On Becoming an iPhone Addict

Mac and the boys mix a seaweed soup off the distant jetty. I gaze into a misty horizon, body limp; Yingling nestled in the sand. The rhythm of the waves at low tide aim to sooth.

Poing. A hand twitches.

Ding. Temples throb.

Whoooop.

The allure of mommy solitude is not enough for me to ignore the sound. I reach for the iPhone.

Whose texting me?

Who shared my post?

How many friends “liked” my status?

Did a literary agent send an offer email at long last?

It’s the final evening of our family vacation. It shouldn’t matter. And yet my brain sizzles with curiosity.

Outsiders observe. An intervention ensues.

Crash. The waves argue their case.

Ring. The ice cream vendor shakes his bell with disgust.

Whistle. Even the diving kite overhead has something to say.

Nature’s hum is no match for the cocaine colored Otterbox clutched in my palm as I tap and swipe and stare.

Bubbe is wise to my growing affliction. “Mom, you’re always on the phone. Didn’t you say no electronics at the beach? We are on vacation, you know.”

“You’re right,” I nod, tweet discreetly, and drum up an excuse. “I only use it to take pictures.”

Skootch is convinced the world’s problems can be solved and the universe’s questions answered with a search engine or app. “Why did my bucket float away? Where did the wave take it? When is it coming back? Mom? Mom? Mom?” He lifts my chin. “Type it in.”

Many of my peers seem in control. A walk on the beach with a childhood friend revealed her reasoning behind a quiet Facebook presence. Upon stowing her iPhone in my fanny pack she shared, “Years ago, I found myself sifting through a wedding album of a friend of a friend and thought, what am I doing? It was then that I made a conscious decision to stop.”

Tongue tied and stupefied, I rationalized a half-assed reason why, as a writer building a platform and in search of representation I needed to be savvy with social media.

There was a time when I sneered at the mother who looked at a smartphone in lieu of my face during a conversation at a preschool birthday party and rolled my eyes at the texting parent who barked orders from the playground bench. Now I am that mommy.

And I know better. I follow Hands Free Mama’s Facebook page. I Pinterest technology articles. I even held onto my Blackberry and a flip phone before that until recently because I prefer not to be plugged in.

I teach my children moderation. Bubbe survived an electronic free sleep away camp, Deletion Day, and is painfully aware that a phone in his immediate future is unlikely. Skootch doesn’t ask for technology at restaurants, in the car, or on vacation. Both follow usage rules at home.

But my do as I say not as I do approach will not last much longer.

The sun is setting.

Skootch giggles up the dune chased by Bubbe who lizards across the sand. Mac brings up the rear. I stash the phone in the pocket of the Tommy Bahama lounger, pretend to scribble in my journal, and mindfully confess – I am an iPhone addict.

Quick.

Someone point me in the direction of rehab.

Still Here…

A cobalt sky

The South Bronx

Sixth grade place value

Fifth day teacher

A principal

The hallway

An airplane struck a tower

An accident?

Call your husband

Robert’s mother was the first to arrive

She was sobbing

A second plane

Little information

No images

A vague announcement

The Pentagon. Capitol Building? The White House?

A field

One by one, children trickled from the classroom

I taught

They worked

It was Alake’s 11^th birthday

Many stayed ‘til the day’s end

At three, my colleague walked to Queens

I drove north on an empty highway

Not realizing I was a lucky one

Until the television showed me

Sickened

Horrified

Paralyzed

Outside a father played catch with his son

My husband played golf.

We can’t stop our lives; we can’t live in fear. That’s what they want.

Grasping for normalcy

Forever changed

But not broken

United

Determined

Resilient

And here. Still. Years later.

To remember. Pay tribute. Share memories.

To teach

To serve

To live

We are still here

There must be a reason

RED’S WRAP SAID WHAT?…Blindsided

Jan Wilberg, another “Red” and fellow 2015 BlogHer Voice of the Year was awarded for this piece about strength in the face of adversity. I had the opportunity to meet Jan at the BlogHer reception. She is lovely, as is her blog. Enjoy!

Red's Wrap

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me how to take my personality, my intelligence, my accomplishments, my ambition, my ego and put them all behind a gauzy thick wall that mutes most voices and distorts the sounds of everyday life. The siren could be a whistle or a baby screaming or someone’s worn out rear brakes, I won’t know until the ambulance crosses the street in front of me.

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me how to stop the waves of self-pity, the dejectedness I feel when I realize that once again I have missed the point of an important conversation or become the target of loved ones’ exasperation with my having heard them wrong one time too many today. Until death do us part skipped the part about the burden of a disability suffered by the partner who doesn’t have it.

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me…

View original post 346 more words

Discomfort Revisited; To My Future Self (with a side of recipes)

Dear Post Whole Life Challenge Self,

I see you my little sugar plum fairy. Don’t even think about downing that bag of gingersnaps. Come now, haven’t you learned your lesson?

Eight plus weeks ago, somewhere between plank holds and hollowed rocks you tuned into Coach BE’s voice pitching the latest gym event; a 56 day nutrition and lifestyle challenge.

Even though your New Year’s resolution had been to reign in copious amounts sugar consumption, the notion of trying, not muscle fatigue shook you at the core.

I chuckled and thought, here’s a woman who survived child abuse and child birth, Weight Watchers and CrossFit, and yet there she planks; paralyzed, petrified, and underestimating her grit again.

Competitive and conscientious, I knew you could steer clear of the Skittles.

A rule abiding perfectionist, I knew you could tweak nutritional habits accordingly, practice the weekly lifestyle challenge diligently, and input a daily score religiously.

At the very least, I knew visions of a chiseled six pack dancing in your head would keep the sugar, cheese, and gluten out of your mouth.

Still you remained frozen in the britches.

As the challenge approached and the chatter grew, the last thing you wanted was to be left out of CrossFitter conversation. In the end, peer pressure prevailed. You coughed up the fifty bucks and bought a one way ticket back to

The Discomfort Zone.

Lethargic, cranky, and craving ice cream scoops and pizza pie slivers; the first 12 days sucked. By day 21, you felt less bloated and more energized, but the lack of physical change almost caused you to throw in the towel.

But you kept at it. Today you’re done and writing a letter to your future self because the challenge creators encouraged participants to do so.

Yes, you expected to come out the other side a Photoshopped version of yourself. And it’s hard not to fixate on the lack of dramatic weight loss. Yes, the scale tips 160 and your thigh gap is more of a slit. The funk pecking away at your ego stems from female stigmas, girlish insecurities, and societal expectations.

Ignore it.

In 56 days you gained stamina and muscle: mental and physical strength, a revised relationship with food and cleaner insides. Besides, a little bass never hurt anybody.

Try to embrace these true measures of health and remember that despite middle age, marriage and motherhood, you are far from humpty or dumpty.

Find future value in the required weekly lifestyle practices as well. Thanks to the organizers, you got more rest, practiced gratitude, kindness and mindfulness, enjoyed activities you love, and trudged through meals technology free.

Remember waking up after seven hours of uninterrupted sleep wondering what the hell happened? Hold on to that the next time you stay up futzing on Facebook to then be awoken by a five year old with a 2am water request.

Remember the morning you experienced a few minutes of peace in the car at preschool pick up? Hold on to that the next time you think you can’t find space to just be.

Remember the conversation with Skootch about Superman’s powers and Robin’s lack thereof over a bowl of soup? Hold on to that the next time you open a laptop during lunch.

Remember the appreciation you felt those hours after the nearby train accident just to be able to sit and watch television with your husband and children? Hold on to that the next time you tantrum about life being unfair.

I’m sorry but this exercise does not mark the end of your journey. Continue to be wary of the Achilles heel: portion control.

In the meantime, feel proud. You proved you could switch up your diet and survive. This was an obstacle you were not remotely willing to tackle until now.

Discomfort is in fact still good. Moderation however is great.

So enjoy some emotional eating with your team to celebrate a job well done. The party bus and hard cider you’ve been saving are waiting. Next stop, Peter Lugers. Bring on the schlag

Sincerely,
Your Conscience

My Go To Recipes

Egg Muffins:
Courtesy of Coach BE

Preheat oven to 400 degrees
Spray down either a muffin tray or cup cake tray with Pam/olive oil spray
Dice pepper, onion, and spinach (really any vegetables you like)
Chop up chicken sausage (some prefer cheese or both)
Make a 2 egg scrambled egg mix (salt, pepper, milk)
Add the raw vegetables and sausage to the mix
Pour into the cupcake/muffin tray. The mixture should fill up about 2 ½ cupcake spaces.
Bake for 30 minutes or until you can stick a butter knife through and the blade comes out dry
Store in the refrigerator and reheat in microwave for 1 ½ minutes

Baked Oatmeal Bars
Courtesy of Karen the Baker

Note: Feel free to add nuts, apples, dates, and/or coconut. Double the recipe and use a 9×13 pan.

3 cups oats
2 t baking powder
1 t salt
1/2 t cinnamon
2 eggs slightly beaten
1 cup milk (use whatever type is acceptable)
1/4 cup butter melted
2-3 cups of frozen berries, a cut up apple, or whatever fruit you have on hand (Add a lot more fruit than it says here.)
Combine oats, baking powder, salt and cinnamon
Combine eggs, milk, butter and add to dry ingredients
Stir in fruit
Bake uncovered in 8×8” pan for 35-40 minutes at 350 degrees

Sweet Potato Chips

Photo credit:
Lynda Shenkman Curtis

Preheat oven to 225 degrees
Peel and slice thin.
Toss sliced sweet potatoes in oil and sea salt
Bake for approximately 1hr 45 minutes

8 Steps to Taking Rejection

Four years ago I was a part-time teaching, newbie mother of two ready for more; more from the “real” me and ready to embrace a creative energy suffocated by Urb-Burb expectations, thirty-something responsibility, and motherhood.

One December morning while ushering Bubbe down the driveway en route to my work gig and his Fours class at our local preschool, an original story title dropped into my head. The words sounded like something straight out of a child’s picture book.

I have been writing ever since.

I get great joy from piecing together a picture book story. However, as a Fours mommy, yoga buddy, and KidLit publishing veteran kindly forewarned me at the outset, “Next to poetry, the most difficult thing to get published is the picture book.”

Translation? Learn to take rejection.

Aah, yes. Experiencing rejection from literary agents and editors when one is attempting to traditionally publish one’s work comes with the territory, and I have traversed that land more times than I care to count.

Regardless of how many I know who have paid it a visit; Rejection seems perpetually barren when I’m there. It is a lonely place that stings the creative spirit, erodes an already exposed ego, and paralyzes dreams.

When all roads lead to Rejection, I am tempted to curl up and quit; but I don’t. Instead, I take 8 steps and continue the journey.

Step 1: Throw a pity party.

Traces of the endorphin rush filled with hope and possibility that flooded my system upon hitting “Send” disintegrate, replaced by artistic misery when, after investing effort into a project, crafting a thoughtful query, and researching where to place it, the answer comes back

“No.”

Given the circumstances, wallowing in self pity is natural. So I cry over cookies and cocktails. When the party winds down, I take a deep breath and walk away; the mess can wait.

Step 2: Find a shoulder or seek solitude.

After the party, I reach out to two people; my Dad and Mac. They consistently tell me what I need to hear, “Just keep going. You’ll be alright.” There are days when I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Then I find strength in silence.

Step 3: Say “Thank you.”

From there, I send a professional note of thanks and well wishes to the agent or editor who sent the rejection even if the response is a form letter or the answer took a

very

long

time.

In my discouraged state, I try to remember that most people don’t relish in the failure of others and that relationship building and reputation are just as important as a polished, marketable, and unique manuscript. Rejection becomes more tolerable of a place when I build bridges to cross.

Step 4: Make a move.

When the pain dwindles, I know it’s time; time to pull myself up by the bra straps, step into a pair of gritty calloused footie pajamas, zip them up to my chin, and get back to work.

Step 5: Reflect.

Upon giving birth to a picture book manuscript, the last thing I want to do with my precious story is examine its flaws and make changes. Reflecting on rejection is however, a catalyst for growth. It is also a balancing act between an open mind and following one’s gut.

If specific comments accompany a rejection, I comb through them to see what makes sense, face my chronic weakness; submitting before a project is ready and ask myself,

What does this story still need?

Then I write a bit or at least think about writing, and go on to the next step.

Step 6: Get Feedback.

Sometimes I’m more productive when I step out of my head and investigate outside the bubble.

I find it helpful to reach out to writing partners for additional guidance, sign up for professional feedback at conferences, seek out critique opportunities from valued resources, and listen to what the children have to say.

Step 7: Embrace the nuggets.

Through it all, I embrace the positives.

Rejection is laced with signs of life. The first time I graduated from a form to a personalized rejection letter, I viewed it as cause for celebration because it meant I was growing as a writer. Whenever an agent pays a compliment, a contest recognizes a story, or an editor publishes an essay, I am reminded that although my path to picture book publication has yet to be a straight line, it is moving in the right direction.

Step 8: Try again.

To a catch a dream, one must cast a net. Eventually, I submit my work to another agent or editor. And while I wait for that response, I keep a writing schedule, form connections, enter contests, submit blog essays, apply for grants, and build a platform. I continue to put myself out there because in the end, I make my own luck.

Marty McFly moments happen. Just when I think I can’t take that kind of rejection, I do; because I love to write.

Wherever your passion lies, here’s to collecting nuggets, casting nets, and pulling in your 2015 dreams.

Happy New Year!

Learning to be an Athlete

Yogi Berra or Jim Wohlford (depending upon the Google search)

Summer morning CrossFit classes in my hood are notorious for crew shifts. Vacationing teachers, students, and corporate types working summer hours show up as the morning unfolds to mix it up with us daytime regulars.

One recent hump day, I walked into our gym to find a swarm of angels.

Strong, confident, tenacious, fit; nothing stops these ladies. Not age. Not kids. Not career. Not cancer. Nothing. When the tough get going, they step on the gas and when the weights get heavy; these gals find a way to lift them. They consistently lap my veteran CrossFit ass, leaving me to wallow in their well-sculpted sweat angels.

They are women who, when asked what they did they did before CrossFit rattle off a lifetime of athletic achievements: college soccer, lacrosse, tennis, and volleyball, gymnast, kayaker, marathoner and trainer.

I adore the Angels.

A salt of the earth group, they play musical chairs in a rainstorm, foster and rescue neglected animals, offer unsolicited hugs for all sorts and no particular reason, and embrace known entities as well as new faces with respect, genuine interest and open arms.

But when a gaggle of them showed for class the same hour, my hour; I felt compelled to back squat with the dust bunnies.

A gritty, tough cookie born with athletic tendencies, perhaps; but an athlete I am not. I stopped wearing any semblance of that hat just shy of thirteen when I traded it and organized sports in for a drama beret, a couple of mock trial caps, and my model student beanie.

It wasn’t until drinking the CrossFit Kool-Aid two years ago that the notion of being fit enough in my lifetime to be called athlete crossed my mind. However, after consistent discomfort, fortunately and often surprisingly I am thrilled to share that I’m able to tackle most tests thrown my way.

Still, anytime Coach Herc or BE calls out, “Look at these great athletes getting it done!” I can’t help but half smirk, cock my head, and scan the room because I can’t imagine they are talking about me.

Why?

Because fitness level isn’t enough. The Angels know this. What they own is the ability to stay mentally tough when presented with a physical challenge; a nurtured skill from a young age.

This combination is new for me and I have some catching up to do.

But I’m learning. Learning to…

Relax

Coach BE used to stare me down regularly and say, “Relax Red, relax.” He was right. Excess tension wastes energy and I need all the fuel I can get. Now this two syllable mantra helps me scale hills, get under a clean, and go back for more burpees.

Stay in the moment

During a workout, the same coach stood next to me and said nothing. His presence, a quiet push, encouraged the kettlebell to keep swinging and me to focus only on that task. With life darting about, staying in the zone is no easy feat but doing it transforms the unbearable into manageable.

Make a plan, set a pace

My husband, a fellow CrossFitter laughs when I strategize the scheduled workout a day in advance and classmates love to comment on my marked up whiteboard. Mock they may, but a plan offsets anxiety and marginalizes intimidation. Pace preserves gas and rationalizes the agony.

Dig and push

When the dark side creeps in and the Angels are on the verge of breaking, they dig deep, shift gears, and turn up the performance. Experience tells them what their bodies can handle and they go for it. It’s an admirable sight.

Keep it real

Beating myself up and inflicting unnecessary pressure to perform or eat a certain way drains the psyche and limits my ability to grow. Witnessing Coach Herc’s tabletop foil wrapper glacier as evidence of a devoured bag of Hershey kisses and watching him take time to heal an injury are wonderful reminders that life is a balance and athletes are human.

As the summer winds down and the Angels rejoin their respective crews, I’ll once again be left alone with my WOD notebook, aspirations, and will to learn. But thanks to these ladies and our coaches, the next time someone yells something about a group of athletes; I’ll be peeling my ears for that ringing bell and peeking over my shoulder,

because this angel is sprouting wings.

A Great Hill

Sharing resolutions and lesson learned from a personal experience with the hope that it might one day help someone.

“After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”
― Nelson Mandela.

Eleven years ago today, I climbed a great hill.

Sitting in the mall parking lot in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s white Oldsmobile, I told her the family secret that I had harbored for over twenty years; that her then husband of twenty five years sexually abused me as a child.

When the words finally came out, my body decompressed like a flattened tire. I thought I was done, fixed, as if sharing this piece of information would easily mend everything and solve all problems. That New Year’s Eve morning I stood at the top of my great hill expecting to see a welcoming horizon. And at first, I did. But understanding that I couldn’t stand in one spot forever, I continued on my way.

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I was born into a generation of women and men who, when experience trauma, are often encouraged to talk about it and seek help. I eventually had someone to tell and immediately had someone who believed me. I had the guidance of a talented, dedicated professional who worked tirelessly to give me the tools I needed to work through the rises and falls. And I have a husband who has supported me every step of the way. Even the bad guy went to jail for a short time.

These fortunate circumstances coupled with determination to live clean, if you will, helped me to move forward. As a result, I have been able to scale more overgrown, rocky, and unmarked hills than I thought existed. And although I couldn’t reach the top every time, I’m content with where I ended up.

However, one of many things I’ve learned in the last ten years is that there are consequences to pursuing one’s truth. Expecting people to reflect, discuss, and perhaps change is a tall order. Maintaining thin relationships, living in a box, and avoiding issues are seemingly much easier paths to take.

So why rock the boat? Because as I started to value myself, I realized that regardless of what I was going to get back, I had to let people know where I was coming from. Several times I’ve been pleasantly surprised; other times, not so much. I’ve had family members haul off like a Real Housewife of New Jersey, friends just throw in the towel, and to mourn relationships of key people who weren’t able to meet me half way. It’s unfortunate and sad but as my grandfather says, “That’s the way it goes.”

I’ve often wondered if it is worth some of this residual agida to continue my version of clean living. It may sound reminiscent of a Kelly Clarkson song, but for someone who lived the first third of her life putting up walls, keeping things surface, and feeding the elephants in the room, I intend to spend the next two thirds of it living the most honest, genuine, meaningful, loving, and forthright way that I can. For myself, loved ones, husband and most importantly our children; this I resolve to do.

As we welcome a new year, I wish you a year filled with health, truth, cleanliness, and the courage to climb.

Discomfort

GRAND PRIZE WINNER: BUILD CREATIVE WRITING IDEAS’ 2014 1,000 PROMPTS, 1,000 DOLLARS WRITING CONTEST

Discomfort is good. At least that’s what I told myself before stepping into my first CrossFit onramp.

After a year of prodding by a neighbor, feeling the need to get fit before forty, and a whole lot of self talk, I mustered up my courage and scheduled an appointment with the owner of our local affiliate. The CrossFit sounded like my kind of workout; stripped down, personalized, guided and quick.

Then one chilly Thursday in March, I found myself in a yellow, industrial, concrete shell nestled behind an auto glass manufacturer and a door I wasn’t strong enough to open, with no heat, enjoying the odor from the neighboring sanitation department, surrounded by chalky poles, stacked weights, and clammy rubber desperately trying to hold a push up position.

An insightful, seemingly sensitive but stern coach who was guiding me through the session reached for AbMats to support the wide gap between the floor and my chest.

“She doesn’t need AbMats!” boomed the owner and head trainer.

“He seems to think I’m strong enough,” I thought. “Maybe this guy knows something I don’t.”

One push up. Not bad.

Two, eh.

Three. Not happening.

“Can I do them on my knees?” I asked the sensitive sergeant.

Before she could answer, the owner’s voice flew over my shoulder, reverberated off the concrete, and knocked me in the jaw. “This ain’t no New York Sports Club fairy princess class! No. You cannot do pushups on your knees.”

“Who does this guy glued to that swirly chair think he is; the burning bush?” Scared straight and getting the sense that he knew what he was doing, I kept my mouth shut and went back to work, AbMatless.

When my onramp was over, Sensitive Sergeant said, “You are a strong person. The only one getting in your way is you.”

The Burning Bush stood up, smiled earnestly, gave me a high five and said, “Excellent job for your first time.”

Their disciples, who cheered me on during the timed portion of my workout, came over and did the same. And when I hobbled out, my body feeling like a dented can of preserves, a golden goddess of a woman smiled and said, “No matter what, just keep coming.”

I heeded the advice, knowing discomfort was coming my way, but not realizing I was about to get more than I bargained for.

You see, as a teenager, I was the big boned girl who couldn’t climb the rope in gym, the non risk taking solid citizen who longed for validation, and the secretly shy, moderately social, but most certainly insecure person who soldiered through life alone, never getting too tight with anyone, especially a group of girlfriends. CrossFit resurfaced, challenged and then chipped away at each of those lingering childhood discomforts.

In CrossFit, egos are checked at door. Because the only way to get fit, fast, and strong in a place like this is to take risks, be vulnerable, put yourself out there, make mistakes, and trust your coaches and classmates. And for someone like me, that was slightly unsettling. But I did it anyway, and I started to get better.

Success is magical. Whether it’s running 400 meters without stopping, throwing a weight over your head, doing a pull up, getting a handstand, jumping rope like Rocky, or beating a personal best, it feels like you did as a kid learning to ride without training wheels or whistle for the first time. The emotion is pure, unbridled elation especially if you never imagined you’d be able to do it.

Gaining ground, being pushed to my physical and mental edge, and kindling that inner flame time and time again convinced me that I wasn’t as limited as I thought and encouraged me to draw on my strength consistently in and outside the gym. I got out of my own way; and eventually, climbed that rope.

However, the CrossFit picture isn’t always pretty. Things can and do get raw. But anytime I hit a wall, needed guidance, lost a skill, or had a bad day The Burning Bush, Sensitive Sergeant, and my fellow disciples had my back. For that designated hour, our job was to work together, help each other, cultivate community, and have good fun. In this place, you can’t help but feel validated and confident.

Sometimes, amid the blood and burpees, you also make a good friend. Mine was Sparta. She and I started CrossFit that same Spring. Because we had a similar schedule and were of similar ability level, we quickly became training partners. After a year of laughing, lunging, chatting and cleaning she asked me to join her team of lady friends for an upcoming mud run. She thought nothing of the gesture. It was a natural extension of our new friendship.

As the girl who always wished to be tight with a group of women, but usually found herself on the peripheral, Sparta’s thoughtfulness meant the world to me. A couple of mud runs with these ladies have come and gone since her invitation, and now it’s understood that whenever there’s an event; we’re a team.

And so I declare to you from the Plylo Box on which I jump; discomfort is in fact, good. Discomfort opens doors. It helps you grow. CrossFit just happened to be my cherry Kool-Aid.

Whatever your discomfort is

Tap into it, and find your flavor.

Then chalk up those hands,

Crank up the Katy Perry,

And get on it.

3, 2, 1…

http://www.build-creative-writing-ideas.com/free-creative-writing-prompts-success.html

http://www.build-creative-writing-ideas.com/writing-contest.html

Red Said What?

'Cause sometimes you just have to put it out there…

Category Archives: On being strong…

Still Here…

RED’S WRAP SAID WHAT?…Blindsided