Lincoln, Lincoln, I been thinkin'....A Movie Review

When I saw the preview for Steven Spielberg's Lincoln, months ago, and then every time since, I cried.  I've always had a fascination with the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, and everything surrounding that fateful time in our history...and I'm a hopeless sucker for John Williams' movie scores.

I wasn't sure it could live up to what I had hoped for, but I'm happy to say that when 2 hours and 29 minutes were up, I didn't realize how much time had passed and I didn't want it to end.

First of all, this was truly an actor's movie.  Some films are simply vehicles for next year's Best Actor/Actress to show off their work.  (I'm talking to you, J. Edgar.)  They come out looking like somebody slapped a hundred carat Diamond hood-ornament on a crappy Chevy Nova, and hoped no one would see past the diamond.  It wasn't the case with Lincoln.

This movie was a constellation of some of the best character actors in the business, and because it was a period movie, there was a character in it for everyone.  Not only did Daniel Day-Lewis get to do his method thing, but the extras had to look legit, and the under-five-liners had to perfect their dialects, their posture, their mannerisms. Just one hair or inflection out of place would have ruined the magic of our trip back to 1865.

The supporting cast was so colorful and rich, Lincoln himself faded into the background at times.  Sally Field played the part of the tortured Mary Todd Lincoln with a depth and passion that captured the turmoil that she no doubt experienced having to be along for that ride.  Gulliver McGrath and Joseph Gordon-Levitt had two very different and very real relationships with their father.  Tommy Lee Jones played Republican Thaddeus Stevens like a crumpled, old troll with a greyhound-headed cane, but the passion that burned within him made him shine.  Gloria Reuben brought passion to the role of Elizabeth Keckley, Mrs. Lincoln's servant, whose son had died fighting for the Union, for freedom.   Peter McRobbie and Lee Pace played detestable Democrat bullies.  James Spader, John Hawkes, and Tim Blake Nelson, who took their relatively small, but major roles and ran with them, were both comic relief and an important look into the role of lobbyists in Congress.  Hal Holbrook looked like someone had gone back to 1865 and bottled him up in a time-capsule to bring him back as Preston Blair---and not just because he's super old in real life.

This movie is also a wonderful lesson, not only in the life of Abraham Lincoln, but the process of government--the wheelings and dealings and bribes and betrayals that go into passing laws and amendments, and how close we came to not passing something that we take for granted now: the 13th Amendment: the Abolition of Slavery.  Parents should take their kids, and teachers, once its available, should take a couple days to show it to their classes, maybe before Christmas break next year---because seriously, who really wants to do work in the few days before Christmas?  Ok, I digress.

Then, there was Lincoln, himself, Daniel Day-Lewis.  His work was meticulous.  From Lincoln's gait to his flat, high-timbred, mid-west dialect, Daniel became Abe.  Day-Lewis captured the charisma of the Great Emancipator, both with the deep connections that were visible between him and the other characters, but also in the moments where Lincoln seemed to "disappear", lost in thought, wheels turning heavily.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the music, cinematography, writing, make-up, costume, etc etc etc.  Lincoln had the golden touch of Spielberg and his cabinet all over it, which meant that you were too busy living in it to notice it.  It'll take a couple more trips back to the theatre to be able to say much more than that.

When I walked out of the theater, I found myself thinking more about the performances of the other actors, and hardly thinking about Day-Lewis at all.  This morning, however, in that groggy time between sleeping and waking, I found myself thinking about Lincoln, not in the context of the movie, but in some other scene plucked from some other story of Lincoln that had been tucked away in my memory.  When I reached full consciousness, I realized that it was Daniel-Day Lewis's Lincoln that had now taken the place of whatever image of Lincoln I had been working with before.

I guess, for me, his work transcended the performance of the role in the movie.  The man brought the legend to life.   Lincoln was not perfect.  His family life was tumultuous and he was prone to anger.  He was human.  But, it was clear, that, at least, this Lincoln, at his heart, was pure.

Trudy and Joe: A Love Story

I recently started working as an Aide in a physical therapy clinic.  The job is not rocket science.   It consists of making and un-making a lot of beds, wiping countless surfaces with disinfecting wipes, and explaining the same exercises dozens of times a day, hundreds of times a week, thousands of times…ok, you get the picture.  It’s a humbling job, but it’s also a very rewarding job.  Working in an environment like this, we get a chance to see people at their most vulnerable.   It’s almost like working with kids because they are so willing to keep an open-mind and put their trust in us, no matter how foolish they might feel doing an exercise, especially barely being able to walk in same cases. On rare occasions, they can be obstinate and impatient, but most of the time they are kind and cooperative because they see you as an ally on their road to recovery. 

It didn’t take long for me to get bored of the physical tasks of the job.  But there is one good thing about being a conversationalist (ok, chatty.)  Once you get people talking, they tell you their life stories.  You would have no idea, looking at some of them, the random and exciting things that have happened to them.  Because of HIPAA regulations, I will never be able to tell actual stories of patients, but I can take bits and pieces of my interactions with them, their lives, jumble them up, and use them to create fiction.  Here is a piece that I wrote based on one afternoon at work:

Trudy and Joe

By: Shannon Madden

Gertrude Estrada stumbled on her crutches to the edge of the workout table. 

            “You want me to get on there?” she whimpered.

            “Yes,” I said, sliding a stool to the foot of the table. “We can take it nice and easy.  Just step up here and lean forward and you’ll just slide right onto the bed.”

            “I can’t I’m scared.” 

She looked at me, her brown eyes watery, underlined with little black scratches of mascara. Her golden-straw hair was styled in loose, short waves.  She looked every bit her seventy years, if not more, but you could tell that once she was a beauty, though not classically so---more Bette Davis than Anne Baxter.

“C’mon, Trudy.  This is nothing.  Get up there.”  Her husband Joe coaxed her firmly.  He was Filipino, with striking blue eyes, dressed more for a yacht than a therapy clinic. 

Gertrude looked back and forth at us before solemnly handing off her crutches to Joe.  Her right knee was swollen, slashed by a healing wound from a total reconstruction.  She was several weeks post-op, and her leg was far from straight, needing a lot of work to restore its range of motion.  Gertrude took a ginger step onto the stool and then another. 

“No, no, no,” she cried again, like a little kid on the edge of the high-dive who has had a terrified change of heart.

Joe rolled his eyes, “Trudy, you get up on that table.  We’ve worked on this.  It’s nothing new.”

“It’s ok, Trudy.  You’re just going to let your legs hang off so you can stretch out those hamstrings.  It’ll help your leg get a little bit straighter.  It’s a gentle little stretch.” I said.

Her brow scrunched, peering at me, not buying it.  I stifled my laughter.  If she had been a pound puppy, I would have adopted her. 

In the corner, Ellie, a sizable teenager, sat with icepacks on her knees.  Her mother sat next to her with a baby.   They snickered as they watched Gertrude struggle with the precipice of the exam table. 

“Oh, stop being such a baby, Trudy,” Joe said, giving her a devilish smile.  Gertrude stuck her tongue out at him and continued to stall.

----

Special Agent Goldstein stared across the hollow body of the plane.  The whirr of the motor would have been intolerable to most civilians, but as a seasoned agent of the CIA, and one of its few women, she had made dozens, if not hundreds of jumps, and her ears had become accustomed to the noise.

“Joey.  You’ve done this before.  The only thing that’s different will be not having this old monkey strapped to your back.”  Her attempt at humor fell short of the young man staring back at her, his blue eyes and tense neck muscles betraying his fear.  He didn’t move.

“Yeah, and we’ll be dropping into enemy territory.  This isn’t flight school.  Just gimme a minute, will ya?”

“Hey fella, this is what you signed on for.  I wouldn’t let you jump without me if I didn’t think you could get to the ground safely.”  Agent Goldstein had faced this moment before with many of her trainees during their first solo jump in the field.  Nothing like a 14,000 foot dive to make a grown man whimper.

“C’mon Joey, stop being such a baby.”

Nothing like a blow to a grown man’s ego to get him moving.  Joey began to shift, lumbering toward the sliding door as Agent Goldstein tugged at the massive port.  The cold wind of the high altitude rushed into the plane as the two agents scooted to the edge of the floor.

Side-by-side, they gave each other a lingering glance, and, all of a sudden, a current of trust passed between them. 

“Will it make you feel better to hold my hand?”  Agent Goldstein winked, only somewhat in jest.  She never would have said that to any of the other agents she had trained, but she had a soft spot for this one.

“No, I’m fine,” Joey said, then compromised, “Well, maybe just a squeeze, Sweetheart.” 

She smiled, and he clasped her hand for a brief moment.  Filled with a sudden surge of confidence, he shouted over the motor,

“See you on the ground!”  With that, he was gone, headed down toward a clearing in the Vietnam jungle below. 

Shaking her head, Agent Goldstein tipped herself out of the plane.

The two of them tore down through the sub-zero atmosphere as the air became denser and more humid, until it was time to pull their cords, Joey first and then Goldstein.

When they reached the ground, Joey gathered his chute and ran over to his trainer.

“Good Golly, Miss Molly.  That was a rush. ” He let out a howl, making Goldstein laugh.

“See, not so bad, eh? “

Joey laughed, “Not so bad.  Trudy, I couldn’t have done it without you.  Thanks for pushing me out of that plane.” 

“Hey!  I didn’t…” she started to argue, but she saw the twinkle in his eye and she had to smile.

Doing her best to remain professional, despite how adorable she found him, Agent Gertrude Goldstein, rerouted the conversation.

“Ok, Agent Estrada, enough celebration.  Let’s get to the location.”

----

“No, no, no, I can’t do it,” Gertrude whispered with dread, tears springing from her eyes.  She looked up at her husband Joe, who, despite the stern look he was giving her, grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. 

In that moment, something clicked.  She leaned forward, tilted herself up to the bed and dropped right into position.

            “Oh.”  Her whining halted.

            “Oh!” she exclaimed.  “This is not that bad!”

            She wiggled around a little to get into a comfortable position, before declaring,

“Yeah.  I like this.  This is good.  Why didn’t you tell me it was gonna be like this?”

            Joe and I exchanged looks, and Ellie and her mother laughed. Even Gertrude had to smile.

            “Have you always been this much of a baby?” I said, giving her a wink.

            Gertrude looked at Joe, and they crinkled their eyes, sharing something secret. 

            “Not always, “ she said.

Everything happens for a reason.

It's been a long few months.  Right now, I'm no longer unbridled in Los Angeles, but tethered in my hometown of Vienna, VA.  Not tethered in a bad way, just safe, financially stable, and back in the nest, a feeling I haven't experienced for several years now.  But one thing this lack of survival-mode has given me is the chance to reflect, and one incident in particular is worth mentioning, especially in this time of an economy that is anything but friendly to the bright young minds that are being turned out of top schools and not able to find a job anywhere near their area of interest, and sometimes even to head back home.

In 2008, I was working at a coffee bar in northern California.  It was no Starbucks, in fact a request for a double tall skinny soy vanilla latte would invite a scoff from most of my fellow baristas: "We don't do syrup here.  Why don't you try... (insert curled upper lip and disdainful tone) Starbucks."  In addition, Doge featured the best Venetian wines, also a Starbucks deficiency.

But it was a vibrant place, a watering hole for Europeans and Stanford students and everyone in between.  I was able to practice all of the Romance languages in a single day and hear hosts of tales from my customers, like Sergio, who had cut through the North Pole on a nuclear submarine years ago or Pierre, who had gotten a speeding ticket for going too fast on his racing bike.

The one thing I never got at the coffee shop was sufficient training.  I was pretty much thrown into a job which I was unqualified for, pretty much because I'm good at interviews.

"Just get on the register.  Call out the drinks to the other baristas and learn the drinks when things are slow," were basically my instructions.

The problem with the most popular coffee shop in a small town is that things are never slow.

My co-workers began to resent me.  They thought I was too chatty (hands up...guilty.) and they didn't like me "ordering them around" instead of making the drinks myself.  Of course, I was having such a good time, I was oblivious to the growing passive-aggressivity for a long time.

Until, one day, my manager a Stanford senior, pulled me aside and asked me to come into his office for a chat.

"Shannon," he said, closing the door. "Do you even like this job?"

"Of course!" I said, baffled by the question. "I love this job!"

"Really?  Because you haven't learned the drinks.  You're still burning the milk.  Your latte art is sub-par, and no offense, but I've seen you pull some pretty crappy shots."  I was speechless, tears pricking behind my eyes.

Of course, by shots, he meant of espresso. This is a guy who spent his entire Spring Break going to "espresso cuppings" up and down the Pacific Northwest coastline.

"I want you to take this week to think about whether this is the right fit for you."

"Um, ok", I said, fighting back tears.  "Can I have a minute before I go back in there?"

"Of course," he said.

I went outside in the alley and proceeded to throw a mini private fit.  I called my mom in a rage, declaring that I went to an Ivy League school and I don't need a 23 year old kid to call me out like that and I don't even need that job.

I was about to run back in there and say, "You can't fire me, I quit!" and make a huge Jerry McGuire-style scene.  But that's not my style, so I resolved to prove him wrong.  I gathered my composure and went inside, back behind the bar.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, so I had a chance to practice my cappuccinos and the little leaves on top and getting the milk just right.  When I had had enough practice, I grabbed a rag.  As they say in the restaurant, "If you have time to lean, you have time to clean."  (Probably my worst favorite concept of all time.)

As I was rubbing down the counters for the fifteenth time, a man came into the store.  He was handsome, older, with dark hair and deep brown eyes.  He had two books in his hand, and the top one was Don Quixote .  It was quiet, and my manager was gone, and the only other barista there was my least resentful co-worker, who hated customer interaction and loved making drinks.

"Are those for business or pleasure," I asked.  I flirt when I'm bored.

"Well, I'm a writer so I'm trying to be a reader."

"Whew, that's a big read for a Sunday."

"Not much of a reader, are you?" He poked.

"Um.  Yes, actually.  And, I'm a writer too.  What do you write?"

"Well, I used to be a journalist at the LA Times, but recently I published my first book about growing up in a bar on Long Island."  He didn't bother to name the work.

"Wait.  The Tender Bar?" 

"Yes.  Do you know it?"

I couldn't believe it.  I did know that book.  I loved that book.

"I read that in my senior year of college.  I liked it so much that I gave it to my professor.  JR Moeringer, right?"

"Yes.   Nice to meet you.  Now, what do you write?"

"Well, I said.  I'm unpublished.  I guess my feelings about writing can be summed up in a quote by Thomas Mann.  'A writer is someone for whom the act of writing is more difficult than it is for anyone else.'  I'm kind of a perfectionist...and hopelessly ADD," I said.

"Who did you say said that quote?"

"Oh, Thomas Mann."

On that note, he produced from underneath the giant de Cervantes tome, a book with a tree on the cover, whose title I can't recall, by none other than Thomas Mann himself.

"Whoa. Creepy." I said.

"It's destiny," he said. "All I can say is, they say that to master anything, it requires 10,000 hours of work.  So, get going.  Just write."

We exchanged emails and kept in touch for a little while, and though I haven't corresponded with him in years, I never forgot that moment.

That week I put my nose to the grind stone.  I hardly chatted with the customers, I practiced my drinks religiously, and made some damn good latte art.  I thought I had redeemed myself.

That Friday, as we were closing, all joking and laughing, my manager again took me into his office.

"Shannon, I want you to know you did a great job this week.  You did everything that I asked and it all came together for you.  But, unfortunately, I already hired someone else who is more of a barista.  If I had a management position for you, you would have it, but that's not what I need right now."

I laughed.  The rage was gone.  I had done my best, and I was over it.  I took off my uniform shirt, handed over my key and said, "Sayonara."

After that, with no job prospects, I made the decision to head home again, to regroup.  So, I packed up my life and headed east.  However, instead of being the end of an adventure, it turned out to be the beginning.  Upon leaving, I got a yoga teaching certification, spent a summer helping my grandfather with a genaeology project, taught yoga all over DC, witnessed the Obama inauguration in person, connected with a yoga teacher in LA, headed back to Cali, where I had another three years of adventures to put into the 10,000 hours in which I have begun to make a dent.  Yes, I started writing.

I was not meant for a career as a barista, or a yoga instructor, or an actor, or a saleswoman, or a temp, or a physical therapist.  Those are roles I have played, some of them even quite well, but above all I am a writer.  My roles are simply vehicles to collect the stuff of my real life's work.

So, the moral of the story, is that nothing in life that happens is bad.  It might hurt. bad.  It might make you cry.  It might make you throw a Jerry McGuire-style tantrum.  But it all happens for a reason.

-Mahalo <3 br="" nbsp="">

Temps are people too...

It's been a while since I've been inspired to write for public display, but I've noticed an upsetting trend lately that I have to address: the unfair portrayal of temps in the media.

The original "bad temp" was Ryan on the Office, whose enormous ego and total shadiness eventually culminated in jail-time.  

This season, Dunder Mifflin brought in Cathy, a sleazy home-wrecker who tried to break up Jim and Pam, one of the few on-screen couples that give us all hope that healthy marriages are not extinct.  Luckily, Jim tricked Dwight into spraying her with pesticides.

Recently, in American Pie, the legendary Stifler has found himself in a Temp position working for a despicable little Indian executive who takes every opportunity to remind Stifler that he is his bitch.

Stifler makes matters worse by proving that he is a complete idiot.

But seeing these scenarios is upsetting to me because I am one of these administrative mercenaries.

I am a temp.  It is thankless.  It is humbling.

We, temps, are basically on call.  We have no job security.  We work for days or weeks at a time for merely a percentage of the arm-and-leg that the agency charges the client, with no benefits.  The companies can extend or end the employment period on a whim.  

Companies don't realize what we do for them.  First of all, hiring is an arduous process that costs the company time and money.  Hiring a new employee would mean paying benefits and going through orientations, just to name a few.  It also requires commitment on both parts and the risk that it might not work out for the new person.  Thanks to the economy and general aimlessness of our generation, they get top-tier employees at rock-bottom prices.

Temps get thrown into a job with no company-specific training, no knowledge of the office policies, politics, etc., and are expected to pick up where the last person left off.  We take on "special projects" that the higher up admin people don't want to do.  And we do it all for way less than we are worth.  

Luckily, my experiences as a temp have been positive---for the most part.   The last company I worked for was awesome and I was sad to leave.  But, on my next job, I witnessed the really ugly side of the job.

First thing in the morning--Five minutes early, of course--I reported to the head of my department, a stern, elegant black woman in her fifties, whose blue-eyed glare set me on edge from the get-go.  She was brusque with me from the beginning, after directing me to open the mail, stamp it, and deliver it, which would pretty much be the most strenuous of my duties for the day.  After that, she pretty much ignored me and I did my best to stay out of her way. To be fair, she was in meetings for most of the day.

During one of these meetings, the receptionist, a flamboyant little man who flitted about urgently throughout the day, had let himself into her office with one of the many keys jingling on his belt loop.  He was grabbing a brochure for a client he was helping at the front desk and was out of there in 3 seconds.  

When Boss Lady got back, one of her staff mentioned what Mr. Front Desk had done.  Well, from Boss Lady's reaction, you would have thought that he went in there and took a dump on the floor. 

"Who does he think he is?  How dare he let himself into my office.  He was just a TEMP!  A temp off the streets..."

A temp off the streets!  I'm sorry, temps are the Superheroes of the administrative world.  Someone's out sick?  We got you covered.  Want us to do all those TPS reports that your delinquent assistant has neglected in favor of reading Facebook updates?  Yes, ma'am.

This next comment really cut me to the core.  "Temps are nothing but social pollinators.  They come in here, trying to be all friendly with everyone.  You're not here to be friendly, Temp.  You have a job to do, so do it, and keep your head down."

Ok, Boss Lady, you are not Prince who is legendary and eccentric and has earned the right to command people not to look at him.  

(Hey you!!!! Don't look at him!!!!!!)

When our temp agents call us and unnecessarily read off the list of things that a receptionist does, being "WARM, FRIENDLY, and OUTGOING," is frequently first on the list.

For the rest of the afternoon, I was torn as to whether to continue with the three-week assignment or ask to be taken off.  When five o'clock rolled around, I stepped toward her office, being careful not to enter the threshold, and said, "I'm leaving for the day..."  

No Response.  

After a beat, I said, "Ok, Have a great night."  

Her assistant chimed in, "Ms. Boss Lady, Shannon's leaving."

Finally, Boss Lady, without lifting her head, said, "Oh.  Bye."

I did not go back to that office.

Sure, "Temp" is not the most coveted of titles, but those of us who do it are doing what we can to contribute to society while trying to find our niche.  It sure beats sitting on the street with a cardboard sign.  And, yes, there are probably many temps out there who screw around because their bosses are technically the agents and not the on-site managers, but for every Cathy and Ryan, there is someone like me who does her best to bring 110% to the table, no matter how close to minimum wage the salary might be.  

Live at Sabor y Cultura 14 Jan 2012

Three years ago in the summertime, I took my first tentative babysteps into the spotlight on a stage in a tiny hole in the wall called the Stone Bar in Hollywood's Thai town.  I had just meant to be a fly on the wall, but a fellow musician, Jen Bloom, convinced me to go up and sing.  What have you got to lose?  After some prodding, I put my name on the list.

I had just finished a song and I thought it was good a one, so I wrote the lyrics on a napkin to make sure I remembered them.  I crumpled and un-crumpled the napkin as I checked and re-checked the lyrics.

Finally, Joseph Eid, the master of ceremonies for the Open Mic at the Stone Bar, called my name.  Looking back at the supportive faces of Jen, and three of my best friends, Cristina, Karoline, and Juliane, I took the long walk past barstools, tables, and guitar cases toward the blue glow of the spotlights.

Wearing flip-flips, cut-off jean shorts, and a pink and black flannel, I stood naked on the stage.  Except, any nervousness I had felt on the walk up there had dissipated.  I finally had an audience. 

"I only have one song, "I said, and then I sang it.  It was a song called, "What lies inside."  It had come to me in the shower, which has a glass door on it, a motif you can hear in the song.  I don't have a recording of that, but I'll get one soon.

Anyway, at the end, people clapped and whistled and I felt on top of the world.  That was the beginning of something very cool.  A gifted musician himself, Joseph has this incredible magnetism for talent and I've been blessed to have met and played with amazing people over the last few years, many thanks to Joseph.

Last night, I played some songs at Sabor y Cultura on Hollywood Boulevard as part of a Singer-Songwriter circle, also one of Joseph's brainchildren.   In this little room, splashed with pink, purples, and oranges, and lights just a little too bright, six singer-songwriters came together to share our original music.

Joseph sang one tune inspired by the movie, "Melancholia," musing about what he might do to prepare for the end if a mysterious planet were hurtling towards the earth.

Mark Phillips, who was part of the original Stone Bar crew, whose sound and style registers somewhere between Johnny Cash and John Prine, sang couple traveling songs about trains that had the same effect as some really good pot.

Rob Larkin told us a musical story of the time when he and his friends went down to Mexico and barely made it out alive, as well as a song about seeing crazy people on Hollywood Boulevard, and sometimes, just sometimes, feeling right out there with them.

Brett Dallas Mondie from Hall River, North Carolina, had a vague resemblance to Dashboard Confessional  and sang songs of undying love and of uprooting his life from the east coast and heading west.

Samantha Tart sang songs about love and loss like an angel.

And, then, it was my turn.  I swallowed the lump in my throat, and went for it. 

Mahalo :)

Ski Lessons: The Reformation of an Alpine Trainwreck

Over Christmas, I got a chance to go skiing for the first time in about  four years.  Just to give you an idea of my track record, on my first ski trip, I basically fell/shot down at dangerously high speeds each hill. On my third to last ski trip, at Mont Tremblant in Quebec, I had to be driven down the mountain on a snow-mobile. 

(Ok, it didn't look like that.)

My second to last ski trip to Northstar at Lake Tahoe was a real doozy. 

Now, if I had started on the bunny trail, I would have been ok, but I decided to follow my two seasoned snowboarding friends down a black diamond.  As I careened down the hill, praying for dear life/battling nausea, it occured to me that I failed to put the loop of my pole around my wrist.

I then dropped said pole.  Of course, the next logical step was to make myself fall on the otherside of the mountain, take off my skis, and try to walk up.  Needless to say, a few very futile and sweaty minutes later, I walked down the slope, skis in hand, thigh deep in snow.

BUT, I was not to be deterred.  I agreed on another run, this time on a blue square.  I could handle that.  But, at the last second, the guys took a turn down a powder trail and naturally, I followed. Within about 10 feet of the opening, I was on my ass, buried in snow and the guys were long gone.  So, off came the skis again, and this time, I trudged WAIST deep toward what I thought might be the right direction.  This consisted of taking 15 steps and then leaning back to take a rest on top of the snow for five minutes.

(Ha...I wish.)

 Luckily, after 20 minutes of this, I ended up on a slope and a friendly ski patrolman helped me get my skis back on and I made it to the bottom of the hill.

(This is my mad face.)

And, that concluded the skiing portion of my ski trip.  I spent the rest of the day defrosting by the fire pit.

So, I will admit that I've been avoiding the slopes in recent years, but when I went up to visit my grandparents, they said their only wish was to have the whole family go up to a nearby ski resort in western New York called Peak n' Peak.

It was time to face my fears.

This time, I started out right.  On the bunny slopes. Easy breezy.

But of course, having two younger brothers, I was not to get away with staying there all day.

All the green circles were closed, so my only choice was the blue square.  My heart started to pound and I got that throw-uppy feeling again.   I set my sights on the bottom of the hill and blindly willed myself to get down there. All of my limbs and body each seemed to be partying to their own DJ.  I was flailing all over, but managed to keep my balance. 

But, all of a sudden, in the middle of the third or fourth try down the mountain on a particularly steep and icy patch of snow, I felt this compulsion to sing-talk to myself, "Shan, you got thisssss.  you got thissss." 

And then there was this shift.  I felt myself separate from the chaos and speed and vastness of the mountain scene surrounding me.  The different muscles in my body were no longer fighting to free themselves from one another, but were now working in tandem as I gave my full attention to each, single stride.  I became a well-oiled machine.

Instead of looking way down to the bottom of the mountain, I kept my sights only a few yards in front of me, but with a more relaxed gaze that allowed me to keep the rest of the picture in soft-focus.

I didn't need to fixate on the end goal because I simply trusted that I would eventually get there.  I was no longer hurdling down the mountain because it wasn't the end that was pulling me, it was the next small step.

The next thing I knew, I was cruising down the hill and toward the finish line with the greatest of ease.  When I met my brothers at the bottom, I even did a little hockey stop. ( I am not above showing off.)

Even my mom noticed a difference.  "I've never seen you go down the hill with such control before."  I just smiled and nodded.  I saved the lengthy self-analysis for this post......

I ended the day taking on the black diamonds with the deftness of a veteran skiier.  Granted those NY Appalachians are no Rockies, but with my new method of taking it stride by stride, I feel that I can tackle any mountain.

And my grandparents were happy too!

I don't think I have to go into the metaphor on getting through life that's in here...

I want to hear your stories!

What are some of your ah-ha moments about getting through seemingly life threatening situations that ended up being not that bad?

Mahalo :)

Five...Well, Three rules for a Happy Life

This Christmas, my mom gave every single member of my family a copy of "Shatner Rules", William Shatner's latest auto-biography. It was an actually surprisingly hilarious octogenarian's look back on his fabulous life. It's filled with anecdotes ranging from Hitch-hiking around the U.S., riding into his Friar's Club Roast on a Horse, and getting his underwear stolen by a crazed fan at a Trekkie convention. Throughout are sprinkled the rules that he followed to make him the awesome guy that he is today.

 My opinion of William Shatner has increased significantly since I read his book, but when I think of what a happy life looks like to me, William Shatner is not the person who comes to mind.

 My grandmother, Esther Joy, or Tutu, as I call her will be 89 in February. I know it will be 89, because in 2003, I had to talk my way onto 2 airplanes and get picked up by my dad the next state over because I missed my flight to her 80th birthday party after a few two many red cups full of jungle juice at a party the night before. But, I digress...

 I happened to be reading "Shatner Rules" while lying awake on an air-mattress in my grandparents' condo in Western PA. I looked around at all the photos of friends and loved ones and clippings of family successes and poetry and art, and it dawned on me. Why had I never, in all of my years, asked my grandmother what her rules for a happy life are?

 So, the next morning, I asked her, "What are 5 rules you've followed in your life that have helped you be happy?" She had to sit down for that one, but once she did, the first three came pretty quickly.

1. Be there.

2. Go with the flow.

3. Don't sweat it. Any of it.

Now, commencement speeches, motivational audio-books, and embroidered pillows have been telling us this forever, but, despite many of those luminaries and motivational speakers who always seem to have overcome anger-management problems, suffered through divorces and estrangements, conquered substance abuse, climbed over everyone to the top of their fields, or cheated death to be able to say these things with such certainty, Tutu has just lived her life that way.

It's all about being present, saying yes to the opportunities that come along, and having the faith and patience to know everything will be ok. When she graduated from high school, College wasn't even in the cards for her. She worked at the telephone company. But when a family friend tipped her off to a nursing scholarship, she said, "Yes," applied, and got it, which sent her into a whole new direction that she never could have anticipated.

When my grandfather, whom she had met while in nursing school, asked her to marry him, right before shipping off to the Philippines during the Korean War, she said, "Yes." A week later they were married, they spent their honeymoon driving cross country, and then he shipped off and he didn't see her for a year. But, she was patient, and then took six different planes from Buffalo, NY to Manila to be with my grandfather. The two of them have been married for over six decades and remain best friends to this day.

Tutu listens without judgment. Her advice is always, "Follow your heart." Never any instructions or prescriptions, just "Trust."

She has friends that would do anything for her. When we arrived at her house for Christmas, her dining room table was littered with Christmas-y tins full of home-made fudge and cookies and sponge candy that friends that she's had for 50 and 60 years are still bringing to her.

Even now, when she's not as mobile as she once was---she won't be taking any planes to southeast Asia anytime soon---she finds Joy in the most simple of pleasures, like white wine with ice-cubes and keeping tabs on the boats on Lake Erie from her balcony.

 After the first three rules, Tutu had gotten distracted and I thought she had forgotten about the question, but after a little conversation with my brother who was tidying up the living room and commenting on the good smell coming from the kitchen making breakfast, she pointed at me and said, "Oh, I thought of the last two rules!":

4. Make sure to have big kids and grandkids who can cook and clean for you.

5. Always wait til everyone else gets up before you get out of bed.

I had to laugh at that. Oh how I wish I could follow those rules right now... But, if you think about it, those aren't so much rules as the rewards you reap by following the first 3. Tutu's no William Shatner, but if you follow her rules, I think you'll like what happens.