Letting Go

I haven't been writing much lately, and there's really no explanation other than the fact that I have lost confidence in myself and in my writing. I read other people's blogs, and they seem to have definitive points of interest, ranging from adorable children to amazing athletic accomplishments to brutally honest confessions to poignant analysis of timely issues. I don't seem to fit into any of those categories. I don't have dozens of people reading and commenting on my words. I can't seem to find anything that I deem--to put it in professional terms--"newsworthy" enough to send out into the universe.

And then of course, Tim reminded me of what my hero Anne Lamott recommends--"just write." And so, write I shall. No more over-analysis, self-doubt or self-pity. Even if it's something of interest only to me, I will write it. Because that's what writers do.

Drowning

I've had a major case of writer's block.

And since the only thing I can think to write about it is a Matt Nathanson song, that's what I'm going to do, though it feels like cheating to use someone else's words.

"Come on Get Higher" has some amazing lyrics, but the line that sticks with me is "drown me in love." Because drown is what I feel like I've been doing for a year--drowning in love, in the past, in self, in despair, in emotion, in life. And as I approached my 33rd birthday--which was last Monday--I decided I didn't want to drown anymore. It's been a year, and I've grown tired of the excess. Love no longer feels like drowning. It's more like a warm, cozy blanket, wrapping me in safety and comfort and security. New normalcy.

History

I've witnessed a lot of historic events in my lifetime. Geraldine Ferraro as the first female vice-presidential nominee, the Challenger Explosion, the fall of the Berlin Wall, 9/11. But nothing compares to watching Obama win the presidential election tonight. I'm sure others will put it more eloquently, but his win gives me hope that ours is no longer a country that represents the interests of the wealthy and the white, but that offers equal promise for all. I see all the progress that his been made in our lifetime and how far we have to go to knock down those barriers that still exist and hinder the progress of our society. And I go to bed happy and hopeful that we will once again become a nation that takes care of the least among us.

"Truly, I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me."
-Matthew 25:40

The Land That Time Forgot

I often take walks in Brookwood Hills-technically, my own neighborhood (at least for another few days), though I live on the wrong side of the tracks (seriously-the Amtrak station is a block away!). What amazes me about this little enclave is that it literally sits in the shadow of Midtown--of office buildings that are home to Wachovia (wait, Citibank--no Wells Fargo), AIG and other financial institutions at the center of the largest economic crisis this country has experienced in nearly a century.

And yet, in Brookwood Hills--at least to an outsider looking in--everything looks normal. Families dwell in million dollar homes, drive their luxury cars and SUV's, watch their kids play in the uniforms required by their $20,000/year private schools, walk their dogs in the shadow of signs for presidential candidates--with no evidence that their lives are or will be affected by the world outside their little enclave.

Ironically, amidst the doomsday speak, my life is so far unaffected, much like the residents of that idyllic place. Sure, I still live paycheck to paycheck, I should have more savings, and I really need to start saving for retirement, but other than a family loan and good old Uncle Sam, I am relatively debt free. I learned that lesson a long time ago, and I'm starting to downsize my dreams so that they are not only more in line with not only my budget, but my reality. Because I'm starting to think that even if I had the money, I wouldn't spend it on a million dollar home, a $50,000 car or exclusive private school. I've learned the hard way that life is about experiences, not possessions. And I believe that I am building a life that emphasizes those things which are ultimately worthy of my time and energy. And if I need to escape--there's always Brookwood Hills.

The Starter Life

Sometimes being a divorcee seems so cliche. I remember when the book The Starter Marriage came out. I scoffed at the phenomenon, feeling superior to all those women who bailed on their marriages. I would never make the wrong choice. I would never leave a marriage. Marriage is forever--ironically, something I believe even more today than then day of my first marriage, when I walked down the aisle fulling knowing that it was the wrong thing to do. A $70,000 mistake that horrifies me and haunts me to this day (though at the time, I felt perfectly justified in spending it and pretty much refused to calculate that total). Of course, my parents--like all parents in this situation--offered me $30,000 to elope (as you can tell my that sum, I've never been very good at budgeting). Which I would gladly do if given the option today. But instead, I spent lavishly, trying to please others, to fulfill society's expectations, to do anything I could to mask my hesitation and unhappiness.

I honestly think a marriage's success is the exact inverse of the money spent on it. Give me a cute new dress, a couple of flowers and a judge--I don't need those trappings of success or wealth to have a blissful wedding day or successful marriage. My mistake was an expensive one, and a lesson in learning what is of true and ultimate worth--faith, family, integrity, honesty, openness, love and humility.

A Long Time Ago, We Used to be Friends

While I have finally conquered my insomnia, I haven't conquered my dreams, which are variations of a similar theme--my former life. During the daylight, I can nimbly push thoughts of my former self away, particularly as I have so much to be thankful for and about in the present. But as soon as I drift to sleep, the dreams are anything but sweet. Bob, the house on Jefferson Avenue, my dogs and generally some random person narrating, telling me that I'm crazy for leaving it all behind, that I'm not strong enough to survive on my own, that I'm stupid for clinging to my dreams of a successful business, a writing career, a nourishing relationship and motherhood.

Last night, Bob was my friend. I was able to talk to him about the past, about what went wrong, about my new life, about the happiness I've found--and he was happy for me. And he had found happiness himself.

The most difficult thing about divorce is that all of a sudden, this person who was your best friend, your companion and support for years--however dysfunctionally--suddenly disappears. There is no "being friends." Which makes my heart ache. No matter how wrong he was for me, no matter how unsalvageable our relationship had become, I still love him and wish him nothing but happiness and success. But I can't even tell him that. I can't even see him. A big piece of my heart, of my life, has simply vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness, guilt and profound sadness in its wake. Juxtaposed with the extreme happiness and contentedness I feel with the rest of my life.

And so, I plod along, trying to forget, pretending to forget, until my subconsciousness reminds me that the past is very much present.

Depression Hurts

In the ubiquitous Cymbalta (not my drug of choice) commericals, the narrator asks "where does depression hurt?" And when I saw those ads for the first time, I knew the answer--"everywhere."

As if life isn't hard enough, as if the economy isn't coming crashing down around us, as I juggle ten clients and volunteer responsibilities and try to forge ahead into a new life, depression likes to smack me around every few weeks, rendering me nearly incapacitated, unable to focus, unable to breathe, unable to get out of bed. Which of course, results in more self-loathing and more listlessness, all while the emails and phone calls and papers pile on top of me, into I collapse into a heap of helplessness.

Thankfully, this doesn't happy every day or even every week. But it's so frustrating to want to accomplish so much, to do most of the right things, to wake up in the morning excited about life, only to be sidelined--yet again--by whatever wicked combination of chemicals have decided to wreak havoc in my brain. And while I know these moments don't last forever, that I am blessed with supportive friends and family, good medication, a great therapist and the ability--on most days--to cope with this illness, on my bad days, all of these good things vanish into nothingness, leaving only sadness and hopelessness in their stead.

The New Economies of Scale

Last night, I resumed reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a book I had shelved for some time because I became so overwhelmed with guilt about my current eating habits and knew I was not in a place to change them. The problem with eating disorders-even those that remain dormant 90% of the time--is that just thinking about food can lead to anxiety. So, when you're in a place of forcing yourself to eat--even if that means your fifth bowl of Cheerios--contemplating food sources and the economics of the food industry are not really priorities.

But I recently started seeing a nutritionist and feel like I'm in a place where I can start to make better choices not just about what I eat, but the types of things I choose to consume and the people I support in making those choices.

I've never been a fan of chain restaurants--in fact, I remember being appalled last year when my consulting firm recommended that a small, rural county we were working with pursue chain restaurants like Chili's and Huddle House to improve its local economy. What about encouraging local entrepreneurs to start new businesses and better yet--ones that are less likely to pull out and leave the podunk town behind in order to save a couple bucks in this uncertain economic climate?

So, while I've always had the philosophy that local is better in terms of dining out, that hasn't really translated as much to other aspects of my life--at least in Atlanta. Growing up, we always patronized businesses owned by family friends--the pharmacy, the dry cleaner, the gift shop. But as big businesses swooped in and bought up these establishments, and as I moved on to bigger and bigger cities, the concept of local was pushed further and further from my consciousness.

But now, as an entrepreneur myself, I see how well my creative friends are doing with their own endeavors, and how important word of mouth and customer loyalty are to our businesses. And I'm beginning to think that part of the solution to the current economic crisis is to start shopping locally again. Not just for food, but for banking, clothing, professional services and more. Why should our dollars pay for the shipping of out of season foods cross country and exacerbate the current fuel crisis, when they could benefit the local farmer in our own backyard? And why not support people who are producing great services right here in Atlanta, without fancy Midtown offices, massive corporate headquarters and other unnecessary overhead?

Not that I anticipate meeting 100 percent of my needs through local businesses, but I can at least start by making better choices about where I spend my limited dollars.

To Your Health

One of the joys of being self-employed is navigating the travesty that is the American health care system. When I started on this enterpreneurial journey, I had the luxury of another person's salary and perhaps even more importantly--his benefits. Never underestimate the power and beauty that is corporate health care coverage, because life on the other side ain't pretty.

While I did manage to find a health insurance plan with a premium similar to what I've shelled out at other jobs, the benefits--well, I've yet to find any, short of being assured admittance to a hospital should I be involved in a car accident or random shooting. Other than that, I pay. And pay. For everything. Medication that used to cost an average of $100-$150/month averages $400. Gone are the days of that nifty $10 co-pay. Routine doctor's visit? $100. Annual physicial? $300. Stress fracture--well, I haven't seen that bill yet, but I'm betting I got close my annual deductible in just one visit.

And unfortunately, this type of non-coverage coverage is pretty much my only option, and the only option for thousands of other creative, enterprising people like myself. And we're the lucky ones, the ones with middle and upper middle class backgrounds, advanced degrees, with all the opportunities in the world. If access to quality health care is this bad for those of us supposedly with the money and means to "buy" our way into the system, how bleak is it for those who lack those resources and opportunities?

And what disheartens me even more is that during an election year in which this and any other host of issues are deserving of our attention, political discourse in our country has become the stuff of tabloids and tawdry gossip, which is a complete betrayal of those whose very livelihoods will be affected--for better or for worse--by the policies of the next administration. Don't we owe it to ourselves to ditch the dirt?

Big Dreams

Today, I received a copy for my father's first book (available on amazon.com--check it out here). He called it one of his "Big Hair Audacious Goals," and in the signed copy he sent to me today, he wrote "never give up on your dreams."

It's kind of ironic, because writing a book has always been one of my dreams--mostly unspoken--since I was a little kid. And whereas I have always been the family's stellar writer--winning praise from employers to professors to peers alike--my father was the consummate businessman, the pragmatist who once made a "D" in English and used to argue with me if I suggested even the slightest correction to correspondence or collateral.

And how times have changed. My dad trusted me enough to help with the writing and editing of his book and was accepted my comments and suggestions graciously, one professional to another--something that is many years in the making. And I was awed by his insight into the working world, his ability to so clearly articulate what is wrong with so many businesses today and the respect he's gained from his clients and peers.

And it also reminded me of my own dream to write, and how that dream's been put on hold by the business and bustle that is life. How I've squandered writing time by surfing the internet or watching mindless television, when I should be honing my craft. Hell, I haven't even been blogging on a regular basis.

Here's hoping my father's triumph serves as a reminder of the rewards reaped from hard work, perseverance and dedication.

Withdrawal

You know that feeling you get when you lose your job or break up with your boyfriend (or in my case, your husband) and you feel like you have completely lost your identity? That is how I feel about not running. For seven weeks. I'm a junkie in need of fix. Seriously--it's wearing me down. I miss my endorphins. I miss my friends. I miss that sense of doing something bigger than myself.

For the past year, running has been my life. It was the one constant in a changing world, a schedule I had to follow even when I was sleeping on my sister's couch or wondering how on earth I would pay the rent. My running teammates have become my best friends, my therapists, my confidantes--the people I trust with my innermost thoughts, the people I can be me with. And without that constant support, the constant motion, the constant striving for more, I've been forced to slow down. I tend to keep myself busy to avoid dealing with the difficult stuff of life--well, without the business and without the endorphins, it's been a tough seven weeks. I'm sluggish, I'm cranky, I'm unmotivated--generally, not a lot of fun to be around. And I think I've avoided writing because I see those traits in myself and was reluctant to confront them.

The truth is, this is a minor setback, a blip in the radar of life, and nothing compared to what people facing real illness deal with on a daily basis. And I feel completely selfish for wallowing in what really is petty in the greater scheme of life.

And so, the Kisses for Kate bracelet is back on, the "strength" bracelet for breast cancer awareness is on, too, and I hope they will remind to get some perspective when my thoughts turn self-indulgent.

Thoughts on Babies

Given the fact that I write a daily celebrity baby blog and that on any given day, three of my friends announce their pregnancies on Facebook, it's kind of hard NOT to think about babies. That, and I'm 32, and my biological clock has been ticking for about four years now, and although seeing a baby gets me all mushy and sets off that insatiable yearning for one of my own, I've been keeping a list of all the reasons not to have one. I'm probably approaching a thousand by now, but I'll share with your my top 10:

1. Sleep. I like sleep. Uninterrupted, blissful sleep, just me and my cat, preferably for 10-12 hours at a stretch. And naps, too.
2. College tuition. It was $20,000 a year when I was in school--I do not even want to fathom what it will be like twenty years from now. That, and I have not a penny saved for my own retirement. I'll pick retiring sometime before I die over a baby any day.
3. Alcohol. Nothing tastes better than a margarita after a really bad day. And 40 weeks with no wine? Doesn't sound like a fun proposition to me.
4. Mini-vans. All cool people say they will never own a mini-van, no matter how many children they will have. And yet, all cool people turn into people who own mini-vans. Bleh.
5. Diapers. There's a reason I refused to babysit for kids who weren't potty trained. And if you use cloth diapers, which is the en vogue and environmentally responsible thing to do, you have to wash the poopy diapers. I still get a little queasy cleaning out the litter box.
6. Going out. I enjoy doing adult things like eating at nice restaurants, watching foreign films and going to concerts. I can hardly afford to treat myself to such things--how on earth could I afford a babysitter? And if you've even been to a restaurant with screaming kids--well, not the most pleasant of experiences.
7. Travel. I like it, and like restaurants, prefer child-free flights, restaurants and attractions. Please shoot me if I ever have to go to Disneyworld again.
8. Food. Have you smelled baby food? Do you know how much teenagers eat? And a gallon of milk is nearly $5 these days. Craziness.
9. Breastfeeding. Yes, I know, it's natural, but it creeps me out. That, and I already had a breast reduction. I like them the size they are now--I'll leave the ginormous, leaking boobs to someone else.
10. Teeny-bopper music. Miley Cyrus, Jonas Brothers, New Kids on the Block AGAIN? As a working professional who promotes quality music, I would rather die than have this dredge enter my house.

Risky Business

So, I had no idea when I signed up for a summer kickball league that I was risking life and limb. I'm not sure if kickball contributed to the stress fracture in my right foot (bye-bye, Chicago Marathon), but it certainly didn't help. And then today, Tim tore his left hamstring running bases, most likely dashing his Chicago hopes as well--clearly, the universe is telling us not to run Chicago this year--and I ended up having to "play" catcher--Storm Trooper boot and all!!--so we wouldn't have to forfeit the game. The other team wasn't faring well, either, with twisted ankles and pulled quads and hamstrings galore.

Clearly, we should leave the kickball to the elementary school set!

Grammatically Speaking

Is it just me, or have adverbs become completely obsolete? I mean, I guess I can sympathize with the 16 year-old reality show contestant whose pushy stage parents' version of home schooling didn't include the difference between "good" and "well," but I expect more from newscasters and advertisers. I mean, is "ly" really that difficult? It works for 99.9% of adverbs:

-I am tired of poorly written newscasts.
-I fear that today's children are not being taught to speak and write correctly.

See--how hard is that?

Unfortunately, the need for pithiness, for the quick sound bite to keep up with our ever waning attention spans is coming at the cost of proper grammar. And it's driving me insane.

And then there's the atrocity that is subject verb agreement. Singular subject=singular verb. Plural subject=plural verb. "There is lots of mistakes in every edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution" is not acceptable--in more ways than one. Did these individuals not receive their copy of Strunk and White in whatever third rate J school they attended?

And then there is the issue of professionals, individuals with fancy titles like "vice president" and salaries that belie their actual talent and contribution to society, who write emails without any punctuation whatsoever, not to mention the fact that they sound like they were written by someone at 4 a.m. after a round tequila shots, rather than 9 a.m. after morning coffee. Is it really that difficult to click spell check (hint: it's the button with "ABC" on it--there's even one for this blog!) or re-read your email to make sure that it makes any sense?

Do they even teach grammar in schools anymore? Or are people really that lazy?

And even in this increasingly virtual world--help is just a click away! Even The Chicago Manual of Style is online. Use it. Please!

Bacon Mania

Apparently, I am a trendsetter (shocking, I know!). Not only has bacon mania swept through TNT Atlanta, but the entire nation.

Salon.com recently devoted an entire week to my favorite food. One "Pork Week" article, "Bacon Mania," included gems like the bacon bra (don't think that would hold up in the Atlanta heat), bacon wrapping paper, a new book called Sex and Bacon: Why I Love Things That are Very, Very Bad for Me and my personal fave, a host of bacon-themed apparel (including the shirt pictured on the right), courtesy of Cafe Press.

And of course, saying what we all know to be true:

"Bacon is sex in a skillet. It's the ultimate aphrodisiac for all living things. Except pigs, of course."
-Dan Philips, the Grateful Plate

Good Eats

I always wonder if grocery store cashiers pass judgment on the contents of people's shopping bags. Like, "honey, you could stand to lose a few, why don't you ditch the ice cream?" Or, "dude, if you drink any more beer, you're going to need a new pair of jeans."

I'm sure they had a good time looking at my basket today. I wandered into Publix this afternoon, and after a lovely chat with Emily Wring and her mother, I wandered up to the "10 items or less" counter with my 10 items or less--tampons, two Green & Black's chocolate bars, a bag of M&M's, two bottles of wine and a half gallon of milk--the latter a last minute addition to make my purchases seem "healthier." I don't think I fooled anyone, especially since it was obvious that the milk was going to be consumed with massive amounts of chocolate. Throw in "Steal Magnolias" on DVD and a pair of pyjama pants, and it couldn't have been more obvious that I'd be sitting at home all night in all my period bloat glory, eating chocolate, drinking wine and watching Lifetime movies.

Happy Hour

Tonight, I drank a margarita in honor of my grandmother, Elizabeth, whose ninety-one long years of life my family celebrated this morning. Mom Mom, as we called her, wasn’t a particularly big drinker, but I distinctly remember the first time I visited her in her assisted living facility in Florida and asked her what she had done the previous day. Expecting to hear about Bingo or perhaps an excursion to a local concert or museum, I was surprised when Mom Mom said “drank margaritas at our Happy Hour.”

Granted, the margaritas were probably glorified lemonade and were served in those small Dixie cups, but still—they were margaritas to her, and they gave her something to smile about, something to choose for herself in a world where those choices were becoming limited.

Mom Mom lived autonomously and proudly for the first eighty-eight years of her live, driving herself to and from “rummage” sales, church activities and the homes of far-away friends and relatives even after my grandfather passed away in 1994. Fiercely independent, “assisted” living was certainly not her favorite dwelling place, though she tried her best to make it her own with her knickknacks, familiar books and pictures of family, all the while referring it to it as “prison.” She managed to maintain that independence, sending countless staff members running from her room by screaming “get the hell out of here” if they were unfamiliar or didn’t treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved. She refused to eat dinner if the meals weren’t pleasing to her palette. She selected stacks of books to read and re-read, and at her age, deserved the right to cheat more-than-occasionally during games of Upwards—most of which she could win outright without even bending the rules—her brain was sharp to the end, and she had an astounding vocabulary, probably gleaned from her love of literature. Even in her advanced age and deteriorating condition, she commanded respect and was stubborn, even to the end—holding on out of sheer refusal to go before she declared it time.

These qualities—spunk, independence, and tenacity—probably not considered very “lady-like” for her generation are the ones her daughter, my mother, imparted to me and my sister, and I can only hope I live up to her great example.

D Day

As of yesterday around 11am, I am legally single again. Ironically, the official divorce decree says "the marriage contract heretofore entered into between these two parties...is set aside and officially dissolved as fully and effectually as if no such contract had ever been made or entered into."

Obviously, I get the legal point, but it's not like I can erase nearly eight years of my life. I think that is the most difficult part of this whole journey. Regardless of how disfunctional the relationship had become, regardless of how much I needed to sever my relationship from him in order to heal myself, to move forward with my life and grow professionally, emotionally, spiritually and otherwise--he will always be with me. Every day there are reminders, from his name on my prescription drugs, to the random note I'll find in my drawer, to his friends that inquire about his mental state to the countless memories that become more abstract, yet no less painful. Some are good memories. And those are mostly the ones I remember. And they make me sad. Not because I could or want to go back to that specific place in time, but because those people are no longer. Yet, just because we've gone our separate ways doesn't mean I stop loving or feeling or caring. And I do, infinitely. You don't forget someone who has a profound affect on your life, who grows into adulthood with you.

And yet, to continue that journey, I had to leave, I had to move on. And I did and am, and the life that I am building is so wonderful and perfect, I have a hard time recognizing who I am today and who I was a year or even six months ago. And it's freeing to know that I can move on, to continue to grow and learn and build something that's authentic and real and entirely adult--a life that fits me and my dreams.

But I do occasionally pause and thank him for getting me this far along the way, even though I had to say good-bye and go the rest of the way on my own.

Earth, Wind and Fire

A loved one recently loaned me a book called The Path: Creating Your Mission Statement for Work and for Life.

He is now deeply regretting that decision, as one of those silly "exercises," one designed to make you think about yourself in a slightly different way for approximately thirty seconds, has had me pondering the four elements--essentially, take the 70's soul/funk band and add some water--for 24 hours straight, literally causing me to lose sleep, as if I should really expect my entire unique identity to fit into some neat little box some ancient Greeks conjured up over 2,000 years ago.

Think about the Four Elements: Earth, Water, Wind and Fire. Which one are you most like?

To me, it felt a bit like the Sorting Hat scene in Harry Potter. Admit it--you know if you had on that hat, you'd want to be in Gryffindor, to be brave and loyal and daring and save the wizarding world from the evils of Voldemort, when more than likely, you'd be hopping on your broom and getting the hell out of Hogwarts the first time anyone mentioned You Know Who's name.

I like to think of myself as "fire." I am a Sagittarius, after all, a wonderful fire sign known for being passionate, adventurous, independent, ambitious and idealistic. Not unlike the typical Gryffindor in J.K. Rowling's fictional world.

And yet, I asked my closest friends and family, and with the exception of my mother (who must know me well enough to know how I would answer), the overwhelming consensus was that I am water.

Water? Water seems dull. Boring. Kind of like being a Hufflepuff. Kind, gregarious, hardworking. Yawn. I'd rather be a Slytherin. Better bad--known for cunning and success--than boring.

What is my fear of boring? Of being commonplace, dull or unexceptional? Maybe because I've always been called "cute" and "nice," words without substance. Maybe it's because for the first 32 years of my life, I always did exactly what expected of me. I studied hard, I worked hard, I married the first guy I slept with, I didn't drink until I was 20--I followed the rules and still wound up unhappy and unfulfilled. Clearly, ordinary and normal didn't work for me.

And even now, as I'm in the trenches trying to figure out who I am and what I really want out of life, I know that the answer most certainly is not typical, average or expected--or at least what I have up until this point in my life considered normal, average or expected of myself.

That dream of perfect children, the Volvo wagon and the Morningside bungalow is morphing into a Midtown condo, a used Honda Accord and a home full of love, intimacy and excitement--not necessarily babies. Things that may be the norm for others, but up until this point in my life, I would not consider normal for me. Or even paths that I would consider at all.

But my identity is evolving, unfolding each and every day, and what I'm learning is that I can create and follow my own unique path without necessarily being "fire" or perceived as such. And in the end, my astrological sign, my earth element, my Myers-Briggs type (INFJ, if you must know) or my Hogwarts House (Ravenclaw, if I had to guess) mean nothing. It's what I do with my unique qualities and talents--passion, commitment and a sincere desire to connect with others transcend any type of classification.

And in the end, I have determined that water brings up really powerful words that resonate with me. Emotional, intuitive, nurturing, kind, empathetic, sensitive, fluid, dreamy, visionary, creative, loving, imaginative and slightly mysterious. Water is less predictable than the steady, reliable earth and not as combustible or fickle as fire. It's much more grounded in feeling than air. And they're the kind of qualities I'd love to cultivate--along with a bit of fiery passion, earthly resoluteness and lofty dreaming.

Unhappy Anniversary

Today is my third wedding anniversary. Which, under normal circumstances, would be something to be celebrated, but given the fact that I had my divorce papers signed and notarized today, it was not a happy occasion. Nor was it an entirely sad one. I felt relief that the end is in sight, grief for what I've lost, sad for what might of been and hope that I can start life anew.

I live in a world of big, shiny diamonds, $30,000 weddings and designer gowns. I used to buy into the myth--I believe I was more invested in the wedding itself than I was in the marriage. A poor investment with a $70,000 loss, not counting attorneys' fees. And I am sad for both of us. Sad that I couldn't be what he wanted or expected, sad that I have outgrown what I thought I needed and expected. Sad that I thought years of togetherness and companionship and fun would equal a happy marriage and was too scared or stubborn to jump off the wedding merry-go-round.

I now know better and am surprisingly optimistic about the second time around. Because it's not about the day, it's about the lifetime. Of intimacy, of understanding, of shared vision and passion and learning and growth and maturity and the infinite possibilities life has to offer if you dare to live authentically.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Like most women, I have a love/hate relationship with my body. These days, I am in awe of what my body can do for me--propel me up hills; drag me along kicking and screaming for miles upon miles; fold, if not pretzel-like, respectable enough in my yoga classes and lift gracefully into Teaser in some of Penelope's toughest Pilates sessions. And yet, in spite of all those things, in spite of the fact that the largest size you'll find in my closet is a 2, I continue to heap abuse on myself day after day, week after week, year after year, until it becomes tiresome even to myself.

Where is the feminism in that? Where is the love and respect for all that I have accomplished, thanks to my strong core, muscular legs and flexible lower back? Ten years ago, I couldn't run for ten consecutive minutes--yesterday, I rolled out of bed and ran for over two hours, heat, humidity and all.

I like to tell people I'm small, but strong. And yet in my eyes, it's never small enough.

I struggled with my weight in my teens and early 20's, yo-yoing back and forth--five pounds here, fifteen pounds there, but never really approaching my health in an integrated manner. This all-consuming obsession with food, calories and exercise helped me to loose nearly thirty pounds, but also led me down the dangerous road to anorexia, and quite honestly, I've never quite recovered.

I try to conceive of food as fuel, of running as strengthening, of yoga as purifying, of Pilates as balancing. And yet, I always find myself comparing my body to others--wishing by feet were bunion-free, my boobs were just a bit perkier or my stomach were just a bit tinier.

I've thrown out the scale, and try to use my clothes as a barometer, but my body is changing rapidly as I present it with new challenges, and I certainly can't trust what I see in the mirror, because most days, I still see a chubby, depressed and insecure teen. And yet, every now and again--sometimes, it's when I first wake up in the morning, and others, it's just a passing glance at the muscle in my thighs or the curve of my belly--and I think "wow, I'm beautiful."

I wish I had more of those days.

We are Family

Last Sunday, I was confirmed as a member of the Episcopal Church. A lifelong member of the United Methodist Church, I had grown weary not only of that denomination's inconsistent theology, but of doctrine that I continually found contrary to my understanding of the Social Gospel.

And nothing could have confirmed that more than a scene I witnessed the Sunday morning of my confirmation. It was something that is probably seen in churches throughout the world--a five week-old boy in the arms of his father and openly doted on by members of the congregation. Except that this particular family would probably not be as openly welcomed in other congregations as it is in mine. For what is extremely ordinary in my particular parish--a family that includes two loving parents that both happen to be male--would not seem quite so ordinary in others.

In 2008, it makes me sad that we cannot appreciate loving families in whatever form they take. And yet, this joyful scene in my little part of the world, coupled with the California Supreme Court's decision this week, gave me hope that one day, we will cease to make distinctions based on sexuality, race, gender, ethnicity or economic status and will simply accept one another as members of the worldwide family called humanity.

Newsworthy?

Confession: I love my People magazine as much as the next girl. The pictures, the gossip, the fashion, and yes, of course, the "Sexiest Man Alive." Perfect mindless reading for a long flight, indulging in a mani/pedi or sitting on the beach with a piña colada.

But I prefer entertainment in its place--in People and US Weekly, on E! and Entertainment Tonight--NOT in the arts section of my local paper, on CNN or heaven forbid, in The New York Times.

So, imagine my shock when I logged onto msn.com a few days ago and watched my computer crash from what almost certainly had to be "breaking news." And what was this earthshattering event? The final determination of a Democrat presidential nominee or finding survivors of the devastating earthquake in China or cyclone in Burma? Of course not.

Apparently, Brad Pritt and Angelina Jolie are having twins. I mean, I could find it slighty newsworthy if they were adopting another orphan from an impoverished country, building eco-friendly homes in New Orleans or lobbying on behalf of refugees in Darfur, but for procreating? For being just another couple to use pregnancy as publicity?

I'm tired of sub-par journalistic standards. A search for "breaking news" on CNN results in stories about forthcoming plotlines on Desperate Housewives, Paris Hilton's escapades in London and American Idol host Ryan Seacrest's interiew on Larry King Live. What happened to poverty, hunger, famine, war, disease? Aside from the gold standards like The New York Times, The Washington Post and NPR, you almost have to search for real news amongst Britney's latest meltdown and Lindsay Lohan's incessant partying.

No wonder the average American isn't "smarter" than a 3rd grader...

Prozac Nation

I'll admit it--I'm on anti-depressants. And in this day and age, who isn't? I'm surprised they don't dispense them in vending machines along with Coke and M&M's. Or, as my friend T used to say, "they should just put them in the drinking water, and the world would be a happier place."

Yet in spite of how helpful I've found them, I still feel conflicted about their prevalence in our society. Yes, there are millions of people suffering from clinical depression--myself included--that truly need the drugs to regain some sense of control and normalcy. Depression is scary, isolating, sneaky and debilitating. No matter how many times I think I've beaten it, it comes roaring back, stronger than ever and ready to beat me down for another ten rounds.

And yet, the oft-used misnomer, "happy pill," belies both the seriousness of the disease as well as the treatment. Prozac, or your drug of choice, is not 40 mg (or 50 or 100, whatever the dosage may be) of pure bliss, nor is it a panacea for the sadness, loneliness and frustration that are a part of every day living. The fact that these pills are prescribed at an alarming rate--often to those whose woes are temporary and surmountable--also negates the seriousness of real clinical depression and the toll it takes on those it affects.

So, yes, I take my little pill every night, but I'm also doing everything I can--exercise, meditation, writing, therapy--to ensure that I am as healthy and strong as I can be to deal with whatever life throws at me. But one day, I hope that my evening ritual will not include those little pink pills.

Puppy Love

My soon-to-be ex--let's call him B--would probably tell you that our two dogs caused the breakup of our marriage. And I would disagree with him wholeheartedly. Those dogs--Bismarck, a happy-go-lucky golden retriever/border collie mix, and Buster, the fierce-looking pit bull/boxer mix with more bark than bite--were the loves of my life. My world revolved around those two puppies. Jogs around the neighborhood, snuggles at night, expeditions to summer activities in Piedmont Park--those were the things that grounded me, that made me feel safe and loved. I fell asleep many a night clinging to one or both of them, shedding tears for a sadness, a longing I had yet to name.

And much like many couples in a troubled marriage, the kids kept us together. When we stopped talking about the important things--money, dreams, fears, our deepest thoughts--we had the dogs. They were the tenuous glue that held our marriage together, especially when it became clear that the dogs--along with a shared bank account--were all that we had left in common.

It took me nearly a year to find the courage not only to leave my husband, but to leave my "children." I still feel like a horrible mother for abandoning them. I've spent many nights crying myself to sleep, missing their hugs, their kisses, their silly little faces and mannerisms. No matter how many times I've told them that their mommy loves them, it still breaks my heart to know that I can't see them every day, and even when I do, it will never be the same, and I will be reminded of the life I left behind.

But they are together and happy and well-loved. If only I could find utter contentment with a yard to play in, a roof over my head and an endless supply of kibble.

Steer

Sometimes I wonder why I write, as some genius songwriter has already thought the same thoughts and felt the same feelings and put them to music much more eloquently than I ever could.

One of my favorite songwriters is Missy Higgins, a brilliant Australian musician whom I was lucky enough to see tonight at the Variety Playhouse. Nothing beats a good live show, and Missy was no exception.

Her concert was like a songbook for the past several months of my life. "Steer," which is about finding an inner strength you had all along, has been my personal anthem...

But the search ends here
Where the night is totally clear
And your heart is fierce
So now you finally know
That you control where you go...you can steer

From the first time I heard it, the song resonated with me. I certainly felt confined and limited--by my career, by my relationships, by my finances, by my previous choices, by my own expectations and those others had for me--but when I searched deep enough and was willing to face the fear, I found that I wanted more and had the courage to leave everything behind in search of the happiness that had been eluding me.

And I said good-bye to all that was familiar. The safety and security of a "comfortable" yet unfulfulling marriage, the stability of a 9 to 5 job, the carefully crafted persona I had created for myself--I shed it all, not knowing what was to come. But I was certain of this:

I don't know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cause she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood
("Where I Stood")

This lack of self-identity without the careful life you've crafted for yourself, the feeling that you're not good enough or right enough for the person you pledged to spend your life with--recognizing my flaws and my culpability in my unhappiness--it was not easy nor pleasant. And it was downright terrifying. But I knew that if my identity was attached solely to the expectations of others, it was not authentic. And without authenticity, I couldn't grow. I couldn't learn. I couldn't be me, and all that I was created to be. I couldn't experience the fullness of life without daring to live with integrity, courage and fear of the unknown.

And that old life didn't fit me. It was Lena's life, not Laura Beth's.

A triangle trying to squeeze through a circle
He tried to cut me so I'd fit
And doesn't that sound familiar?
Doesn't that hit too close to home?
Doesn't that make you shiver, the way things could've gone?
And doesn't it feel peculiar that everyone wants a little more?
So that I do remember to never go that far
Could you leave me with a scar?
("Scar")

And my life is not without those scars. The pain of losing a good friend. Missing my two puppies. The recalibration of dreams. But it's living.

Retail Therapy

As much as I am trying to embrace a simpler, debt-free lifestyle, I have to confess: nothing feels better than a new pair of shoes. New shoes are a panacea for bad days, among them Bad Hair Day, I Hate Everything in My Closet and Have Nothing to Wear Day, I Have an Enormous Recurring Zit in the Center of my Forehead Day, I Have Period Bloat and My Jeans Don't Fit Day and I am Overwhelmed by Life in General Day. And when all the above coincide with I Had a Meeting with My Soon-to-Be Ex-Husband about Our Divorce Settlement Day, well, nothing but a pair of shoes will do. And so, a pair of shoes I purchased. Specifically, a pair of bronze Banana Republic peep-toe ballet flats, completely justified by their comfort, versatility and $34.99 price tag--which, with tax, comes $2.21 UNDER my budget for "miscellaneous" spending in the month of May. And the benefit to my mental health? Priceless.

Looking Out for Number One

So yesterday, I complained about being passed by 80 year-old men with pot bellies--generally in shorts shorter than what I would wear, and I consider myself to have some pretty damn fine thirty-two year old legs--passing me in races. To be honest, it doesn't just bother me. It infuriates me. Not that I would denigrate the accomplishments of these octogenarian athletes or the similarly able, yet seemingly unfit people twice my size that cruise on by me, cellulite a-flapping and Oprah arms a-waving, but damn, it bruises the ego.

I'm a competitive person by nature, with a reputation for crying and storming away from a "friendly" family game of Trivial Pursuit rather than admit defeat. I hate losing. And when I do something, I do it to win. I wasn't just a straight-A student, I was valedictorian. I didn't just play the piano, I got "excellent" ratings for every competition I entered. And if I didn't get the lead in that musical theatre production, you could be damn sure I was the scene-stealing chorus girl.

But running, well, that's something I'll never win. No matter how much I train, how well I eat or how fit I think I am, some shirtless senior citizen with more fat on his belly than I have in my entire body is going to kick my ass. So, all I can hope for is to kick my own. To beat my own PR's, to train better and smarter and maybe, one day, I'll leave some 80 year-old in the dust.

Run Lola Run

Whether it's a 5K or a marathon, there's nothing worse than being passed by an 80 year-old man with a hunched back and pot belly. I start every race feeling confident, fit and well-prepared and generally end up feeling frustrated and completely incredulous as to how so many seemingly unfit people manage to finish before me. And I've come to the conclusion that slow and steady does NOT win the race.

Not that I race to win, but slow and steady has been my mantra, both in running and in life. And it's simply not working for me any more. I want to build the strength, speed and stamina necessary to carry me through 26.2 miles with confidence and to tackle similar challenges with equal determination and certitude.

When I first started running nearly ten years ago, a slow pace was critical, as my fairly severe asthma made it difficult for me to run from one driveway to the next. Gradually, I built up to a 5k with a respectable finish time of 35 minutes, and now, nearly a decade later, I'm preparing for my first marathon. In spite of what I've achieved, I still run like I did in the beginning--slow and steady, worried about exacerbating my asthma, afraid of not having enough stamina to finish and paranoid about injuries.

Until recently, my approach to life was pretty much the same--doing the bare minimum to get by in boring, dead-end jobs; staying in a marriage because it was "comfortable;" living too much into others' expectations and fearing the unknown. And then I started listening to my heart and relying on an inner strength I never knew I possessed. I started my own business, walked away from a life I had been building for nearly eight years and tackled a new running distance--not a one of them comfortable or easy. Nor is it safe to freelance with no safety net, to build a new relationship while shadows of the old one remain or to conquer the demons that have been following me my entire adult life--and yet, I forge bravely into the unknown, with confidence and faith.

This approach is much like the tempo run, which challenges you to run at a fast, slightly uncomfortable pace, trusting that the discipline will make you stronger, faster and more confident come race day. Except my race day is every day. And I'm ready to stretch, to grow, to build--to live.

A Different Kind of Green

I was watching one of my favorite shows, Gossip Girl, last night, and about halfway through--when one of the main characters, a heretofore innocent fourteen year-old girl, steals a custom-made Valentino gown so she can exchange it for a new designer dress to wear out with her "friends"--I decided that I am never having children. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. I am a thirty two year-old woman, and occasionally, the hormones get to me. And granted, it's a television show. But still, the pressure--to conform, to aquire, to consume--not just in the adolescent years, but beyond, has reached a new extreme.

In my day, Keds and Guess jeans were all the rage--something easily accessible with a bit of babysitting money. Today, the competition starts in pre-school, and the race for status and prestige just escalates from there.

And yes, I love my designer jeans as much as the next girl, but these days, I work for them. I understand them as a luxury. And honestly, one of my favorite pairs cost just $17.99 at Old Navy.

And while it shouldn't be about the cost or the label, it would be hypocritical of me to say those things don't matter to me, because they do. But what I am concerned about is how much this envy, this desire to accumulate and acquire things that have no consequential value, has consumed so much of my life thus far. And if I--a well-educated, socially aware, civically minded and occasionally practical woman in her 30's--am struggling so hard to overcome my addiction to consumer culture, how much more challenging will it be for my children, especially in a city like Atlanta, where million dollar homes, luxury SUVs and designer clothes seem almost the norm?

How can I start to place more value on things that will have a lasting impact on those around me? Instead of envying those who have accumulated the most, why not admire those who give the most? Like my TNT friends, who brave rain, snow, tornados and Atlanta summers to run for those who can't. Or those rare Atlantans who walk or bike or take public transportation to work and make the air a little bit cleaner not only for me, but for the thousands of asthmatics in this city, many of whom are children without access to quality health care. Or my friend Christy, who celebrated her 30th birthday by hosting a fundraiser for the Atlanta Children's Shelter--simply because she could.

And even as I wonder how I will pay my rent next month, on this Earth Day, I hope my next thoughts of green will not be those of envy, but of how I can share my earthly blessings with others.

"Every good and perfect gift is from above."
-James 1:17

Confessions of a Former Shopaholic

I once tried reading the popular Sophie Kinsella book, Confessions of a Shopaholic, but I had to put it down. Actually, I really wanted to hurl it out the window.

The neverending stream of collection letters, endless bargaining with creditors, the distorted justification of unneeded purchases--I had lived it, was living it and certainly didn't need to be reminded at the time.

I've done my share of keeping up with the Joneses. And the Smiths, Johnsons and Browns. I am the queen of living beyond my means, more likely to spend that last $100 on a cute pair of shoes than the cable bill, or even groceries. Better to starve than give up my Carrie Bradshaw reputation, nevermind that I am not a successful Manhattan sex columnist, but a struggling publicist going through a very costly divorce. And while Carrie may look fabulous, she's also an emotional wreck, bouncing from one unfulfilling relationship to the next, drowning her sorrows in cosmos and maxing out her credit cards to buy her beloved Manolos.

Not that I aspire to the Manhattan high life nor to own $40,000 worth of designer shoes, but if I can never have that cute bungalow in Morningside, the 2.5 kids, the Volvo wagon or closet full of expensive clothes, I can find wealth and fulfillment in other, more permanent things--love, fellowship, generosity, integrity and community, a legacy with a lifetime far longer than a pair of Jimmy Choos.

Lena Lives

Don't fret, gentle readers, for Lena Hart lives--albeit in a slightly different form.

A few months ago, I started on the journey toward self-discovery, which has included, among other things, the creation of my own business, the dissolution of my marriage, the completion of two half marathons and the beginnings of a relationship with a man I can say with complete and utter confidence is my soulmate. And while this journey is by no means complete, one of the first things I discovered about myself is that Lena is not only an online persona, but a lived one--one I used to hide the unpleasant things in and of my life and perpetuated for so long that even I was unable to distinguish between Lena and the real me. That life-altering experience at Montara taught me that the real me, Laura Beth, is not only infinitely likable but loveable--unconditionally, just as I am. By God, by family, by my love and by my community.

Since then, I have vowed to live authentically, embracing equally the easy and the difficult, the light and the dark, the lovable and the not-so-loveable--the paradox and the complex reality that is me.

I hope you'll join me on my journey.