A woman like me.

Last week I attended the Social Good Summit, a Mashable/UN Foundation conference. The speakers were unreal, ranging from Desmond Tutu to Christy Turlington to Ted Turner to (my favorite) Elie Wiesel. It was a transformative experience, spending four hours a day mesmerized by the power of the intersection of technology and humanity.
One night, after attending sessions all day, I noticed the attendant in the swanky restrooms where I was having dinner with a client had a strong accent. She was a beautiful woman and I was curious about her background, so I asked where she was from. She told me Ghana – so I was of course even more interested after hearing stories of African refugees carrying their children hundreds of miles to save their lives.
I’m always interested in a good human story, but this was especially poignant. She told me about bringing her two oldest children to the United States because her husband had been killed and she had no choice but to leave her beautiful two-year-old daughter in the care of her grandma. As her eyes filled with tears, so did mine and we mirrored each other’s pain. It was a perfect moment where our skin color, our cultures, our financial status, completely melted away and we were simply women.
I may only have to leave my children for a few days or so at a time, and my sacrifice of not being class mom may seem so trivial, but I’ve never believed in the relevance of pain. If it hurts, it hurts…there is no measurement, especially for a mom.
Of course, she also spoke with such pride of her older children’s educational accomplishments and her devout vision of what they will become because of their dedication and endurance. I think I know where they get their strength.
Anyways, the final outcome was that I ended up dumping all the cash I had in my wallet into her tip jar. It wasn’t a huge wad of cash, but it was worth it when she started crying, which set me off and we mutually erupted into giggles at our crying in a restaurant bathroom!
I don’t know if my little contribution will amount to much, but I do know that I’m so grateful to have attended this event so I can be reminded that the human story is more intriguing, more fascinating than watching yet another sports show or reading an article on the latest technologies.
Oh, and did I mention I bumped into Ted Turner (literally)? I was trying to find the restroom and wound up in the greenroom. I’ve read three biographies on him and he’s a bit of an idol for me, so it was a “big deal”.
Much love and sorry for taking so long to write,
Midori

Monday is not allowance day.

We had deadlines for allowance when I was a kid.
Growing up, on Mondays, when I had forgot to ask for my allowance by the Sunday deadline, my prototypical Irish cum Midwestern America father would say, “Oh, sorry, you know you have to ask before the new week begins.” No matter how many noisy, 5-year-old tears were shed, or how silently my shoulders showed my defeat, he didn’t budge.

So, these days, being a parent, I always wonder (and maybe hope): how it must have KILLED him to say no! I mean, I’m a parent and knowing what I feel when I have to draw a parental line for Molly or Coleman, I hope he actually had to suck in his breath and square his shoulders to muster a “no” to those big, hopeful, begging green eyes.

And, I also hope…when I have to physically focus on taking a deep breath to square up my shoulders and deliver that same type of no…am I delivering the right message? Do they know that I want nothing more than to give in to the demands for soda, more video games, more more more? Do they know that I have to reach deep inside to find the strength to turn them down or make another, better choice?

Doubly worse is that I’m not one of those cool, creative parents who makes some kind of awesome game or diversion to distract them. No, I deliver the simple, harsh reality of “what’s best” and will result in “better adult choices”.

Let me say it…being a good parent sucks.
I would like nothing better than to give in to the sorrowful pain of a 7 year old boy, who thinks I am not a nice person at all. “BUT I AM NICE,” I want to shout. “Ask any of my friends and they will tell you!! I promise you I’m not doing this because I want to see the beginnings of that deep groove that lives between my eyebrows show up on your beautiful face. I do it because I think you will learn discipline and healthy habits for the rest of your life.”

Nothing would be easier than saying, “Oh, well, sure. Just this time,” over and over again.
But then I would be lying to everyone. right?

Being a crappy parent probably rocks. Sounds like more fun, and definitely easier.

Then again, there are probably a lot of things I could do to be a better mom. Read books, attend classes…all that lot.
But – in the meantime – I’m going to keep sliding in my socks, riding motorcycles with my boy, giggling over books with my girl, sharing stories about my frequent travels, pushing them beyond our little protected world to teach them about tolerance, fairness and life beyond our four walls.
And I guess I’ll also keep saying no.

She’s being abused.

I’m reeling tonight. Foreign feelings of anger, disgust, agony, frustration – having bizarre visions of holding a gun to a man’s head.

I just found out that a friend I love very much is being beaten by someone in my family. He is beating her beautiful body with his fists, methodically placing the blows in places where they won’t be visible to anyone; railing on her legs, hips, thighs, ribs, stomach. He is champion-boxer strong and she is frail, tiny, fragile.
The cunning calculation of how he places his hits is the making of nightmares for me, it unveils that this is not a simple loss of self control.

Oh god friends, what do I do?

A domestic violence victim won’t help herself. She won’t walk away, convinced he loves her and feeling helpless.

This lovely, gentle woman. How do I help? What do I do? Can we hate someone of our own blood? Maybe it’s not hate, but sorrow and frustration.

I am so concerned that I will have to sit on my hands, because there really isn’t anything I can do. Has anyone ever been in this situation before? How do you make a difference? What if she suffers irreparable harm or he even kills her? Am I being over dramatic? It doesn’t feel that way…

It’s even worse that this is a family member doing this to someone. A prayer, if you will, for the health and survival of this girl that I love. That she may have the strength and support to find a way out.

With much love for your ears and heart tonight,
M

Saying grace.

Did you ever say grace when you were a kid? Or, maybe you still do. I loved that ritual…I wonder why I ever stopped.
See, when I was little, ever night before we ate dinner, we would start off making the sign of the cross (Holy Trinity and all that lot). We’d then say, “Thank you dear God for this food, and all that you’ve done for us. Today I am thankful for…” and go around the table, each naming what we were thankful for that day.

We did this EVERY day. We were Catholic and I know my dad was a big “How to Win Friends” aficionado, so he blended our religion with a motivational guru to raise children who understood the value of being grateful EACH and EVERY day.
Even without mentioning God, we could still feel fortunate and lucky for at least one thing. If we were in trouble (9 times out of 10 we would have been), this little ritual was still a high point in feeling good about something. If we were angry with one another, it was a chance for the family to soften a bit and melt some of that hardness.

If you’ve read some of my posts, you might be able to deduce that I have not had a seamless life. A charmed life, yes. But, at times, it’s been also bumpy and requiring a little patching.
When people have asked me how I’ve managed to maintain such a positive outlook in life, I would attribute a lot of it to my habit of being grateful that became engrained through this daily ritual.
Along those lines, I’m enjoying reading “Today We Are Rich” by Tim Sanders. He gives nice suggestions of daily rituals that lend to being grateful (and, in turn, rich). He’s reminded me how that simple act of saying grace could be so powerful.
Just the way I received the book was his simple act of sending me a free book because I mentioned how much I liked him in an online conversation. I was so blown away I took this silly picture!!

Heck, just think of that word: Grace. One thinks of beauty, joy, empathy, kindness.
Maybe it’s time to start saying it again.

What about you…do you have a ritual or practice that you do EVERY day to remind you of how fantastic your life really is? What will you be thankful for, and who will you thank?

A day in the life of my joy.

Today I don’t even know how to share the fullness of my heart.
How do I begin to convey the sheer pleasure of a sunshiney, springtime day spent with friends in New York?

Yes, I was working. I spent FOUR hours reviewing a presentation on audio systems for events. And yes, this review of audio systems left me deliriously happy. (Um, have I ever mentioned I’m a geek?) Afterwards, I enjoyed a peaceful lunch talking marketing strategies and future visions for my tech company while drinking in the sounds and sights of Bryant Park.

I then had the immense pleasure of traveling through the cool little streets along Wall Street on my way to visiting a brilliant, award-winning Green Meetings passionista who works for a financial services firm. To me, he is like a brilliant diamond peeking its beautiful face out of the mirrors of the high-rise windows.
After our meeting, I was surprised to receive the kindest, most generous offer to present us as speakers for the firm’s women’s conference. Holy cow – how amazing is that?????!!!!!

After Wall Street, I headed to the Palm for a quick drink, drowned in the raucous, happy sounds of the historic bar; followed by a lovely dinner. Yes, this too was work. I discussed some ideas with a genius mentor that could be the greatest “game-changer” of my young professional life!!

Finally, I rode the train (a novelty for someone from SoCal) to the “Machuchen” station in NJ, discussing business strategy and vision all along the way.
Indulging in a custom of stopping at a bar after getting off the train, I was lucky to finish my day by helping a lovely, most cherished (but slightly phobic) friend cross “Singing Karaoke” off her bucket list with a collaborative version of Don’t Stop Believing.
Because who doesn’t love Journey?

whatta day. I want to name the people I am so grateful to, these people who helped illustrate just exactly how charmed a life I live. But, nah. I think I’ll just figure out how to pay it forward instead.
I’ll show my love and gratitude by sharing it with those who need it most. I only wish I’d had more time, I missed seeing three more people who mean so much to me.
Because these folks, they are the ones who already get it…as is evident in the joy, kindness, love, passion, fun they shared with me today (or would have, for the ones I missed). They know who they are. Now I just need to find the forward command for sharing their love.

My life. My work. My joy.
I. am. blessed.

and so are you.

A wary heart.

About a month ago, I was hiking with Dash down one of my favorite trails.

Dash. Not relevant to the post. But she is the worlds best doggie.

A couple of miles in, ahead of me on a knoll, I saw a man sitting on a blanket. His bike leaned on a rock behind him, piles of empty beer cans surrounded him as he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face. Observing his clothing, appearance and shopping bags on his bike, plus knowing that we were near the local farms, I guessed he might be a migrant farm worker.
I feel heaps of shame, of remorse, of anger and confusion when I think about what I did next.
I turned around and ran the other way. I warned another woman who was alone that there was a man on the trail who might have been drinking and she also turned around to head back to the trailhead. So many murders and kidnappings have plagued our hiking trails lately that I just couldn’t see any other way to handle the situation.

Two days ago, a man approached me at the gas station. He politely said, “Sweetie, I’m sorry to ask this, but I’m collecting pennies to get some gas money.” I hesitated just a moment and then said, “Sorry, no cash on me.” You and I both know I had a purse with a surplus of change I could have easily parted with.
The problem is that a month or so before that, I had a young teenage boy politely ask me for a couple of dollars for gas at a gas station, saying his mom was on the cell phone in his hand and worried about him. When I handed it over, his polite little act vanished and he did not head towards a car or the gas station store…but sauntered over to a group of friends waiting in the bushes.
I’d been had.

These incidents have really been troubling me. I’m tough, but a softie. I want to be street smart and wise…but I also hurt for these people who are asking me for help.

That poor man crying on the trail. His grief was so thick I could have touched it in the air around him. Could a friendly voice and offer to help have made a difference in his life?
This man who needed gas money – why the hell didn’t I just say I’d go inside and give $5 to the attendant for his gas pump? That would have saved me from being duped and would have helped him out – if he’d actually needed it.
I have been thinking about these things almost nonstop.

Damn this world for leaving me so jaded and guarded. I inherited my mom’s soft, soft heart and it’s only through the toughest of life lessons that it’s become so wary. I want to give and help, unbounded by rules and caution.
But, for now, my heart will have to heed caution and listen to the rules of giving as dictated by this world we live in.

Wealth redefined.

Today I followed an ancient Chevy pickup truck down the road. I observed its rusty, chipped paint; wide, side-wing windows; an old green recliner roped down in the back; license plate frame reflecting something about the happy life in one of our local, rural communities. Two happy-looking men had elbows cocked out the windows, smiling and chatting in the afternoon sun.
Cruising behind him, I also noticed an absolutely gorgeous, sleek, black 2010 BMW 745iL in the next lane. With tinted windows and pristine detailing by some dutiful car wash attendant, it was a beauty for my eyes to behold (and, of course, to drive…if you know me, you know my love for the driving machine).

Later, it really stuck with me, looking at these two side by side. I couldn’t stop thinking, “Who is more wealthy?”
Was it the man driving the beautiful car, driving home to his manicured lawns and strict HOA rules about parking only in the driveway? Or was it the dirty truck bound for a modest home tucked into a mountainside, surrounded by dirt and wildlife?

I mean, that was one ugly recliner that they kept a dutiful eye on to make sure it didn’t flop out of the back. I bet the BMW dude has a sumptuous couch that cushions the back in just the right spots. And I know for a fact that one’s tailbone is hugged in comfort while the foot is happily responded to by a bouncy and willing throttle in such a BMW. Ahhh, the joy of a bimmer.

But, then again, I caught myself wondering…who is more wealthy? See, here’s what I guess the reality is. The Chevy guys own that truck outright. They just came from somewhere where they got the recliner for free or close to free (gotta love Craigslist). Based on that observation, I’m willing to speculate that they didn’t overspend on a home or other material good. Shoot, they might even live together or with family to make ends meet. And I know it’s totally wrong to make such assumption, but I thought these telltale signs of “thriftiness” might even indicate that the majority of items they have in their possession are actually owned, free of indebtedness to anyone?

Because, friend, the way I imagine the BMW guy is this. He looks damn cool in that car and has a blast driving it. But, he drives a car he will never finally own, either by lease or trade-in. He makes monthly payments on a home that he will not own; he never anticipated living there for 30 years to reach full amortization on that mortgage. It’s possible he’ll never pay off the card that bought the Coach purse, gas for the family vehicles, dinners out, or other signs of wealth and wellness in most communities. Most likely, he’ll transfer that debt into some other form. There’s even a good chance he sleeps on a borrowed mattress (he expects to pay off the interest-free purchase with next year’s tax return).

So, as I began to evaluate the two, I realized something about these Americans.

They’re equals.
Those poor Chevy guys have physical pains from sitting on old chairs and having to sit on an old-truck bench seat. That poor BMW guy has joint pains and fatigue from his rubber-tire belly that he’s accumulated in working 12 hours a day to stay ahead of ongoing monthly expenses.

The only difference is in what the eye chooses to see.
And this is a choice most of our overworked eyes struggle to overlook in our modern world.

My soul fuel. Alone-ness.

Recently I did one of those personality tests that tell you what you already knew about yourself (I honestly love taking those tests, they’re always fun). Do you know what I found out? I’m an introvert!

Even though I think I did know that about myself, every time I stand in front of an audience and tell them that, there is a massive round of giggles (myself included). How can someone so socially vocal be an introvert?

Turns out, it’s true. Someone asked me the question, “What do you do to recharge your batteries?” My answer was to grab the dog and go for a long hike. Apparently, that makes me an introvert. My comfort and inspiration comes from within.

I love, love, love to be alone. I like running/hiking alone, I like to travel alone, I like to go to dinner alone – growing up it was surfing or going on a long horseback ride…alone. While I thrive on the energy and presence of the people around me, I find that I’m often seeking a way to get back to being alone. Isn’t that interesting?

The other night I got some of my soul fuel. I put the kids to bed, grabbed a cold Coors Light and hit the driving range. It was like magic…a 75 degree, Friday night in April, just sliently hitting one ball after another in total solitude.

What about you? What’s your soul fuel? Are you getting enough of it? Do you need to find a way to get more of that fuel?

btw, here’ a link to one of those fun personality tests.

Scars. (A very personal sharing.)

Do you know my favorite part of the banner picture on my blog? Yes, I love the two brown dots on my left iris…but that’s not it. If you look closely, you’ll see the scar above my left eyelid (it’s right on the picture, a mirror image).

I earned this scar jumping off the couch when I was four. I split it again when I was five, doing the same exact thing – thinking for sure this time I’d figured out how to fly. I think that’s kind of a cool way of seeing the world.

Anyways, besides those smile lines around my eyes, I really love my eyelid scar. Frankly, my body is covered in them. Each one brings its own memories. (Like the “L” on my right wrist that my horse Luna left when she shattered my bones and tore all the ligaments; results were seeing my guardian angel, a semester’s worth of college notes in left-handed scribble – pretty cool things to remember.)

Think about the word scar for a moment. A few thoughts come to my mind.

• It usually makes you think of pain, of some kind of wound that has healed.
• They say that when a bone breaks, it grows back stronger.

I can’t see my heart. Or my brain. But they are still part of my physical body. Personally, I think there might be invisible little imprints on them left by past experiences, a shift in energy and how the blood flows. Those would be, IMHO, scars.

If that’s the case, then I’m damn lucky. I might have the strongest heart, mind and emotional brain of anyone I know. I don’t feel a lot of need to talk about the cause of those scars these days, so I won’t talk about that.

However, I do think that I’m lucky to have these scars for two reasons.

1. I can slip past empathy and feel true sympathy for those who have suffered (or are suffering from) tragedy, loss, anger or other raw and damaging emotions.
2. I am stronger and more alive thanks to the deep challenges of those experiences. I have a passion for life and for helping others that might not exist had I not encountered my own troubles.

I guess the point is that whether you’ve earned your scars or they are just healing, whether they are emotional or physical; they become a beautiful and fundamental part of our being/our essence; no lotion, no potion, will erase them. No matter how scared, sad or confused you might be, or how impossible it might be to see right now, you will be so much stronger.

If you can believe this, the troughs of life become their own little interesting puzzles. You will sleep at night, no matter how overwhelming the situation.

And that’s the power of learning to accept love our past and use it to build the daydreams of tomorrow today.

Learning to be mom.

I’m not a natural mom.

I mean, motherhood was never apparent to me. I looked at kids with fondness and as fun little people to play with…but never had any deep instincts that made me want to grab a washcloth & clean their chubby little hands. As a matter of fact, the toddler sitting at a high chair munching on cheerios was an insta-gag.

For 7 years I’ve been blindly paddling around momhood. When Coleman was born and cried nonstop for 12 months I actually had a night where I tried to convince DH that the best thing for Coleman would be to find him a new home with a mom who knew how to take care of babies! In a state of delirium I think I had even composed the craigslist ad I was going to write. Hmmm, would that have belonged under “Community”?

Anyways, my latest mom lesson just happened upon me last night.
Three weeks ago I packed up Coleman’s favorite blankie and soccer ball and handed my 7YO little man to probably his favorite person in the world (Nana/my mom, who could blame him?!). They were catching a plane to Switzerland.
My friends, I can probably count on one hand the number of people I know who “approved” or at least understood me letting him go. And maybe only one of those women have children. I’ve been tsked tsked relentlessly, and especially because I wasn’t draped in mourning black the day he left…shoot, I was downright excited!!

Well, guess what world?? Coleman came home. While in Schweiz, he ate veggies (for like the first time ever), learned to speak German, took over 200 pictures on his iPhone, only cried because he had to come back home…his brain is expanded and he has a new outlook on the size and content of this beautiful world.

But, there was a mom lesson for me after all.
See, I didn’t do so well. Even though he and I have an uber independent relationship, I struggled. For three weeks I felt “off”, like my polarization was just tilted a few degrees too far south. While I wasn’t openly lamenting his absence, there was a constant, deep-seated feeling of something being wrong.

Lest you think this was a bad thing, I’m actually oddly relieved. Maybe I’m more like a mom than I thought…guess it’s good I kept the kid after all

The boy is home. My world is right as rain again.