Repost: Changing the World Made Easy

An article I guest-posted on my cousin's blog project back in July... on social change via the Internet.

Reposted from Media Literacy and Social Action July 27, 2009

Looking for something easy to do today? How about changing the world?

Changing the world…easy? Enabled by the Web, shopping, chatting and researching, among other things, can now all be accomplished at the click of a button. Changing the world is joining the ranks as a mission made easier via the Internet. Agents for social change have always existed and now the web allows one with even the slightest inclination to help able to do so. Now, more than ever, the world needs a-changing, some positive influence, and young people - students in particular - account for a significant percentage of society mobilizing to do just that…. And that number is largely due to the presence of social media – Twitter, Facebook, MySpace – because, if used properly and effectively, it is now easier than ever to mobilize a community to affect said change – on, and through, the web.

Simply "google" the search string "Technology and Social Change" and one is presented with a myriad of empowering options in changing the world. In this new technologically-savvy century, truly anyone can influence the world they live in from the comfort of their own home, no matter your age, race, financial status or physical challenge: blind, deaf, wheelchair bound, heck - even just shy: the effective computer/Internet combo allows one to revolutionize almost anything if they so desire with much less effort than ever before. Cyberspace renders us all equal agents of change, and we can accomplish this action from practically anywhere in the world you can find an Internet connection.

These days, our own “communities” have expanded to include the entire world; no longer do we have to be “just Jenny from the block”, sparking the call to action in only a mere handful of people. Students from Russia can inspire others from the US, or Lichtenstein, Bolivia or even Africa; whole schools, communities, countries can now be inspired to help with the words of a single, average citizen. The world has gotten smaller as this connective reach has grown and the narrowing of the gap has made large scale change very possible for even one small child in the midst of “absolute nowhere.” Inspiring, isn’t it?

My Social Actions (http://my.socialactions.com/), a site devoted to inspiring people to act on their ideas, makes it simple. "You make a difference, we make it easy". Even their slogan points to the obvious lubrication the web has offered us little people in changing that big world – oh, what we could do!

It's interesting to note that even small personal blogs have reached out to affect others in ways most likely unimagined by the authors. I have my own home/self/life improvement blog and the feedback I have received from readers of the projects I have inspired in their own lives just by posting my progress is awe-inspiring. If I can do that from my little corner of the web, just by organizing my cabinets - just imagine what a heartfelt cause with the right mix of media and community mobilization could do?

Think back to Ashton Kutcher’s battle with CNN on Twitter in the race for a million followers: what they proved is that given the right motivation and access, people are easily willing to mobilize when technology makes it so darn easy and when the cause is worth the effort. Why not use the infinite connections for something great? The eventual lesson: that even normal people can have the same power to affect as much change as a celebrity when the playing field is so leveled as it is in social media.

In his blog, Social Entrepreneurship, Nathaniel Whittemore commented on Kutcher’s quest and the power of the little guy: "Then the coolest thing happened: Ashton started mobilizing his celebrity community. In the last hour alone, he's got his wife Demi Moore, Oprah, Ryan Seacrest, CNN to donate between 10,000 and 20,000 nets. It looks like P. Diddy might be next. If that's not community freakin' mobilization, I don't know what is.

It's easy to be cynical about this, but what if we thought about it different. Changing the world is damn hard, and the responsibility we owe this planet and the billions of people we share it with should never be taken lightly. But there are lots of incredibly easy ways that even normal folks can save lives, and we should never let the difficult of the big picture stop us from making incremental change along the way."

If joining Twitter, to help end malaria merely by your cyber-presence, is not your cup of tea, there are websites whose sole purpose is to index other social media change sites, categorizing and highlighting those that would help you get the word out about your cause or find one already started that is worthy to you. Easy to find, easy to join!

http://peopleinaction.com/socialchange/

A site helping children to help the world by naming causes and how they can help:

The Freechild Project

http://www.freechild.org/index.htm

Interviews of people who are making it easy for us and how they have done so:

Netsquared: “Remixing the Web for Social Change”

http://netsquared.libsyn.com/

As in the oceans of our planet, this new conduit of mobilizing community and altering mindsets is like a bevy of swells, carrying the messages and washing them over the world. Inspiring or following, you have the choice of which wave you want to ride, almost as easy as that. While it is not in fact as effortless as clicking a button, technology, specifically social media, has made it infinitely more possible to create a sweeping movement of affecting change in this New World. Create, choose, whatever – just hop on!

Zero to Sixty in 9 Months

So, the online magazine, Lucy, that "printed" my story of how the kids came to be... is closing up shop. :( What a sad end to a wonderful beginning of an idea. *sigh* C'est la Vie. I have a link to this story in a previous post, but since they are shutting down, I thought I would add the whole story to this portfolio - since here is where it really belongs.

Written by Trinity Cole for Lucy, December 2008 {©Cheryle Ertel 2008}

Zero to Sixty in 9 Months

Sitting in a gyno's office could never be categorized under "Good Times" in the files of Life Experience; the anticipation of an unpleasant encounter, having to swallow your pride and cringe for those few minutes that feel like an eternity, all the while, holding a mundane conversation. But! An OB's office is something different altogether. Same office, only the dread of baring your most private parts to a total stranger is transformed! The dread is still there, mind you, no one (normal) really enjoys someone clinically poking around down there, ever. The metamorphosis arrives with the addition of some excitement, wonder and a wee bit of trepidation thrown in for good measure. And for good reason: Life changes with this kind of visit. You are... pregnant.

It's even more fun when your wide-eyed, uncomfortable-in-his-own-skin husband decides to accompany you at the last minute, and you feel responsible for his nervous fidgeting of foreign design. The only fixation taking his mind off his discomfort is studying the breast exam posters in the room, every so often uttering a collegiate giggle. I sigh, wondering why he is there, yet strangely enjoying his camaraderie. 

Waiting to find out if our baby was alive and kicking made me more than a little anxious. Discovering we were pregnant a month prior, we arrived to ease our fears of a potential miscarriage. A condition, known as Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) wreaks havoc on my reproductive system, and some studies claim the disorder to harbor a 45% chance of losing a pregnancy. I was a little worried. Hell, I was  freaking out.Even though we needed no help in getting pregnant, PCOS also causes massive rates of infertility. If this baby didn't make it; well, let's just say I worried for the state of our future family.

We waited, surrounded by patients, cracking nervous jokes. We poked fun at the whole idea of pregnancy and kids; nothing was sacred. At one point, he looked at me sharply and said with mock horror on his face,"What if it's twin girls?" I involuntarily gasped. Thinking about twin teenage girls in our household one day did not sound appealing; coming from a house with just my sister and me; many shared, destroyed belongings and vicious fights ending in dismembered Barbie dolls.

Quickly regaining my composure, I reacted as I knew best - I threw the horror back at him. I put my hand gently on his arm, feigning a dramatic and somber tone. "No, no, honey. See, my grandmother was a triplet, and with something like that running in our families, combined with our 'luck,' it's going to be three girls! Just wait and see!" He did look genuinely shocked then, for the first time pondering the family history and the actual feasibility of it all. I only giggled in satisfaction because I had just won the shock contest. He looked up at me, a little green in the face and seemed as though he was about to ask me a serious question. Luckily, we didn't have to wait around to contemplate our imagined fate, with the nurse calling us in.

Ultrasound underway, the nurse blithely asked me, "How are your nerves?" I thought she was having a problem with the machine. I wondered if my nervous trembling was interfering with the readings; the trembling only a moment of truth could bring; was our baby alive? Lying through my teeth, I told her I was fine and she only looked at me, turning the monitor our way. She traced her finger along the black and white abstract on the screen and calmly delivered the word, "twins."

I don't think my brain wrapped around that description, that we were having twins, because I knew in my heart that this was not the real thing. It hadn't clicked yet. Looking at the two circles, each holding a jumping bean, the wonder of it all seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop; curiously, I don't know why I was immediately questioning their existence without another look. A momentous weight hovered on the air and both of us instinctively knew that there was more to the story. 

We looked at each other, eyes locked, both recalling the recent joking conversation with bated breath, and respectfully asked if she was sure there wasn't another one. I had instantly felt  "three" in my heart and soul after her discovery, I knew it already, there on the exam table, and wasn't leaving without confirmation of our eerie premonition. It was all too coincidental to be unrelated; the family history, the waiting room jokes, the long wait for a family, not knowing if there would ever be more.

Mike delicately pointed to the monitor and underneath the connected circles of two sacs was an elongated and curved black hole. It looked like one of those long, thin balloons made by a traveling clown, arcing into a smile just after inflation. It wrapped under the other two, like a cupped hand, cradling them. He asked if maybe that might be another baby, just waiting to be discovered. She looked perplexed and skeptical; maybe thinking to herself how she could have missed it, but more likely just how rare three really was. She moved the wand around a bit to placate us, unimpressed. Trying for a difficult view, she broke out the heavy equipment, the internal ultrasound; Da-Da-Da . Via this new (and awfully invasive) toy, she immediately realized that he was right. From a different angle, there bounced Baby #3, directly beneath the other two.

In one swift movement, her hand flew to her mouth and she croaked loudly. I remember that she was in the throes of laryngitis, and her voice sounded painful. The Frog Lady was yelling, I realized, in her diminished and damaged voice, yelling "Oh, my God!" over and over. It sounded downright awful and I wondered why she was getting so excited. 

Let me just say that we were in shock. Who wouldn't be? In this slow, perceptive state, we were suffering from the effects of brain fog. Looking at our lives from the outside of the bubble, wide-eyed, faces pressed to the glass in rapture, right before it gave way and imploded from the pressure. We were simply watching an uber-exciting soap opera, or we were dreaming, surely. Nothing like this happens in real life! The mesmeric quality of the moment was surreal, we had to be watching someone elses' lives, or we were being "Punk'd", I was sure of it. I felt slow on the uptake, a blur of light following behind everyones' movements made me feel like I was suspended in a thick liquid. My brain was doing the equivalent of a "huh? say what?!" Understanding, even in its simplest form, had not yet arrived.

Frog Lady was calling out to the nurse in the front room, as loud as she could get and oh so raspy. 

We said nothing, just watched the circus show with an air of detached amusement. Mike with his back pressed firmly into the wall for stability and me, trying to contain my own body parts under the thin piece of paper they called a gown. After a while, I felt like I was floating on a cloud, high up in the air, feeling nothing but slight curiosity. Wafting and delicate, floating closer to the precipice of a fathomless abyss, a major development, breaking news, but so far, all I felt...was numb. It seemed as though we were hearing and watching the festivities from the other end of a long tunnel. My vision was now only capable of black and white tones. The light had a texture bleeding on to the edges and sounds seemed ancient and crackly. I wonder now if this is what it feels like to almost pass out. People shouldn't ever have to get news like that lying on your back, half-naked. 

They were screaming, grabbing our hands and squishing our faces, dancing around the room, as if someone had hit the lottery! Little did we know that we had hit a lottery of sorts. Spontaneous conception of triplets only happens in 1 of every 8000 pregnancies¹. Is that luck? If it is, I'm not sure of what kind. Strangely, I started to wonder what the other waiting patients were imagining of all this carrying on. 

With our lukewarm desire and commitment to becoming parents, mostly unsure and conflicted, these 3 babies, this "all-in" development seemed cruel and unusual. I was hoping that this first look at our little hand in creation, residing inside of me, would instantly bring us both on board, would miraculously cure our worries and insecurities, and would right our life's picture frame which seemed so crooked without the inclusion of children. But three? Three seemed as harsh as a blow to the face, a KO from God himself, sending us some sort of encrypted message. We were so confused. But there we were, our path set and inextricably paced; from zero to sixty in 9 months. 

Lying on the table, in a compromising position, all pride dropped, the screaming nurses had an idea. They wanted to call my doctor, who was attending a conference in NYC. He wasn't to be interrupted, unless there was an emergency. They figured this would make the cut. The clue for us that spontaneous triplets were rare, the piece of info that had us get on board the crazy train, was that he had only treated  1 other woman in the same condition in his fifteen years of practice. 

Frantically dialing the phone and then connecting, First Screaming Nurse talked rapidly in what sounded like a different language. Then, she handed it to me, the cord stretched all the way down the long hallway, me lying on my back, just chatting on the phone, as if I wasn't half naked with an internal ultrasound still in place. I told you, surreal. 

He was so worried, and happy, and shocked, but worried. His first comment after the high energy subsided was that we were definitely having a c-section now, no doubt. He continued that with my history of problems, my body might not handle 3 babies well. I was only 8 weeks along and 36 weeks is considered "full term" for triplets (since they develop at a faster rate than singletons) and that made for a long road ahead. 32 weeks is the average gestation, with many a mom found on hospital bed rest for the duration. Then he delivered the shocker; all of the babies may not make it.

He advised us not to tell anyone until the end of the first trimester, at least, since there was a possibility we may lose one of the babies in these early stages. He said, "go ahead and tell them you're pregnant, if you want, but save the big news for later, when we are out of the woods." He was cautiously optimistic. 

We left that day, a flurry of emotions in tow; Serious Mental Baggage. We weren't going to be great conversationalists that day, and we had a family party to attend, pretending all was status quo in our happy life. 

I was growing fast, too fast to not tell anyone, they all already suspected by studying my growing belly, even 8 weeks in. 

Leaving the building, the most frequent thought we would have in days to come invaded our cozy shock. "What are we going to do?" I vividly remember sitting down (more like collapsing) on the steps outside the office, feeling too weak to hold up my heavy thoughts, trembling, the news starting to sink in a bit. The tornado taking up residence inside my head swirled voraciously. 

We decided to wait one more month to share the news, on Thanksgiving; for by then, I was hoping we would have come to terms with our new life and perhaps even be, well, thankful for it. 

After a long visit in the vestibule, we headed out to the convenience store for a drink, feeling parched and cotton-mouthed, all available moisture rushing to lubricate the cognitive gears in overdrive. I stared at the ultrasound copies in disbelief, tears coming for the first time.  These were our babies. These shapes were actually three lives inside of me. So momentous, I wished my grandmother were alive to see this. 

We had some real shopping to accomplish, but we only hopped from store to store, never buying anything, just repeating to each other in different ways our newly formed mantra "What are we going to do?" And more, "How are we going to handle this?" 

And like a flash of lightning, the obligation of multiplicity hit us, escalating out of control; three Halloween costumes, three learning to drive at the same time, three proms, three weddings - whoa.  Three.college.tuitions.And then we really did wonder; "what if it is three girls?" Holy Crap! It was all too much to process standing up and even more, on an empty stomach. I was already suffering from "evening" sickness those days, with the multiple doses of hormones swimming in my system. Becoming very ill every night, I could not eat after a certain time. It was now past this certain time, but I desperately needed something in my belly. I needed to counteract the urge to regurgitate in response to the surprise God threw at us that day. So we ate. And we walked some more, searching for answers in the organic food aisle, hoping to unearth an epiphany behind a package of dried noodles or chocolate sandwich cookies. 

We drifted aimlessly for hours, like mental patients wandering the neighborhood, lost in their own mind, speaking incoherent sing-songy sentences, wafting from place to place, not really accomplishing anything but remaining conscious. It's a marvel we even stayed side by side, each drawn inward, processing thought and emotion, perhaps drawn together by the wispy ties of our shared shock. 

Telling our family and friends was only a little more exciting than it was exhausting, and by the end of it all, after a few weeks, the reality was beginning to finally sink in to the very core of us. Deep seated feelings started to root, feelings that if I were to be honest, were unfair to the children growing inside of me. We wanted to  test the waters, not jump into the deep end! When will we ever have freedom again, to do the selfish things we want to do? Travel, go out to eat, play video games deep into the night, see a movie, make love, be us ...just us. How will our marriage handle this immediate taxing of resources and emotions? Will we have enough to go around and support our new soccer team? How will we be devoted to and deeply love all three at once, having the patience to teach and discipline them together and also the fortitude to handle the screaming and sicknesses and hard times? If we're not good enough, we run the risk of screwing up three kids, not just one; what.are.we.going.to.do? 

Another month passed, and the healing ritual of Christmas shopping commandeered our lives. We let the season wash over us, trying to forget the difficult future in store, ready or not. Concentrating on our 22 nieces and nephews, we raided the toy store. 4 Tired feet and 2 sore backs later, we were still as elated as when we walked through the door; we were  finally catching the bug! Inundated with toys for all ages, we started to move past the worst and imagine now the best of times; the times when having a family is all worthwhile; and it all began with Christmas. With the exhilaration, dawned a new chapter of our family and the worry abated, if only slightly. 

Registering for our baby shower shortly after, we became aware of all that one needs to care for a baby or three and scanned away. Stopping at a seemingly innocuous bath toy, Mike paused and looked profoundly thrilled. Watching him act as a child would, stealing over me was the realization that he was picturing life beyond those tough infant years. In a flash, he had stolen a glimpse of the fun times we would have as they got older. This forgettable toy was an effectual dam, holding back the flood of terrible predictions and anticipated difficulties, the awful advice and the fear of failing. I laughed and cried witnessing this evolution because when he found it, the look on his face beamed pure joy and excitement. Even if triggered by a mere toy, he was now truly ready to be a Dad, even better; a dad of triplets. 

In that instant, amid the fluorescent luster and warehouse air, I just knew everything was going to be... okay. We were ready.

¹The odds of conceiving "spontaneous" triplets (i.e., without the aid of fertility enhancements) is about 1 in 8,100. (Note: These statistics are estimates, gathered from several sources, including a 2001 National Vital Statistics Report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Odds - Twins from BabyMed.com, Facts About Multiples: Twin Basics Page 2

Review of "Scarlet"

A review of Scarlet, a new restaurant in Downtown Buffalo, NY – Allentown, specifically.  Dined on 2/13/09 and in good spirits!

www.scarletonvirginia.com

“Eclectic Cuisine, Casual Fine Dining”

Scarlet.

The very word conjures up silken images of luxurious velvet, decadent indulgences and sultry innuendos.

Well, at least for me, it does.

My state of mind revealed, when I enter a restaurant bearing this rich and almost sinful moniker, I expect some drama; a menu brimming with the most extravagant and indulgent foods, sending me over the edge of blissful ecstasy.  My mind envisions opulence dripping from the walls, plush cushions and copious amounts of dense foliage.   Add to that imagery, glowing reviews from a few family members and my expectations were high.  Very high.

Walking into this restaurant that had set up my imagination so richly, I immediately realize that the owners of Scarlet had a very different décor in mind. 

Since we eat out maybe twice a year, I expected the sensation to be something akin to not having a meal for days, in the fact that anything would taste ridiculously delicious at that point.  Or maybe we would experience the opposite; finally an opportunity for a “date night,” I dreamt of a perfect evening, and perhaps nothing could possibly measure up to the high standard I was holding.  Whatever it was going to be, I tried to arrive with an open mind, allowing my senses to take over; a truly primal evaluation.   

We had a reservation for 6:30 and of course, as always, we were late.  Parking is a nightmare on Virginia Place here in Buffalo; a one way street lined with cars, n’er a space to be found.  Ever.  Once we found a spot and entered the restaurant, we were greeted by a raucous bar crowd and…no one else.  The crowd eyed us up and growing uncomfortable we were faced with the choice of asking the bartender where we should be or boldly head up the long staircase in the hope that a greeter awaited us on the second floor.

Looking at one another, we opted for the stairs, if not for an exit from the vulturous crowd.  

Rewarded for our action, only a few steps up and we were spotted as outsiders and finally greeted.  Our hostess led us up the very same stairs we were attempting alone and we arrived to the second floor dining area, a small loft area perched above the loud bar.  Red brick and black painted walls surrounded the space of about a dozen tables.  Above each table, clothed in pristine white linen, was suspended a white pendant light, bathing each table in an unreasonably bright light, clinical, almost; each one a brilliant island in a sea of darkness.  A few lamps were red, but the effect was the same.  It was different than the expected sultry ambiance, my misguided mind creating private and cozy little nooks full of flowing fabric and luxuriously draped textures. Sitting down, I had the eerie feeling that we were on display, each visitor a showpiece in an ever-changing work of art. In my everyday world of sweatpants and kidstuff, I was unable to relax with this spotlight kind of feeling.

Our waiter arrived and I asked for a recommendation regarding a Riesling sedative.  I was given many good choices in a bottle, but I only wanted a glass.  One glass.  And with that information exchange, he crinkled his nose (really) and told me the available “one glass” choices were merely “okay.” I looked at the wine snob dressed as our waiter, crinkled my nose back at him and then ordered on my own, throwing caution to the wind. I enjoyed the wine, even if it was, just okay.

After “wine snob” was added to his resume, our waiter proved to be a shameless actor as well, playing it up for some and toning it down for others (us).  After a while, I realized we were sitting between two very lucrative catches, at least from all appearances.  The couple to the right were dressed in Soho chic, the couple to the left, Retirement chic.  Both tables effervesced with the smell of money. 

It was after this revelation that I came to believe we were becoming the victims of income profiling. Flitting back and forth between these two potentially high tippers, we had a front row seat to the debauchery. He would occasionally stop to take our plates, no words exchanged, merely sustaining our place. And then he was back to wining and dining, smile aglow, answering questions and chatting amicably.  I would be lying if I said that didn’t bother us a little.

To assuage the annoyance, I continued my scrutiny of the interior.  The high pendant lights were suspended from a cavernous ceiling, creating a stark effect.  Echoes overlapped, but even there in the loft, it was very easy to hear other conversations. One couple in the corner was enjoying a discussion/fight and Retirement Couple talked of their evening.  We tried to keep our voices low! 

The physical menu was a gorgeous little thing, heavy in weight and beautifully designed.  Food choices proved to be extensive, especially with the daily specials included, but abhorring seafood as we do, we were dismayed to discover that a very large portion of the fare incorporated it.  Nevertheless, we were offered a few good choices.

Beautifully presented, we were served bread on a simple, square white plate garnished with 3 fancy dollops of flavored butter.  I would love to tell you just how they were flavored, but we were not enlightened with this info.  Though, even with my naïve senses, I believe that one might have been seasoned with chili powder. The bread’s flavor was different and very good, especially warm as it was.  It was eaten quickly and we were left wanting more!   

The salads were impressive and appreciatively displayed.  Mike ordered the Grilled Romaine and it was large enough for a main course.  The taste combinations were complex and very satisfying; a gorgonzola cream dressing with smoky bacon, apples and long, thick leaves of romaine.  I requested the Field Green Salad with Warm Goat Cheese Fritters with toasted pecan vinaigrette.  Wow.  The dressing was unique and oh so flavorful and complimented the delicately fried cheese fritters perfectly.  Truly, one of the best salads I have ever eaten.  Another best was comprised of the little bites I could sneak from Mike’s plate.  These were also served on large, square, white plates.  Noticing a theme and looking around, every dish had this simplicity of display.  Same plate, same color, different sizes. 

Huh. White pendant lamps, over tables dressed in crisp white linens and food delivered on plain square white plates. Black walls. This is not at all what I expected in combination, certainly not the theme I would expect with the name. 

At first, I enjoyed the simplicity of these zen plates, emphasizing the beautiful dishes arriving from the kitchen, but then I realized that because of the sparse décor, the plates begged to be exotic and gorgeous vessels in which to pump up the volume of Scarlet’s name. 

Finally clicking, what was bothering me was that the depth was missing here. 

Scarlet the color implies certain richness, intensity for the senses.  Scarlet the restaurant, in décor and presentation together, was boring.  Black walls, white tablecloths and white plates, darkness save for spots of white lights.  Trendy, hip and chic, but lacking a rich atmosphere, this restaurant would have been better called something like, “Minima,” or “Bare.”  And that is the exact opposite of Scarlet in my book!

As innovative and refreshing as I thought the appearance of chili powder in the butter was, I found it hiding in the homemade ketchup as well.  That seemed like too much in one meal.  It was good, but overused and killed the unique factor.    

We ordered sandwiches for our entrees, a regular beef burger and a trendier chicken burger.  The beef burger was excellent and left Mike very happy.  I was unimpressed with the Chicken Feta Burger, mostly because it was logistically difficult to eat since all of its garnishes were slippery.  It was a mess!  And the flavor was disappointing.  But, that is always a possibility when you order adventurously!  I don’t regret my choice, but would never order it again. At this point, we even discussed the old truism that “there are no bad experiences if you are trying something new.”  The homemade chips were good, salty and right at that sweet spot between crisp and chewy. 

A few little side notes – upon walking in, we noticed a “fish tank,” really an ambient DVD projected on a screen over the bar, at our height.  The choice of what was projected was somewhat weird and out of place. We thought, for the old brick and dark atmosphere, it might be better to use a crackling fire or something…sexier or romantic.  A bright display of the erratic followings of a saltwater fish tank was distracting to me and seemed unbefitting of the character in the old building. 

Also, either dead or dormant vines trailed up the brick wall all the way from the bar to the high ceiling.  Dramatically lit, it was a very cool touch. Upon leaving, I noticed the décor downstairs was a little more striking for the bar crowd, possibly their more lucrative endeavor.  The vine, splayed out at this level, “held” separate glass shelves full of liquor and appeared to be strategically placed to allow the mind to imagine they were fruits of the dramatic plant.  Apparently, doing some research at home, this is known as their “Vodka Tree” and it is blooming with; you guessed it – all kinds of flavored vodka.

More expensive than we would normally choose, Scarlet proved to be a player in the downtown fine dining scene.  Even though I had my imagination in overdrive, the décor works if you forget the name; simple and intimate. I was disappointed with the lack of “food for the senses”, but the actual food certainly wins some points.

Next time we might just go for the salads.  They were that good, and why I would still recommend this restaurant to a friend, even though they might be so unfortunate as to meet the “wine snob.”  We did tip him well, by the way, just in case you were wondering.

Phew!

Wow, have I been MIA for some time...  I have many stories coming, a few reviews and some product plugs of things I just can't live without. I have also been thinking alot about marriage, divorce, commitment - and would like to say a few words on the subject...call it a rant!  So, keep checking...in a few days I will be back, I promise!  I have so many goals, resolutions, projects for 2009 and I want to share them all.  

In the mean time, check out what else I have been up to...on my other blogs!  

My Pet Photography Site

The Triplet Adventures

I am also working on a super secret project - that will stay somewhat secret after the reveal, so check back for more!  It's not a huge deal, but it will help out my sanity a great deal.  

See ya soon!

Christmas Loss

Looking up, she sees the tree, the lights and now her eyelids blinking, one bringing on and the other holding back the tears that are threatening to spill over.  She brushes one escapee away from her cheek and continues to glare at the memory jogger.  The grief is finally hitting her full force.  So much loss; the people, the memories, the past, the parts of her family that will never be again.   

She is seated at the foot of the ridiculously wide Christmas decoration, sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Her hands hold a picture of a beloved dog, his fur so much like a lion’s mane.  The picture was there only because he could not be, and she missed him terribly.  At times like these, when nostalgia and bitterness got the best of her, he was her only refuge, his calm nature washing over her as she teetered over the emotional abyss.  But he was not here this year, having left them a few months prior to play in the fields of Heaven.  His absence was an acute presence in her life, she could never have known how greatly she would long for his large frame to be resting against her hip, his comforting warmth radiating to her very core, touching her soul. 

She thinks of the people in her life that she would eventually lose, one by one, falling away from this world; their radiance extinguished and stolen by God as if they became merely a burnt out bulb in a string of twinkling lights.  These were people she was not sure she could ever live without – her parents, her siblings, her aunts and uncles, her friends…her spouse.  Overcoming past grievances, feeling as though she were emotionally solid, solid enough, she was dismayed to discover another side of herself in waiting. 

Losing her first dog was a blow to the core of what she was made of, and she was ashamed to admit that she had changed, and it was not for the better.  He was a family member, almost as a son would have been to her, and no less of a loss than a human would be, but it was expected, in time, that he would leave her.  His loss was a thought she never dared ponder, and in denial of that natural order came a response so bitter, so overwhelming, that she feared what would happen the day she lost more. 

Until this day, she worried, agonized over his absence at the holiday.  Yet, Christmas was surprisingly easy to ignore, more than she would have ever thought possible, loving it as she did – the glitter, the glamour, the gloss of the commercialization effort; all of it so easy to disregard, to go through the motions, to not really feel it, it was saddening.  Even the music and family company that used to get her in the mood for the season were painless to keep out, never really sinking in, just let it pass her by. She vowed not to let it all in, keep it at arm’s length and not enjoy the holiday because she felt so angry over the world continuing its journey without her baby.  Despite even knowing, how could they? 

She wonders; How do others who have lost their sons, daughters, husbands, wives - their parents - truly enjoy the season without the bitter aftertaste? 

How does it become the innocent celebration once again, pure and without regret?  

Most of her suspects that it never does, only changes, settling into something more complex – and right now she wanted no part of it.  She missed blissfully enjoying Christmas…she missed him. 

Sitting in the quiet glow of the tree, dark in the house but for her glistening tears, her sensitive nature got the best of her, the spill coming faster, her slow hands unable to keep time.  She was wrong to be sitting here. 

This part of her Christmas routine usually rewarded her need to grasp the basic meaning of the season, letting the heady, optimistic mix of feelings - love, peace, joy and happiness – as cliché as that sounds, wash over her.  It served as the seal on the bottle, the top-off that made her feel complete; breathe in quiet, exhale peace.   The alone time needed to signal the end of hectic efforts, instead delighting in the enjoyment of her labors.  Time to let it all sink in and have peace settle over, soothing and caressing, creating a clean slate on which to eat, drink and be merry.  This was her mistake this year, she should have opted to skip this part, knowing how she would be, for it is now the chink in her armor that let it all in.  This first season without him that heralded all the future seasons without them. 

Feeling more like an adult than she ever has, she sobs over her losses; past, present and future.  

Check Me Out!

Lucy, an up-and-coming online women's magazine for us "real" women has published my story of how we found out about the triplets.  Check out my article here!  And be sure to peruse the rest - it's a huge issue!  It's a great new take on women's magazines and I am proud to be a tiny part of it.

Yay for me!  ;)  (Can you tell I am excited today?)

My Favorite Place

Etched so well into my memory that even the recollection brings me to peace, the imprint is a powerful tranquilizer. It is only summoned in great need of that effect; otherwise it appears solely in my random cerebral slide show, delighting me every time with the recall. This evocation of my favorite place is always a welcome event. Asked to describe it and all I can say is that it is merely a plain room, an old room and nothing more…at first glance. This room is not mine, only borrowed, and I have been there no more than a handful of times. Yet it is as home to me as my own bedroom.

I believe that it possesses magical powers; step inside and you are instantly relaxed. All tension ebbs away with the lapping waves at the shore below, tugged down into the depths, the lake assuming your burden for the week. Imagine a lake that could do all that; submerge the stress of visitors below the calm surface, letting each one become at ease with life again, every ripple a reminder of the troubled currents it holds temporarily contained in its depths.

This place…it is just a room, a plain one in fact; a box of a room really. Old and distressed, the top half dressed in screens with only bare boards for skivvies, it leaves much to be desired in décor. Scattered remains of a few ill-fated creepy-crawlies litter the corners and sand crunches underfoot. Three pieces of old furniture you would not want in your own home occupy the space. Thankfully, it’s not the inside of the room I am here to see. It is merely a placeholder, a vessel of sorts, in which to experience the magnificent.

Cold description aside, even with the obvious brusque nature of the room, an ambiance exists. It is cozy, yet pleasantly airy, with an expanse of beautiful lake set out before you as a feast for the eyes to gorge upon. Inside, mystery and depth perfume the air with their intense aroma, signifying the presence of so many that have come before you to savor the comfort this portal has to offer. Just as a kiss is not just merely the pressing of lips to lips, this room holds the meaning and promise of so much more.

Standing at the threshold of this gateway, I breathe, and deeply, savoring the pleasantly astringent air. I have heard that one inhalation of this superior cocktail has the effect of a dozen massages; and I am feeling that now. I rest my hands against the timber door frame, feeling the rough hewn wood beneath my fingers and palms. It is a pleasant textural sensation that only adds more character to the rustic room. Another sensation, though this one strange; I feel as though I can sense the two worlds juxtaposed beyond both sides of this threshold. Behind me exists all the stress, anxiety and worry of the world, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat of its own, trying to pull me back in with every palpitation. Before me, the soothing bliss of a world where time stands still or maybe just moves slower than life can detect. The promise of troubles abated, apprehension quieted and broken souls mended; and me as the bridge between both powerfully drawing dimensions, the opportunity to choose which way to go.

Surveying the familiar, I look to the right. Swaying slowly and reverently, in tempo with the sonorous chimes, at times lilting and then deep, the modest bed swing allows for either quiet contemplation or a lulling dream state. It beckons with each arc toward my place at the door. Suspended from four slender chains, so as to not obstruct the gorgeous panorama, it is covered by a thin bedspread which is in turn covered in a smothering Victorian pattern. No matter, it takes nothing away. The curious formula of this screen porch is; that which is added only adds to the ambiance and character. Everything here works in pleasing visual harmony.

The breeze flows as freely through the room as the water down below, smoothing and contouring my state of mind into something beautiful and worthy of collecting.

Turning my gaze to the center of the room, a sturdy pine table hunkers in my vision. On it rests an unfinished puzzle of yet another gorgeous, though anonymous, vista. I am tempted to finish where the last occupant left off, but my psyche craves the current scene available to me, just beyond the framed screen. I need to concentrate on savoring this short-term sedative because its effects will vanish all too soon.

Scanning left, the answer to my need lies in the form of a humble rocking chair, its unintended shabby chic expression the perfect fit for my weary frame. It is in perfect position to accept the best angle of view to the viewer. At once crossing over the invisible line between worlds, I surge into its arms and it welcomes me as an old friend might after several years. Instantly comforted, I rest my gaze to the line of sight before me, letting in the sight of the golden sun glimmering on the rolling and rippling waves. The rocking and the lapping and the viewing all in chorus, I issue a sigh of contentment. The convergence of stress and relaxation in this place always concludes with the latter victorious.

My day is now set; rock, puzzle, sleep… in no particular order.

As Political As I Get...

Politics are beyond me.

I may lose a few friends with this post, but it has to be said. Considering that it is Election Day, one of the closest and most important in history, I thought it was appropriate to post my First Ever Political Essay. This is as political as I get, people. Please save the scathing comments, I don’t want this to turn into a debate. I will tuck tail and run, just to warn you.

I think I am registered as a Democrat, but I am ashamed and yet somehow relieved to admit that I am truly part of the "Blissfully Ignorant" Party. When one is trying to live a simple and uncomplicated life, as I am, there is simply no room for politics, for it is possibly one of the most complex social games known to man. I never get close to that fire, no thank you, until the Presidential elections roll around and there is simply no way to escape the propaganda, the campaigning and the SNL skits chock full of presidential hopefuls. I jump on the bandwagon; I am a fair weather fan, only every 4 years. I am otherwise a "do no harm" voter (ie, one who does not vote so that there is no harm in swaying the vote to the worse of the two candidates). I would love to change that, but it all starts with the system producing the candidates.

We are consistently presented with the choice between the "lesser of two evils", and for what did our patriots fight, lose their lives and their sons to get us to this point? The corruption, greed and vanity, the waste that is filling up our Political Metropolis is something to be ashamed of, if ever our original founders knew what the system has dissolved into.

I’m not sure why, but people are passionate about politics these days. So not me. I can be passionate, and I think passion is great if you have it, so long as it is not imposed upon your neighbor. That is, unless your neighbor wants it that way. ;)

Take religion. Religion is in the same vein of thought in my book. “Believe what you want to believe, but don’t force me to believe what you believe.” People will believe and follow only if they agree wholeheartedly that this is the way to go, and that is usually by emulating a desired path of action. Make sense? Most people would be alienated from that religion if it is forced upon them instead of being able to make up their own mind and follow on their own. See this as a note to those who would love to see others voting...don't be scathing, overzealous or condescending of those who would not "practice" your same opinion. In other words, treat it as you would a religion. Do not force your opinions on others, for it will further distance them, proving their point that staying out of the "game", as I see it right now, is easier than dealing with “people like you.”

Use politics, then, not as a platform to display only your beliefs or to put down others you may deem as naive or ignorant, but as an objective, knowledge furthering opportunity, a discussion, for those who seek impartial bias and sentient leadership to lead the way to a better tomorrow. Let the lesson be heard in the calm display of knowledge you have collected, not by forcing the "right way" down people's throats. I believe that you are entitled to your own opinion, as opinions are never wrong, even though this one will help to shape the next 4 years of our country's history; there is a lot at stake.

I’ve never had the energy, or searched for the knowledge necessary for a political fight. I am usually in awe and disgust of a heated political fight between us regular joes; awe of the knowledge necessary for the fight, disgust in what they were actually fighting over. What was the point? I want no part of it, to get into a tangle with a venom spitting, passionate political activist - No Thanks. The people I have come into contact with have been way too pushy and ultimately scathing. I believe that we own our opinions, and we should not be chastised or reprimanded for holding them, especially not for letting them out into the open. If we do our research and believe what we have come to believe, we own those opinions.

Aggressive politically-minded people were never a part of my friend roster, and if you found me at a party where the subject came up, you could also find me quietly sneaking out of the room, not wanting to be caught and then reprimanded for my lack of knowledge, and inevitably my lack of patriotism, lack of support for constitutional rights, as if I am betraying those who would fight for that right, slapping them in the face, disloyal to our country.

I get it. I understand what is at stake and what has been sacrificed to get here…but the system those men and women died for is now defunct and corrupt. Put someone in the office that isn’t compromised, slick, favor-trading and narcissistic. Let’s face it, if you have gotten all the way up the D.C. food chain, you have got to be a good politician…and that’s not a compliment. Most are there for their own political agenda, and the perks that come with it. The fake smiles and handshakes, the phone calls to secure your name and place in the favor closet, the banquets to work on your schmoozing skills – how far have we come since the first of their kind? Previously a hardship, taken on by the most righteous of citizens, traveling to Washington with the town’s sacred votes in tow; the representation a necessity in that time of vast space and primitive communication. I can imagine the eagerness and passion back then, all knowing they were there to shape the country for the better, they believed in the system. Honor and sincerity, a personal stake in the changes made. It is all so different today…for example, don’t even get me started on Diplomatic Immunity…But with the technology of the 21st century, are politicians truly needed anymore? With the internet, and therefore information and communication at most everyone’s fingertips, what exactly is the purpose of a “voice for the people” these days? We can now all have our voice heard without representation. The money spent greasing hands can be used to fund an internet connection for all interested, the opportunity always present to participate.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. The job has changed, become so far removed from what it was intended to be, the thought actually sickens me. The career politicians enjoy the benefits and keep networking, selling themselves to save their asses. No paycheck or reelection should ever come between what is good for our country and our people, now so far below on the food chain, it's a wonder they ever think of us at all. It's now a high rollers game, them sitting at their exclusive “millions-in” poker game in the back room, laughing while they trade their fortunes back and forth, smoking cigars, while us mortals plink our last nickel in the slots, crossing our fingers and hoping for a miracle so that we can pay our heating bills or maybe even send our kids to school.

Idealists will scream at my defacing of their saviors, but get real, people. They are there because they want the fame, the white teeth, the mistress and the Ermenegildo Zegna suit. They want the snazzy power package; they want it all.

Who sounds scathing now? ;) I'm sure there are some out there that are in it for the right reasons. It can't all be corrupt, I hope. But eventually the system may choke out these do-gooders and send them packing or else join the boy's club; the “Can't beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality. It's become accepted, this new job description, and I for one, am disgusted. If those people truly wanted to be public servants, their campaigns would go quite differently. They are there for themselves, not us. And even if they start for us; gung-ho, with energy to rival a toddler, they will be eventually beaten down by the system, the other career politicians, hell-bent on keeping their positions and prolonging the country's agony.

Career politicians should not exist for they are the ultimate oxymoron; they should never be allowed to put their own success in front of the office/town/state/country they are running "for" because it creates conflicting end goals. How can you put the country first if you are basing your decisions on what would be “popular” enough to get you reelected? That kind of politician garners disgust from me, as do the people behind them who are so passionate, being used to lobby for them, to sell them, and the contempt and condescension in which they view the citizens that want no part of it. Put someone in office that is not a career politician and I will vote; I will do my homework, and I will have passion that matches their own sincerity. I say, stop paying politicians. Make it again a true public servant's job, just the basic necessities, such as a Catholic priest might enjoy (no laughing), and see how many people jump at the chance to represent their people. Only the truly sincere and hopeful will apply.

Now, it's all a salesmanship show, a “performance”. At the last debate, the commenters kept referring to the candidates’ performance and that infuriated me. This simply should not be. We should not be voting based on a performance in a debate or a campaign, there shouldn’t even be a performance…we should be voting on their performance record.

They play the “he said, she said” game, hoping that the busy Average Joe (aka, Joe the plumber, Joe Six pack) will never investigate the claims in true depth. They prey on American's ignorance to the senate voting process, the black and white bill voting packages; making it almost impossible for them to find the truth under the lies they throw around, hoping the current technology (gossip, phone calls, email, etc...) will spread the damage, you know the lies well; the ones that irrationally scare us to our very core, the ones the most ignorant and lazy of voters will base their decisions on. The same voters that will cast their ballot based on the mere name of the candidate, the supposed religion, or the fact that he may look robotic and jerky, even though it was suffered through years of torture.

We see the facade, the performance, and some of us judge as such, good or bad. We see an American Hero, who is also the most emotional, hot button candidate I have ever seen. Do we want that as President? We see a polished black man, an historical sight, but the deep down details of his plan and agenda, some hard to swallow, may be too hard to distinguish through the gleaming polish. Same old, same old.

Yet this election has brought out in me what I have never felt before…excitement. I shiver to think why or how, but it’s there and palpable. I’ve come to realize that it’s because both candidates truly seem to care about our country and us, the little joe. They both have the basic end goals in mind, which is rescuing our country from certain death. I like them both, for very different reasons, and I like their running mates as well. Not one candidacy is perfect, but hey…whose ever are? I have taken the time to research and for the first time in my life, I have held political discussions to learn more. When I look in the mirror, I think “Who is this person?” Yes, this may all be another great performance, destined to fizzle out in the fire hose that is bureaucracy, but I am holding on to my hope, that this time, something is different.

Think of those original fighting patriots and the original representatives of our newborn country….try to imagine the excitement, wonder and hope they felt to have this privilege to help change our lives for the better. Use those feelings and drive to your nearest booth, feeling the awe that comes with this kind of responsibility.

There is no right or wrong in an election, just a better path toward a better tomorrow. And it is our right and responsibility to research the means to that end, even if it is just the lesser evil path, for that is all we can do right now, until the system is bettered. This election is huge, and staring down another Great Depression scares the hell out of me. Our country, our world, is spiraling out of control and we need help. Our vote determines what happens next, to us and our children…so please use it; no matter what “party” you belong to, real or imagined.

Random Memory

Giving Her Away

The white of her dress flows down past her smooth ankles, covering most of her feet but for the tips of her fancy ballet shoes; a hint of sparkle and shine peek out from the hem, leading you to believe they would dazzle in the sunlight. She taps a toe of one of these magnificent shoes on the carpeted floor, fast and rhythmic.

She is nervous, and she wonders why.

This is her big day! She should be full of elation and excitement, yet it all feels...wrong. She is somehow melancholy and nostalgic, sad for what she is leaving behind. Homesickness, she realizes, comes close to what she feels, and what an odd emotion for the day. Covered in sequins and tulle, organza and beads, this ought to be a cause for celebration, for one does not don a fifty pound dress for just any old day.

The driver turns into the church parking lot and pulls to the door of the vestibule. This is it. The bustle of the bridesmaids is hurried and chattery. They are all late and there will be a hustle to organize from this moment on. There is an air of rushed expectancy.

Yet she feels glued to her seat. Her well-dressed father is perched next to her, a large grin on his face. He is looking intently at her, ready to go, yet she can’t get up. She wants this day, she loves this man, but she knows that once she leaves the shelter of this vehicle, she will become another person, her heritage lost…she will have in essence entered the witness protection program, changing her name, her address, her complete identity. What she is now, she will never be again…and the thought overwhelms her. Her past transforms to present and future here today, and her tears are barely contained over the revelation of all that will be over. Her family is changing.

Her father, recognizing that she will not stand up, covers her hand with his. He gently squeezes it for reassurance, for he knows that this is a penultimate moment in her life, being one in his, too. He is giving up his “baby”, his first-born, entrusting her to another caretaker. He will be giving her away in minutes, in a simple ceremonial gesture, symbolically handing her over to her love, to her new family.

Her beautiful veil flows down around her left shoulder, and flowers sit idle, gracing her lap. The light twinkles off her every bead and sequin, shining so bright, that there appears an aura around her frame. She is a vision in white, and he has never been more proud of her than today. She has found a steady, smart and truly good man to share her life with and that is every father’s wish come true.

Time has been stealing his family away, year after year, taking it one phase at a time, though always handing him a new one in return. This would be his new reward, watching her take her place in life, watching her bloom ever further into the woman she is becoming, and it all starts here, today.

Her mind is also on what she is losing, but also what she has done that she can no longer take back.

Her family could be called dysfunctional, but most could fit that description. Dysfunctional is the new Normal. She admits to matching the terrorizing description of “terrible teenager,” ungrateful and lazy. She has never really known how good she had it, until this moment. Her parents gave her everything, and she gave back nothing in return. She was a dreadful daughter to them, and now she was moving on past them, never to have the opportunity to redeem her actions.

She was torn, knowing she had a tentative relationship with her father, whom she was more like than she would ever admit. Toward one another, they remained emotionally closed off and hard-headed, stubborn and stoic, angry and cold. Better apart, they enjoyed a more mature relationship with others. Though, her and her mother had problems as well, anger welling up consistently and hurt feelings abound. The household was usually a screaming, emotional and grudge-holding mess. Yet, leaving it all behind, the comfort and the safety net of their home and love felt so difficult today. She enjoyed their company, being part of the family and sharing in their experiences, however disjoined. Tomorrow morning she would wake up in the company of her husband…and no one else.

She had no idea why this saddened her so, and why it was all hitting her now…moments before she was to walk down the aisle. She was barely holding on to her composure, staring down at the flowers in her lap, seeking control in the arrangement of peach colored roses. This was baffling! More than anything, she wanted to leave, to start on her own, to have her own space to organize and enjoy. She was chasing down real freedom! And she was afraid to let it capture her.

The car was empty, except for the two of them. He watched her studying the bouquet, trying to understand her melancholy mood. This was not usually a pose you would ever find them in, mostly concerned about their own selves. But he stayed quiet and looked at her until he realized she was not going to glance up.

He then took her face in both hands, and she looked up at him staring at her so directly she thought she would burst from the intensity, and before she could look away or feel awkward from the attention, he said, “This is the last time I can ever call you Cheryle Collins.” He faltered toward the end of his declaration, tears slowly rolling down his face. He looked as sad as she felt. Him using their family name, her soon to be maiden name, was far too much for her fragile state and she dissolved into tears, her lower lip trembling. In his last act as direct father, he kissed her on the forehead and pulled her up to stand with him. She was moved in his endeavor to make this moment so special. He couldn’t have known it would have this effect on her, and it seemed to make him even more emotional. Overcome, he started to lead her out to the waiting ceremony, but she grabbed at his hand, at that moment wishing she could take back all the grief, all the difficulty and hurt feelings she had ever caused him, caused them all, and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

She cried all the way down the aisle, most people assuming her demeanor as the usual tears of happiness and overwhelming emotion. In truth, it was for those reasons, but also nostalgia, love, and the sorrow of loss…the loss of her childhood, fading with every step closer to her love.

Her father quietly crying in tune beside her, walking his daughter home, every person they walked by succumbed to their own level of emotion, as if a magical spell settled over the crowd with their passage. By the time they reached the altar, the whole church was sniffling, brushing away tears – even the stoic priest.

He took his daughter’s hand and faced her, for the last time as her provider and guardian, and kissed her cheek. He squeezed her hand, full of emotion and told her he loved her. Her response was renewed sobbing, and a choked iteration of the same sentiment as he physically placed her hand in her fiancé’s own.

Transfer complete, this moment slipped away so quickly. She was now part of another immediate family, and it all happened with the simple passage of her hand. The ceremony underway, she glanced over her shoulder at her father, taking solace in her mother’s embrace and smiled at him. She was filling up with love and warmth, beside her soul mate, surrounded by her extended family and friends, feeling as if this was where she truly belonged. It all began to feel so right. Trading one phase for another, this was the beginning of a new relationship, a new emotional bond; a friendship, with her parents, and it all starts here, today.

Random Memory

The Jump

I look down. Fear overtakes my every nerve, prickling and bristling them, cascading down from my neck to the small of my back, crawling down my calves, settling in my toes.

The water looks surprisingly gorgeous from up here. Clear and blue, with a hint of green. So clear that even from here, I can see a fish swim through my field of view.

How deep is it? The clarity of the water muddles my instinct. Because I can see the bottom, it feels too shallow. It looks to be about 20 feet deep. But knowledge of this river supersedes my basic instinct, and I know it must be safe. Knowing and feeling are two very different things.

My senses previously focused on the water below, I become aware of a far away sound; a loud, pulsating, unrelenting sound. It echoes and bends, wobbles and distorts. It’s as if a warning bell has sounded in the distance, but the intended recipient has left their hearing aid on the bedside table. It becomes a distant, distorted version of the original; curious, yet no longer urgent. As haze distorts vision, so this sound feels; blurry. An eerie and peculiar property has attached itself to the noise and I find myself wondering what it is. A distraction to my plight, nevertheless haunting. I tip my head to the side, the better to receive this intriguing signal. I close my eyes to blot out the glaring sunlight and it all feels so familiar. Like waking from a dream, the source and meaning float before me, waiting to be grasped.

I stand there on the sharp rocks, letting the edges poke into my bare feet. It helps me to surface from the state I am currently swimming in. No water surrounds me as yet, but my awareness is as such.

Breathing in the clean air and turning my head around, I open my eyes to the sound of many people behind me, in both the literal and figurative sense, egging me on; needed encouragement for the task at hand. My focus swiftly returns to the beautiful blue-green current beneath me.

I ask myself: Why am I doing this?

For money? No.

For fun? No.

For glory? Yesssss.

I am wondering if my silence belies my fear. Though, in reality, my wide eyes, pinched breaths and shaking hands betray the truth.

I am afraid of jumping.
“Friends” taking residence behind me, threatening to push me off that rock if need be, I start the mental countdown. My hands are clammy and sweat beads off my forehead.

Typical signs of fear.

And I am acting oh so typical.

This is me – the fearful girl who shies away from any adrenaline pumping good time – irrationally afraid of the anticipation of pain. Not the pain itself, but the anticipation, mind you. Silly, really…parking on the bench for a reason so dull. Still, I do worry about my poor neck breaking and ending up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Then, I might have something substantial to worry about.

Incessant and irrational thoughts whirl through my head, making me swim in a sort of panicky state. Some part of me tries to counter the barrage of flooding cowardice. It tells me to “just jump! Get this over with already; you are making it worse than it has to be.” So calm, this scolding part of me that I would realize later was my subconscious mind, the only rational part of me. I want to listen, but the prickling nerves in my feet seem to have somehow fused with the rock below. I feel paralyzed and surmise that this is yet another part of me, the irrational part, displaying to me in a wheedling voice just how life would be if my poor, precious neck did, in fact, snap. “See? See how this would be? This is crazy! Don’t go! I won’t let you!”

All of this drama in mere seconds, yet it feels like I am drowning in time, wishing I could be stronger and just make a rash decision for once. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” An old-school rap song commandeers my visceral sound system, ringing in my brain to overload.

The mild breeze flows around my quaking body and ebbs me closer to the edge. I feel the warm sun and imagine the cool water surrounding me, and it is encouraging. I feel a rush of audacity overcome me and…

I jump.
Hands in the air to propel me away from the mass of quartz, I push off with my last effort and soar through the sky. I see in my front facing view, the beautiful vista laid out before me, moving higher and higher with each passing second, in my slow motion descent. Now, all I can do is worry, and feel...and hope.

I have already traveled thirty feet and at this moment, I worry if my push off was adequate. The rocks slope down and out toward my entry point, so if I did not give it enough, landing on them would be inevitable...not to mention, terribly painful!

Another ten feet finds me close to my destination. Looking down, the surface of the river is approaching and I point my toes to enter the water gracefully. My arms directed to the sky in an effort to become as thin as a knife, I pray my skinny profile will aid in escaping the jagged shelf. Holding my breath, I let the water envelop me, hoping to feel nothing but that, and I am now fully underwater, surprisingly unscathed.

The water is cold, but I am prepared for that. I strive not to gasp with the shock, taking on gallons of fresh water in the process. Successfully holding my composure, the reflex passes.

Happy to be alive, I take in the familiar scene; for this is my favorite part of the jump. Plunging downward to the bottom of the clear river, my fingers pinched to my nose, I am surrounded by a flurry of tiny blue-green bubbles, so delightfully bright from the sun; swirling and effervescent. I look upward to see the aqueous blur of the sky and the dark, hulking mass of rock directly to my right. I am intimidated by its unyielding presence and ask myself why we always choose this mountain to hurtle off, year after year. It has become a rite of passage in our disordered family.

Time feels suspended here in the depths and it is so quiet, after the muffled rushing of my plunge and passage through the water subsides. I wonder if I have enough air to make it back up. My outstretched toe has finally found the bottom, a flat table rock more than thirty feet down, and as more of my body collides with it, I push off with satisfying relief and bolstered courage, all thrusting me upward to retrieve said glory.