The Perfect Parent

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In the tired yet blissful haze of new motherhood

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I remember thinking, this is one thing I am going to do 100% and I’m not going to screw it up. In retrospect, it’s clear that I was seeking to be a perfect parent, unlike my own parents who — in typical 70s fashion — completely dropped the ball. As a child I had experienced a bevy of various traumas and almost no supervision as a teenager, so the bar was pretty low. I knew I could do better than that. But perfection? What even is that? I realize now the arrogance and naiveté of my expectations.

From the moment I held my newborn son, I felt a clarity of purpose I’d never felt prior. Whatever confidence that conjured was swiftly diminished and replaced with humility, exhaustion, and feelings of ineptitude — all on top of a baseline of the most profound love I’d ever experienced, but that’s beside the point. I already perceived myself as having failed in numerous ways. Somewhere in the fog of my postpartum recovery and my son’s colic phase, I had a conversation with our pediatrician. He had been my doctor as a teen and knew me quite well. I complained to him that I had no idea what I was doing. What the hell was this? On most days I couldn’t even find time or energy to take a shower. I didn’t understand the color coding of baby poops. I wasn’t sure if I was doing anything right. I asked the doctor if there was a book that tells moms how to mom, because I was just winging it. What followed was the best parenting advice I ever received. He said, “write your own book.” To be clear, he didn’t mean that literally. He meant that I was capable and in charge of how this story would unfold. From that point, I approached my role with much more confidence and authority, but like most things in life, balance was difficult to employ and I tipped a bit too far back into perfectionist mode. That’s right. I’m in charge. I am responsible for everything. 

For a while I was able to manage this dance with my self-imposed ideal. As a mother of an infant, I could control most variables. Even after my second son was born and it became explicitly clear I could not make everyone (or sometimes anyone) happy all the time, I still devoted myself whole-heartedly to my parenting mission. And I believe that’s what most of us do. The best we can. Over the years, challenges beyond my control befell our family, a burglary, one son’s battle with chronic health issues, eventually my marriage falling apart, all on top of the normal financial stresses, sibling rivalry, school issues, and extended family dramas. Plagued with fear that my children’s childhoods would descend into chaos as mine had and that I wouldn’t be able to protect them, I transitioned from aspiring to win the Best Mom In the World award to simply trying to survive and mitigate any potential damage. I worried a lot that I was messing up and falling short. It’s hard to gauge much from within the eye of the storm and I mostly plowed through. The goal was to get them to adulthood in better shape than I had been in when I reached 18.  

For most of my life, I’ve been on a journey to explore and heal my childhood wounds. A couple years ago, I read a book called Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, by Pete Walker. As I read about the numerous ways in which my parents had either directly or inadvertently harmed me, I became struck by the reality that I had perpetrated many of these “failures” in parenting my own kids. First triggered by the illumination of my own wounding and then triggered by the prospect that, despite all of my efforts, I had likely similarly wounded my own offspring, I panicked. Relief came by way of an introduction to the concept of “good enough parenting,” which is apparently not a new concept in child psychology circles, it was just the first time I was reading about it. To paraphrase via my own interpretation: We do not have to be perfect parents. Our children will not be irreparably harmed or traumatized if we mess up sometimes; we only need to be a reliable safe harbor and keep honest healthy communication with our children. We can repair tough moments by exhibiting accountability ourselves. In many ways, abandoning the illusion of perfection will set us up for modeling better coping skills. Our kids learn how to express remorse, how to calmly articulate feelings, how to self-regulate…everything, they learn everything from us. 

I recently watched the movie The Lost Daughter and without giving spoilers, I can say that as the credits rolled, I was struck by the responsibility we bear as parents to give our children their one and only childhood. I wept processing the permanence of that. My children are now both over the age of 18 and my one chance has been used up for each of them. I remembered the regrettable moments, where I fell short or lost my cool or couldn’t protect them from the wounds of their parents splitting up. These memories play like taunting rebuttals to my now decades old declaration that I would do this parenting thing just right. 

The good news is, I was a good enough parent. My adult children are emotionally intelligent and we have wonderful communication and I feel secure that they are equipped to move through the world without the baggage and trauma that I was saddled with. Now that they’re adults, I’ve confessed to the failings I’m aware of and I’ve expressed a willingness to listen if they have grievances. I still seek to be a safe harbor. I’ve also encouraged them to take up the responsibility for re-parenting themselves in the areas in which they think need improvement and learn the things I didn’t teach them. I was responsible for the story of their childhood, but adulthood is their story to write for themselves. And they just need to be “good enough,’ not perfect.

The Day He Died

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Tomorrow marks the 36th anniversary of my father’s death. Most years it’ll occur to me at some random moment and I’ll calculate based on how old I was then (12) to how old I am on the given year.

It hit me a moment ago. A random glance at today’s date. And then a rush of emotion rising from my core and escaping my body through tears. I wondered why tears this year? Not that tears aren’t totally reasonable. It’s sad. He was 42. It was an agonizing, slow death. A disintegration. But I don’t usually cry.

This cry is selfish but also not. It hurts that he died such a painful death, but from my current vantage point, I can also see his longings, his insecurities, his talents, his heartbreaks so starkly. No longer through the lens of a child preoccupied with pleasing him and with my own self-protection (he was very tough).

A friend once told me, quoting Wayne Dyer, “don’t die with your music still in you.” I’m crying now, because I know that my father died with his music still in him. I’m crying because I’m terrified that I will do the same. And when I say terrified, I mean it causes genuine panic and sleepless nights. The worst part about this fear is the self-fulfilling prophecy of it. Stifling. It’s inexplicably enticing to hold on to this music. Is this a way bond with him? To relate? To not one up? To honor him? To say, in essence, it’s ok man, being your whole self is too hard. I get it. I get it!

Sometimes I’ve fantasized about dying young enough to validate never fully showing up. I mean, everyone could say, if only she’d had more time. My father was searching, struggling, hitting and missing. He was extremely smart, and by others’ accounts sensitive and funny and full of ideas.

I feel connected to my father in melancholy. He had a darkness about him that I inherently understand. He wasn’t glib. He was deep.

My father lost his children. He lost us in divorce. He lost us with his inability to allow us to be innocent and vulnerable. He lost us with his cruelty and expectations that we meet his brazenness with equal force. Meaning, he wasn’t one of those “shut up and be quiet” dads, he wanted children he could match wits with. He wanted nothing hidden. No inner or outer privacy. Try as I did, I could never feel safe enough to be myself with him, to be vulnerable, to be a child. I was just throwing darts at a moving target.

Which is sort of where I landed as an adult, in many ways. Trying to hit a mark, instead of showing up completely. Trying to fill in the notes to someone else’s songs vs making my own music.

In the most crucial ways, I am not like my father. I didn’t lose my children. I didn’t do to them what was done to me. And that has been more important to me than anything. And I know they have the confidence to show up and to make their own “music” and to make the most of their lives.

That’s an important distinction. Maybe the most important. Maybe one that enables me to unravel this perverse enmeshment with my father’s pain and terminal frustration with being human.

Watching my father struggle in life, then disintegrate and die, was humbling. And the way death came for him – like a compassionate savior – framed living as a much more brutal path. And I’m only really reckoning now with how much fear and restraint that engendered. How much I’ve sought to just muscle through. How every big step out has been followed by an even bigger leap back into retreat. The safety of being unseen, of keeping the music in me until I die.

But, I have time that my father didn’t have. Maybe I honor my father most by breaking the cycle and transcending generational despair.

I’m not going to define here what “music” means in terms of my own personal output. I can’t totally define it. I just know it hasn’t happened yet and we’ll all know when it does.

Tomorrow marks the day my father died. In his honor, I pray that none of us die with our music still in us.

Prince, My Granny, and The Meaning of Life

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I didn’t know Prince. Though I was lucky enough to attend a few of his shows, I actually passed on several opportunities to meet him. Growing up in Hollywood, I’d developed an intense aversion to celebrity worship and any sort of fawning or buying into that hierarchy. I’d heard enough firsthand accounts of the fickleness of Prince and the precariousness of interacting with him to know that, given my tendency to be awkwardly forthright, I’d “accidentally” say hello to him without being invited to or I’d spout off about some detail of some facet of some thing that crossed some seemingly arbitrary line.

In retrospect, I was a fucking idiot. There was always the chance that my spirit would have resonated with Prince’s. Or, perhaps more likely, I would have been banished in humiliation. Either way, I’d have a memory to cherish.

Why cherish?

It’s reasonable to say that without Prince my own precious children wouldn’t exist. Mathieu (my ex and father of our kids) credits Prince with fueling his passion for music and sparking his desire to move from France to the U.S. to work in the industry.

When we first got together in our early twenties, his preoccupation with Prince struck me as juvenile. I had long since outgrown my “Prince phase.”

Even though my own step-dad* had worked with Prince and I had grown up in the music business, I had NO idea the scope of his genius. I got schooled. Fast. Rare footage, unreleased tracks, hours of exposure. Prince on bass, Prince on drums, Prince on piano, Prince tearing up the guitar, Prince singing a cappella, falsetto, baritone … hours and hours of eduction that segued into exposure to Prince’s influences: George Clinton (Parliament Funkadelic), Sly Stone, Larry Graham, Shuggie Otis, Richie Havens, Betty Davis, too many to list, most of whom had slid by my radar while I was busy following the popular tide from Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson, toward alternative music and only occasionally looking back to worship the Beatles, Eric Clapton, The Guess Who and a few other rock and rollers embedded from my youth.

Mathieu’s love for Prince as an artist transcended idol worship. It was founded. That’s why I was able to appreciate it. Prince was blended into the fabric of our relationship in a way I never realized until his death—his music the soundtrack to the most consequential relationship of my life. It doesn’t necessarily make it anymore personal or profound for me than for others, it just contextualizes my own swell of emotions.

On the heels of Prince’s death, my kids and I traveled to Toronto to attend a Canadian music industry event honoring my step-dad for his years of artist management. It was one of the highlights of my life to see his decades of work acknowledged. Prince had said of him that he was, “one of the good ones.” Quite a compliment, and I agree.

Following the festivities, we headed to Montreal to visit my grandmother. She had recently turned 99. Yes, 99.

Though several years had passed since I’d seen her, I’d been forewarned that she was in bad shape. No longer speaking coherently. Immobile. Photos of her broke my heart. I steeled myself for the visit.

I’m sure no one loves visiting old folks’ homes. I have a particular aversion. My biological father died of brain cancer when I was 12. His final weeks were spent in a convalescent hospital. Watching this handsome, vital 42 year old man, disintegrate into a corpse, fostered my subsequent preoccupation with the lack of fairness and probable futility of life. Further fueling this cynicism were the haunting memories of hallways full of abandoned elderly men and women. My guilt for not rescuing them, with their pleading eyes, is only assuaged now because they’re all deceased (it’s been 32 years).

The corridors of my granny’s nursing home evoked scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. Classical music played from an unidentifiable source. Lining the walls were rows of wheelchairs filled with photo-doubles of the elderly I’d struggled both to look at and away from three decades prior. It hurt. I’m a grown woman and my teenage boys were with me so I kept it together, but my chest was full of ancient emotion welling up and threatening to burst.

99 years is a long, long, long time.

There she sat. Once the paragon of dignity—having been widowed and charged with raising two children alone—the matriarch, the vocal, self-possessed, sassy, always donning matching jewelry and coiffed hair, strong-willed woman—was now relegated to a babbling, half-blind, subsisting, almost-angel with thin strands of hair inadequately shrouding her scalp. She’d be mortified if she knew. I prayed she didn’t.

We had what was, under the circumstances, a wonderful visit. My teenage boys were delightful with her. There was no way to discern if she knew who they were, but she set her one able eye on whichever boy was in front of her and the light of life and love shone through. If she wasn’t marveling at the radiant innocence and promises of futures that stood before her, I certainly was. And as I watched my step-dad kiss his mother’s forehead, witnessed him somehow, magically rouse giggles out of her, connect beyond the crassness of common interactions—those we take for granted, fail to follow up on for confirmation that our words have been comprehended, that our intentions represented, our love received—as I watched this subtle exchange, I felt both profound grief at the inevitability of loss and relief that the essence of devotion exists in another realm. In that moment, there was palpable evidence.

Prince was 100% Prince. More-so than most of us will be our full selves for even a week, he was his full self for decades. That’s not a projection. I’m not pretending to know him or pulling this out of my ass. It’s common knowledge. One of the strongest sensations I had in the aftermath of his death was a desire to muster the courage to be myself. Just to know what it feels like to take all the constraints off and be a vessel for something pure to emerge. I know that sounds like esoteric new-agey word salad. It is. But, I’m trying here. I mean, the specter of death looms for all of us. We’re always balancing our will to live and thrive against our awareness of mortality. What we do in between means absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.

My granny lived a more simple life. Her purpose was to put food on the table, raise decent humans, eventually love a second husband until his death, be a granny, and now … I guess, keep living until she doesn’t anymore. I really struggle with this, the notion of purposefulness as pertains to someone confined to a life without the option of purpose. Maybe her purpose is to expand the hearts and compassion of those who love her. I don’t know.

This past January, my granny had her 100th birthday. My father died at 42. Prince passed at 57. People die tragically young everyday, yet my 100 year old granny continues to breathe enough oxygen to stay alive. I’ll never be able to reconcile the randomness of that. Trying to make sense of it just plunges me into an existential vortex reminiscent of my teenage episodes.

What’s it all for?

I wish I could impart some concise profound wisdom, but we all know it’s impossible to fully intellectualize our existence in this realm, in this incarnation. I feel pretty certain it’s a worthwhile pursuit to strive to be our uninhibited selves and to connect with the world and each other from that authentic place. Beyond that, for now, I’ll defer to the simple, jarring eloquence of the Purple One:

You better live now before the grim reaper comes knocking at your door.

*I only used the term “step-dad” for clarification since I had two fathers, but in every meaningful way, my step-dad is my real dad.

The Importance of Watching “13th”

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Watch the trailer here.

It’s been several months since my last post. I haven’t been able to find the right words to follow up. It wasn’t enough to just complain about the horrible conditions of racial injustice in this country. I needed to find a constructive way to add to the conversation. Many reached out to me to echo my sentiments of frustration and despair, feelings of incompetence at our inabilities to effect real change.

In the recent election, Black Lives Matter brought the conversation of racial justice to the fore. On the Democratic side, in the primaries, both frontrunners adopted racial justice platforms, both of them adapted their language (to some extent), and the presumption was made (by myself and millions of others) that while both old white candidates fell short, at the very least, assuming a Democratic win, we’d have something to build on in terms of prioritizing issues of systemic racism that impinge on the black community via mass incarceration, police brutality, environmental, economic and countless social injustices.

And then came the wrecking ball.

Since the election, the relentless assault on every avenue of justice and protection has obviously roused the nation. It’s shameful that it’s come to this. That for all these years, we’ve allowed so many injustices. We’ve expected time to rectify history instead of facing it and making amends. This has led to now. The conversation has devolved to the starkest of divisions—we recently had to debate whether Jeff Sessions, who was rejected as a federal judge for being too racist in 1986, should be appointed to basically oversee civil rights issues. And as a further step back, he was approved. I do blame this on a form of complacency. The sickeningly cruel history of this country (from its inception) has never been sufficiently addressed. This has allowed a huge segment to carry on as if nothing happened, as if the wounds of slavery and oppression live in history books rather than in the souls of generations and throughout all facets of our society’s systems. It’s offensively naive to propose that such recent barbarism and exploitation would simply evaporate and render a level playing field.

It’s become clear to me that without racial justice in America, we have no justice of any kind.

Prior to November 9th, I watched 13th on Netflix. It struck me as urgently essential viewing…clearly illustrating, connecting the dots of how the past treatment of black people in America relates to the present and how the exploitation of marginalized people has been politically and financially profitable.

Now that we have Trump and the lines of division have become so pronounced, I feel it’s beyond instructive to watch 13th, it’s imperative, and as imperative for liberals as it is for conservatives. There’s been a rash of liberals contemplating how to appeal to the “white working class,” angling to direct attention away from identity politics. While I lament that politicians who profit off of division and oppression exploit identity to gain power and influence, there’s an adjustment we need to make. A shift to nuanced, sincere, thoughtful, solution based, policy-backed, identity politics. Part of the problem with politics is when politicians shallowly exploit issues, it’s the people who pay. We can’t allow that to happen. We must demand more depth from our politicians and from each other.

Given the law and order rhetoric of the current administration, it’s clear that the public urgently needs to be educated with regard to how those words translate to policies that target and destroy lives for profit.

I’ve urged everyone I know, across the political spectrum to watch 13th. I’ve even begged on occasion. It’s a film that answers clearly, why “black lives matter” (as opposed to “all lives matter”). It acknowledges hypocrisy and exploitation across party lines. It illuminates how profit and ruthless capitalism have fueled systemic racism and the evolution of slavery into its modern day form.

Watching 13th is a uniquely personal, subjective experience and this post isn’t intended to be an objective critique or review. I cried from beginning to end. I’ve had an intrinsic sensitivity to injustice since I was a child. I’d long ago come to the (rather obvious to me) conclusion that the ramifications of historical injustices permeate society and change form rather than disappear.  Some of the information in 13th wasn’t new to me, but pieced together, the film packed a dizzying visceral punch. I am not an expert on racial or criminal justice issues, not by any stretch. I defer to 13th to give voice to those who are educated, empowered, and entitled to speak with authority on matters of racial and criminal justice.

I’m grateful this film and its brilliant director, Ava DuVernay are garnering so much attention, including multiple awards and Oscar nominations. It’s a work of purposeful art that serves to facilitate a conversation that must happen, now more than ever.

I don’t know wtf to do about the murder of black people in America

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I’m white so I generally take a very respectful, reserved approach when speaking of my own pain and grief in watching black men and women needlessly perish at the hands of cops. Murder is what it’s called. Government sanctioned murder. But the truth is, I cry every time. I’m haunted every time. I think of Sandra Bland every single day.

I’m a pacifist, averse to images of violence. I watched the video of Alton Sterling’s murder, not because I’m sadistic, but because we deserve to suffer through watching the horrific truth of what’s being perpetrated on black people. You don’t get to look away. We don’t get to look away.

I saw a man murdered. I immediately recalled the words of Jesse Williams “… we know that police somehow manage to de-escalate, disarm and not kill white people every day.” It’s undeniable.

I cried this morning. I tweeted my outrage (as if that does a damn thing). I accompanied my son to a national basketball championship where there were hundreds of young black boys with their doting families. Our own teammates among them. And I struggled to hold back tears. And I wanted to talk about Alton Sterling but that would be a sort of emotional terrorism. We were there to celebrate these dedicated young people and their bright futures. And I kept thinking, it could be him next, or him, or him over there. And I’m white and I know that, as much as I worry about my sons, I have the privilege of assuming unless my kid goes way the fuck out of his way to literally force a cop to shoot him, I do NOT need to worry about him being murdered by the police. And, I realize that growing up with his privilege and the safety and security of feeling at ease in his skin, gives him great advantages in every facet of his personal well being. I’m a mother. I worry enough. But I can only imagine parenting, living with this level of fear, alienation, and oppression.

I’m a mother.

I love these kids. Every one of them. I’m not ok with this. I’m not ok with our children growing up in these conditions. I’m not ok with people of color getting fucked economically, educationally, socially, environmentally and then, on top of it, disproportionately incarcerated and murdered.

I’m a white woman. I’m privileged. I know that, but my heart is breaking and it’s not enough to post on Twitter or write a blog post or walk around a coliseum crying with no one even knowing why.

I must do something. We must do something. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to do.

What Loss Can Do

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———

Loss can crack you open

Until you almost break

Or until you break

And either stay broken

Or put the pieces back together

Ignore the cracks?

Embrace the cracks?

Seal the cracks with love and gratitude?

The cracks remain

Loss can make you feel

Too much

Too often

Too fully

Or just enough?

Loss can remind you

That you cared that much

That you could again

That some things do matter

And some things don’t

Loss can make you choose

To live with it

To accept the deal

To risk its barbs

Again

And

Again

Loss can make you

Realize

It’s worth it.

 

On parenting and the speed of time…

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I was just speaking with someone who has a six year old.

It brought back memories of those days—long and full of Legos and questions and battles over getting in the bath followed by battles over getting out of the bath. Nights were filled with cuddles and kisses and remembrances of the day, as if the day had been a fairytale set in a long ago time with vibrant characters and morals easily extracted. Having witnessed that innocence so intimately brings me to tears, even now, especially now.

Six years old. That was my younger son’s age when my ex and I split, when we attempted to penetrate his naive determination that things are like this or like that, with an alternate reality, that things are really about to be a whole other way. An inconceivable way.

It’s impossible for me to know if time would have sped up otherwise, but our world spun off its axis and sparked a sort of chaos and warped speed that never slowed. It’s felt like skipping and tripping and sprinting and juggling ever since. Even in my quietest moments I don’t feel I have caught up to the present. It’s better. I’m closer to being in my skin again, like the younger me but with more humility and willingness to cede control.

My kids now tower over me (both more than 6 feet tall) with deep voices and man gestures. I find myself daily saying out loud, “who are you and where did you come from?”

And I think maybe that’s just how parenting goes, no matter how present you are, no matter how conscious of the adage that “time flies so fast,” there is no way to avoid the inevitable moment where you wonder where the time went and how these adult looking people are lumbering through your house, with insatiable appetites and distinct, passionately espoused interests and world views.

I’ll never know how things would have evolved if my marriage hadn’t ended. Life knocks us all on our asses in multiple ways. Perhaps there’s just a limit for how long one can remain in what feels like an intact, manageable existence, to the extent that time doesn’t seem to be running ahead of us.

You tell me? Do you relate? Is this part and parcel to raising kids in general? Specific to divorcees? I can only assume any trauma or upheaval can have such an effect. I’m interested to know how other parents have experienced the passage of time…

Life Lesson: “You can’t just play defense!”

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Silhouette of a Teen Boy shooting a BasketballLast week my dad came to watch my 12 year old son’s basketball game. The opposing team was really aggressive but our team was maintaining a fat lead (around 15 points). I turned to my dad and said, “They just have to keep them from shooting right? Just hold them off to win this thing.” My dad’s gaze shifted from the court straight to me and with exasperation, he exclaimed, “What? No, that’s not how you win. You can’t just play defense!”

Immediately I personalized this comment. With a chuckle, I affirmed, “yeah dad, I get it, you’re right.” His focus was back on the game when I muttered, “hmm, this could explain a lot. I’ve been playing defense. It might be time for me to play offense.” I hadn’t even intended for him to hear that part but he swung his head, looked me dead in the eyes and said, “yeah, it is time for you to play offense. Get moving.”

The game turned into a nail biter with both teams playing hard and giving 100%. My son’s team won by only a few points. No doubt, if they had let up at all, it would have been a loss.

Ever since, I just haven’t been able to get my dad’s message out of my head. Only a month ago I wrote about feeling like a fighter on the ropes needing to stay in the ring. I’m tough. I’m ready. On alert. I’m playing defense. All the time. No wonder I’m exhausted. No wonder it’s hard to muster, not just energy, but enthusiasm.

We all take hits in life and get thrown off our game. It’s so interesting to me to suddenly become aware that ever since my husband left my approach to life has been one of warding off trauma and difficulties—protecting myself, protecting my kids and doing a great job of it for sure. But not fully directing my own life, not really living 100%.

Dad’s wisdom was so simple and so universal. Now, I’m contemplating how I can translate my awareness into action. I know for one thing, I’m going to have to start taking more risks.

This was my son’s first season playing basketball and he had the guts to take shots when he wasn’t sure he could make it. It looked like fun and it worked. His whole team took and missed a lot of shots but ended the season undefeated. I’m going take a nod from those champs and start doing the same.

 

Single on Valentine’s Day? Don’t Sweat it…

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loveI’m single and I don’t really give a fuck about Valentine’s Day. I mean, I’m digging my life and the people who are in it. Romance is fun too. I’ve had it before and I’ll have it again.

If you’re single or in a bummer of a relationship, don’t fret. Love the shit  out of everyone around you. It’s fun. Love your friends, your relatives, your neighbors, your kids, and for cryin out loud, please, love yourself.

We know we’ve got to love ourselves in order to be loved; it’s a cliché at this point. But like many clichés it’s based on some truth.

You should always treat yourself well, but Valentine’s Day is a perfect occasion to really appreciate yourself and the unique value you bring to this world and the people around you. And if you doubt you are valuable, just go ahead and be nice to some people, even strangers, and observe the effects of that. You can make people smile, feel good and cared about and I promise, in turn, you will smile and feel good yourself.

I love to analyze and dissect everything but this is really simple—Valentine’s Day does not have to be about roses and romance, it doesn’t really have to be about anything at all. But if you’re looking for love and a hit of oxytocin, you don’t have to procure a romantic partner, you can hug anyone for 20 seconds and be good to go. How cool is that?

So, this Valentine’s Day (and how about every day?) be kind, be loving and give lots of hugs! XO

Well, That Went Fast!

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2015twoIt feels like just a minute ago I was whining about being alone on Christmas, kissing off 2013, and gearing up for a stellar 2014. 

Christmas turned out just fine but my ambitious plans for 2014 were swiftly thwarted. The rest of the year, well, let’s just say it didn’t quite live up to my expectations. The entire planet seems to have gone berserk (too many examples to link to) and personally, I accomplished less than I’d hoped.

So, here we are, just days from Christmas 2014, and I suppose it’s progress that I’m not plagued with sadness over the state of my awkward family. I think I’ve arrived at a place of tolerable acceptance and that’s quite a relief.

I also became a certified mediator, was published on Huffington Post, and have finally designed a career plan for the coming year! My kids are doing well in school and are intelligent, thoughtful, funny humans of whom I am very proud.

Paying more attention to current world events has conjured much gratitude for my own peaceful existence and for the health and well-being of those closest to me. Now I can grieve for how fucked up the world is instead of harping on my own condition.

The past year sped by too quickly, however, I’m glad it is coming to a close. Aren’t we all?

A new year is a new opportunity to realign with our values and to dust off the muck from the prior year. While it may be symbolic, it can also be powerful.

My wish for 2015 is that beyond just focusing on our personal resolutions and goals, we collectively commit to the basic tenets of being a decent human. I can’t define “decent human” for others but for myself it entails practicing: kindness, patience, honesty, humility and generosity.

I promise to try harder in 2015 and I hope you will too.

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!