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">As humans we pair up,
maybe as parent and child, or as siblings, or confidantes, or spouses. We form
bonds that over time will strengthen, weaken or suddenly (and painfully) break
apart. This was the year I learned to let go of hurtful bonds, recognize and
appreciate healing bonds, and savor the nourishing bonds that had stood the
test of time and adversity. It was the year I truly experienced that being alone
was the basis of human existence, no matter how many bonds are formed or broken.
And no matter how unbreakable, bonds do not erase the human condition of aloneness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">What pulls two people
apart is as much of a mystery to me as what pulls them together. To dwell in
such mystery is futile. But to mindfully experience the mysterious magical
quality of a bond as it is forming -- that nourishes me. Some bonds seek to
transform while others seek to validate. To maintain awareness of my
individuality and convictions as I bond to another human being -- I find that
to be simultaneously challenging, enlightening and a vital part of what makes a
bond healthy and lasting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">This year, I practiced
how to cultivate healthy bonds while undertaking to discover and honor my true self.
To do this, I had to acknowledge that certain relationships failed to nourish
me. I also had to accept that certain relationships that nourished me failed to
nourish the other person. I experienced the loss of affection, the waxing and
waning of human attraction, the dishonesty, distrust and insecurities that
dissolve a deep loving connection, and also the envy, self-deception and lack
of boundaries that sever a close friendship. I committed to walking away from
drama and rather focusing on the functional relationships that were worth reinforcing. I
delighted in developing connections that seemed fated and effortless, while I exercised
patience with myself as I healed, often slowly, from the nonfunctional
relationships I had so longed to salvage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">For me, the journey
alone is frightening. But it is also freeing. And as I grow into my
frighteningly freer self, I feel a much deeper appreciation for the healthy
bonds I have made that I can only hope will last a lifetime.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-60695166846855313122017-10-10T05:00:00.000-04:002017-10-10T05:00:29.343-04:00LIFE @ 43: No Regrets<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZAipKA-cmyJhNLkB4bPuRAaPHmXO1097e5lrjYdDIcvgfLpfgkJmfxz4amqzMrRzN81lKJznWK7gl_uQL5uSZkbBJVqDLDkeLzytDlDgziJ1_xPfRf0FtB_7PRPps6-M4t2no3ka5cs/s1600/je+ne+regrette+rien.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZAipKA-cmyJhNLkB4bPuRAaPHmXO1097e5lrjYdDIcvgfLpfgkJmfxz4amqzMrRzN81lKJznWK7gl_uQL5uSZkbBJVqDLDkeLzytDlDgziJ1_xPfRf0FtB_7PRPps6-M4t2no3ka5cs/s400/je+ne+regrette+rien.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No Regrets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It has been an epic year. Not for amateurs, certainly. It is
the year that, after some prodding from a life mentor, faithful friends and a therapist
alike, I answered the big looming question: What do I want?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not in my typical fashion, I answered without words. I did
not write, revise and repeat until the revelation was kneaded out of me methodically and euphorically in polished long form. I answered through my actions. I let my
wants flow out of me the way an upward dog rises and peaks rather inevitably just before
it gently crashes like a wave out of a sun salutation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actions are momentous. This year they set me on a journey of
an unknown destination. Every experience now surrounds me in mist form like a
mirage. <i>Am I really here?</i> I have to ask, before realizing that what surrounds
me is a consequence of blind trust in a kind universe that listens to my pure
and wistful contemplations. Life can be what I want it to be if I let go of
control and practice being true to myself and honest with my feelings. My feelings are valid, organic, and I am allowed to address them while remaining responsible to my loved ones and conscientious in every aspect of my decision-making. In fact, as a society we have an obligation to address our feelings, lest
we deny ourselves our existential needs, forgoing genuine happiness
and the realization of our true potential. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We cannot train ourselves to be other than who we truly are
-- certainly not for the long term -- no matter what others will inevitably
try to label us in order to manipulate us into one role or another. And who we
truly are is beautiful and genuine to the right person, to the right people,
and in the right setting. Life is a puzzle and if we value our happiness -- if we appreciate that prioritizing our happiness is prioritizing our ability to contribute to our communities -- we
must embrace, protect and defend our authentic selves in order to fit perfectly, magically, into our pages in history.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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</style>Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-46908692604115812942016-10-10T07:00:00.000-04:002016-10-10T07:09:22.646-04:00LIFE @ 42: Whatever You're Having<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi56e7ZCXtU7d3__6tmJ7Afdc6AGpzVKVbLtQxoNoIUOoWijzV_r8JiY8R3_wlTrp4eYxtos_eGhTF8i2wjlYpL1_TEHRDk2NWk3vSLCfY8qoKn2W-uxyvQtmb60IoLT5A98dcrWLZtbg/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi56e7ZCXtU7d3__6tmJ7Afdc6AGpzVKVbLtQxoNoIUOoWijzV_r8JiY8R3_wlTrp4eYxtos_eGhTF8i2wjlYpL1_TEHRDk2NWk3vSLCfY8qoKn2W-uxyvQtmb60IoLT5A98dcrWLZtbg/s400/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"What do you want?"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to have so much more to say. These days, I have so much more to do. Even so, I am living much more of my life in my head. So much so that it has become difficult for me to identify what of my life remains outside of my head, if anything.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The big unanswered question that was presented to me this year was "What do you want?" As in, what do I want </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">out of life</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. And after a moment to digest the question, it occurred to me that I have never asked it of myself. I never really dared. Of course I routinely ask myself what it is I should do (or want) in the context of where I am and what I have. But to simply want, without context? Out of thin air? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The idea was so boundless it overwhelmed me.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My first answer was "I don't know." And I must admit, I was in tears when I uttered that, although I cannot remember what exactly it was that moved me. Was it my inability to come up with an answer, or was it the release that I felt from being asked to think in a way that I have never permitted myself to before?</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We tell our children that the sky is the limit. We encourage them to reach for the stars, and we assure them that they can accomplish whatever it is they set their minds to. Maybe we were told the same when we were children. Yet over time, have we managed to touch the sky? If not, when (and why) did we decide to give up?</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Often with the best of intentions, people will offer me advice on what it is I should want out of life. But it had been so long since anyone really cared to know what <i>I</i> might <i>really</i> want that by the time someone did want to know, I was blindsided.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My second answer -- and by this time I had had a few months to contemplate -- was a bit defensive. "That isn't a Buddhist question," I countered. "What is the purpose of thinking about wanting anything other than what you already have?"</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And in speaking those words, it occurred to me that, in the deepest recesses of my mind, </span>I did know exactly what <span style="font-family: inherit;">it was that I wanted out of life. It was something that I did not already have, and so, what I really wanted more than anything was </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">to stop wanting it.</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-35354227400024516672015-10-10T07:09:00.001-04:002016-10-08T23:41:36.739-04:00LIFE @ 41: All Good<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVoUg1MtNTrcbJbFBfVvbEebTpaFy4f1Sei-Mu2v_mRPRHUInbX9xsI8EMwdrPKRnYoM5zi51eNnJDsrEyGjqchPWrQCs8doiWYVpceregNkbARLIgKrCHPeAvcp2oqt7naZHWNkzu_Y/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVoUg1MtNTrcbJbFBfVvbEebTpaFy4f1Sei-Mu2v_mRPRHUInbX9xsI8EMwdrPKRnYoM5zi51eNnJDsrEyGjqchPWrQCs8doiWYVpceregNkbARLIgKrCHPeAvcp2oqt7naZHWNkzu_Y/s400/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Disclaimer: No fructose-based soft drink is being endorsed for consumption here.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Happy Birthday!" </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Thank you. I don't think they count after 40." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Are you <i>really</i> older than <i>forty</i>! You certainly don't <i>look</i> it!" </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Thank you, thank you. Yes, I dyed my hair before I started this job. I love that reaction." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I don't get that reaction anymore." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Wait, <i>you</i> certainly don't look that age either!"</blockquote>
And so it goes. The "Over Forty" exchange among healthy socialized middle-aged Americans.<br />
<br />
I cannot complain. Like Pablo Picasso, I too believe that "youth has no age." On this, my forty-first birthday, I am full of youth. As experienced as I am in many areas, I still feel like an amateur in many others. And, my deliberate endeavors to constantly learn new things and question what I think I already know has kept my insides well-tuned. I kept my promise to myself to surround myself with love and beauty, and truly, it has done wonders. I have closed doors and by doing so, opened others that I never thought I would have the opportunity to open. I abandoned political niceties for truth and principle. I abandoned ego for vulnerability. And as a mentor judge once taught me by his life's example, I am an open book and keep no secrets. Every day I dress - not in order to conform to expectations - rather, as if it were my last chance to enjoy this world. And I savor what is beautiful in it. And I compromise for no one. And I love and support and receive nourishment from my friends - family and otherwise.<br />
<br />
Life is Good.<br />
<br />
<br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-84966180873206606232015-06-16T08:09:00.000-04:002016-10-08T22:47:34.089-04:00THE RULES OF MOURNING<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB_600C2NZ2bhiIiDI-apVOFmIVbtOb3zT4CypQtMm_Ljf4X1S3X2VP3SyK8gw_EPSFweEANwALDeV-snO0JyYWX6Dzyfv6HLvgdj8DvI0CEer3YQG9U7YO-SJhyDDzx7OsaNaEC5eKU/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB_600C2NZ2bhiIiDI-apVOFmIVbtOb3zT4CypQtMm_Ljf4X1S3X2VP3SyK8gw_EPSFweEANwALDeV-snO0JyYWX6Dzyfv6HLvgdj8DvI0CEer3YQG9U7YO-SJhyDDzx7OsaNaEC5eKU/s400/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was ten and a half years old at my grandmother's funeral. My sisters and I attended the wake on the day preceding it. The day before that, we sat around together in different parts of the house -- which for those somber days felt strangely quiet and sunless -- while we talked about how my grandmother's heart had stopped beating because her body was too weak and it was time for her to go to heaven. It was unusual for my parents to be home with us, lounging in their pajamas like us, abandoning the structure of their workdays. My grandmother was dead; she would no longer ever be in her room or in the garden, and so for at least a short time we were allowed to move forward in time slowly and irresponsibly.<br />
<br />
"Did you love your grandmother?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. Why?"<br />
<br />
"Because none of you were crying at the funeral."<br />
<br />
My best friend was eleven years old and had two older sisters, so she was pretty confident in her assessments of private situations that had nothing to do with her. I, on the other hand, was a half year younger than her and a middle child, so her observation made me feel insecure about how I mourned, or didn't mourn, my grandmother.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the same funeral home, about eight years later. I was technically an adult, but still operating with a teenage brain. I was attending the wake of a close friend of my parents, possibly a distant relative, who had spent a lot of time in our home throughout my childhood, and who died suddenly of a heart attack in her late forties. I arrived late and sat in one of the empty seats in the front row. My tears were streaming down my face uncontrollably. This happened on several occasions in my twenties; tears streaming down my face uncontrollably while mourning a contemporary of my parents. In retrospect, I was clearly struggling with the reality of my own parents' mortality, which for some time was a thought that was too much to bear.<br />
<br />
"She kept staring at you," my sister remarked later about that same best friend's mother, who attended the wake as well and like her daughter, couldn't help but nose her way into other people's business -- the more private, the more alluring, naturally. "She asked someone how well you knew her."<br />
<br />
The need to judge the appropriateness of expressive sadness proves to be recurring. Why do we feel the need to comment on or psychoanalyze a person's visceral response to death? Why is it an unspoken rule that the expression of sadness must correlate to the degree of intimacy between the mourning and the mourned? Why can't someone cry at hearing about the death of a stranger without others questioning the griever's response? Why must someone cry openly over the death of a loved one lest the bereaved be adjudged cold or not upset enough? Are we worried about how the world will grieve our loss? Do we feel the need to judge in order to feel control over our own mortality?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My neighbors and I lost a dear friend last week. He was a friend to many, and indispensable to his family. I missed the memorial service, and have yet to choose how to best pay my respects. But in thinking back to what the world is missing without him, I might cry much more than I ever have over the loss of others who onlookers might find it would be more appropriate for me to cry over.</div>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-34960345024324958132015-06-12T17:16:00.002-04:002016-10-09T00:46:13.278-04:00ESCAPE INTO DENSE BRUSH<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zmDv5xm1UPftujkmJLymCLDFKBXr4tculfSqK65exQzf729eamFYdpfb8Qm9tJGASLbE1jOlz5lom3eExE1WwDtWOSs8A_a9fObvnnG0I8AZ5-RjhiUQ1bI32OVXw8uXu_qD0Xk5cFU/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zmDv5xm1UPftujkmJLymCLDFKBXr4tculfSqK65exQzf729eamFYdpfb8Qm9tJGASLbE1jOlz5lom3eExE1WwDtWOSs8A_a9fObvnnG0I8AZ5-RjhiUQ1bI32OVXw8uXu_qD0Xk5cFU/s400/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Marc by Marc Jacobs nylon handbag rests beside a single fallen tree...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKsj4MOMJ-VqKLj8yX885d4sb8QLcPwDKXD301paR2txrHrTWYAWAG53PCmZPMR1_M65yLVobEHZmSCO4XMRqRYWF_SnF3a4nO0F4J6bz3KhjKb__Uv4yB0MGiAyOEZ12rc1J1CrJQDE/s1600/Slide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKsj4MOMJ-VqKLj8yX885d4sb8QLcPwDKXD301paR2txrHrTWYAWAG53PCmZPMR1_M65yLVobEHZmSCO4XMRqRYWF_SnF3a4nO0F4J6bz3KhjKb__Uv4yB0MGiAyOEZ12rc1J1CrJQDE/s400/Slide2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, about that tree... did it make a sound?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnj2mpgLlqadgny5_Fk_55Ze2jp70pxhGOMzqAiLFoTRohaoWMjooGL65cpAbHfeOd5KbM4t_DEkBvLTRKs4-wmpj201-btmWzdeQAp3Bf0EqGg0oY7yrQ1MG043fEy02DdAl_VKaRZA/s1600/Slide3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnj2mpgLlqadgny5_Fk_55Ze2jp70pxhGOMzqAiLFoTRohaoWMjooGL65cpAbHfeOd5KbM4t_DEkBvLTRKs4-wmpj201-btmWzdeQAp3Bf0EqGg0oY7yrQ1MG043fEy02DdAl_VKaRZA/s400/Slide3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A walking bridge proves useful. Twice. Maybe three or four times. At least.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEprcTBaQXiFKTB_KXEuYkXqmML8_dUmozhBnxScfxJhVwE5OX9biH9q39UJN0KwPN5P8otC5wxTj02WiKDkT4yKOFDe0YCyxHRtX1pfw5PYcYceUuHYGWWTkVygA0BcyGgIocYnUHDB4/s1600/Slide4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEprcTBaQXiFKTB_KXEuYkXqmML8_dUmozhBnxScfxJhVwE5OX9biH9q39UJN0KwPN5P8otC5wxTj02WiKDkT4yKOFDe0YCyxHRtX1pfw5PYcYceUuHYGWWTkVygA0BcyGgIocYnUHDB4/s400/Slide4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little girl spots a teepee. Or is it a <i>tree</i>pee?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_wrj5ZR4XejpQyKPlB0KIqAm21EHCfcMsu7ha0RGecbIy-j-TyEzVCMClHGI38J1yCqlydVcV2k6WFM53y_tCgH6GNQdeW8gQzuuSkJjfldrAuQM4yDo6b-kOC3GryE2gZMtIfINBq4/s1600/Slide5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_wrj5ZR4XejpQyKPlB0KIqAm21EHCfcMsu7ha0RGecbIy-j-TyEzVCMClHGI38J1yCqlydVcV2k6WFM53y_tCgH6GNQdeW8gQzuuSkJjfldrAuQM4yDo6b-kOC3GryE2gZMtIfINBq4/s400/Slide5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's call it a 'treepee' then, shall we(e)?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQ28uLBXs-Gr-raY6pq_01Ebyph_zDxo6t8PWY1co4WktAMxyz96CV6lLXb9pcb9ozLDAcy0Glq-6qxGF4CpKrZvgpGJ1tzlUPPIQj670iAD17Epc1W9wDkeHkKdQMztIRjPB1sXY2xk/s1600/Slide6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQ28uLBXs-Gr-raY6pq_01Ebyph_zDxo6t8PWY1co4WktAMxyz96CV6lLXb9pcb9ozLDAcy0Glq-6qxGF4CpKrZvgpGJ1tzlUPPIQj670iAD17Epc1W9wDkeHkKdQMztIRjPB1sXY2xk/s400/Slide6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We are never really alone, are we?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-29798925374865682172015-05-02T23:56:00.000-04:002015-05-03T12:08:07.921-04:00FALLING PREY: More Fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5a3o4-YoxMTEFO0XXBR3YUX7onEnn-y32AdHyMFt5zh5A_9kirxtB5nKc0lNj3B7Yg1NhEho7ER3NaXLmgEh4wbkLSlGizsYjStrSz_Ru9mb3TcbnAlyTwT0uNddSHl_3VhlqnQcGz1c/s1600/2015+MM+Bird+in+RI+Asylum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5a3o4-YoxMTEFO0XXBR3YUX7onEnn-y32AdHyMFt5zh5A_9kirxtB5nKc0lNj3B7Yg1NhEho7ER3NaXLmgEh4wbkLSlGizsYjStrSz_Ru9mb3TcbnAlyTwT0uNddSHl_3VhlqnQcGz1c/s1600/2015+MM+Bird+in+RI+Asylum.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
How did I get here? I thought I vowed to protect myself. If I could not protect me, who would?<br />
<br />
I had no reservations about being in hospitals. My whole life, my parents worked in hospitals. As a child, I was no stranger to the Intensive Care and Geriatrics units. As a pathologist, my dad would often get his work slides mixed in with the family trip slides, so I was no stranger to blown-up abnormal cancer cell images either. And, sterile white walls have always made me feel safe.<br />
<br />
What did feel strange, though it shouldn't have at this point, was my having walked into a very vulnerable situation like a lamb to the slaughter. I thought I had asked all the right questions so as to avoid such a predicament. What was this meeting about? Would <i>she</i> be there? Who called this meeting and why?<br />
<br />
My mother gave nothing away, as usual. Lots of "I don't know"s and vague mentions about this being something the doctor thought would help her. No warnings, and specifically nothing to prepare me for the deposition-style interrogation that was about to take place. Secreted away was any notice whatsoever that the interrogation would be conducted by <i>her</i>, and about me.<br />
<br />
Typically, when surrounded by family as I was right now, one would expect to feel safe. Not me. Such a luxury was not my birthright.<br />
<br />
It was a surreal hour-long meeting. There <i>she</i> sat, at the head of the table, in a faded black pocket tee shirt. She no longer appeared frightened as she did way back when (as in, before the emergency mobile crisis unit had whisked her away). Now, she felt in control and situationally superior. Her healthcare provider team -- social worker, psychologist, and psychiatrist -- filled out the left side of the table. My mother, then my father, then I, filled out the right side. <br />
<br />
My other siblings, enviably, were spared this exercise. It was only me she was after. After four years of therapy, things hadn't changed. In her mind, I was still the enemy. I was strongly suspected of being part of a conspiracy that, however topsy-turvily, was linked to a very real tragedy that the two of us had experienced fourteen years prior to this moment. Was I an accomplice to our friend's murder? Allegedly, yes, somehow, though she could never quite sort out the details in her copious disjointed notes or in the cryptic paranoid e-mails that she would send out periodically to random family friends.<br />
<br />
She, in all her present glory, sat armed and ready with legal pad and pen, smirking proudly, satisfied by her upper hand. She was medicated and stabilized now. Yet seemingly, she hadn't changed in demeanor since the last time we shared an enclosed space together, which was years ago, and only a few weeks before she was involuntarily committed and finally diagnosed.<br />
<br />
The questions were ridiculous, probing, accusatory, and at times meant to corner or intimidate. I wondered whether, if instead I was on the outside looking in, I would be amused or horrified. In this moment, I felt like an unsuspecting animal whose instincts were dulled, hence my predator's ability to lure me into her cage. <i>Her</i> mother helped get me there... where was mine?<br />
<br />
Ill-prepared, I spontaneously asked her what medications she had been prescribed and why she decided to stop taking them. After all, I felt it was only fair that I would get to ask her questions as well. But not at this meeting; she quickly, cunningly, and authoritatively shut me down, reminding me that although I was her sister, she would not be sharing any information about herself with me. This was exclusively <i>her</i> fact-finding session.<br />
<br />
After what seemed to be an eternal suspended state of being, the assault was over. On our way out of the facility, almost no words were exchanged. No comfort doled out to family members; we were not the patient so there was no duty, naturally. It left a stinging silence. My parents and I walked in a daze to find a place to eat -- the heavy burden weighing down our shoulders, the cloudless blue sky being our only consolation. Really, we just needed a place to sit and process this reality that was slowly and methodically eating away at any hope of our family life being as simple as it once was. <br />
<br />
Now was not the time to lament that I would be adjudged cruel and selfish, were I to eschew my role as the strong one. I was not allowed to be fragile; I had a full day ahead of me filled with seemingly impossible demands and I had no bona fide mental illness to present to anyone in exchange for pity.<br />
<br />
It is not difficult for me to understand why my mother later decided to form her own narrative about my sister's illness. She prefers to believe that the paranoia has since disappeared, never to return again, thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. She insists it was merely a lapse of sanity that has been permanently cured by antipsychotics. This despite the science. Anyone who fears a future violent episode is unkindly perpetuating a stigma. And those annual relapses -- to admit that they happen is to make them more real than they need to be.<br />
<br />
<br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-52416707926192034862015-03-29T22:57:00.000-04:002015-04-04T21:42:30.035-04:00INTO THE FISH TANK: A Fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKkiaBCG4FptcfQzW1a6IQ7MEMt9LToZIjGENzT21SFbK1V16vQBo4GU1mNIfi6MnEOiwk9fNuSjH3YAtLhmliIrnfNYImUlRrTRuLz5QdQb6rYA8gTyoH9G6F8Naf0dzr4f7HKEdk_Q/s1600/fishtank+803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKkiaBCG4FptcfQzW1a6IQ7MEMt9LToZIjGENzT21SFbK1V16vQBo4GU1mNIfi6MnEOiwk9fNuSjH3YAtLhmliIrnfNYImUlRrTRuLz5QdQb6rYA8gTyoH9G6F8Naf0dzr4f7HKEdk_Q/s1600/fishtank+803.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
There we were, just the two of us. Just like the old days, except now we were sitting in a car somewhere in Brooklyn, both of us grieving. She was grieving the loss of her young husband to a sudden and completely unexpected stroke. I was grieving the loss of my sister to a serious mental illness. It was at her husband's wake a few months before that the two of us reconnected. Today she was the strong one, as she often was. In youth, she would confront every new situation fearlessly. In adulthood, I noticed she was no different.<br />
<br />
Something about the mundanity of the midday traffic and the unremarkable flow of pedestrian traffic briefly fooled me into thinking that this was going to be just an ordinary day, easily forgotten.<br />
<br />
Did we park inside the hospital garage, or did we use street parking? I can't remember. Soon, we were breathing in the antiseptic smell of disinfectants, standing under sturdy fluorescent lighting and surrounded by sterile walls, mostly white, with plate glass for transparency. The plate glass was wiped clean and the double doors to my right were secured with an industrial-grade lock and alarm. I imagine a Purell dispenser was hanging dutifully by the elevators. One of us gave the uniformed desk attendant my sister's name.<br />
<br />
As we stood waiting, I looked through the plate glass past the reception desk as random strangers in drab blue hospital gowns meandered aimlessly back and forth. The view resembled a fish tank. Everything looked as I had expected. Until I saw her, familiar and unrecognizable all at once.<br />
<br />
This was not my sister. She looked too much like the others and less like herself. How dare they dress her like someone without a name, without a family? The lump in my throat gave way to uncontrollable tears. Pure reflex. I needed to pull myself together <i>stat</i>, because I could not let her witness me feeling this way -- horrified for her, pitying her.<br />
<br />
She did not notice us observing her as she made her way down the hall, or as she sat at one of the tables designated for visits. We walked over to meet her and slid into the seat like we used to do at our local McDonald's back in the '80s. I cannot erase the memory of those manly slippers she wore as her feet shuffled forward one inch at a time, the sweat beads running down her shiny bloated face, the oiliness of her hair, the absence of emotion framed by the whites of her eyes. <br />
<br />
This was not my sister. She was too narcissistic to be suffering from this illness. She was a runner-up in a beauty pageant once. She had suitors, she had nice clothes, she was smart, coy and witty. <br />
<br />
I had read about the tremors, as well as the other possible side effects of antipsychotics. But it had yet to fully sink in that my sister was now a bona fide statistic; one in the kind of pool of patients represented in a study confirming the likelihood of such side effects. On account of the medical diagnosis of her over-ten-years-long illness, until now left untreated, she had been transformed into one of those powerful stock images that might be used for fundraising purposes or an advocacy project.<br />
<br />
"Hi!" Our very dear old friend greeted her as if we were all there for a party. "Can I braid your hair?" she asked cheerily. My sister accepted the kind gesture with a blank expression that could almost be mistaken for early childhood innocence. I sat quiet and still, struggling to rid my throat of that darn lump. Remember when we all used to braid each other's hair, I thought.<br />
<br />
We were not there for more than fifteen minutes when my sister finally turned to me and asked what must have been on her mind for some time. "Can I stay with you? I promise to take my medication. I'll do whatever you say."<br />
<br />
The naïveté of her request both wrenched my heart and insulted me. So much had already happened since the time I was still that gullible person who would have given her the benefit of the doubt. Too many lies, too much harm, too much time spent denying the unchanging nature and seriousness of the situation. Those empty promises -- only my resolve could stop the pattern.<br />
<br />
I did not utter much more than "no" before she stood up firmly but shakily, and abruptly ended the visit with a familiar childish "nevermind then" -- a juvenile ultimatum that was meant to make me change my answer in exchange for a tiny flickering second of sisterly warmth of the kind I hadn't seen since middle school. Maybe not even middle school, actually.<br />
<br />
A cycle of relapses would follow over many years. Pleas for forgiveness would continually be asked of me by people who did not understand (or did not want to understand) the truth of the matter, which was that there was nothing to forgive. Her illness could not be converted into a mistake which could then be fixed. It was something we all needed to accept as serious and permanent, and then deal with. This was my sister. This was who she had become.<br />
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<br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-51810406731511061652014-10-10T10:44:00.000-04:002016-10-08T23:01:03.046-04:00NOT GIVING A F*CK @ 40<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uTk2VYtncObncsKG7E7KVrdQVGOFUVOe9lBJXoygskeg_G9IhzH3FMPUdarCFSRGEaCjIuS12wUZ3mqcONU5ZSfuKGRjgRBc66RJEt7KyXmOJ-24FR4cdt3FxXQqfNUHfCgBbnf8cFs/s1600/2014+1010+Forty+674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uTk2VYtncObncsKG7E7KVrdQVGOFUVOe9lBJXoygskeg_G9IhzH3FMPUdarCFSRGEaCjIuS12wUZ3mqcONU5ZSfuKGRjgRBc66RJEt7KyXmOJ-24FR4cdt3FxXQqfNUHfCgBbnf8cFs/s1600/2014+1010+Forty+674.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh My, Look at the Time! Am I 40 Already?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I was 28 years old, sitting at a table of about 15 people, celebrating a work colleague's 40th birthday. I think we may have been at Tao, although in those days work lunches on the company's tab were so frequent that all the midtown hot spots from that period are now a giant blur to me. Someone asked the question, "So, how does it feel to be 40?" After a brief pause, the guest of honor replied that it felt awesome because, "you just don't give a f*ck anymore, like the way you do when you're <b><i>26</i></b>." Her remark was accompanied by a quick unkind glance at the horrid row of us, the twentysomethings. A lovely thirtysomething woman took it upon herself to cut off at the chase what could have become painfully awkward silence, by asking without judgment, "well, who here is 26?" One by one, we twentysomethings stated our ages, each of us individually relieved once we had revealed that we had just missed the bitter birthday woman's bullet by at least a year. Nevertheless, we knew what she was trying to say; that she had given up on life, and that we who still cared should not feel so great about ourselves just because we hadn't.<br />
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<div>
The take-away for me that day was this: I will absolutely not be bitter at 40 because, well, bitter at 40 looked really awful.</div>
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<div>
So here I am, at 40. I made it, and my goal is met. How did I do it? Every day, I make sure that the life that surrounds me is one driven by love and beauty. I choose love and beauty over money, and I choose love and beauty over obligation. I check for love and beauty beneath the façades of images of love and beauty. I know that love and beauty cannot be found in self-centeredness, ignorance or neglect. Love and beauty are found in mutually enriching connections. They are consequences of selfless desires to breathe life into shared spaces. Love and beauty are catalysts for growth; without growth, there is no love, no beauty.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And why do I think it is acceptable for me to be preaching about love and beauty with such insufferable profundity? Because now I am 40, and I just don't give a f*ck anymore.</div>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-90797416373956641382014-08-20T23:30:00.000-04:002016-10-08T23:11:23.987-04:00Days 39-53: WHAT CHALLENGE? [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge]How I let so much time lapse, I have no idea. One thing I know at this point though is that my summer salad challenge is flawed. Really, any entrée can be presented as a salad so long as you chop it up into pieces. Steak with a side of greens can become a steak salad. Whole fish topped with mango salad can become a fish-and-mango salad. And so it goes, on and on.<br />
<br />
I did not create this challenge so that I could cheat myself out of the intended outcome. I just hadn't stopped at any point before tonight, to consider what exactly the outcome was intended to be. Committing myself to eating a salad meal every day seemed like a perfectly good (virtuous, even) and complete idea. But without a bound definition of what 'salad' actually meant -- for the purposes of this challenge -- failure would be both elusive and inevitable.<br />
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So tonight, I have decided to elucidate the definition of 'salad' to mean: an unaccompanied entrée consisting of at least one-half dark leafy greens. By doing so, I believe this exercise will now begin to feel a lot more like a challenge to me.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OLCaMxEa0mHUnT3e3A30-4OTamM-MtJ_V_N4zz1ba7H2-UyIXp1iLaONYb5PUTr4chc5yI90CJ8mcqf-WU-z_m3SeQkFsCU9FFt-YBc-0_lE5KcG-paW3conKTJ2YFmas-hij4rXIlM/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OLCaMxEa0mHUnT3e3A30-4OTamM-MtJ_V_N4zz1ba7H2-UyIXp1iLaONYb5PUTr4chc5yI90CJ8mcqf-WU-z_m3SeQkFsCU9FFt-YBc-0_lE5KcG-paW3conKTJ2YFmas-hij4rXIlM/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brussels Sprouts Salad with Peanuts & Pancetta, <a href="http://www.vinetfleurs.com/">Vin et Fleurs</a>, Soho, NYC</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1lvSY9DSQXJ3PmJbe8kGLnK6wEk4nL0CDzG0LHM1lbCwhgm6P41m5F5ax0tlJhbfAbOAW8eqmQnpGpDUgqyeothSTwG4Sbe-l0KhUCqlaMB-TXD_vM1tD7yYXCUP-3F2pWIHpaygZVE/s1600/Slide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1lvSY9DSQXJ3PmJbe8kGLnK6wEk4nL0CDzG0LHM1lbCwhgm6P41m5F5ax0tlJhbfAbOAW8eqmQnpGpDUgqyeothSTwG4Sbe-l0KhUCqlaMB-TXD_vM1tD7yYXCUP-3F2pWIHpaygZVE/s1600/Slide2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled Chicken Salad ~ Fruit Salad ~ Brussels Sprouts Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_80XZqvmxQkLyTpMSDP0jX1Fr93miPyZ7-ymeWZGfzmpPs4ht_sU9EGDpSuLTsDh0rjdm8_9EOUQGUUXSLCu6XQiNSR90ZrAH_ulbNmMNM3eHlDvzk5Ag1pPhQ3XrmiG8T5KtKUOEqDE/s1600/Slide3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_80XZqvmxQkLyTpMSDP0jX1Fr93miPyZ7-ymeWZGfzmpPs4ht_sU9EGDpSuLTsDh0rjdm8_9EOUQGUUXSLCu6XQiNSR90ZrAH_ulbNmMNM3eHlDvzk5Ag1pPhQ3XrmiG8T5KtKUOEqDE/s1600/Slide3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sprinkler-Toddler Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZiukAqNBdWf4IfOuiuFwB5d5BIkaBT1lkCBEgGOz3gAbtGt1Sv70FRCRJa1CDJTHBtoRDPCpoXTI2Y6G5gRcM3qxfISn4Q-lbU4-a55AKJJ2vmsjWVLuNQF1ibyKCqjA6zEHAjc-oZI/s1600/Slide4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZiukAqNBdWf4IfOuiuFwB5d5BIkaBT1lkCBEgGOz3gAbtGt1Sv70FRCRJa1CDJTHBtoRDPCpoXTI2Y6G5gRcM3qxfISn4Q-lbU4-a55AKJJ2vmsjWVLuNQF1ibyKCqjA6zEHAjc-oZI/s1600/Slide4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Muffin & Stroopwafel Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW-k1bExi6VuOyVkuZ6TIqSlTr3lsXMM7P7htNBZbYl2zowvR_TYYYJKcykmAGEUrCcLE2PYutR8CAaMaN-r50X3RTSJXE1QU01ElIDNJM2VtQ_DrLxgI4-eOl88Te3iE8BsnTNYzIRg/s1600/Slide5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW-k1bExi6VuOyVkuZ6TIqSlTr3lsXMM7P7htNBZbYl2zowvR_TYYYJKcykmAGEUrCcLE2PYutR8CAaMaN-r50X3RTSJXE1QU01ElIDNJM2VtQ_DrLxgI4-eOl88Te3iE8BsnTNYzIRg/s1600/Slide5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Toes In The Sand" Fish Taco & Potato Chip Salad, <a href="http://landwoyster.com/site/">L&W Oyster Co.</a>, Flat Iron, NYC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgz6oC9fnxBnDTFmmQRlm9W_dzqSyhCfMLCHEFCJzsjluCNPXHpMYlnJepsmNeFlYtrnB_bONFTq1Y970HFdP6-x53Hx32myaMYkway93vQhj05Jyl06izYowy_ipPNnAbocJb_cyllis/s1600/Slide6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgz6oC9fnxBnDTFmmQRlm9W_dzqSyhCfMLCHEFCJzsjluCNPXHpMYlnJepsmNeFlYtrnB_bONFTq1Y970HFdP6-x53Hx32myaMYkway93vQhj05Jyl06izYowy_ipPNnAbocJb_cyllis/s1600/Slide6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate Bar Salad, by <a href="http://jcocochocolate.com/">jcoco</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEc5a5Xo7qleasGG0sxkNcTqpCwqihz23R0JebtFYob5KBY8OIo9LQCUJQOe9Mh_2dH5Vg0-Zpt-vFa5KThzhUNejpOlioZjpvhTaqHvWxCICWTCGCT93pKwgDgATSLF2V0Pc85VWDR4/s1600/Slide7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEc5a5Xo7qleasGG0sxkNcTqpCwqihz23R0JebtFYob5KBY8OIo9LQCUJQOe9Mh_2dH5Vg0-Zpt-vFa5KThzhUNejpOlioZjpvhTaqHvWxCICWTCGCT93pKwgDgATSLF2V0Pc85VWDR4/s1600/Slide7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuna Nicoise Salad (Yum!!!), <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/caf%C3%A9-henri-long-island-city-2">Café Henri</a>, LIC, NYC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPH01a6Crz2ISsdE271VgdLlEfrMEMvjEaQ9MLDbJGMx7NDaL8OELFc3NTygZbAJIeVWn10pzpjSUOrA_0_xeIObqYN3-ytXGYkoS6aZIl-V2jCh8-bC4rm5GeWiKgtYH7SteV9zDlTg/s1600/Slide8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPH01a6Crz2ISsdE271VgdLlEfrMEMvjEaQ9MLDbJGMx7NDaL8OELFc3NTygZbAJIeVWn10pzpjSUOrA_0_xeIObqYN3-ytXGYkoS6aZIl-V2jCh8-bC4rm5GeWiKgtYH7SteV9zDlTg/s1600/Slide8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gluten-Free Chocolate-Dipped Banana Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4mRCFGxsqhg8cxlcw_-dBhpNxLzbcqehS605uMruIScboRoTN5Rd8gYr7PxzJ2wypeRR_Ay8rgs-Zh6u7GgvQA5SLWYBvCj7Xsq_5N6DykVVVPHGR5MfazYMGxc2kxuXyf25zdoNHXk/s1600/Slide9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4mRCFGxsqhg8cxlcw_-dBhpNxLzbcqehS605uMruIScboRoTN5Rd8gYr7PxzJ2wypeRR_Ay8rgs-Zh6u7GgvQA5SLWYBvCj7Xsq_5N6DykVVVPHGR5MfazYMGxc2kxuXyf25zdoNHXk/s1600/Slide9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I-<3<3<3-Bread Salad, <a href="http://www.lepainquotidien.com/">Le Pain Quotidien</a>, Ubiquitous, NYC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-41298768825484282222014-08-08T10:40:00.003-04:002016-10-08T23:11:42.316-04:00Days 32-38: ALL GOOD THINGS [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge] Summer, part two. We are home sweet home for the most part, attempting to plan as little as possible so that this last stretch of the season will seem to go on forever (although that never really seems to work). I'm having little trouble focusing on the best life has to offer. Family, friendships, health, goodness, greatness, celebrating, remembering, healing, letting go, hellos and goodbyes -- the little things that truly matter, that make life worth our time. <br />
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This PSA brought to you by the many delicious salad options in the truest melting pot of Jackson Heights, Queens.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdf-vKkJI0jXvbRssK2Bf8EBrD9ZphnKvGfDbrX_VFmnMVADOV0_XE9zAQftGcLiLMtWPh0dyXGG9jIgq0qAEjmuYg6id1LwwMCxdsyXO4twYJa7rxDqm8jPpJ7_EWHEFO8ba_nCV9DA/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdf-vKkJI0jXvbRssK2Bf8EBrD9ZphnKvGfDbrX_VFmnMVADOV0_XE9zAQftGcLiLMtWPh0dyXGG9jIgq0qAEjmuYg6id1LwwMCxdsyXO4twYJa7rxDqm8jPpJ7_EWHEFO8ba_nCV9DA/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Local Ensalada de Mariscos</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GhSqpm4lkgKFIyrvwSzeK4DY_0QohyphenhyphenHJQ7lFbfDV95m6d7Io7s045jYaaNDAbKv-cu_g9NaEtTYYz2PS3lgdy5oVBC5Npn4LXHFjJrajJf-DfSBHRJ-4iBVsZsNGDE304zf6Fcfpzas/s1600/Slide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GhSqpm4lkgKFIyrvwSzeK4DY_0QohyphenhyphenHJQ7lFbfDV95m6d7Io7s045jYaaNDAbKv-cu_g9NaEtTYYz2PS3lgdy5oVBC5Npn4LXHFjJrajJf-DfSBHRJ-4iBVsZsNGDE304zf6Fcfpzas/s1600/Slide2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Miss-You-Already Card for Grandma</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe23CuW70ywp9YF8GwKKN2vqwMpLdqg1B4q_QILk102tv2uJkkXaSy2Zh18RrKOX4Hex26IKrZTbF79U0FTtZuRoyR-DGuVI_BS-rQmKpX2VECAL8syd3f8CUc48J3OuFytapGtWCKR8/s1600/Slide3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe23CuW70ywp9YF8GwKKN2vqwMpLdqg1B4q_QILk102tv2uJkkXaSy2Zh18RrKOX4Hex26IKrZTbF79U0FTtZuRoyR-DGuVI_BS-rQmKpX2VECAL8syd3f8CUc48J3OuFytapGtWCKR8/s1600/Slide3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Pla Toad Yum Ma Mong</i>, <i><a href="http://www.kitchen79nyc.com/">Kitchen 79</a>, Jackson Heights, NY</i></b><br />
<i>(Deep-fried Whole Fish Topped with Green Mango Salad)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1hQecmGHqBg9dvakCiXmSAuOwiN2MQX_QrHVBMNow5orGJJcsUilxMyF10WS8ivmsX5yyW_VAncuz3TqXX___zn4G2EG0XhOGUHgzVZ4C3PiMEYaFbNZfjuL8POMx6d5W4FowN9qfho/s1600/Slide4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1hQecmGHqBg9dvakCiXmSAuOwiN2MQX_QrHVBMNow5orGJJcsUilxMyF10WS8ivmsX5yyW_VAncuz3TqXX___zn4G2EG0XhOGUHgzVZ4C3PiMEYaFbNZfjuL8POMx6d5W4FowN9qfho/s1600/Slide4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunday R&R</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xHSgNGXPJmXuwRYIrv-g2Ske3Bl1VUq2MaCUAjh1Pzyk8J5jl21Wpe9HGOesPB-YkvEyWVd5VsF477jbmApSK_lw6QDCgTXQygTFRBkByAsownJmfgt-Lj73dzLHvyZA6z6Fcx7aizE/s1600/Slide5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xHSgNGXPJmXuwRYIrv-g2Ske3Bl1VUq2MaCUAjh1Pzyk8J5jl21Wpe9HGOesPB-YkvEyWVd5VsF477jbmApSK_lw6QDCgTXQygTFRBkByAsownJmfgt-Lj73dzLHvyZA6z6Fcx7aizE/s1600/Slide5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Beet & Corn Salad with Sautéed Beet Greens</b><br />(ingredients from the local farmer's market)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3dUUpOnwVZLIWe1nFtL-faey0PINqtuvUWbcfUc38n0_5j9ImXTG0wRGVmGfZradlwR5FNsADa-BcCqvbpKpkqsj8rLV_Kc5jTJgwh-8VREDxGl-ZexWjmhD4BTTvgfVF5tiQpFVgao/s1600/Slide6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3dUUpOnwVZLIWe1nFtL-faey0PINqtuvUWbcfUc38n0_5j9ImXTG0wRGVmGfZradlwR5FNsADa-BcCqvbpKpkqsj8rLV_Kc5jTJgwh-8VREDxGl-ZexWjmhD4BTTvgfVF5tiQpFVgao/s1600/Slide6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Little Girls Growing Up</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VdmKuV2vL9FX_OeCUccccnpz73nl73LceNl2lJgnCVw825DLmLdH03PQjGkMY10QthVkrRBJMrU6An8sac6pSi94dQjLMwb94pVFOAx8poDR8-ThN6GDoZUlcJBw-v8hEEA5lZJnGMw/s1600/Slide7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VdmKuV2vL9FX_OeCUccccnpz73nl73LceNl2lJgnCVw825DLmLdH03PQjGkMY10QthVkrRBJMrU6An8sac6pSi94dQjLMwb94pVFOAx8poDR8-ThN6GDoZUlcJBw-v8hEEA5lZJnGMw/s1600/Slide7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Greek Salad at the famous <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/22/nyregion/thecity/22jahn.html">Jahn's</a> ("The Last One Standing")<br />Jackson Heights, NY</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
</div>
Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-13872450811034536442014-08-01T12:06:00.001-04:002016-10-08T23:12:06.755-04:00Days 26-31: NOURISH [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge] <div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIL7wiZ3IFIDKsNkIB5qRZVMzgtT6AEGzAf1GF2iklCnkZm_3Zb932A_Cb7CF-P9Oeu_gtc-ilUFPy77roveBGM6E8R9StO6dJZGM7iAKrEzOX92jxI34O43iUhLyA9bTEzGpHziqT2k/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIL7wiZ3IFIDKsNkIB5qRZVMzgtT6AEGzAf1GF2iklCnkZm_3Zb932A_Cb7CF-P9Oeu_gtc-ilUFPy77roveBGM6E8R9StO6dJZGM7iAKrEzOX92jxI34O43iUhLyA9bTEzGpHziqT2k/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Peach Tasting at the Farmer's Market</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd8vG0jcLb9mfcaW50LESXVvCvMwtcQPJqkgTDBTY1GLrKwi4vnH0jLO9jzLBPVEjb4fF0YxPUuSQxTb8APdAktRZeREkSNBFUD2osl29MReq4cjthkNTGqUfSOxVd76V_taynKzB9-Y/s1600/Slide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd8vG0jcLb9mfcaW50LESXVvCvMwtcQPJqkgTDBTY1GLrKwi4vnH0jLO9jzLBPVEjb4fF0YxPUuSQxTb8APdAktRZeREkSNBFUD2osl29MReq4cjthkNTGqUfSOxVd76V_taynKzB9-Y/s1600/Slide2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Peach and Radish Salad with Toasted Hazelnuts</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKUvzIhyphenhyphenzAz-Sif6xViQ1aRTDkQE7w82sKHnf-MIJgKZ_2S4DsoYuDopmheKp_rhyphenhyphenfcxO24mB4KRCeKsbiUeV5JfwAEJvF2CXBunzu0a-XZ35ikOEQuOU4w0ROXzr9hmP7ZhBEOvcWQw/s1600/Slide03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKUvzIhyphenhyphenzAz-Sif6xViQ1aRTDkQE7w82sKHnf-MIJgKZ_2S4DsoYuDopmheKp_rhyphenhyphenfcxO24mB4KRCeKsbiUeV5JfwAEJvF2CXBunzu0a-XZ35ikOEQuOU4w0ROXzr9hmP7ZhBEOvcWQw/s1600/Slide03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Exploring</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08qxO7Sp76UmtaWx1Kcn5SoHpzB32Wtd6APgDcNDv5q6LGEwtYsit9NOPIJ31PqMD0JkVRRvEROyq114yP1i4-g03Mt-DCj4-DMT-gtfjv5TnVk1j2qikYFs11wEZu6Q4r0p1DKesD_Q/s1600/Slide5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08qxO7Sp76UmtaWx1Kcn5SoHpzB32Wtd6APgDcNDv5q6LGEwtYsit9NOPIJ31PqMD0JkVRRvEROyq114yP1i4-g03Mt-DCj4-DMT-gtfjv5TnVk1j2qikYFs11wEZu6Q4r0p1DKesD_Q/s1600/Slide5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Shipwreck by the Golden Gate Bridge</span></i></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqq3RYKvICPfoZZxpKXsDSwqZ1Sd023lkdwmKv6E1PAGCJ_rS2Zw2YYSfbLJVjpWhqnI7vYk26Z3fsifyGTXPeQCwKvTnKb7adQEyVzsg1-m-nWZhxo7Ra-c1wywqV0PfwonGQtoW0Ups/s1600/Slide3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqq3RYKvICPfoZZxpKXsDSwqZ1Sd023lkdwmKv6E1PAGCJ_rS2Zw2YYSfbLJVjpWhqnI7vYk26Z3fsifyGTXPeQCwKvTnKb7adQEyVzsg1-m-nWZhxo7Ra-c1wywqV0PfwonGQtoW0Ups/s1600/Slide3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bread </i><i>from Panorama </i><i>at Le Garage</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76mvK_sPMClPgeZGVYZkb1twiEiaoLfPxIJf8apWGSDptX8Qfk7rWEZYHibgiOV9DTx-7Dj2_xSkErcKhKTBLYfXdEKCFSFqagFAAPR_-HM42CAQEMDahinY-mWTvA4SCBO9_ssaV0JY/s1600/Slide4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76mvK_sPMClPgeZGVYZkb1twiEiaoLfPxIJf8apWGSDptX8Qfk7rWEZYHibgiOV9DTx-7Dj2_xSkErcKhKTBLYfXdEKCFSFqagFAAPR_-HM42CAQEMDahinY-mWTvA4SCBO9_ssaV0JY/s1600/Slide4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Salade with Fresh Maine Lobster, Brentwood corn, organic watermelon radishes, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>organic peaches, butter lettuce and Meyer lemon tarragon vinaigrette</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVP_c07X3ZnD63Os46wTLjYhHH6Nqxb75c8rC0kwACdC9fSlY7PkM5Vnu4qkz3sPI5ZSB9OD6cgVhgz0XZTksvUjZNtIa-xyQPIMbt383rIQp7bHp59QGCOQBIxl3HEf4kSnN-ecJMY8E/s1600/Slide07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVP_c07X3ZnD63Os46wTLjYhHH6Nqxb75c8rC0kwACdC9fSlY7PkM5Vnu4qkz3sPI5ZSB9OD6cgVhgz0XZTksvUjZNtIa-xyQPIMbt383rIQp7bHp59QGCOQBIxl3HEf4kSnN-ecJMY8E/s1600/Slide07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Riding Bikes</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-lRGRjiYL5qhyphenhyphenieOoj3ArbIx82DZdn7NcAhYL2FGvuNNzHsnn98SC4TuUYUKIwtC9N-wU6UisbsJnZxNQHFnzPFDlm9U-pIivhf2Gr-YjYdV35coyDMR_9L5GItv8XbaZieG10XUxQA/s1600/Slide07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-lRGRjiYL5qhyphenhyphenieOoj3ArbIx82DZdn7NcAhYL2FGvuNNzHsnn98SC4TuUYUKIwtC9N-wU6UisbsJnZxNQHFnzPFDlm9U-pIivhf2Gr-YjYdV35coyDMR_9L5GItv8XbaZieG10XUxQA/s1600/Slide07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Learning How to Climb Swings</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lBNNg65TCRxGj87mzH7vF1rouE_0qER9RJYuvnJ6QfTIV9BLpASf_lmWC_jQvmLrTfsrteyKekWcqXE8h5Y82CtFdIG0uvxuIlT4boEdakKzXnznbywdi5pL9pjDVQdr6abXQPUF8ps/s1600/Slide08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lBNNg65TCRxGj87mzH7vF1rouE_0qER9RJYuvnJ6QfTIV9BLpASf_lmWC_jQvmLrTfsrteyKekWcqXE8h5Y82CtFdIG0uvxuIlT4boEdakKzXnznbywdi5pL9pjDVQdr6abXQPUF8ps/s1600/Slide08.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tostada Pescado (Snapper) from Burritoville</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoM7MN9Kgizb_p3fxVdfhmYowM11iaVmo0pAYfHI0Ll8bghk_fhorrLLLv85VJBSu6vJc1zHYjOqy2_VUfjg-gHoMxkvzodJKS20q-4f5sxwc0cOlM1l9egbztGrFEPd96ErybvNvOlk/s1600/Slide7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoM7MN9Kgizb_p3fxVdfhmYowM11iaVmo0pAYfHI0Ll8bghk_fhorrLLLv85VJBSu6vJc1zHYjOqy2_VUfjg-gHoMxkvzodJKS20q-4f5sxwc0cOlM1l9egbztGrFEPd96ErybvNvOlk/s1600/Slide7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Under the Sunbrellas</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x9Vz7XNDSFJ2LxXAaO9TQv9oaVitxbHhuolFy2-GmlcCIEQ4oKKA83jTTEd8JAYbzI94szxgS6JaHq_m6DKJo5U2kzpoifax-fBWpEBU3mZlD3s_w76u8Gsd3-AaAL-ErpZgidgqURc/s1600/Slide8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x9Vz7XNDSFJ2LxXAaO9TQv9oaVitxbHhuolFy2-GmlcCIEQ4oKKA83jTTEd8JAYbzI94szxgS6JaHq_m6DKJo5U2kzpoifax-fBWpEBU3mZlD3s_w76u8Gsd3-AaAL-ErpZgidgqURc/s1600/Slide8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Braised Butter Maple Carrots with Mint</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYM320sYYSRDLHrclD25q4YyqA2C56BT1iFQVdTUdM4OfeUqiecGIQiKDQqPOJChxbuR4i61EsbMuE-t9gL3YA8bvXNR959MnX8DxEpC8ikO3Fs79hh0X6h8djGlWAP-rSOxI4e4-Bk8/s1600/Slide12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYM320sYYSRDLHrclD25q4YyqA2C56BT1iFQVdTUdM4OfeUqiecGIQiKDQqPOJChxbuR4i61EsbMuE-t9gL3YA8bvXNR959MnX8DxEpC8ikO3Fs79hh0X6h8djGlWAP-rSOxI4e4-Bk8/s1600/Slide12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Learning About Sea Urchins</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRH5bpowXcUt9U192wwqDH_0Zq1iZh008ay_KWVz4V1Rk1mXcV4n2GpQp8Qgpwjy6SGhTiIpfVHYRQhQmVYyqKKL8hOJ3aKNl9eSxnAZBPn_IWjwjrPN-V6StvJbJQFkURJkExon__kE/s1600/Slide6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRH5bpowXcUt9U192wwqDH_0Zq1iZh008ay_KWVz4V1Rk1mXcV4n2GpQp8Qgpwjy6SGhTiIpfVHYRQhQmVYyqKKL8hOJ3aKNl9eSxnAZBPn_IWjwjrPN-V6StvJbJQFkURJkExon__kE/s1600/Slide6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tyler Florence's Quinoa Kale with Almonds</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9w-LCIkVi7k5ywkZqiStHEHvIvpqYOrMSGlorHiasiI3coIxg4c-wOLg_SrbkM1sE-w6UnShjTYGpbnOV9u0H483VJpejoEy-dvvs_q-ZUtXXFnGzr_qA9CkbHG4CTXD97aIo-a2f22c/s1600/Slide9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9w-LCIkVi7k5ywkZqiStHEHvIvpqYOrMSGlorHiasiI3coIxg4c-wOLg_SrbkM1sE-w6UnShjTYGpbnOV9u0H483VJpejoEy-dvvs_q-ZUtXXFnGzr_qA9CkbHG4CTXD97aIo-a2f22c/s1600/Slide9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Park Life</span></i></td></tr>
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Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-86089509818246253862014-07-26T00:45:00.002-04:002016-10-08T23:12:29.651-04:00Days 20-25: DOUBLE TARA [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge] <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkPljZEmaqV10bu0V8UgD4A8keTWri6z1gZCidfkalKqWzTEklSY84-OFh1hMB7jzyoc_cnjfMxDgtxJGcaT6OLBi97IgzxtrLx80OYQ25-vvMZHt5CRBIK6fowjDUdvGG5IZgC2JFJs/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkPljZEmaqV10bu0V8UgD4A8keTWri6z1gZCidfkalKqWzTEklSY84-OFh1hMB7jzyoc_cnjfMxDgtxJGcaT6OLBi97IgzxtrLx80OYQ25-vvMZHt5CRBIK6fowjDUdvGG5IZgC2JFJs/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.runningtothekitchen.com/2014/07/peach-and-radish-salad-with-crispy-prosciutto/">Peach and Radish Salad with Crispy Prosciutto</a> (on the side)</i></td></tr>
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All is well, thanks for asking. On the salad front, yes, I am pleased to report that I have been eating them regularly. If you find that answer to be somewhat elusive, it is because on the blogging front, I have had trouble keeping score, and without documenting my daily salads, I find it difficult to recall them.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.runningtothekitchen.com/2014/07/peach-and-radish-salad-with-crispy-prosciutto/">recipe link</a> for the salad pictured above was sent to me by my friend Tara (sounds like <i>Sarah</i>)- a wonderful person I met in high school, who I have had the pleasure of reconnecting with in recent years through Facebook. I admire her spirit, intelligence, integrity, and the abundance of love, kindness and friendship that she shares with her friends. I sometimes wish that Tara was a neighbor rather than a Facebook friend so that we could share recipes and thoughts in person and more often.<br />
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I suggested to my sister-in-law Tara (sounds like <i>Mara</i>), that we could make this salad together. The timing was perfect; we were going to be spending the week together as a family, and as a family we are health conscious and routinely collaborate on home cooked meals.<br />
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Tara was game, and we picked one morning to shop the local farmer's market for the ingredients so that we could serve the meal for lunch. We asked my husband to pick up a couple missing ingredients and by early afternoon, we had everything we needed to start the process. Tara crisped the prosciutto and toasted and chopped the hazelnuts. I washed and sliced the peaches (white and yellow), radishes, and fennel. When assembling the salad, we kept the prosciutto bits on the side because some of us don't eat prosciutto. We dressed the salad with olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper, and <b><i>voilà!</i></b> Meal served. Salad had. :)Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-89403603092108569182014-07-18T09:19:00.001-04:002016-10-08T23:13:16.554-04:00Day 19: FRENCH FRIES & PIZZA SALAD? [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge] <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Kkv2KFsNon7mROFZQTyxXFozP7QlkIvJSECsGPu4IzerrfoMw_wdsVxIhZXf2QHhjrZtYT-ZrH7WS-Yo6HnSzV7YqYOdYRLeupaLkN86G5l_L9LNOS-cZxNljEM3bcA56hR2hd99Vsc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Kkv2KFsNon7mROFZQTyxXFozP7QlkIvJSECsGPu4IzerrfoMw_wdsVxIhZXf2QHhjrZtYT-ZrH7WS-Yo6HnSzV7YqYOdYRLeupaLkN86G5l_L9LNOS-cZxNljEM3bcA56hR2hd99Vsc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Beets and Goat Cheese Salad</i></td></tr>
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Well, if you must know, I failed on the salad challenge on Wednesday. It began with a weak-willed concession to an offer of french fries with my lunch special, and ended with three slices of pizza (extra cheese, black olives and pepperoni, for full disclosure) for dinner, swallowed almost whole (no crust). I did not want salad that day, and I did not want to cook or prep that day. I needed a break.<br />
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Feeling remorseful the following day, Thursday, I brushed my shoulders off and got back on the salad wagon. Midday, I ran over to the local mom-and-pop grocery store and found a button of organic goat cheese flavored with garlic and herbs. I love that store.<br />
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The beet salad from the other day kept well for me, and the goat cheese worked marvels. In fact, I plan to pick up more beets and redo this salad sometime soon, next time with freshly boiled -- as opposed to two-day-old -- beets. It is a hearty salad with a really nice balance of flavors and textures.<br />
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I closed the day down with a very dear tried-and-true friend; we shared a guilt-free feast of shabu-shabu, at a place and in a neighborhood that brought back a flood of fond youthful memories. I was happy to be back on track and filled with good food.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiH70Pa7njGyBl_3Yrrqy0-ko_I_sdtJNXVf1bv-pUCajT9yaYwsCRvzO-2rdBrVZcsRKwlPjPZ6V6_wuCxbg4-FynxBI4Efvv_v7IYzTMGlLzexzZcWH-15IXVm9YjctFsmCWTlZ1ZPM/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiH70Pa7njGyBl_3Yrrqy0-ko_I_sdtJNXVf1bv-pUCajT9yaYwsCRvzO-2rdBrVZcsRKwlPjPZ6V6_wuCxbg4-FynxBI4Efvv_v7IYzTMGlLzexzZcWH-15IXVm9YjctFsmCWTlZ1ZPM/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shabu Shabu for Two at Sharaku, East Village, NYC</i></td></tr>
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<br />Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4549884523254561787.post-26011850603937731772014-07-15T23:36:00.002-04:002016-10-08T23:13:46.615-04:00Day 17: FEELING TOO BEET... To Run Out For Some Goat Cheese [90-Day Summer Salad Challenge] <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYydJedACkq24v-aSjePjvOB8Q5VggdWbqdUffVSn9ihmlx1yYl4k8mKgM15oHuYqDhMmnlXyPZWYovtv4Ke65h0Sz9xZJWvTp0mzNf9v_z85F5XyIBoJcgteEZyBPFcl2vRmuDpXWJA/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYydJedACkq24v-aSjePjvOB8Q5VggdWbqdUffVSn9ihmlx1yYl4k8mKgM15oHuYqDhMmnlXyPZWYovtv4Ke65h0Sz9xZJWvTp0mzNf9v_z85F5XyIBoJcgteEZyBPFcl2vRmuDpXWJA/s1600/Slide1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Beet Salad</i></td></tr>
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My daughter and I are a lot alike in that once we come home, we are decidedly reluctant to leave. All we want to do is bathe in the comforts of our cozy familiar surroundings and just be. For as long as we can, until we fall asleep.<br />
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Tonight I realized, after assembling most of the beet salad, that it would taste so much better if it were topped with crumbled goat cheese. Unfortunately, my husband had already returned from running out to pick up some fusilli last minute, for his pasta-with-franks-and-beans dish. I could not justify sending him out again in the thunderstorm, and I certainly had no motivation to run out myself (being an end-of-day homebody and all). Instead, I served the salad as is. <br />
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The boiled beets were cooled and then tossed with Vermont butter and fresh dill. The mixed greens were dressed with olive oil, red wine vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste. It was a decent dish, and met the requirements for my salad challenge. But I did make a note for myself to pick up some goat cheese on the way home tomorrow, so that I could mix it in with the leftovers for our next dinner.Molehills Matterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03694931878178243735noreply@blogger.com