Truth and Consequences

The Zen of Pie

2012-01-28T10:07:00.000-08:00

When I’m stressed or afraid, I cook. There is something Zen about the measuring, the chopping, the peeling…Something about preparing food to nurture our bodies that reassures us that yes, life goes on.

On 9/11- we kept our kids home from school. My best friend Erin came over, and as everyone sat glued to CNN, terrified, I tearfully got busy in the kitchen. First, it was enormous stacks of pancakes. Then I baked cookies. Then Spaghetti and meatballs…and on and on.

When problems get us down, Troy and I will often make soup. We’ll put on some soothing music, open a bottle of wine, stand side-by-side chopping and mincing and talking it through. Then as our concoction simmers, the aroma filling the house, we reflect and let our thoughts settle.

2011 ended so lovely that I stepped into 2012 with great optimism…but WHAM-O. Life sucker-punched us and soon there were funerals to attend, friends and family in crisis, and some major crises of our own.

So I got back in the kitchen.

Two lasagnas, five brie paninis, two garlic shrimp pastas, one mound of spaghetti, three pies, a double batch of muffins and two dozen snickerdoodles later, I still haven’t solved anything. But feeding my family and friends makes me feel, in some way, like I am sending my own kind of love out into the cosmos.

Last night, a friend who was eating my lasagne and apple pie said, “If this is what you do when you’re stressed, no one will ever wish you well.” I told her to take advantage of my stress while it’s here. When I’m happy I can get lazy, writing all day and ordering in Thai food.

For now as my worries mount, I pray, I meditate, I visualize healing, I try to write, and I cook.

Anyone hungry?

Remembering the Northridge Earthquake

2012-01-17T12:35:00.000-08:00

My friend Pam reminded me this morning that today is the 18 year anniversary of the 1994 Northridge earthquake in Southern California. It's amazing how time can put the fuzzy technicolor edges on a life-altering disaster, but writing brings it into clear focus again. I had just been writing about the earthquake in the book I'm working on now, which is about our home and life burning down that same year. Here is an excerpt:

I found Troy in the hallway, shining a flashlight on the breaker box, the smoke swirling in its beam. When he flipped the override switch, it made a loud buzzing sound.

He jumped back, “What the hell…”

“Honey, please. Don’t mess with it,” I warned.

He stepped back closer to inspect, rubbing his eyes from the sting of the smoke, “It’s gotta be just a fuse…I can fix it.”

“Please! I have a bad feeling. Let’s just leave it and call an electrician in the morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

Cold air blew in from the cracked windows. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering. “This day is really freaking me out.”

“Sweetie,” he put his arm around me, “everything is okay. Don’t worry.” His touch was warm, his voice soothing, but it did not calm me.

I went upstairs, sat on our bed and attempted to meditate. My mind prattled on with possibilities to rationalize my behavior. That January, in the middle of the night, we had experienced a terrifying earthquake that devastated California and killed 55 people. We had awoken to what sounded like the end of the world. The earth let out a deafening roar as power lines outside snapped and blew up. Our house shook with such violent force we thought we had been bombed.

Fires erupted all over Los Angeles. Water mains broke and flooded the streets. Buildings flattened like pancakes, freeways snapped in half like legos. California was shut down, we had no power and no way to ship merchandise as freeways had crumbled. It almost put my children’s clothing company out of business.

It took us quite a while to bounce back from that loss, and for all four of us to be able to sleep through the night again. Strong aftershocks continued to rock California all year. Many of us had become attuned to the signs and, like animals, we could feel the shifts in weather, the particular stillness in the air. Maybe I was feeling the onset of another aftershock. Or maybe what I was feeling was an emotional aftershock. Or maybe it was my childhood issues rising up to haunt me again. What was wrong with me?

Another excerpt:

Megan had slept over the night of the 1994 earthquake. As the house shook violently, Troy and I ran for the kids, bouncing against the walls as we made our way down the hallway. I’d grabbed Cristen and Megan and Troy swooped up Taylor. I held the girls tight in my lap until the shaking stopped. Megan, only six years old, was so terrified she peed on me. We then ran outside and were huddled in the street with our neighbors, everyone wrapped in blankets, when Brian and Johanna’s truck pulled to a screeching stop. I’ll never forget the look of terror on Brian’s face as he ran toward us, and how it turned to relief when he saw his little girl wrapped in my arms. He knew we loved Megan as much as one of our own, and we’d never let anything happen to her. We all hugged each other so tight, crying and thanking God that night.

Were you in Los Angeles for the 1994 earthquake? What are your memories?

A New Year's Revolution

2012-01-07T13:08:00.000-08:00

My 2011 Vision Board. Gotta say, most of it came true.

Happy New Year Everyone. It’s 2012 and I’m about to make my vision board for the year. Every year I ask myself what I really want from life. I think long and hard about it. Have you thought about what you want this year?

I’m not talking about your average New Year’s Resolutions…lose weight, quit smoking, blah blah blah. I’m talking about what you REALLY want. What your heart wants. What your soul craves.

What is it you want from this life?

This is a question I began asking myself some years ago, and at first I found it really hard to answer. Try asking someone that question at a cocktail party. You’ll hear a lot of hemming and hawing, because really, how often do we sit down and ask ourselves what we really want?

We usually say things like:

I want to be thin.

Why? What is the feeling being thin would bring? How would being thin change our lives? Would we feel healthier, or younger, or have more energy? Would people love us more? Would we love ourselves more? Maybe what we really want is to be loved as we are, or to have better self esteem. Or to speak up when we feel something rather than suppressing emotions with food. What do we really want?

I want to be rich.

Why does everyone want to be rich? What problems would it solve, really? Would it give us the freedom to do the things we’ve always wanted to do? Like what? What are the things we’ve always wanted to do, and why aren’t we doing them? What would you do with all that freedom? What would you do with the money? Would it change your relationships? Make you more lovable? What do we really want?

World Peace.

How can we achieve world peace? Maybe what we really want is inner peace. Where can we start? What do we really want?

I think we get it all wrong. We talk about the outer things we want, the possessions, the conditions. But we don’t acknowledge the inner - the underlying reasons we want those things. The seed of every desire is in our souls. That is where to begin.

My belief is that if we take care of the matters of our hearts, of our souls, the rest will fall into place.

If we want more love, we must be loving and lovable.

If we want more money, we must value ourselves and make ourselves valuable to others.

If we want to be thinner, we must value our health enough to make changes.

If we start within, take care of our hearts, listen to our inner wisdom – our resolutions can become a revolution.

2012. It’s a brand new year. Our year. Your year.

So …what is it you really, really want?

A Prayer for Gabriel

2012-01-05T18:23:00.000-08:00

For over twenty years, Troy and I have made music with Gabriel’s family. Together, we have filled ballrooms and venues all over the country with music and laughter and joyous sound. But before Gabriel’s funeral, I never knew the sound of four hundred human souls wailing with grief. Now I do. As my husband Troy said, so eloquently, “The deafening thud of the first bit of earth dropped from mother's shovel to son’s casket is a sound I will not soon forget.”

On this darkest of days, the January sun shone bright, the cloudless sky above was never bluer, as we watched our sweet friend Susan bury her twenty-four year old son, then stand tall and call herself a blessed woman to have loved him. Such unbearable sorrow, such devastating grace and beauty. What to make of it all?

Everyone wants to know how it happened. How could such a young beautiful man die in his sleep? We don’t exactly know yet, and that’s not the point. The point is – it has happened. But still the questions… How? How? It’s as though we think if we can just understand how, we can immunize ourselves from such a terrible fate. I understand this, as I’ve done it myself. But the hard truth is we are not guaranteed any such security in life. Tragedies befall each of us in different ways.

Healing lies not in the how, not in the why, but in the acceptance of what is. It may take us a lifetime or beyond to understand, but this much I know of life. No one gets to elude the difficult parts. There are those who say that happiness is our birthright, but it’s not our only birthright. Suffering, joy, pain, health, illness, disaster, miracles…are all our birthright, because they are all part of the human experience. Pain is what leads us inevitably to Grace. As in the story of Michelangelo, every one of us is David, trapped in the marble, waiting for our Creator to chisel away our cowardice, our ego, our pride and resentments, to release the true essence of what we really are. Suffering opens the door to these defining moments, our holiest moments, if we allow ourselves to be broken open. And once we are, yes, we will know pain. But each of us carries the most powerful antidote in the world to pain, that miraculous healing medicine - love.

Susan and her children epitomized love as they each delivered raw, honest, heartwrenching eulogies to Gabriel. As I watched through tear-filled eyes, I saw light emanating from them, and knew at that moment they were being held by thousands of unseen hands, cradled in prayers from all over the world. Love in action.

They spoke of the overwhelming love Gabriel showed in his life, and asked us all to love each other better, that his life would not have been in vain.

Driving my youngest son Evan home from school yesterday, I was lost in thoughts of the funeral, still trying to process it all- what can I do, how can I help? when out of the blue Evan asked,

“Mommy, how much do you love me?”

“Oh my goodness,” I said, “I love you so much I could never even say…”

“Just try anyway...” he said.

I closed my eyes and absorbed his words. Just try anyway.

Maybe we don’t always know how to love each other better, but we can try anyway. That is what I intend. I will tell my children and all of the people in my life how very much I love them. I will show love through my choices and my actions until my very life becomes a form of prayer- a prayer which I offer in honor of Gabriel:

May my thoughts, my words, my deeds be centered in love.

It may be difficult on some days, and sometimes I may fail, but as my baby boy said…I will just try anyway.

The sun was just beginning to set as the funeral came to an end. The rabbi asked us to form a human walkway for the family to move through as they left the grave to walk back into life. There were so many of us - hundreds and hundreds- it was an astonishing sight. Susan held her head high, making eye contact with us as she passed, acknowledging the love being shown.

As Troy and I left the gravesite, we saw our beautiful friend Terry Lenley. We hugged each other so tight and cried. With tears running down his face, he gave us a reassuring look, “Love’s got this,” he said.

No truer words…

Silence is the sound we hear now. Silence to reflect, to pray, to remember. But one day soon, the silence will give way to music and laughter as Gabriel’s family once again fills their world with the joyous sounds of life. In those moments, I will imagine Gabriel dancing among us.

Rest in peace, Gabriel. And rest in Love.

Happy Holidays to YOU!

2011-12-22T14:52:00.000-08:00

Dear friends and readers,

Thank you so much for reading my musings all through the year, for your support through my trial, and your love and kindness always!

Here is a gift, from my family to yours.

Download our Family Christmas album for free! Eight holiday songs performed by our family:
Yours truly on vocals and backgrounds
My husband Troy on all guitars, keyboards and vocals
Our daughter Cristen on bass and vocals
Our son Taylor on drums and vocals
and even Evan has a solo on Feliz Navidad.
(Listen for our Japanese daughter-in-law's holiday greeting at the end of Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays.)

We hope you enjoy, and again, THANK YOU and Happy Holidays!
The Dexter Family Holiday Album

Aging is NOT for sissies

2011-12-20T09:11:00.000-08:00

While I was in Pennsylvania, Amy and I went out for a nice dinner after a productive day of work. We were all dolled up, out on the town looking pretty cute, I thought. We were enjoying a glass of wine and some great conversation when the waitress stopped by the table to check on us.

We told her we were visiting from out of town and loved Bethlehem.

“So what brings you to our town?” she asked.

“Her husband is the guitar player in Wilson Phillips…” Amy began to say when the girl gasped and turned to me wide-eyed, “Oh my God, are you Michelle Phillips?”

I laughed but then realized she was serious. “No! Michelle is Chynna Phillips mother.” I said indignantly, certain she mixed up their names. But her expression didn’t change.

I continued, “I’m Chynna’s age!” (okay, full disclosure, I’m five years older but still…), “Michelle is almost 70 years old…”

To which she replied, ‘Oh I know, she’s an old hag now!” (which she is not- she's still beautiful)

My mouth hung open for a moment. “…and yet, you just mistook me for her.”

She shrugged, apparently oblivious to the fact that she had just insulted us on a myriad of levels. “You really do look like her, though.” She smiled and walked away.

I turned to look at Amy, who was equally horrified, “Oh. My. God.” she said.

I put my head in my hands, “Time for botox.”

Michelle Phillips - still gorgeous.

Aging is not fun, and like Bette Davis said, it’s not for sissies. Gone are the days when people expressed shock that I have a grandchild. I blame 2010. For a good ten years I looked 35, and then 2010 hit me upside the head. The stress levels were off the chart and my body took the hit. I tried my best to combat it; ate healthy, did yoga and ran on my treadmill, tried to meditate, used my Dior skincare religiously…but still, stress is one bas-ass mofo. The wrinkles and gray hairs attacked me at a dizzying pace.

So I had to suck it up that night, and take the punch. I’m getting older. People may sometimes mistake me for a seventy-year old woman. It happens.

I’ve never done anything to my face- no botox or fillers or surgery. I hope I don’t feel the need to as time goes on, but I don’t judge it. Mostly, I just want to stick to my guns about living honestly, and that includes my face. My face tells my story. I have lived forty eight years, raised three kids, a grandkid, survived the ups and downs of a passionate but at times tumultuous marriage, and had my share of hard knocks in life. It’s all here, in these lines…in the circles under my eyes, in the gray around my temples. I have four scars on my face from basal cell skin cancer, a reminder of the teen years I spent baking in the sun because I wanted to look like someone else.

The truth. Me- no make up, under terribly unflattering light.

I’m aging, and I think it’s nature’s way of saying, “Oh get over yourself.” So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m still exercising and using good skincare, because I want to be healthy and take care of what I’ve got, but not because I’m fighting what is. I’m accepting the journey I’m on now. (Some days are better than others.)

You may think we stiffed that waitress. Nope. We gave her a really generous tip. We figured anyone that stupid is going to need all the help she can get.

Yes Virginia, There is Justice in the World

2011-12-16T09:00:00.000-08:00

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts I received this Holiday season was a letter I received from the twelve-year-old daughter of a friend. This little girl, Emma, is unbelievably bright and has had to grow up fast, losing her father Scott, our friend, at only five years old. Her mother Denise has done a beautiful job of raising her, and this letter she sent shows how thoughtful and articulate she is. Her words have given me the push I needed to trudge into year three of this ridiculous fight for our Stitch.

Dear Hollye,

I was given a project by my Leadership teacher to write a letter to someone I admire and who I believe possesses courage. I immediately thought of you.

My mom told me the unbelievable fight you have been going through for over three years since you adopted your family dog Stitch….and the lawsuit against you demanding the dog back, asking over $25,000 for the dog they neglected.

Instead of returning Stitch to this horrible person, you chose to fight to keep this little dog that had become part of your family. You could have given Stitch to them and avoided the harassment, police and lawsuit, but you stood courageously beside your furry family member and became his voice.

My mom told me that your legal bills are very expensive and that you have had to have fundraisers, turn to your family and friends for help, set up an online store, and most recently have a garage sale to raise money for Stitch’s defense.

The saddest part is that you lost the trial because the judge decided that Stitch is property, like a bicycle, and had to be returned to the original owner. I think comparing an animal to a bike is just disgusting!

After all this, you could have thrown your hands up in the air and walked away. But you didn’t! You chose to fight for what is right for Stitch, no matter how much time or money it takes. To me, that is the definition of courage – having the mental and physical strength to fight for what is right and not just throw in the towel.

I will keep my fingers crossed and pray you win the appeal to keep Stitch. I will also continue to tell your story. I hope Stitch’s story will inspire others to have courage in life, find strength, and FIGHT ON!

I have three questions for you: (1) Where do you find the courage to keep fighting for Stitch, after everything that has happened? (2) What is your definition of courage? (3) Lastly, who do you admire most for their courage?

Thanks for being a leader and answering my letter!

Sincerely,

Emma

Darling Emma,

In the beginning of this case, I was encouraged by friends and family to fight for Stitch. Everyone, including my attorney, thought that ours was a slam dunk case that would never make it to trial. The judge would take one look at the ridiculous charges against us and throw it out. An abandoned and neglected dog who was adopted by a loving family would surely stay with the loving family, right? But that’s when we found out that life isn’t always fair.

After a grueling trial, over $10,000, and a year of fighting, we lost and were told to turn Stitch over to the plaintiff (who, incidentally never proved ownership). My friends tearfully advised me to let go at that point. We had been through so much stress, money, tears, they didn’t want to see us get hurt any more.

Our attorney said we could appeal, but even she, an animal rights advocate, wouldn’t blame us if we didn’t. Troy and I talked this over for days. We had always been law- abiding citizens, but sometimes laws are wrong. Slavery used to be legal. Not long ago, women weren’t allowed to vote or own property. And then there were Jim Crow laws, Prop 8…The only way to change things is to rise up and fight injustice. Troy and I wanted to face ourselves in the mirror every day without regrets. Turning Stitch over would have left us feeling cowardly and disheartened. So we decided to fight on.

We took the first steps into this appeal not knowing if anyone would have our backs, but thankfully, many have. Some have helped with money, some have offered kindness and encouragement, and prayers, all which has strengthened us. And then we get a letter like this from you, dear Emma, that makes it all worth it.

My definition of courage is doing what you know is right, even when it scares you, standing up against a bully, speaking up when it’s unpopular. Courage is feeling the fear and walking through it.

Who do I admire for their courage? I would say Nelson Mandela demonstrated the greatest courage, standing up against racial apartheid, being imprisoned for it, never backing down from what he knew was right. He changed his country and affected the world.

We are in a fight against the Property Statute Law, which states that animals are property, with no regard for their treatment or care, or even their lives. It’s a huge battle that many animal rights advocates have been fighting for years and years. There is a very strong possibility that we will lose, but we are staying positive and focusing on the end result. If we win, it would be a great victory for animal rights advocates and pet owners everywhere.

Emma, your letter has given us tremendous encouragement, and by sharing it here, you will be helping to open others’ eyes to the importance of animal rights.

Thank you for being such a thoughtful and caring girl, and good luck on your project.

Love,

Hollye

* to read more and see how you can help our case: SAVE STITCH
Friend us on facebook at Stitchy the Wonder Dog

Grace in Bethlehem

2011-12-14T17:57:00.000-08:00

December brings my birthday and the holidays. As a child, it was my favorite time of year, but these last ten years, being estranged from my family, I tend to get the blues. My sweet husband hangs Christmas lights and wears a Santa hat to cheer me up, and I do my best…focusing on the kids, playing Christmas music, making ornaments, baking cookies, watching my favorite holiday movies.

This year on my birthday, I would receive the greatest and most unexpected of gifts. I had just gotten back from a day of volunteer work, wrapping gifts for needy families. (I’ve found that the best cure for the blues is to get out of my own head and help someone else, so you see, I did this for completely selfish reasons.) I was unwinding after a long day when my brother Ted, who had flown in from Seattle, came walking up my stairs with a big red bow wrapped around him. My best friends Erin and Beth had picked him up from the airport and smuggled him in. Ted and I only found each other six years ago. We had lived a whole lifetime apart, and this was the first time I’d ever spent my birthday with him. We had dinner with my children that night, all of us together, laughing, celebrating. Six years ago, this was a scene I never could have imagined.

Several days later I was fortunate to tag along with Troy for a leg of the Wilson Phillips tour that took us to Pennsylvania, where my angel-friend and writing partner Amy Ferris lives. With our deadline looming, it was a perfect opportunity for Amy and I to buckle down and get some work done on our book “Dancing At The Shame Prom”.

I had my sleeves rolled up, ready to work. But what I didn’t expect was for those five days to be so inspired and spirit-filled. Walking in the brisk cold through Bethlehem at Christmas time was magical. Each street was lined with historic brick buildings, cobblestone churches, and graveyards dating back to the 1700s. Vendors sold handmade wares in their tiny Christmas Village. At night, candles glowed in every window of every house. And Bethlehem is where Amy and I sat together in an ancient haunted hotel, by a roaring fire and a glittering fifteen-foot Christmas tree, reading these heart-stopping, beautiful, honest, raw essays sent by our brave writers.

When someone chooses to open their heart and let you in, it is nothing short of a miracle. That’s what each writer has done for this book, and soon we will be able to share them with you. I felt so blessed to be midwifing this project, to be trusted with these intimate, courageous, hope-filled stories. How perfect that this book should be birthed in Bethlehem, during a time of hope and lovingkindness, by the sparkle of holiday lights.

I know it wasn’t the actual Bethlehem - just an old abandoned steel town in Pennsylvania - but I felt something magic there. Maybe I’m making too much of the connection – but I don’t think so. A blessing is a blessing, no matter where you find it. I found mine in the arms of my brother, and my friends, dancing and laughing with Troy, holding hands with Amy. And I experienced my true Christmas miracle through a bevy of beautiful writers, in the heart of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Reasons and Seasons and a lifetime of lessons.

2011-11-29T09:22:00.000-08:00

Lifetime Friends- every one of them an answered prayer.
Michelle-14 years, ( my daughter Cristen) Erin- 16 years, Dani- 35 years,
(Me, daughter in law Aya) Beth- 10 years, Kelly-25 years

There’s a saying that people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. I’ve found that to be true. I’ve also found that every single person has come to teach me something.

My lifetime friends are the ones I can be my whole unedited self with, knowing that I will be loved and accepted. Our friendships are honest, and have withstood disagreements, tragedies, weddings, divorces, babies, deaths and the colossal ups and downs of life. From them I have learned the true meaning of unconditional love.

Some friends have come and gone, and from them, I learned that you can’t hold love with a tight grip, but only with an open hand.

Some friends are far away, but never stray from my heart. From them I learned that real love is timeless and can sustain long distance and periods of silence. (Diane- 23 years)

Some friends come into your life exactly when you need them. From them I've learned that prayers are answered.

Overcome with love and blessings: Amy and Monica

Some friends turned out not to be friends. From them I learned how to value myself.

Some friends stood by me when I was down, but resented me when I had success. From them I learned the importance of celebrating others’ victories.

Some were not happy to see me grow and change. From them I learned how to stand for myself.

Some were just plain mean and vindictive, and from them I learned the importance of boundaries, and releasing negativity from my heart.

Not one person has come or gone from my life without adding value to me as a person, so I can honestly say that every relationship has been a blessing. I have no regrets...even the bad ones were good once. I try to hold on to the happy memories of relationships gone bad, but most importantly I strive to learn the lesson that it held for me.

Who have been the blessings in your life - both good and bad?

All Because of a Little Dog Named Stitch

2011-11-19T08:06:00.000-08:00

This is why we fight.

Over the past two years of this insane trial, I have spent a lot of time asking WHY? We are good people who only wanted to give an abandoned dog a good home. Why all this insanity?

I prayed and prayed for help. And what I got instead was more drama.

But lately I’ve realized something.

When I prayed for help, I was given opportunities to help myself. When I prayed for courage, I got opportunities to be courageous. When I prayed for the money to get through this, I was given opportunities to be valuable and work hard. I got to see how charitable and loving people can be. Complete strangers have financed a good portion of this lawsuit.

Through all of this trial, and believe me, it’s been a trial on every level, I’ve been given the gift of courage. Courage is a muscle that only becomes strong with use. Just like a workout at the gym, no one can give you strength. It only comes from working that muscle and working it hard.

Some people don’t understand why we’ve turned our life upside down and gone into financial crisis over a little dog, and that’s okay. They’ve not walked in our shoes, and I’m sure it’s hard to understand. But sometimes in life you’re given a chance to fight for something you believe in. It never comes at an opportune time, but when it comes, you get to see what you’re made of.

Troy and I are being made into something more than we were when we started this fight.

We are braver, stronger, and have more faith in people. We may have lost some money in the past few years, but what we gained is something that can never be taken from us.

And all because of a little dog named Stitch.

For the background story, newspaper articles, the petition and more, see SaveStitch

Barnum and Bailey presents: The Stitch Trial

2011-11-10T11:45:00.000-08:00

(Cue circus music…) I barely know where to begin, but it will require all my restraint to not fill this blog with expletives. (Let me just get it out real fast…#**%^&*#%^&**^!!!)

We have just returned from yet another shocker of a day in court, fighting for the right to keep our dog.

For anyone who is new to this story, all the details are HERE.

For those who’ve been following all along, you know that In September the plaintiff’s attorney dropped him. He appeared before the judge to be officially “released”, claiming his client wouldn’t return his calls nor pay him.

Our attorney, Jill Ryther, then called and emailed the plaintiff numerous times and got no response. It seemed clear to everyone that since “winning” custody of Stitch five months ago, but “losing” all monetary motions against us, the plaintiff had lost interest.

Monday we were called to court by the judge to state why nothing had been resolved on either side. The plaintiff did not show up, and unfortunately, neither did the judge. We were rescheduled to today. We showed up on time. Our case was the first call at 8:30 am. No plaintiff in sight. And then as our attorney is presenting to the judge, the clerk interrupts, “The plaintiff’s attorney called and is running late. He says he’ll be here at nine.”

“Oh okay,” says the judge, “we’ll reconvene at nine.”

WHAT????

This was wrong on so many levels…First of all, what attorney? And why are attorneys permitted to waste the court’s time by showing up late?

Sure enough at 9 am, the attorney who had asked to be released from the case, (“Fox” is his name, by the way), strolls in half an hour late. For the past two years, he has shown up late to every hearing, been a no-show at three court appointed dates, and most recently dropped his client. And yet, he receives no penalty, not even an admonishment by the court.

The court has ordered the plaintiff to appear in court several times and he has no-showed, and yet, nothing happens. We keep waiting for the judge to say this is ridiculous, and throw the whole thing out. But he doesn’t.

Fox says his client is not able to be there because he is “receiving medical treatment” (I instantly remember why the original owner of the dog wasn’t at trial- he too was “receiving medical treatment” in “rehab”). Thankfully the judge tells Fox he can not represent the client as he was released from the case. He tells him to take a seat. Even still, as our attorney presents our side, Fox jumps up and argues against her, and the judge ALLOWS IT! ( circus music…)

I could go on and on with my frustrations about this case, but I’ll spare you and give you the results from today: Five months ago we lost legal custody of Stitch and immediately filed an appeal. Since then we have been fighting to retain custody of Stitch during the appeals process, which could take another year. Today we were granted temporary custody pending appeal. We have to pay the court $2000 in collateral to assure that we don’t run off with Stitch in the interim. And we have to pay our attorney to write a 20 page appeals brief and filing fees. Then we have to go to appeals court, some time in 2012. The whole crux of our appeal is we are trying to prove the court’s ruling was wrong- that a family pet is not property. Stitch is a sentient being with needs and rights, and his well-being should be first consideration. A bicycle is property. You can leave a bicycle in a hot car without any repercussions. You can not do that with a dog. See that, courts? NOT THE SAME THING! We will be submitting the Save Stitch petition with our appeals brief, so if you haven’t signed it yet, please do! And spread the word! (it's at the top right corner of this page, or on our website)

AND- just in time for the Holidays….the Stitch store is re-opening. Wouldn’t you love to buy Holiday gifts from Stitch this year? Every penny you spend goes to Stitch’s legal defense fund! Help us fight this stupid law and make the world a safer place for animals!

Please visit our website where you can sign the petition, shop at our Save Stitch Store, read the whole background story, plus blogs and newspaper articles written about our case.

SaveStitch.webs.com

Thank you to everyone who has supported us through this whole ordeal. This is a fight we have taken on together. There is no way Troy and I would still be standing strong without all of you behind us. THANK YOU!

Calm in the Center of the Storm

2011-11-07T11:24:00.000-08:00

Last week was a tumultuous one. A lot of dust kicked up in the Universe on so many levels, all of it coming at me like a firehose in the face. A friend asked me why I seemed so calm in the middle of it all (reiterate: seemed) , and I’ve really given that some thought. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, trying to breathe and find my center the whole time, and though I stayed calm, it wore me out.

For the past twenty years, I’ve been on a long journey of healing my spirit. I’ve been through three therapists, workshops, seminars with Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Julia Cameron, healing through life story writing, intuitive healers, medical healers, and of course I have a closet full of self help books- three shelves piled high. I’ve read them all cover to cover, some of them twice. Through this journey, this is what I’ve learned.

Trust.

If I don’t trust myself, I’ll never trust anyone else.

Love.

When I don’t love myself, I’m not able to fully love anyone else.

Betrayal.

If I betray myself by not living true to who I am, I have betrayed others by presenting a false self.

Blame.

If deep inside I blame myself, I’ll catch myself projecting that blame onto others.

Judgment.

When I judge myself, I will end up judging others.

Patience.

When I am impatient, critical and demanding with myself, I’ll be the same with others.

Forgiveness.

When I haven’t forgiven myself, I’ll find it hard to forgive others.

So when I find myself in a place where I am not trusting, not loving, not being true to my heart, blaming others, judging others…That’s not anyone else’s problem. The only way to heal that is within me. I start by forgiving myself for being human, and reminding myself that we are all carrying the same demons. No one is on this Earth with the intent to bring me down. We are all doing the best we can in this school of life, and each of us is carrying a burden.

I remind myself to be kind and patient with others, starting with me.

The quote I’ve kept on my wall for this two-decade long journey is this:

“Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.”

- Mahatma Ghandi

I have found this to be absolutely true. Living in that kind of integrity is the only thing that’s ever brought me peace. When I am unhappy, I know that one of the above tenets is out of alignment, and I work to center myself again.

It’s so simple, and yet so few of us live that way.

I put that quote where I can see it each day, and ask myself, am I living in spiritual alignment? When I am, I know it. I make better decisions, I trust myself, I’m not rocked off my center by what others say about me. I can retain my calm in the center of a storm. I feel at peace. When I am at peace, my family is at peace, and like ripples in a pond, it spreads outward.

Who says we can’t change the world? We can each start with ourselves.

I wish you all integrity…peace…happiness.

Have a wonderful week.

And the award goes to...

2011-10-28T12:12:00.000-07:00

This morning Troy and I went to Evan’s school to watch him receive an award. I assumed it was something academic, as that’s Evan’s thing. He’s the kid that asks to do “extra” homework because it’s fun. Instead, I was happy to find that he was given the “Character Trait Award” that read:

For Evan Dexter: In recognition of demonstrating HONESTY.

I can not tell you how my heart swelled with pride. In my twenty-six years of parenting, this has been the trait I’ve stressed most to my children. And really, based on my life’s work, could there be a better award for my kid?

Just this morning as I was packing his lunch, he stopped me from putting a sweet granola bar in his backpack. “Mommy, you said no sweets for the week because I said a bad word yesterday, remember?”

And a few days ago, he and Ben had their first scrape with “the law”. Yes, that’s right. Our little five and six year old hoodlums got into a world of trouble.

On Sunday, Erin, Beth, Troy and I had spent the afternoon playing baseball with our boys. Afterward, Evan went to Ben’s to play. When I later called to check in, Erin sounded upset. “We have a situation…” she said. Erin and Beth’s neighbor had come to warn them that vandals were running loose in the neighborhood, and had smashed out the window of their Lexus. No worries, he assured her, we’ve called the police and they’re on their way.

Erin thanked him and shut the door, when Beth said, “Uh…did you check with the boys? They’re in the back yard.”

It turns out, Evan and Ben were continuing to practice baseball by seeing how far they could throw big rocks. Over the fence.

Troy and I rushed over, and the four of us sat the boys down to have a talk. We made sure they understood the seriousness of throwing rocks, and that even though it was an accident, they would have to take responsibility and tell the police. Evan processed the situation, as he often does, by drawing it out on paper.

We walked the boys next door, and they apologized to the neighbors (for a second time. Beth had taken them over immediately when she first found out.) We made sure they saw the damage the rocks had caused. Then we waited for the police.

As the two officers strolled up in their intimidating uniforms, billy clubs and guns in hosters, the lead officer said, “Okay, who can explain what’s going on here?” and before any of us could get a word out, Evan stepped up and said, “Mr. Policeman, we did it!” Ben nodded his head, “Yeah, we did it.”

“Well, Thank you for being honest boys.” The officer shook their hands.

Evan continued, “Me and Ben were throwing rocks over the fence but it was a accident and here’s my drawing.”

The officer took the drawing, looked closely at it, then back at Ben and Evan. He was silent for a moment. Here comes the big lecture…I thought. This is good.

“I’m going to have to arrest you two…” he broke into a smile, “for being ADORABLE!” He chuckled, “You two are the cutest kids I’ve ever seen!”

Beth and I stood behind the boys, frowning and shaking our heads. This was not the intimidating life lesson we’d hoped for.

“But throwing rocks is BAD, right Officer?” I added.

“Yes, don’t throw rocks anymore, boys, okay?”

They nodded, jumping up and down with glee. The officer looked back to Beth and I smiling. “Seriously, those guys are so cute…”

Ben asked Evan, “What’s gonna happen now?”

“Don’t worry Ben, we’re not in trouble! He thinks we’re cute!”

Beth was immediately on it. “Hey- you still have to take responsibility for this.”

After the police left, we sat the boys down again and told them they’d have to do some extra chores to help pay for the TWO brand new Lexuses that were damaged. (We’re still waiting to hear back for insurance on that…dreading the answer.)

Evan was excited about it. “Can we make a chores chart? Can I pick up trash? And sweep?”

I’ve had my ups and downs, my failures as a person and a mom, but one thing I’m proud of is teaching my kids to be honest. The most trouble Taylor ever got into as a kid was for telling a lie. It was over a silly thing (brushing his teeth) but I treated it with huge seriousness. I told him - when you tell a lie, you break trust with people. Your friends and family won’t believe in your words anymore. I won’t get mad at you for making a mistake, but I will always get mad at you for lying. In our house, lying was the most serious offense of all. Taylor threw himself face down on his bed and sobbed his eyes out for twenty minutes. Cristen, who was then about twelve, went and sat beside him, rubbing his back.

“Why are you crying, boopy-nose?”

“I TOLD A LIE!” He sobbed into his pillow.

Today, my daughter Cristen tells it like it is. She stands in her truth, lives her life on her own terms and, believe me, she doesn’t hold anything back.

Taylor is living a life of integrity and responsibility, and passing it down to his own son.

And Evan has just passed his first big “life test”.

I know it was just a silly little school award today, but I took it as a huge sign from the Universe that we’re on track.

As I know all too well, being honest does not win you friends, rarely are you rewarded for it, and never are you “awarded”. The true reward is the self-trust and self-respect you gain. Living with integrity brings an inner peace – and that is what I want my kids to have.

The award today? Just icing on that cake.

Hollye and Amy Ferris discuss the finer points of BLURG

2011-10-26T11:43:00.000-07:00

Hollye and Amy in tiaras.

SHA-SHA-SHA-SHAME

(from Amy Ferris)

Okay, so Hollye and I had our Monday morning with Hollye & Amy talk. Sort of like Tuesdays with Morrie, but ... not. And, as usual, we caught up with life and each other and ... talked about shame. Our shame, our Shame Prom facebook page, and our hot off the presses spanking new gorgeous website, and our anthology - THE SHAME PROM. Holy Batwoman! And we realized, found that we - Hollye and I - are somewhat ashamed that we're not getting enough traction and "likes" on our Shame Prom Facebook page. People are not lining up to watch our fabulously funny shame out-takes and videos on YouTube, folks are not lining up to like us.

Luckily, I was still in bed, and could creep and crawl under the covers. I mean, here we are, two amazing women with unbelievable accomplishments not to mention husbands and friends, and we're trying to understand why folks are having an allergic reaction to our brilliant and LIFE CHANGING movement - the SHAME PROM movement. And then it happened, Hollye said five magical words: DANCING AT THE SHAME PROM... and in that moment, I pushed the covers off of me (okay, more figuratively than literally) and I smiled and I said to Hollye, God, that's brilliant. It feels so happy, celebratory. It feels less sad. Less tragic. And of course Hollye made it even sound sexy, and no longer scary.

The thing is (and I will let Hollye continue this thought, idea, realization... epiphany) we want everyone to celebrate their shameful experiences. The one's that make us cringe. Crawl into a ball. Hide under the covers. Change our phone numbers. We want to share our stories, release the gunk, prove we're not alone in doing silly, stupid, hurtful, painful, and unbearable things. We want to open the doors - literally - and dance to the beat of our own - and others - bravery and courage.

We're finding SHAME has a very bad reputation, not to mention a really bad rap.

We want to change that.

Okay, here's Hollye ...

Yep. We discovered that although we rejoice in the releasing of it, most people are repelled by the word “Shame”. They don’t want to “Like” it, or watch You Tube videos about it, and GOOD GOD NO they don’t want to talk about it. The word alone carries a negative connotation. When someone said “Shame on you” it meant you were a BAD person who had done a BAD thing. Most of us have come to a point in our lives where we feel we are done with that bullshit. I know I am.

But shame is sneaky.

It hid itself in the corners of my psyche, in the stories I didn’t tell. It lodged itself in my heart in the moment that I let someone else define me, or control me, or belittle me. It hung over me like a sad umbrella, keeping the sun away. And until I learned how to find it, it was keeping me small. Very small.

Our objective with this anthology is to RELEASE it, to sweep it out of the corners and shoo it away, and we want you to join us! We want to connect with you and share this glorious feeling. But there’s that problem…that icky word.

Okay so how about we don’t call it shame. Let’s call it “blurg”.

I felt blurg in my childhood because my father was in prison, and because of things people did to me, and because I thought I was a mistake and didn’t belong anywhere.

I felt it as a young woman when I betrayed myself trying to gain someone else’s love, or when I shared my body with someone who did not value me.

So I wrote a book and got it all out and it changed me. And although I’ve more or less healed myself of the past shame, er, I mean, BLURG, it still creeps up on me. I start to feel it when I chide myself for gaining five pounds, when I see the age in my face that society tells me is not acceptable, when I’m the only one at the dinner party who doesn’t get the intellectual reference because I’m a college dropout.

Yes, I feel BLURG.

Oh, that’s ridiculous. Let’s call it what it is - it’s SHAME. A universal emotion, just like fear, love, jealousy, desire. It’s what makes us human. It's what binds us. Connects us. Lifts us. Spurs us into action.

(From Amy and Hollye)

The Shame Prom was conceived and born out of courage, passion, compassion, joy, and self-awareness. It's not a place for wallowing in self-pity, or sorrow. Well, you can wallow for just a little bit, but we're grabbing your hand, and we're taking you out onto the dance floor, and we’re not letting BLURG hold any of us back any more.

Care to dance with us?

*start small...tell us a tiny little story that you never tell. post it anonymously if you like. Go on...get it out. you'll feel better. Here's my story...

Being True to You

2011-10-18T10:32:00.000-07:00

Ophelia's art poster: http://www.zazzle.com/to_thine_own_self_be_true_poster-228306749335934814

Yesterday I watched an online discussion between Martha Beck and Oprah, following Oprah’s life class entitled “The Truth Will Set You Free”. This of course was of interest to me as my life’s work is centered in this issue.

Martha Beck had a spiritual experience while undergoing a surgery, and it changed they way she lived. She had been touched by a divine love, and the only way she could come close to experiencing that feeling again was to live in absolute truth. The alternative became too painful. She could no longer say yes when she meant no, or do work she didn’t believe in, or be in a relationship based on false selves.

This was the part of the conversation that riveted me. She said that if you are in a relationship in which you can not truly be yourself- meaning you can’t say what you really think or feel for fear of the other person rejecting you- then you are presenting a “false self” to the relationship, and therefore it is a “false relationship”. I could instantly flash on several relationships in my life past and present that fit that bill. And it made me wonder…If I’m not being myself so I won’t lose the relationship, but it’s a false relationship, then what am I really losing?

I can recall countless work or family functions I’ve attended where everyone forces a smile while simmering with resentment underneath. Or times I’ve said yes when I really meant no. And this is what I think shame really is. It’s when your actions are not in alignment with your heart. Shame is born in the moment that you betray yourself.

And yet most of us live this way.

So why do we do this? Why would we ever live a life that is not true? Why do we betray ourselves? Why do we say one thing and do another?

What do we gain by living this way? And more importantly, what do we lose?

Blue Hawaii

2011-10-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

I have been blue all week, a deep sadness welling up inside me at random moments. It has really caught me off guard. No surprise that I also lost my voice this week.

One of the triggers is that tomorrow is Grandparent’s day at Evan’s school. They had to write and talk about it all week, and tomorrow the kids’ grandparents are coming to class for a celebration. This upset me. What about all the little kids who will have no one there for them tomorrow, like my son? Troy’s parents are in New Mexico, and my Dad is in Texas, and then there’s my mother who lives only twenty minutes away but doesn’t know Evan at all.

And perhaps the true source of my sadness, I just found out, through the grapevine, that my mother is moving to Hawaii next week.

My mother and I have been estranged for ten years. The rift between us was not a result of some petty squabble. In my extended family, there has been sexual impropriety, drug use and abuse, and, on the women’s part, enabling and denial. I made the choice to break the silence, and therefore break the cycle. I was rewarded for my honesty by being outcast, and then blamed for breaking up the family.

We tried to set it right again. We went to therapy, but my mother quit. She said she couldn’t afford it (then went on vacation to Costa Rica, and remodeled her house). We tried without therapists. We met in a park a few years ago to talk things through. I brought Evan who was only two at the time. My mother’s anger took on a life of its own, like a feral cat backed into a corner, hissing and clawing, and all of it directed at me. And there was sweet little Evan, witnessing it all.

I made the choice to protect my own children from that toxicity. I know in my heart it was the right thing to do. But when Grandparent’s day rolls around, it still hurts.

I realized that what I am experiencing is mourning. I still held on to a thin thread of hope for my mother and I. They say times heals…I was waiting. I kept telling myself, any day now, something’s gonna shift. But it never did, and now that she’s leaving, the thread of hope was snipped for good.

The bridge between us was not only burned, it was blown to smithereens. This is not something that could be fixed long distance over the phone, or without professional help.

So as my mother packs her things and prepares for her new life, I am mourning the death of hope, and of possibility that things could ever be different.

I’ll give Evan pictures of his grandparents to take to school tomorrow. He may grow up without grandparent’s at his birthday parties, recitals or school events, but there is certainly no shortage of love surrounding him. As long as we have love, we can get through anything.

As for my mother, I wish her peace in her heart, and a beautiful life in paradise.

As the sun sets on our relationship, I guess there’s nothing else to say for now but…

Aloha, Mom.

Gossip Girl

2011-10-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

Years ago, the “Gladys Kravitz” of our neighborhood told me that one of our local handymen was a pedophile. No one else in the neighborhood ever confirmed that, and this woman told me many other things about neighbors that proved to be untrue. Still, every time I saw that man I grabbed my kids and pulled them inside. She had tainted my opinion of him forever, and he was most likely innocent.

Gossip spreads like virus, and causes irreparable damage. You may one day have a change of heart and forgive the person you are maligning. But it’s too late. Opinions have been formed based on your words.

I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing to talk - we’re all interested in each other’s lives. What’s important is intent. Are you talking about a friend to knock them down a peg? Are you vilifying them to make yourself look like the good guy? Are you trying to lower others’ opinions of them?

Or are you coming from a place of love?

This reminds me of an old Jewish proverb:

A man went about his community telling malicious lies about the town Rabbi. Later, he began to feel remorse. He went to the rabbi and begged his forgiveness, saying he would do anything to make amends. The rabbi told him, "Take a feather pillow, cut it open, and scatter the feathers to the winds." The man did it gladly. When he returned, the rabbi said, "Now, go and gather the feathers. Because you can no more recollect the damage your words have done than you can recollect the feathers."

So keep this in mind. If you’re going to be a gossip girl, once you’ve fired off your missives, you’ll never be able to put those bullets back in the gun. Or the feathers in the pillow.

Whoopi Goldberg had a great line in The Color Purple:

“Everything you done to me, you already done to yourself.”

No truer words were ever spoken. The damage you do to others in spreading malicious gossip will always be with you, and will ultimately hurt you in the end.

The moral of the story?

Words have power. Wield them wisely.

Judge not...or do. Whatevs.

2011-10-05T12:27:00.000-07:00

“When you judge someone, you do not define them.

You simply define yourself as someone who needs to judge.”

– Wayne Dyer

We all make judgments every day; I like this, I don’t like that. I don’t like the way he drives. I like the way she dresses. We pick and choose what’s right for us from the judgments we make. But most people spend an inordinate amount of time talking about and judging others. (…aaand that’s why we love reality TV.)

I used to make judgments on my friends lives, because I was a “fixer”. I’d obsess over their missteps; “Why does so and so keep choosing the same abusive guy?” “Why is so and so spending money she doesn’t have? She’s going to end up in debt!” And then I’d set out to “fix” them. A lot of my sentences began with “What you should do is…” until one day a friend spoke up. “Let me make my own mistakes. I’ll deal with the consequences.” And I totally got it. It was her journey, and she’d find her own way, just as I had to find mine. Maybe she needed to be with the wrong guy to learn something about herself. Maybe she needed to go into debt to learn how to manage money. Who knew? It wasn’t my job to fix anyone but me. And it was time I switched my focus.

I spent the next decade in and out of therapy, doing yoga, meditating, reading, unraveling my past by writing a book. I was intent on fixing my own issues. I would still be a shoulder for my friends when they had a problem, but I listened, and put faith in them to solve their own problems.

In doing this long decade of inner work, I realized that none of us is perfect, and mistakes are a necessity in this school called life. I forgave myself for my flaws and my own missteps. I accepted myself as an imperfect human being in an imperfect world, and that’s when things began to shift inside of me.

When I stopped judging myself, I no longer felt the desire to judge others.

When I made peace with myself, I was at peace with others.

When I was happy with me, I didn’t need anyone else’s validation.

When judgment and criticism came, I no longer doubted myself, because I knew where my heart was centered.

The greatest thing about getting older is the wisdom and inner peace it can bring. When my heart is at peace, I like myself. It’s okay if others don’t like me. I like me.

I am careful with my words and judgments now. I certainly slip up more than I should, but I bring myself back to center by reminding myself of Maya Angelou’s wise words:

"A person’s speech is a mirror to her or his soul."

Every day I ask myself, What do my words say about me?

“Judge not, lest ye be judged.” That’s what the bible says. But even if I choose not to judge, others will most likely still judge me. But you know what? It’s none of my business what anyone thinks about me.

It’s not my job to prove to anyone who I am. My job is to be the best me I can be, and to keep myself centered in a positive place.

If I do that, my life will speak for itself.

Lessons Learned At A Funeral

2011-09-28T12:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve been to more funerals in my life than I care to count. And I have sat bedside with critically ill friends at the ends of their lives. Although it has been painful, I consider this a privilege, for they have taught me valuable life lessons.

My dear friend of 25 years, Phyllis, was like a second mother to me. I loved her with all my heart, but she was a difficult woman. She was tall, strong, a force to be reckoned with, but she spent a lot of her life being offended by people. She was prickly and cantankerous. I’d had a few run-ins with her over the years, and she’d made me cry more than once, but always we came back to a place of love. The last time I saw Phyllis on her deathbed, all her hard edges had softened as she began to wither away. She looked so vulnerable, like a tiny baby bird in a nest of hospital blankets. She was peaceful, finally. Soon she would join her husband and son in the afterlife. The last thing this tough woman said to me before she died- “Love is all that matters.”

A year later, I would watch my friend John die from a brain tumor. At the end, I sat holding his hand while Troy played John’s beloved baby grand piano. The tumor had robbed him of his ability to speak in sentences, but there was no need for words. What mattered was clearly present in that room. John looked into my eyes, took my hand and squeezed it tight. With his other hand patting his heart, he said “So much…so much…”

This Sunday I attended yet another funeral- a sad, tragic funeral of a woman who died much too young. Andrea was Dani’s little sister. I can still see her sitting cross-legged on her bed at thirteen years old, talking about her boyfriend, as Dani and I were putting on make-up, getting ready to go out to some party or High School football game. Andrea, just a little girl in my memory, with her long wavy hair, and a whole life ahead of her.

Now she is ashes.

There had been hurt and misunderstanding between Dani and her sister over the years, and some of Andrea’s life decisions caused her to distance herself from those who loved her. Yet, on the last day of her life as she lied comatose in her hospital bed, Andrea opened her eyes and smiled at Dani. Nothing needed to be said. What was left at the end, above all the broken hearts and hurt feelings, was love.

At the funeral on Sunday, Andrea’s two teenage daughters, now orphaned, stood up and spoke about their love for their mother. Her oldest, Megan, lamented about all the time they spent fighting over petty things. That time could never be regained, time which could have been spent loving each other. I heard that message loud and clear.

Since Sunday, I have witnessed a lot of anger amongst my friends and family, some of it at each other, some at me, over small things, which will one day be long forgotten. But Sunday put things in perspective for me. I don’t intend to waste a second of my precious life, which I am so lucky to have, quibbling over small things. I want to spend the hours of my life loving my family and friends, and helping others to do the same. I won’t be swayed from this.

People often comment on my relationship with Troy, how much in love we are after so many years. The reason our love has lasted is not because we don’t fight. We do. It doesn’t happen much anymore but in the early years, we almost didn’t make it. What saved us, time and again, is that we always come back to a place of love. Always. The love we have for each other is larger than either of our needs to be right or to be vindicated. The love outweighs our egos.

My friendship with Erin is that way. We are a couple of strong-willed broads and we’ve collided spectacularly at times, but again, what I love so much about Erin is her great heart, which prevails over everything else, as does mine. As does Dani’s.

Life is rattling my cage pretty hard right now, testing me, challenging me to walk my talk. I ask myself, if I were lying on my deathbed, would these issues matter?

My life’s mission is to live a life of integrity, love and honesty, and to help others do the same. No matter what is thrown at me, I will stand strong in that mission, unshakable. For I know what will matter on my own deathbed is the love and kindness I shared with people.

Phyllis said it, John said it, and an eighteen year-old girl who’s had to grow up way too fast said it best. Love is all that matters.

The Stories I Don't Tell

2011-09-25T08:28:00.000-07:00

It’s funny that I’m co-editing a book on shame, because if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said I was a shameless woman. What I mean by that is I don’t have a lot of regret. I made some mistakes when I was young, but that’s what youth is for. I feel good about my life in general. And yet…

There were some things I just never talked about. That’s what interests me now: the things we don’t talk about. Shame is the part of your story that you don’t tell. You may not dwell on it, but it dwells in you.

For instance, all my life, I tried to push away from the truth of who I was and what I came from. In the Shame Prom, I write about the fact that I was an unwanted pregnancy, born to two juvenile delinquents. My father was in jail when I was born, and would end up spending my entire childhood in prison. My mother, a 16-year old rebel, became a single mom who worked nights in bars. We used food stamps to buy our groceries.

But I wanted to be a Brady Bunch kid. I was a cheerleader. I wore the right clothes. I got good grades. Not until the last several years, after I wrote my memoir, did I start talking about my history. In denying that part of my reality, I became a fractured woman plagued by anxiety attacks and fear. Once I finally claimed that part of my story, it no longer held power over me. It freed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and opened new doors in my life.

I remember when Rob Lowe’s big sex tape scandal broke in the 90’s. Soon after, he was on Saturday Night Live, poking fun at himself over it. He never made excuses or tried to hide it. Suddenly, no one cared anymore. He claimed his shame, and it no longer had power over him. Look at him now- successful career, happy marriage and family. When you claim your truth, you take away the blackmailer’s power. YOU hold the power.

So that’s what this Shame Prom movement is all about. So far our Shame Prom writers have turned in gorgeous essays about the stories they never told:

Elizabeth Geitz, an Episcopal Priest and leader of her community, reveals her shame over her mother’s suicide

Kristine Van Raden comes to terms with the mother-guilt of her daughter’s eating disorder, and her daughter, Kate, writes a companion piece

Laurenne Sala struggles with her teenage shame over her gay dad

Julie Silver recounts the day she was banished from her loving community, and how she found redemption

Robyn Hatcher tells a fascinating story about carrying the shame of her race

Rachel Kramer Bussell, an erotica writer who would appear to be shameless, tells her secret – she is a hoarder

If you think you don’t carry any shame, ask yourself…are their parts of my story I leave out? Parts of my history I’d rather not talk about?

There are for me.

Everyone knows I’m married to a wonderful man for 22 years, but few people know I had a previous failed marriage.

And no one, I mean NO ONE knows what I am about to reveal to you now, for it is perhaps my greatest shame ever.

In 1982, I voted for Reagan. If you defriend me on facebook right now, I’ll understand. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

So friends, this is what our mission is about, and Amy and I want you join us. Let’s get it all out, free ourselves, connect with each other, support each other, celebrate all we have survived and the strong women and men we are.

Let’s move from Shame-full to Shame-less.

The Messages Are Always There

2011-09-21T10:55:00.000-07:00

One of 100 white origami cranes we folded for the blessing of Taylor and Aya's marriage
photo by Christina Donnelly

This morning, as I was on my morning run with my hubby, we stopped at the top of the mountain, and sat on the ledge overlooking a lake. We decided to take a few moments to say a prayer, as we had many worries on our minds.

One of our dearest friends has lost both her mother and younger sister in the past two weeks.

Our sweet friend Anita still lies in a hospital bed (four months now), after a heart transplant.

My stepfather, and yet another friend, both await biopsy results.

So much to pray about today, and my heart was heavy.

As I sat in prayer, envisioning white light around my loved ones, Troy nudged me and told me to open my eyes. A beautiful white crane was soaring over the lake. In Japanese culture, as my daughter-in-law Aya has taught me, white cranes are a symbol of hope and good health. Aya and I have folded white origami cranes as a form of prayer.

I saw that majestic white crane, and knew that I could let go of fear and worry. Someone bigger than me, and much more intelligent than me, has got this thing called creation all figured out. Every once in a while, when I’m paying attention, the message is there.

Today it was written across the sky: All Will Be Well.

Remembering 9/11

2011-09-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

9/11/2001

Los Angeles

Our radio clock alarm was set for 6:30 am, just like every morning. We had to get our kids up and ready for school. Cristen was 16, Taylor 11.

When the alarm went off, Troy was already in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Instead of the jokes and banter of the Mark And Brian radio show that I usually awoke to, I heard fear and panic in a newscaster’s voice. I sat upright in bed. Her voice cracked as though she was on the verge of crying when she said something about a second plane hitting the twin towers.

I jumped up and ran to the living room, turning on the TV just as the second plane hit. “Oh my God, Oh my God!” I cried. Troy came into the living room completely unaware. He stopped when he saw the horror on my face. We both stood in front of the TV, hands over our mouths. I was crying. Troy was silent.

In that moment our world had changed. There was a certain feeling of immunity I think we all had as Americans. In the U.S., we don’t die of malaria, or starvation, or even AIDS, and we certainly don’t get attacked by other countries on our soil. (At least not in the continental U.S.) I had lived with a foolish naivete that I was safe. Maybe we all did. But in one split second, we had to grow up and face a new reality. Hate and fear, the most dangerous weapons in the world, had breached American security.

The phones began to ring, family and friends checking in. There was worry about friends on the east coast. I kept my kids home from school. At this time of uncertainty, I couldn’t be away from them. My best friend Erin came over. We all clung to each other, glued to the television, desperate for any answers, any hope. My children, emotionally overwhelmed, slept on and off throughout the day as the television blared in the background.

Not knowing what to do with my anxiety, I cooked. First tremendous stacks of pancakes and bacon. Lots of coffee. A few hours later, heaping bowls of Spaghetti and meatballs, chocolate chip cookies. It’s funny how we all treat stress differently. Maybe eating, and being able to feed the people I loved, made me feel alive.

That’s pretty much the way I spent that day, and the days after. Cooking, nurturing, feeding. And Crying. A lot of crying. The grief of those people on the streets searching for their loved ones. Seeing people jump from the ledges in desperation. I carried their pain.

Grief gave way to deep sorrow as I worried about the bloodshed I knew was now inevitable. Many more people would die for this, both Americans and Arabs. And 90% of them would be not our enemies, but every day people, shopkeepers, mothers, children, young boys who signed up for the military to get a college education. Thousands of innocents, who had nothing to do with this war, would die.

10 days after 9/11, I woke again at 6:30am with a song running through my mind. I got up and recorded it into a handheld recorder. This is the song that was somehow “given” to me as I slept that night.

(Produced, and all guitars and gorgeous string arrangements by my husband Troy Dexter)

“Are They Not Mine”

9/20/2001

Oceans divide

Soldiers will unite

As we fulfill this prophecy

Eye for an eye

‘til all the world is blind

How many will fall

Before we see?

His blood is red

It spills like wine

The tears they shed

Are they not mine?

As cities fall

And mothers cry

For children lost

Are they not mine?

We cry out in anguish to Gods of different names

but were we not cut from the same cloth?

We wage our battles until the price is paid

But what is the price for innocence lost?

His blood is red

It spills like wine

The tears they shed

Are they not mine?

As cities fall

And mothers cry

For children lost

Are they not mine?

And is that not my brother

that you buried?

he lies beneath the cross now

that all of us must carry

It’s said that we are

A brotherhood of man

When did my brother’s blood run cold

To justify murder over holy land

To see his country bought and sold

In honor of all those lost on 9/11/01, and the thousands more in the ten long years since.

Feminism in the Gaga Generation?

2011-09-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend Maxee and her little girl, marching for the ERA in the 70s

Words have power. I believe this wholeheartedly, and that’s why I am disappointed in myself today.

This weekend I had to prep for a big gig in Beverly Hills. The client requested all the current dance tunes: Lady Gaga, Kesha, Katy Perry, Black Eyed Peas…some which I knew but some that I had to learn. So I’m studying the lyrics, trying to commit them to memory, and I just get this sick feeling in my stomach as I realize that every one of these songs is women telling other young girls to go out and get wasted and have random sex.

There has been a lot of outrage over the T-shirts J.C. Penney was selling with slogans like “I’m too pretty to do homework” but where is the outrage over what little kids are singing along to on the radio?

Let me illustrate:

Lady Gaga “Just Dance”

Where are my keys? I lost my phone.

What’s going on on the (dance) floor

I love this record but I can’t see straight anymore

We’re all getting hosed tonight.

Keep it cool. What’s the name of this club? I can’t remember but it’s alright.

(and this woman is richer than Oprah, by the way…)

Kesha "Tik Tok":

Brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack cause when I leave for the night I ain’t comin back

Everybody gonna get crunk (wasted) Boys tryin to touch my junk

ain’t got a care in the world but got plenty of beer

aint got no money in my pocket but I’m already here.

Katy Perry "California Girls":

Sippin gin and juice…lying underneath the palm trees undone.

Sex on the beach

We don’t mind sand in our stilettos

We freak (have sex) in my jeep

All that ass hangin’ out

And the video for the Black-Eyed peas song “I Got a Feeling” ( that tonights gonna be a good night) made me cringe. It’s such a happy anthem, I usually love hearing that song. But in the video, what a “good night” consists of is girls dressing like strippers, drinking themselves to a point that they are literally falling-down drunk. The very last shot of the video is a girl in a mini dress passed out cold, lying alone, sprawled out on a New York street. That is someone’s definition of a good night? Am I the only person who is outraged about this? This is how girls get raped, or end up on missing posters. NOT COOL, people.

On Saturday I went to a carnival, where I watched a singing group made up of teenaged sisters, the youngest was eleven. There they were singing the Katy Perry and Kesha songs. Adorable girls, great harmonies, but…an eleven-year old singing about getting wasted and having sex? All of this “fun music” that kids are singing along to is being embedded in their subconscious minds. Words have power.

Great songwriters have the power to change the world. Dylan, Lennon, Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne...where are those voices today? The times...they are a changin', alright.

Sunday night I had to sing these songs, and with every lyric I felt like I was betraying myself and young women everywhere. I am very careful about the words that I use in my life. But I was being paid, so I had to promote a message I didn’t believe in. When I was singing the Katy Perry song, a little girl about ten years old jumped up on the dance floor. Here I was glittering in sequins, under a spotlight, and she’s looking up at me with her big round eyes, mouthing the words about having sex on the beach wearing stilettos. I felt like a total sellout, ashamed of myself for sending this message to a child.

When I later complained to my daughter Cristen that these songs are taking feminism back to the dark ages, it prompted an immediate eye-rolling from her. “I love those songs,” she said. She ribs me for being too serious. "It's just a fun song, Mom. Don't make it into such a big deal." I get what she's saying. I listened to radical music growing up. We had Alice Cooper and KISS and Joan Jett. But you know, “Schools out for Summer” or "I love Rock N Roll" doesn’t quite compare to women singing about loving “rough sex” (both Rhianna and Lady Gaga) and getting wasted out of their minds. Is this the kind of freedom we fought for, ladies? Is this where equal rights has brought us? I’ve encouraged my daughter to watch “Iron Jawed angels” about the suffragettes fight for the vote. Not interested. And you know, it made me realize, when you haven’t had to fight for something yourself, it just doesn’t mean much. How many of our young girls know anything about the ERA, and yet they are in the know with Gaga lyrics, Jersey Shore and the Kardashians, because this is what they are spoon fed by the media. Where is the voice of today's generation? And what is the message?

I’m sure some will say I’m the next Tipper Gore, but I’m not talking about censorship. People should have the freedom to listen to what they want. I’m just concerned about the words we use. The words that become engrained in our subconscious minds. The words that shape our children’s perspectives.

So where does this leave me? I’ve been hard hit by this recession and I need to work. Can I continue to work in this industry, singing these songs, and still call myself a feminist? As a young girl I played guitar and sang the battle cries of Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell, and now?

Is feminism dying in the Gaga generation?

A Modern Day Miracle

2011-09-04T08:10:00.000-07:00

Miracles do occur in this world, but because the media gets better ratings from fear-mongering, we rarely hear about them. That's why it's up to us, people like you and me, to spread the word.

The best gift I could give anyone this weekend is to share this phenomenal story with you. In 2006, Anita Moorjani was dying of cancer. Literally dying. All her organs had shut down, her emaciated body had swelled up with toxic fluids and she was in a coma. Her family was gathered around her, everyone experiencing terrible grief, but through it all, Anita was happy, for she was experiencing something that defies explanation- at least to our understanding here on Earth.

Anita left her body and went to a place of unconditional love, where she felt her connection to all of humanity, and while there, she learned that FEAR was what had dominated her life up until that point, and that FEAR in fact, was the cancer that was killing her.

Eventually she was told to go back to her body, and that with this new understanding and release of fear, her cancer would be gone.

This is what happened. A dying woman, riddled with tumors the size of lemons up and down her spine, whose organs had all shut down, returned to perfect health within days. This has been investigated by numerous doctors. None of them can explain what they've witnessed.

One of the lessons Anita learned on the other side was this - Our only mission in life is to be our true selves. Not our "career" selves, or our "projected" selves, but who we really are deep in our hearts. If we do this, our life purpose will be clear. We don't have to pursue anything else in life but being our true selves. When we are authentic, everything we need will come to us.

Imagine that.

I urge you to watch this interview with Anita Moorjani. It's about the length of a TV show, so maybe ditch the reality shows today and watch this instead. Because maybe, just maybe, this is the true "reality".

Anita Moorjani Interview- Near Death Experience

A Lesson In Courage

2011-09-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

The other day, Troy, Evan and I were in the mountains walking our dog Stitch when Evan developed a sudden fear of red ants on the ground. These are the same ants we walk over on our hikes every single day, but now he wanted me to carry him and protect him from the ants. I saw this as a perfect opportunity for a life lesson.

“Evan, do you know what courage is?”

“No, what is it?”

“It’s when you feel afraid of something, but you do it anyway. That’s how you build courage. Building courage is the only way to become brave.”

He thought about it for a moment.

I continued, “Do you want me to carry you or would you like to try using your courage?”

“I want to be brave!” He said, and then marched right over those ants with a smile on his face.

Each day since, he storms through the fields over those ants, and calls out “Look Mommy! I’m brave!” He feels great about himself. He feels empowered, and that’s what I want for him.

Evan loves bugs- this is a caterpillar he found.

Courage is a muscle that becomes weak and atrophies without use. As far as I’m concerned, it’s never too early for Evan to start flexing this muscle. Lord knows he’ll need it later in life. I've relied on this muscle more than any other for the past two years.

If I try to shield my son from the difficulties of life, how will he have the confidence or skills to face challenges on his own? How will he respond to new situations, or to a bully on the playground?

I want him to get a jump on this, so life doesn’t kick his ass later. The truth is, we’re all going to be faced with situations in life that scare us, and when that happens, how are we going to rise to meet it? Are we going to run away and hide? Expect someone else to deal with it for us? Stuff our fear away through addictions? Denial? I want my kid to walk into his life with courage.

I have learned the hard way, the only way to get through life is to face challenges head on. And it’s never too early, or too late, to start.

Defending The Help

2011-08-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

photo: Dale Robinette

The Help was one of those books I literally couldn’t put down (and it’s been a long time since I felt that way about a book). Then I saw the movie, and was so moved by it. So I am saddened to see such heated controversy surrounding it.

In the book, Stockett tells her story through three characters, one white woman, and two black women. Many are angry that Stockett, a white woman, had the nerve to write from a black woman’s perspective. But, as a writer, I have to defend her. You must step into your characters shoes and tell their stories. You have to find their voices somewhere inside of you. Men write in women’s voices, women in men’s. If you didn’t step into other voices, a writer could write nothing but memoir. It made me wonder, does anyone question Spike Lee over the white characters he writes?

Some complain that The Help is yet another story of a white person saving a poor black person, like The Blind Side. It makes me wonder if they actually read the book or saw the movie. My view was that these strong black women inspired courage and changed the lives, perceptions, and culture of an entire town. Ultimately all of the characters, both black and white, helped each other in different ways. In the book (which goes into more detail) Minny and Celia saved each other’s lives, and Aibilene and Skeeter propelled one another to new heights in both their lives and careers.

But I think the controversy is deeper than that. Watching the film, I went through a myriad of emotions. I felt shame for being part of a race that had first enslaved and then suppressed blacks (although I want to state for the record here that my ancestors fought on the right side of the civil war, thank God.) I felt empathy and worry for the African American man that sat in front of us in the theatre, alone, watching in silence. I felt deep pain, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I watched these beautiful, strong capable black women so terribly mistreated. Finally I was moved to happy tears, and wanted to jump for joy at the end as the main character Aibileen stood up to claim her life and dignity. I left the theatre stirred, inspired, hoping I could be as strong a woman as these characters Minny and Aibilene, also known as “The Help”.

Although it was at times painful to watch, I was grateful to have the truth put in our faces, as this is a time in our history that needs to be remembered (and is still alive and well in some places). Segregation happened in my lifetime, and although I would later learn about it, it was foreign to me.

You see, I also grew up in the sixties, but in Los Angeles, far far away from oppressive, racially segregated Mississippi. I was raised in the flower-power era – “Make Love Not War”. Mine was the racially integrated world of musicians and artists. My step dad Gene was the only white guy in Little Richard’s band- “Uncle Richard” to me. Ironically, Gene was raised in rural Mississippi, and began his career playing the blues with black artists. In our world, Uncle Richard was the king, the one we all deferred to. When I started kindergarten, I knew no one, so naturally I gravitated toward the one person who looked familiar: the only little black boy in school (Dennis Barnett, who is still one of my closest friends to this day).

I did not grow up witnessing racism or segregation, so the film really brought home for me what the history books did not – the humanity, the reality. But, as with everything, we all view the world through our own unique lens. Our perceptions are filtered through a lifetime of experiences. And that is perhaps why there is so much controversy and pain around this film.

If I were African American, and my ancestors carried this history, I can imagine The Help is exposing a wound that is too fresh, and it’s just too damn painful to be reminded. But on the other hand, this film is opening eyes of many, people of other races who didn’t know what it was like in the segregated South, and isn’t that a good thing? And if we can step beyond the color lines for a moment, this was really a story about friendship, courage in the face of adversity, and redemption. Ultimately the film shows us that, despite our differences, and how society or the world may try to divide us, we are all part of the same human race, and we need each other. The characters in this story provided a beautiful example of love, courage, and compassion. In a very tense pressure cooker situation, they reached out tentatively, learning to trust, and to “help” one another.

The Help offers some very painful reminders of America’s shameful history, and maybe that’s where the anger is really coming from. Anger is a mask for hurt. It HURTS to witness the terrible mistreatment of others. I know my Jewish friends feel deep pain watching holocaust movies. But so do I, because I am human. But this story is about humanity, and the way we humans treat each other. It’s about how some will bury their own feelings of inferiority by oppressing and abusing others. It’s about how generations of African Americans who have been enslaved, oppressed, had their hearts broken again and again, watched their heroes fall at the hands of hatred, have still held their heads high with dignity and courage, and what’s more, they overcame.

Today, Barack Obama is the President of the United States, Martin Luther King Jr. is one of our great American heroes, and Oprah Winfrey is the most influential woman in the world. And all because of courageous everyday men and women, like these characters Minny and Aibilene, like Rosa Parks, like the Freedom Riders…every day people who rose above, and in doing so, changed the world. I applaud Stockett for showing us how, much like Nelson Mandela, the suffragettes, Ghandi, the human spirit can withstand the most horrific treatment and still maintain dignity.

I thank her for bringing these brave characters Minny and Aibilene to life, for in doing so, she showed me who I want to be.

What is Shame?

2011-08-18T09:43:00.000-07:00

image courtesy of shamelessmag.com/

One of my favorite quotes by Julia Cameron is this: “Anger is meant to be acted upon, not acted out.” So simple, and so true. This statement alone has helped me navigate so many difficult situations in my life. When I begin to feel angry about something, I think…wow, there is something I need to act upon here. My boundaries are being crossed, I’m hurt, I need to speak up and establish my boundaries clearly. If I don’t, I will carry that anger, and it will be projected onto people who don’t deserve it.

And so it is with shame. Shame, like every emotion we have, is there to send us a message. It is an emotion that initially that tells us “this isn’t right for me”. At times, it can be good for us- it acts as our conscience. We stole from the corner market, we feel ashamed (this isn’t right for me) and we don’t do it again. We’ve hurt someone unnecessarily, we bullied someone…we feel shame, act upon it ( apologize, discontinue the behavior) let it go, and move forward. When we act upon it, we are enlightened and changed by the experience. When we don’t, we either turn inward against ourselves, or project our shame onto others.

When we carry negative emotions like shame, fear, anger, regret, jealousy, the weight of it wears us down. It steals our joy, sabotages relationships, even weakens our immune system. When held inside, each of these emotions picks up a partner. Fear’s partner is paralysis. Anger’s partners are suppression and rage. Regret’s partner is worthlessness. Jealousy’s partner is criticism (of self and others). And Shame’s partner is silence. It is miraculous how your life can shift by letting go of that “partner”.

Letting go of Shame’s partner is as simple as breaking the silence.

It is the carrying of Shame that Amy Ferris and I would like to eradicate from this planet, through sharing stories in our anthology The Shame Prom, and in our workshops.

http://ShamePromWorkshops.webs.com

Adventures in Parenting Evan

2011-08-16T15:36:00.000-07:00

Our Evan
Photo by Alex Sears

All three of my children have impacted who I am, the way I think, and view the world. But this kooky little character who came along most unexpectedly in my forties, well, he is the daily twist in my life plot. Let me illustrate for you. Here’s a glimpse into just one day with my five-year old, Evan.

Morning:

This kid doesn’t just wake up. He bolts upright and out of bed like he’s been shot from a cannon. I hear his thunderous footsteps throughout the house. He is not just awake, but instantly on fire for life.

Late morning:

He’s alone in his room, lining up his stuffed animals as contestants on Wheel of Fortune. He is Pat Sajak.

Lunch:

At a restaurant, he orders a hamburger. My child has shunned all meat since he was born, never tried it, even as an infant.

“A hamburger?” I ask, “But you’ve never eaten a hamburger before. Are you sure?”

“Mommy, you told me it’s good to try new things, so today I want to try a hamburger. I LOVE hamburgers!”

So we order him one. When it comes, he takes the top bun off and says, “What’s that brown thing?”

“That’s a hamburger, honey.”

“No, I mean this round brown thing in the middle- what is it?”

“It’s hamburger meat.”

“I don’t want the brown thing, just the hamburger.”

So he takes the brown thing off and proceeds to eat his “hamburger” – two white bread buns with nothing on them.

Afterward we go to the library to drop off an overdue book, and make a quick bathroom trip. On the way out, the librarian, who knows us, asks if she can find Evan anything special today. She knows he’s a big geography buff, and usually asks for atlases, or foreign language books.

“No, thanks” he said as we walked out. But then he says he wants to go back and tell her something really important. He ran back like he had the biggest news in the world.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” (He knows good manners always get full attention)

“Yes, Sweetie?”

He says, LOUDLY, “I just wanted to tell you we only came to the library today because my Mom had to pee.”

Outside the library, Evan stops at the wishing well. He drops his penny in with a wide-eyed look and a big smile.

“What did you wish for, Ev?”

“I wished I was made out of honey so I could lick myself!”

Afternoon:

We stop at Toy’s R Us, as I promised to buy him a toy he’d earned by getting gold stars on his “no nail biting” chart. He decided on a Power Rangers “Samuraizer”. He was giddy to open the package in the car. As I freed the “Samuraizer” from it’s packaging he twiddles his fingers and says, “Come to Papa, Samuraizer!”

Bedtime:

I read him his story, tuck him in, and turn out the light. Just as he’s dozing off, he calls me.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

Eyes still closed…”You should get pajama jeans,” he said groggily.

(muffling giggle) “Really, why’s that?”

“Because they’re so…(zzz)… comfortable, you’ll want to wear them..(yawn) all the time.”

“Okay honey. I’ll give that some thought. Good night.”

Zzzzzzzz….

(He was even a funny baby- see pics below)

Evan started walking at 9 months, when he was barely bigger than a wine bottle. I'm not going to explain why he's walking around with a wine bottle.

We call this pic "Sticker shock"...Only 2 bucks?? No way!

Announcing The Shame Prom Workshops

2011-08-14T10:12:00.000-07:00

Get out the champagne- this is a LAUNCH!

I am so thrilled to be stepping into this new journey of my life, launching The Shame Prom, which is not only an anthology (Seal Press, 2012) but is sure to be a movement. Amy Ferris and I have helped each other to write honestly, we've joined hands exposing our secrets and fears to the world. We found that it's much easier to do when someone is holding your hand. The world has since rewarded us in more ways than we ever could have imagined. Now we are determined to help others free themselves of the baggage of carrying shame silently. We want to hold your hand now, and help you let go of what's holding you back from living FREE and uninhibited.

We have a new facebook page which we'd love you to "like". Every day on this page we will inspire, inform, and celebrate.
Shame Prom facebook page

Tracy Thomas, the brilliant co-founder of iPinion Syndicate ( and the builder of that savvy website) is now building us an interactive website where women and men from all over the world can meet, become friends, and share their stories. We'll also feature videos and essays from our Shame Prom authors, plus from some other writers who we think are pretty darn fantastic. Set to launch mid September.

And now, Amy and I will be travelling, leading Shame Prom workshops all over the world. First stop, Los Angeles on October 16th. November, we'll be at Pages and Places Book Festival, and then February 16-19, San Miguel Writer's Conference in Mexico.

Here's the scoop-

OCTOBER 16, Los Angeles
You're invited to join us at a private artist's residence in Los Angeles for this intimate workshop. We will wear our Shame tiara's and share our stories. Led by Amy Ferris and Hollye Dexter, this will be a PROM like you've never experienced, filled with creativity, writing, sharing, good food, tears and laughter, and chocolate. Whose afraid of shame? We're going to let it RIP, and then, let it R.I.P. Are you ready to shed the old Prom Dress of Shame and celebrate with us?
$200 for the day includes lunch, 5 hour workshop, and a goodie bag.
$175 if you register before October 5th.
Contact Madge Woods for details:
Free yourself from the Shame that binds you!
Shame Prom Workshops Website

FEBRUARY 16-19, 2012
San Miguel Writer's Conference
Amy and Hollye will be leading several workshops, including an intensive five hour Writing/Righting Your Shame workshop.
Also featured at this conference: Laura Davis, Margaret Atwood, Joy Harjo, Naomi Wolf and many more.
San Miguel Writer's Conference

WHAT IS A SHAME PROM WORKSHOP?
It started as a dialogue between two great girl friends, and then it turned into a collaborative blog. Hollye Dexter & Amy Ferris shared their SHAME stories - the one's they've kept hidden in the dark - for the whole world (well, their world anyway) to read & see. Amy & Hollye coined it THE SHAME PROM and invited everyone to the dance. The response was unbelievable, huge. MASSIVE. Turns out, EVERYONE has a shame story; funny, sad, poignant, miraculous, life changing, jaw-dropping and holy moly universe moving stories. Hmm, they thought... let's see if we can get some of the best writers in the world (well, their literary world) to contribute to this PROM ... and lo and behold, 25 extraordinary WOMEN (writers, musicians, directors, activists, journalists, authors, artists) said YES to SHAME! An anthology was born, and SEAL PRESS bought it. And now we bring you: THE SHAME PROM WORKSHOP, where EVERYONE gets to share their story, write their life, release their limited beliefs and yes, dance the night away.

Navigating Disaster

2011-08-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

photo by Laura Hennessee

Everyone in the country is in a panic. The stock market is tanking, the pundits are screaming and yelling, people are losing their jobs and homes. Everyone is throwing the blame, but no one knows what to do. And so we, the public, are living in a state of fear – the worst state to ever be in. Decisions made from a place of fear are always the wrong ones. So let’s pull ourselves together, shall we?

First, let me assure you of this fact: All will be well.

How do I know? Well, I consider myself sort of a connoisseur of disaster. I’ve been trapped in a burning house, almost killed, bankrupted, abandoned by my family, betrayed by friends, lost everything, destitute, mugged, sued, threatened with violence, homeless. (And don’t even get me started on my childhood!) But guess what? I’m still here.

I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years to get me through the panic attacks that used to plague me, and these are the tools I’ve learned for navigating disaster.

ACCEPT WHAT IS:

This world has existed for billions of years. All kinds of catastrophes have occurred and yet – the world still turns. The only thing we can be sure of in life is change. Everything is impermanent - the bad phases, and even the good. The more we try to clutch onto something to keep it the way it was, the more pain we cause ourselves.

Think of it this way: Life is a river, ever flowing, ever changing, a force all its own. You never step into the same river twice, and so it is with life. We can’t control the river, but we can learn how to navigate it. We can be dragged through it kicking and screaming, or accept it for what it is and follow the flow. Whatever is happening to cause you stress, remember: the tide will rise and fall, the sun will continue to rise every day, new life will spring up from devastation- that is the way of the world. Find your flow, and when it changes, find it again. Accept change. Accept it all for what it is.

STAY IN THE PRESENT:

I’ve seen Wayne Dyer speak several times. I remember being especially struck by this point. He said that if we stay in the present, 99% of the time, there is no problem. I mean, unless you are in this moment hanging from a cliff by your fingernails, which is unlikely. Most of our problems are in our heads, where we either lament about the past, or worry about what may possibly happen in the future. The majority of the time the things we worry about never come to pass. If we could stay in the right here, right now, we’d realize we are okay. Ask yourself this, right now at this very moment, are you in danger? If not, feel free to relax, and enjoy your day.

FOCUS ON WHAT IS GOOD:

Today, in this moment, we have food, a roof over our heads, and we definitely have internet access other wise you wouldn’t be reading this. There are people in your life who care about you, even if you don’t always feel it. The world is a place full of beauty and art and music and nature and heart-stopping wonder, and it’s all available to you. So how bad could it be? Step out of the fear, and think about all that is right in your life. If you can’t see it, spend a day volunteering on Skid Row, serving the homeless. It’ll put things in perspective real quick. Sometimes I play this game with myself: If I were alone on a desert island, what are all the things I would miss, all the things I would dream about? I write it down. Try it. When you play that game, you realize just how much you have to be thankful for. Turn off the TV. Stop listening to the noise, and stay in the good place in your life.

DO WHAT BRINGS YOU JOY:

No matter what is happening in the stock market, in politics, at your job, don’t let it rob you of JOY. Find what brings you happiness, even the little things, and do that. Make no excuses. You need this. If you can afford a spa day, go for it, but joy doesn’t cost money. Take a bubble bath with candles, take a long walk in a beautiful place, sit under a tree and read an inspiring book, buy yourself a 64-pack of brand new Crayolas- lay on the floor and color, play your all-time favorite album, go to the beach. Even little things can bring great joy.

GET OUT OF DODGE:

If you can possibly afford it, take a break. Get out of town for a few days. Albert Einstein said, “You can not solve a problem with the same mind that created it.” I know personally that I need to get out of my every day routine and environment to look at things differently. Even if I can’t afford it, the sanity and clarity are priceless. There are other places in life you can cut back financially. I’d rather eat potatoes for a week and get myself some much-needed perspective. If I can’t get away, even a day of walking on the beach can bring that perspective.

And finally, if you still can’t get out of your place of fear, try this…

WHAT’S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?

After our house burned down, I had an anxiety disorder that could send me reeling with a panic attack at the drop of a hat. My therapist used to play this game with me:

He’d say, “Okay, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I will lose everything, be penniless and homeless and have no credit.” (All of which did eventually happen, by the way)

“And then what?” he’d say.

“I guess I’ll…have to find a good job, and find a place to live.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I guess little by little…I’ll pay off my debt.”

“And then what?”

“I guess I’ll be okay.”

(and I was, and am.)

Play this game with a friend, with every possible worst-case scenario, and keep going until you’ve sorted it all out. The reality is never as bad as you make it out in your head.

So, America, let’s all just settle down and relax. As we know, it’s not the end of the world (that was supposed to be May 22^nd, and that didn’t happen either.) Look at the people of Japan. The absolute WORST has literally happened to them. And yet they are out there in the trenches with shovels, starting at square one, rebuilding their lives. The world is resilient, and so are we. Leave fear behind. Embrace your life.

And finally, I’ll leave you with this quote:

“Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

-author unknown

If at First You Don’t Succeed…

2011-08-08T12:30:00.000-07:00

I recently read an interview with Kathryn Stockett, author of the New York Times #1 bestselling novel The Help, which is now being made into a film. She said her book was initially rejected by 60 agents and publishers.

60!

4 agents rejected my first book, and I went back to the drawing board to reassess. Maybe they have a good point, I thought. Maybe it really is too hard to sell a childhood memoir right now if you have no “platform”. In other words, if you’re not a celebrity or reality TV star, no one cares what your story is.

60 rejections. Wow. There is something about that kind of persistence that boggles my mind. When I get doors slammed in my face, I take it as a sign that I must be knocking on the wrong doors, or headed down the wrong path, so I retreat. But maybe I’ve got it all wrong?

Jack London received hundreds of rejection letters. In fact, he papered his study with them.

The movie It’s a Wonderful Life was a commercial flop, quickly shelved after it’s original release.

33 publishers rejected Chicken Soup for the Soul (who’s cryin’ now?).

Dr Suess’ first children’s book was rejected 24 times.

And…I love this one. Decca records rejected The Beatles- stating that “guitar music was on the way out”, and the Beatles had no future in show business.

I just finished reading The Help, and loved every page of it. It is a beautifully told story of race relations in Mississippi in the sixties, and the change that was coming. I do believe this book, even though it is fiction, has a lot to teach us, especially in parts of the country where racism is still prevalent. I also believe the movie will help to open hearts and minds.

It left me wondering…what if, after, say…30 rejections, or even 59, Stockett had given up on this beautiful and important story? What if It’s A Wonderful Life got shelved forever? What if the Beatles took Decca records comments to heart, and their music never touched our lives?

I am now working on a second memoir that my agent is interested in and thinks she can sell. But what about my first book? What if I keep sitting on it forever, afraid of what may happen if I release it into the world?

So I ask you , dear readers, in your own experience, when do you try, try again? And when do you try another direction?

WE DID IT! Made over our yard for pennies (and a lot of sweat)!

2011-08-02T18:14:00.000-07:00

BEFORE:

Our yard a year after the septic disaster of 2010.

Neglected...sad....lifeless. A depressing reminder of a crappy year (literally).

Finally, Troy and I got sick of waiting for something to change. We didn't have the money to hire someone, we didn't know how to landscape or lay bricks or install railroad ties ....BUT WE DID IT ANYWAY. ( thank God for the internet and smart, handy friends!) WE DID THIS!!!

Our yard today!

What was once lifeless...

comes alive with friends by your side. Monica helps me lay down the broken concrete walkway

we're almost there, just need the sand and....

it's now TIKI ROAD, complete with zen garden areas and outdoor shower.

This sad, barren spot became....

My new writing spot! (A coat of paint and a few nails tightened up this old lounger)

A yard that was once full of sewage and rusty nails is now...

a perfect children's play area!

Our jacuzzi now: A happy place where children play...makes my heart so content.

Laying the groundwork for the brick patio. Slave labor was involved.

Me and Aya getting our workout. Who needs a gym membership?

This kid actually likes hard work...

Troy and Aya level the sand to prep for brick laying.

Evan especially loved the pattern part of laying the bricks. He corrected us when we did it wrong.

We laid that brick patio- YES WE DID! $150 worth of bricks was our biggest investment. Pea gravel is $3 for 75 pounds. Railroad ties about $10 each. One $10 can of stain covered the whole jacuzzi and the table.

Troy enjoying the benefits of his labor.

Broken concrete stepping stones: FREE.

An old washbin I had lying on the side of the house- added a $3 jasmine plant and some mulch- voila!

a "garden-warming" gift from Monica.

And finally...the piece de resistance. The TIKI BAR! Made especially for Troy's 50th birthday by our amazing best friends Erin and Beth. Wow. INCREDIBLE - and tied the whole yard together.

The moral of the story is... ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!

Climbing the Mountain

2011-08-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

News flash…none of us is getting through this alone, and by this I’m talking about the crazy journey called life. And here's what recently drove this bit of information home for me.

Last week, as I was getting ready for the house concert at the Sears family home, I turned on 20/20. Although I was bustling about, packing things up and preparing music, a particular segment about a phenomenal, brave man grabbed me, and I had to sit down and watch.

Chris Waddell was twenty years old when a skiing accident rendered him paraplegic. Although I’m sure initially he had many dark days coming to terms with his new reality, ultimately he did not let this disability slow his life, nor dampen his dreams.

He became a champion skier again, without the use of his legs. But that wasn’t enough for him.

He decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. He found a film company to make a documentary about his quest, then put his dream into motion. In a specially equipped handcycle, he slowly made his way up the mountain, sometimes able to turn his front wheel only one revolution an hour, thus the name of his film “One Revolution”. He was determined to prove to the world, but perhaps above all to himself, that he was strong and capable, and that this injury was not going to rob him of his independence.

But by the time he got within 100 feet of the mountaintop, the terrain became impossible for him to manuever. His wheels simply would not turn over the crags and rocks. His team laid down two by fours for him but it was impossible, the mountain was too steep and rocky. At that point, they picked him up and began carrying him. He shouted for them to put him down, that he would do this on his own. That’s when one of the main advisors on the film took him aside to have a talk.

“Don’t you understand,” he said, “that no one climbs a mountain alone?”

And this is the part where I started to bawl. Because I was on my way to this beautiful house concert being lovingly given to me, a gift of kindness, from the Sears family. And another from the Browne family on August 14^th. Just given, freely, with love and compassion.

There were moments I almost collapsed under the pressure from this trial. I was losing. I had no money, no energy or fight left. Troy and I went as far as we could, and when we fell, our friends picked us up and carried us. All of you.

We are not climbing this mountain alone.

Nor are you, my friends…

Amy Ferris didn’t face her biggest fear, confronting her brother, alone.

(See the story here, and read the 60 comments from friends around the country who rallied behind her: http://marryinggeorgeclooney.com/blog/2011/07/24/gonna-take-a-sentimental-journey/)

Amy Wise is not fighting her court battle alone.

Erin and Beth didn’t win their right to marry alone.

Georgie is not starting a business alone. Linda didn't start her radio show alone.

Monica is not raising her son with autism alone.

Dani, a single mom, is not raising her girls alone.

None of us are climbing a mountain alone, nor should we. That’s what’s hard to grasp at times. We don’t want anyone to pick us up and carry us the last 100 feet. We want to do it all ourselves. But that’s not what being human is all about. We are here to help each other when the road becomes impossible. And we are also here to accept love and friendship when we need to be carried, for in doing so, the givers are also blessed.

This has been a huge lesson for me the last two years, and something I will never forget. I hope you will keep this statement in your hearts when your road is impossible.

No one climbs a mountain alone.

http://www.one-revolution.com/

The Struggling Optimist

2011-07-20T12:43:00.000-07:00

Stitch and Frank "helping" me, as I type away, fighting for justice.
(you may notice the laundry piling up behind me. Yeah.)

Although I am always seeking hope and looking for the bright side in my writing, I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as an optimist for I truly have my cynical side. I’ve seen the manipulation and politics behind the justice system, and know from personal experience that there are people in the world who will try to hurt you for their own gain. We’ve all watched trials where murderers walked away scot-free, and innocent people paid for it. And then of course, there was our situation, losing our slam-dunk “un-losable” trial.

But in spite of my cynicism, here’s something that brought great hope to my heart this morning: People from all over the world are signing our petition to Save Stitch. We have signatures from the U.K., Australia, France, Fiji. And the comments! My eyes welled up with tears reading them. It’s astounding to me the goodness that is out there, and it only takes one rotten action by one person behaving badly to bring that goodness about.

This isn’t the first time we’ve experienced compassion in action. Sixteen years ago when our house burned down and we lost everything, we were lifted back on our feet by friends, family, and even strangers. Churches and synagogues held donation drives for us. It was right before Christmas, and the staff of a local hospital even hired a Santa to deliver new toys to my children. The true beauty that we all are capable of rises to the surface when disaster strikes, and it appears to me that the good-hearted folks far outweigh the bad. (Or am I just being optimistic?)

A friend posed that age-old question to me the other day, Why do bad things happen to good people? Without really thinking, I answered, Because good people are the ones who will stand up and fight.

If you think about it, none of us were born activists. It evolved from some painful experience that was so intolerable we had to do something about it.

Through this Stitch trial, I have become connected to the most amazing people in the animal rescue world. Selfless, devoted people who give of themselves, every day. I can only imagine the stories each of them has- the experiences that led them there.

It makes me wonder, is this why bad things happen to good people (and good dogs)? Is it so we can rise to the very best in us? Would we not grow and stretch and find courage otherwise?

Hmmmm….

(for more info on our case: http://savestitch.webs.com)

I'm Not Qualified for Anything, But I Do It Anyway.

2011-07-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

Amy Ferris and I had this conversation the other day and decided we'd blog about it together. Mine is below, and Amy's is linked at the bottom.

Every time I start to panic about money, and start looking for “real jobs”, I am daunted by how unqualified I am - for everything. I truly am. I’ve joined every networking and job search site. I spend hours going through the job opportunities but don’t qualify for a single one.

You see, back when I was a youngster in college, I believed I wasn’t as good as the other bright young kids. I was damaged, flawed, hiding a terrible secret about who I really was -the daughter of a convict. I let that feeling overtake me, until the anxiety attacks caused me to drop out of college. So I never got a degree. And these days, you can’t get any kind of decent paying job without one. I was a college dropout with no experience, other than waiting tables. I ventured out into the world with nothing but my heart’s desires to lead me.

I had no business experience, but at 20 I started a craft business, selling at fairs and local shops.

I had no design degree and couldn’t sew, yet at 27, I started a children’s clothing business. When I couldn’t find fashions I liked for my two kids, I designed my own. I didn’t know anything about the clothing business, but I asked. I learned. I read. And within a few years my fashions were in Fred Segal and Macy’s and in the window of Barney’s New York.

I don’t have an MBA or any music education. I can’t even read music. But at 32, when I couldn’t find anyone to put my music out into the world, I started my own record label. I ran a small ad in the local paper stating that I was doing business (DBA), and got a business license. I found a manufacturer who did small runs at a decent price. I had a friend who wanted an “executive producer” credit, so he paid the $3000 to manufacture the Cds. I had no right to, but I put out two albums on my own record label, and got them into Tower records and selling worldwide at CDbaby.com.

I’m not a licensed teacher, have no degrees in social work. But at 37, I wanted to use my music to help kids, so I started a nonprofit, teaching music and art to teens in foster care. I knew nothing about nonprofits, how to set them up, how to run them. I found a free seminar put on by L.A. County and they taught me everything I needed to know. I called the head of music therapy at Cal State University of Northridge, set up a meeting, pitched my idea and we shook hands on a deal. He put his faith in me based on not my experience, but my intent, my sincerity and my true desire to help. Later that year, we put on a fundraiser. I had never done a fundraiser. I had no marketing degree or experience in that arena. I bought books. I called people who knew how to do this. I took them out to lunch and asked questions. What I’ve found is that, generally speaking, people are happy to share their knowledge. We got Michael Mc Donald, Christopher Cross, Dave Koz, Karla Bonoff and Stephen Bishop to perform at CSUN, for free! We raised enough money to provide a full year of music therapy to autistic children.

All from a girl with no qualifications.

I don’t have a BA in English or MFA in creative writing. I just write. Every day. Ten years ago, I found the only writing group in town- a Senior Citizen’s community writing class. I went every week for two years, just me and all my adopted grandparents. Eventually, I wrote a book, and started a blog, and sold some essays. And now Amy Ferris and I have sold an anthology.

Would all this have been easier with a college education? Hell yes. But just because something isn’t easy, doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.

I’m not qualified for anything, but I do it anyway. And yet lately, I feel depressed and worthless because I don’t get callbacks from the jobs I’ve applied for, because according to them - I’m not qualified. Six months with no response. I’ve let it make me feel worthless, even though, when I think of my past accomplishments, I know rationally that’s not true. But when life knocks you down, it’s easy to forget what you’re capable of.

I think it’s important for all of us to keep a mental running list of the things we HAVE done, the things we never believed we could accomplish: Raising a kid, keeping a marriage together, surviving disasters, landing jobs, volunteering, working, refurbishing a home, learning a skill… I mean, think back to when you were young. Did you ever in a million years think you’d _______(fill in the blank). We all surprise ourselves by doing things we never knew we were capable of. And yet society, and even well meaning friends and family, will try to dissuade your from following your dreams. I say f*ck that. Do what you want to do. If you’re not qualified, and have no money, and no one supports you, do it anyway!

If we limit ourselves by what society wants us to believe – that there is only one way to success, that we don’t have the qualifications it takes, that our dreams are impossible - then we miss out. As far as I know, this is the only life we have, and all those “one day…” and “someday…” dreams? If you’ve hit middle age like me, Someday is Today. Right now. So do what you have always wanted to do, and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not “qualified”.

You are here, you’re alive, you have dreams- that qualifies you.

Step into your full power. I dare you.

(are you listening, self?)

Please share with me today…I’d love to hear about something you’ve done in your life, that you never imagined you could.

For Amy Ferris' brilliant companion blog "When I Grow Up", click here:
http://marryinggeorgeclooney.com/blog/2011/07/17/when-i-grow-up-2/

When It Rains, It Pours.

2011-07-14T14:49:00.000-07:00

Just as I hit the submit button on my "gratitude blog" yesterday, a pipe burst in the ceiling of Evan's room, black stinking liquid gushing through his ceiling fan and the air vents in the walls, then traveling through the air vents to my art studio.

If there is such a thing as "The Secret", I suppose I'm not very good at it.

This is what was dripping on us from the ceiling. I hopefully asked Troy, "Am I being too Pollyanna to think we might have struck oil and are going to be millionaires?" (Oh but oil doesn't smell like this) Demolition crews are on the way to rip out the ceilings in Evan's room and my art studio. Carpets are already gone.

Troy and I were feeling very, very beat down yesterday. Depressed. And it happened to be our son Taylor's 21st birthday. (Sorry for the crappy birthday, Tay) But you know...we keep reminding each other, we have love, and we have our health. All the crap that's happened to us is just a huge hassle. My friend Anita lies in a hospital bed fighting for her life. Now that's a problem.

So we keep trudging...through the muck. Literally.

I have no explanation except that life is just a freekin' rollercoaster ride. What can we do but make the best of it? Hands in the air everybody...Here we gooooooo....

Evolution of a Blog

2011-07-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

Thank you for the gift you have given me.

When I started this blog a year and a half ago, I was writing about the trials and tribulations of the writer’s life - the agent rejections, the self-doubts, the pressing urge to write anyway. Never in a million years did I think this blog would become the Dexter SAGA. Never did I imagine I would be on the frontlines of animal activism. But, like my friend Monica Holloway said to me, sometimes life taps you for a cause. You may have never seen it coming but one day there you are, rising up to a fight you didn’t know was in you. Monica is now one of the main spokespersons for Autism awareness. It certainly wasn’t what she had dreamed of as a little girl, but life, as they say, is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

So here I am.

For anyone who is new to this blog, suffice it to say the past two years have been a whirlwind of drama (and yet blessings sandwiched in there, somehow).

Just a few weeks ago, for instance, I had an amazing miracle of a day: I was Monica’s guest at a private luncheon for Michelle Obama. I was on cloud nine. We laughed and ate and drank wine and were transfixed and inspired by Michelle. Then, as soon as I got home, still walking on air, I got an email from my attorney that our request to keep our dog Stitch during the appeal process had been denied, and now we had to appear in court to beg again. Right after that I got a phone call that the job I had just clinched (which was going to pay for my attorney) had fallen through. For some reason, that’s how most of my days have been for the past two years. I can’t even bask in a happy moment for a full 24 hours before the next storm hits.

My life hasn’t always been this way. Thank God I’m an obsessive journaler. I can look back at the years 2005-2009 and see what peaceful, happy years they were. But 2010 and 2011…not so much. Luckily (or actually NOT luckily) this has happened to us before. 1995 and 1996 were hellish years. Our house burned down with both our businesses in it, so we were homeless, jobless, hopeless. But we made it through those times, and that is how I know we will make it through these. I learned then that when you are walking through the dark valley of your life, there is no other way but through. You may look for a way to catapult yourself over it, to fly over it, to avoid it by numbing yourself with substances or addictions…but it doesn’t work. You just have to keep trudging through the muck. So that is what we’re doing. And that’s what this blog is for me…a place to trudge through, to sort it all out in my head. If I was walking through life with all this trapped inside me, my brain would be like a hornet’s nest, full of confusing angry thoughts. But instead, you’ve given me a space to put it all out there and connect to others who “get it”.

So for that I want to thank you today. Thanks for sticking with my blog through it’s evolution, and all it’s ups and downs. Thank you for caring, for reading, for commenting to let me know I’m not the only one toughing it out right now. You have been my safety net over troubled waters, and I hope I return the favor.

You've given me a true gift. You guys rock.

Reclaiming My Yard, Reclaiming My Life

2011-07-09T09:36:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, I sat with my fingers poised above the keyboard for hours, but nothing came out. I was stuck. And that’s because something in my life was stuck. I looked out the window at the barren sad landscape that used to be my yard, a place Evan played and we had birthday parties and BBQs, but no more. You see, last Summer was the pinnacle of one of the worst years of our lives. 2010 - the year of the lawsuit, attacking pitbulls, restraining orders, heart-breaking betrayals, the Septic explosion (and the flies and maggots that accompanied that), our dog Brandy getting cancer (and dying), the financial catastrophes, and the horrible and shocking loss of our good friend Greg. It was Summergeddon.

Before 2010, our yard had a cute patio with decorative brickwork, and scalloped garden areas. After the septic disaster, they ripped out the entire yard to find the problem. $10,000 later we were able to flush our toilets. That’s it. And this is what we were left with.

The result of Summergeddon. We used to have jacuzzi parties here.

This used to be a garden, now hard barren earth.

We never were able to put our yard back together, as our life since dealt us one financial blow after the next, and our focus was on simply keeping our heads above water. But every time we looked at that yard, it was a sad reminder of all the pain and loss of last year.

We were sick of it, and sick of waiting until we had the money to do something about it. So I closed my laptop, and off I went with my hoe and shovel. Troy and I spent this entire week in 100 degree weather, digging trenches, dragging enormous rocks around, leveling dirt, reclaiming our yard. It’s amazing what you can do with some determination and a few bucks.

You can drag rocks off the mountain and create a zen garden with plants you already have and a $6 bag of pea gravel.

You can create a play area with two $5 bags of mulch and a couple 2x4 boards.

Play area surrounded by zen garden area and what will eventually be a flagstone pathway.

You can make your Jacuzzi look brand new with a $10 can of redwood stain and a lot of elbow grease.

Jacuzzi before

Jacuzzi after the $10 can of stain.

Reclaiming our yard meant reclaiming our life. I’m wiping 2010 off the soles of my shoes, and moving on. New life has been planted in my yard. And hopefully when I sit down to write next week, something new and fresh will take root.

Sometimes a project seems so daunting, I think it's impossible. It's like looking at a mountain, thinking I have to tackle the whole thing at once. But I learned in therapy that you climb a mountain by putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Sometimes taking a baby step is the most powerful thing you can do, but if you keep moving you'll get there. So I just keep moving.

Today I’m off to help a friend reclaim her life, taking my proverbial hoe and shovel with me. Together, we're going to tackle a mountain, one step at a time.

How I Got Published (in a Totally Random Way)

2011-07-01T11:02:00.000-07:00

When I got the phone call that Seal Press had bought our anthology The Shame Prom, I was cautiously optimistic. When I got the email, I smiled…a little. When my agent sent the contract for review, I carefully read it over and asked the pertinent questions. And when my writing partner Amy called and said, in so many words, WHY AREN’T YOU OVER THE MOON? THIS IS GREAT NEWS! I, the girl who’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop said, “I’ll believe it when I have the signed contract in my hand.”

So…here it is. The signed contract. In my hand. And after I exhaled, I started to smile a little, then a lot, and finally decided to let myself celebrate this. My husband and I toasted, and I took this picture, wanting to remember the importance of the moment.

I lied in bed last night reflecting on the journey that led me here, and I realized that nothing happened as I had planned. It didn’t go the way the “How To” books said it would, nor the way I plotted it out in my head, and maybe that’s why I didn’t quite trust it. I wasn’t in control!

I had spent a grueling six years writing and rewriting my memoir Only Good Things, never intending to publish it. I wrote it because it was in me, and I was compelled to get it out. And then, for my birthday in 2009, I took an intensive writing workshop at the home of a writing hero, Joyce Maynard. A few weeks later she asked if she could share my work. I assumed she meant with future classes, and said of course.

Months later, I got an email from a literary agent in New York, saying she had read my work and wanted to read more. I ran around the house jumping and shouting, out of my mind with excitement. Never in a million years did I think anyone would be interested in reading what I wrote. It was just therapy for me. But now it looked as though my life was on the verge of a big change.

I took that as a cue: time for me to take the helm and chart out my course. I worked my butt off, writing every second my son was in preschool, never answering the phone, letting the dust bunnies take over the house. Back and forth the manuscript went for six months, and in the interim, I read all the "How To" books and queried a few other agents as well. But this agent, she was my DREAM agent. She was the one I had to have. She was part of my “plan”.

And then the plan….crashed.

I started this blog two years ago because of the crushing (but kind) rejection I finally got from that dream agent. (that blog is here:http://hollyedexter.blogspot.com/2010/02/crushed.html) She liked the writing, the story, but she said that ultimately, it was just too tough in today’s market to sell a memoir without a “platform” (think Snooki, Bristol Palin…) and she couldn’t take that risk.

I was overwhelmed with feelings of failure and had nowhere to go with them. So I blogged for the first time, and sent it out into cyberspace. And this amazing woman who I had just connected with on She Writes, commented on my blog. This is what she said:

HOLLYE: never ever ever give up! i am actual proof of two agents saying no to my book, one to my face, and that was hard ... and then i got a fabulous agent, and then i got an amazing publisher ... and now my memoir is out in the world and it's so frickin' liberating and scary and writing memoirs is scary scary scary...so DON'T GIVE UP. WRITE. be brilliant. be bold. fuck 'em. something amazing will happen. love, Amy Ferris

I was wowed by this new friend who barely knew me, being so supportive, and not competitive. And so I bought her book Marrying George Clooney, which I devoured. Her writing was so honest and accessible, reading it felt like having a chat with your best friend. I added Amy on facebook, and discovered that we had the same birthday. Long story short, Amy Ferris and I became the best of friends after that. We would have long talks about life, and love and disappointments and courage. We started to write a few essays and blogs together, never competing, always championing one another. And one thing we agreed on – as writers we were going to be bold, be brave, and always tell the absolute truth. We challenged each other to write truthful essays about things we had tried to hide in the past. We’d agree to put a scary, revealing blog out on the same day….and WOW- the responses we’d get were overwhelming. Mostly private messages, people would reveal their innermost secrets to us, and it became clear that everyone was carrying some degree of hidden shame, and thought they were the only one. Now we had a mission. It wasn’t about making money or getting published. We had to keep writing in this vein to let others see they weren’t alone. And as we wrote these revealing pieces, other outlets started picking up our blogs. Before you knew it I had essays published and online webzines asking me to write for them. (And all I had ever wanted to do was to blog about my rejection!)

I diligently edited and reworked my memoir all year long. Meanwhile the phone conversations and blogs with Amy continued until we realized, after seeing one public persona after the next fall on his sword with shame, this was not just a year-long phone conversation that two women were having. This was a conversation that the whole world needed to be having. It needed to be a book. We knew amazing writers who could write brilliantly on this subject. And so, together Amy and I wrote a proposal, and the agent loved it, and the first publisher we went to – the one we really wanted- bought it! (and by the way, everyone told us it was impossible to sell an anthology in this market.)

Suddenly the memoir I had just spent eight years obsessing over was not the centerpiece of my life. The “plan” I made was scrapped, and in its place, something else popped up and tapped me on the shoulder. A calling, I guess you could say.

So what is the moral of my publishing story? When I was fixated on the ONE way my writing career was supposed to go, I almost missed something that was right in front of me, or in our case, something that was always inside of us. Amy said in that first blog comment “Be bold, be brave, something amazing will happen.” And something amazing did happen. I found an amazing friend, we’re writing an amazing book, we’re surrounded by amazing writers, and I have a fucking contract in my hand!

Now that is AMAZING!

I haven’t abandoned my memoir. I still believe it will find it’s way into the world, but I also believe the timing wasn’t right, and I couldn’t push it no matter how I tried. It was a hard lesson in “Surrender 101” for me. I now understand that I can’t push a flower to bloom, and likewise, my life path unfolds at it’s own pace, in it’s own unique way. I learned to write only what was true for me, no matter what the industry, or the books, or “they” said. I learned to stay true to myself, to keep writing in the face of rejection, and to do what felt right instinctually. I still don’t have a “platform”. Let’s face it, I’m never gonna be Snooki…and that’s a good thing.

"I've been rich, and I've been poor..."

2011-06-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

Troy and Hollye, making music together.
(photo: Alex Sears)

The opening scene in Slumdog Millionaire is a montage shot in Calcutta: the scenery rich with color and filth, young people marrying in traditional silken dress draped in chrysanthemums, barely clothed children running in packs, laughing and playing, oblivious to the poverty around them, beggars lying in the street while old women sell their wares and prepare food in roadside carts. I welled up watching this montage, because that is life. Calcutta is a perfect example of the heartbeat of humanity in all its beauty and tragedy.

Maybe this scene touched me so deeply because all my life I’ve walked the line between extravagance and poverty. Even though I grew up poor with a single mom who worked nights, I still had opportunities to dine in French restaurants, mingle with the elite and ride in limos. And today, though we ride the financial rollercoaster being artists and raising a family, we’ve traveled the world, been treated like royalty, hung out with celebrities, performed in top venues, slept on three million-thread count sheets in the finest hotels.

Straddling both worlds, what I’ve noticed is this. When I am in a five-star hotel, or lush resort or country club, I feel safe. I am lulled into a feeling of serenity by the trio playing live jazz in the background, the fine foods, the impeccable service. And I realize that this false sense of security comes from the fact that the rich use their money to keep themselves immune to the real world, and when I am in their world, I share the immunity. If only for those moments, I can exhale and forget about the pain and struggle. They live in gated communities sealed off by walls, they spend their time in private country clubs and resorts where the other 98% can’t get in, or the finest restaurants where only their kind can get a table. When they have problems, they pay other people to handle it. Their money is a buffer that keeps them at a distance from the everyday squalor, the heartbeat of humanity. So maybe they can avoid suffering, but they also avoid the richness and depth that comes from it.

Although I have always been a performer, my dream was never to be famous. I grew up around celebrities whose fame sealed them off from the world, isolating them from reality. But I always wanted to dive into reality, to understand life and people. I was not born to be a princess in an Ivory castle, protected from the world. I was meant to dig in with both hands, and to get those hands dirty, to feel, taste, experience it all.

Had I grown up a child of privilege, I would have missed so much. Take right now, for instance. If we were rich, we could have called our maintenance man or gardener when there was a five-foot snake in our yard, but instead, my husband wrangled the thing with his bare hands and relocated it himself. Or when the sink backed up last week, we would have called someone instead of having my husband under the sink with wrenches and pipes. And we could just throw money at an attorney to handle our case, rather than me having to practically become one myself. But…on the other hand, now I know a lot about the legal system and how to protect myself, and my husband can wrangle snakes, pipes, threatening neighbors and washing machines readily. We’ve also learned that you can lose everything you own in a fire, be bankrupt and homeless, and not only survive, but thrive.

Like a funeral pyre on the banks of the Ganges, we’ve risen from the ashes, literally, and figuratively, several times over. But now I say this to life….enough with the lessons. I’ve got my PhD in hard knocks. I’d like to rest on my laurels for a while. After all, I’ve earned it.

Gertrude Stein once said, “I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich was better.” Yes, I’d have to agree that’s true. But then again, if you were stranded on a desert island, who would you want there with you? The guy with the trust fund and pockets full of useless, green paper? Or the guy who can wrangle a five-foot snake?

Personally I’m glad I picked the snake wrangler, who can also write me a song and serenade me to sleep. He makes me feel like a millionaire.

Troy Vs. Snake

A Bully Story

2011-06-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

When I started the seventh grade all the other kids seemed to tower over me in the halls. The girls had women’s bodies, and the ninth grade boys had peach fuzz moustaches. But me? I was just a skinny little kid with the unfortunate nickname of Hollye Smally.

I was a friendly girl, well-liked by most of the kids. I made friends with the nerds, stoners, surfers, black kids, white kids, everyone. It was my outgoing nature, and also a good survival tactic. So I kept smiling and waving, smiling and waving…But there was one girl, Liz Baker, who just hated me. I mean, hated. And the strange thing was, I didn’t even know her.

Liz was a tough, mean, athletic girl, and a ninth grader – which meant she was untouchable to a scrub like me. She also happened to be twice my size. Whenever she was hanging out with her friends from the softball team and I walked by, I was sure to get thumped on the head followed by a stream of insults. She went on relentlessly about my prissy ways, my long hair, my walk, my skinny ass, you name it. She always called me stuck up, which was almost laughable, since she didn't have a clue about my life: my single mother worked nights in a bar, my dad was in prison, and we were on food stamps.

One day I saw her writing “BITCH” on my locker. I waited until she was done, then tried unsuccessfully to scrub it off with wet paper towels. After that I stopped using my locker and carried my books all that year even though my back ached from the weight of them. There wasn’t much I could do but endure the year, and try to avoid running into her around campus. Oh, how I rejoiced on the day she graduated, knowing I’d never have to see her again! Finally, freedom was mine!

Fast forward to thirty years later. I was at a party - a reunion of my Junior High friends. I walked in, no longer Hollye Smally, but an average sized woman with a full life. We were having a great time telling stories from the old days, when I mentioned mean-girl Liz Baker.

“Oh, you mean Larry?” said my friend Kenny, and everyone laughed, but I didn’t get it.

“Are you kidding- you didn’t know?” he howled.

“Know what?”

“Liz had a sex change operation. She’s Larry now!”

Everyone whooped and hollered as the jokes flew around the room.

This was my big moment – my chance to finally laugh at Liz and feel victorious. But I didn’t laugh. I felt sad, because in that moment I realized that Liz was just a tortured soul, trapped in the wrong body. She must have really hated herself. And there I was, the embodiment of everything she rejected in herself, with my “prissy” ways, my “long hair” and all my girly-ness. I was a walking bulls-eye. But hearing this news did give me a sense of peace, because I finally got it. It never was about me. It was always her problem.

As an adult, I’ve learned how to tolerate bullies. I never engage in conflict with them nor do I let their taunts and insults settle under my skin, because they aren’t mine to own. I simply won’t swallow the poison they dole out. That ugliness belongs to them alone.

It saddens me these days to read about girls bullying one another. When you’re young, you don’t yet know that one day you will desperately need other women to survive. Whether your relationships are falling apart, you’re raising children, you have health scares, or times of terrifying self-doubt, you’ll need the wisdom of women who’ve been there before you. My sister-friends help me to understand my own heart and mind. I need them like I need the air I breathe. Liz Baker never understood that. The sad irony is I’m a person who would have empathized with her. I have two gay brothers. I’m a huge supporter of the LGBT community. I could have been her ally, had she ever taken the time to know me, but she never did.

I later did a search for Liz-Larry but could never find him. But if I could talk to him today, I would tell him this:

I hope you realize now that there is room for each of us to stand tall, unique in who we are, in this vibrant, diverse garden of humanity. Surround yourself with others in bloom, and when bullies creep up like weeds, even the ones in your own heart, rise above, always keeping your face turned toward the sun.

And finally, I forgive you Liz-Larry Baker, and hope you’ve forgiven yourself. I wish you nothing but peaceful days in your garden.

*(name was changed to protect his identity)

Sunday In My Father's House - A Poem

2011-06-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

Me, Dad and my brothers in Dad's house. Texas

The thwack of the daily paper on the front porch announces the start of a new day in my father’s house. Slivers of morning sun squeeze through the blinds, always shut tight. A caged bird screeches against the drip and hiss of morning coffee brewing, while a candy-apple cardinal feeds freely outside the window. The shuffling of slippers, TV news and gospel music is our cacophonous morning song. A fog of cigarettes and something frying in the kitchen settles over me like a blanket. Glenn Beck will rant from car radio speakers as we head out for Sunday church services where my family, two gay and one ex-con, will all be Baptists for an hour and ten minutes.

At midday, the Texan sun overthrows the clouds, summoning the youngsters outdoors to ride bikes and catch balls and tattle on each other incessantly while cicadas and jaybirds compete to be heard and dogs meander then curl around our feet. Dad and I sit in lawn chairs talking, as we always do, about God, politics and prison. Ru Pauls’ Drag Race blasts from the TV inside where my brother gives haircuts on the kitchen linoleum.

Humidity rolls in from Galveston as the sun fades blood-orange red. Phones ring, dogs bark, the back door swings opens and shut as kin stop by to visit bearing Texas-sized pecan pies and Bluebell ice cream. Dad’s Jambalaya simmers on the stove. We siblings sneak margaritas then hide the tequila from him. Harsh words and tender exchanges will take place in this kitchen before we hug goodnight, accepting the way it is, and who we are.

All is still but for the blare of five televisions tuned to different channels. I am lulled to sleep by the low hum of factories steadily pumping their toxins into the night sky. A lonesome train whistle punctuates the stillness, reminding me that soon I, too, will be leaving. Jesus hangs solemnly over the kitchen sink, eyes closed, expressionless.

Michelle Obama’s Arms

2011-06-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

Michelle Obama- ten feet away from me!

With all the unpleasant things going on this week, I haven’t had a chance to write about my UNBELIEVABLE EXPERIENCE on Monday. I was Monica Holloway’s guest (thank you Areva Martin, CEO of Special Needs Network) at a fundraising luncheon for Obama 2012, featuring keynote speaker: Michelle Obama! Yes, folks. On Monday I was just ten feet away from greatness, and GREAT ARMS. Holy moly, those arms… I am not kidding.

As Michelle walked out, gorgeous and poised, the Inner City Kids Orchestra started to play, and Monica and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes. It was truly a surreal and magic moment, and suddenly all the things Monica and I had stressed about up until that moment were forgotten.

What did we stress about, you ask? How ‘bout this: WHAT DO YOU WEAR WHEN YOU ARE GOING TO SEE THE FIRST LADY OF THE MOST POWERFUL COUNTRY IN THE WORLD? I mean, really. Monica and I were on the phone until well past midnight the night before (and we had to be on the road by 8:30 in the morning) talking each other off the ledge. We both tore through our closets, describing in detail each garment we owned, while simultaneously looking at pictures of each other on facebook.

“Oh, how about the dress you’re wearing here at this gig in 2009, Hollye? That looks cute.”

“I can’t wear that! It’s sleeveless! I can’t bare my arms around HER! And anyway I got that dress at Ross…EVERYONE WILL KNOW!”

“Google Michelle Obama right now- there’s a picture of her in a GAP dress- I swear!”

And this is how the conversation went until we exhausted ourselves, nearing 1a.m., neither of us closer to a decision.

At 7 a.m. I decided to wear a blazer and dress pants with a nice blouse. It had been probably ten years since I had worn these “corporate” clothes. I took the blazer out of the closet and there was literally a quarter inch of dust on the shoulders, which I frantically cleaned. Then after trying it on, I noticed the sleeves were an inch too long. Had I always worn it like that? Or had my arms shrunk with age? I could not let Michelle Obama see me this way. So I rushed to my junk drawer to find the old “Stitch Witchery” I bought years ago, because I don’t sew. Remember Stitch Witchery? It’s like a white tape that you iron inside of a hem and it sort of glues the hem in. So there I am…the clock is ticking, my hair is wet, and I’m ironing Stitch Witchery into my ten-year old dusty blazer as my sweet husband is in the driveway in his Pjs washing the bird poop off my car. Ugh.

I finally put myself together and flew out the door. Late, of course. I used every stop sign and traffic light as an opportunity to apply mascara and eyebrows. After missing my exit and having to turn around, I finally arrive in Pasadena to meet Monica, who had spent the morning bedside with her sick son, feverish and vomiting. I met her on the side of the road, where I parked, then jumped into her car, anxious to see what she was wearing.

Monica was looking fabulous in a slip, hot rollers strewn about the car, no makeup and a pile of clothes in the backseat.

HELP! She implored.

“I’m here. Let’s do this.”

We rifled through the clothing choices in the backseat and chose a great outfit. It, too, was an outfit she had not worn in about 8 years, as the designer dress she had just purchased had been ruined at the drycleaners. Of course.

Monica managed to contort her 5”9” frame over and around the steering wheel as she dressed in the front seat of her car, then put her lipstick on while I simultaneously penciled in her eyebrows. Somehow…we pulled ourselves together and drove up the hill to the big event.

The night before, Monica had flown in from San Francisco, where she had attended a memorial service for an old friend. After missing her return flight, she returned to find that someone had attempted to break into her car at LAX and in the process had broken the handle off her door. Monica, in one of her Lucille Ball moments (she has many) had to crawl through the window.

So we pull up in front of this mansion, flustered, insecure, the valet comes to the door and looks at us, cocking her head…Monica picks the door handle up off the floor, “Oh, are you looking for this?”

We laugh, and we know…this is it. Ready or not, here we come.

Monica in her fabulous designer 8-year old outfit

Me - "What Not To Wear"

We spent the next hour in a long line waiting for our pat-down by the Secret Service (woot woot!). While in line with a hundred other women, I blurted out, "Did anyone else here completely stress over what to wear today?” All heads whipped around in my direction. Uh-oh.

“Oh my Lord, YES!” was the overwhelming response. Then one by one women began to tell us their tales of woe…the shopping and not finding, the frantic search, the clothes now lying in piles all over their bedrooms. Every one of us, it seemed, had that Universal feeling that somehow we weren’t “enough” to be in front of the First Lady, that somehow we didn’t belong here. And yet, each of us were invited. (Another universal “Shame” theme…so glad Amy Ferris and I are doing this book on shame. Lordy, it is pervasive).

Anyhoo….back to Michelle Obama’s arms. So we take our seats at our reserved table, next to Star Jones and Eva Marcille- winner of America’s Next Top Model, who says to Monica “Oh I LOVE your outfit!” And I winked at her…TOLD YA. Star Jones was quite lovely, not like that woman she plays on reality shows. She got a bottle of wine from the bar and came back to refill all our glasses. Just as I confidently reach for my mug of wine ( yes, just as Monica and I arrived, they run out of wine glasses so we take our seat next to Star and crew with mugs of wine) and with horror I notice a long white tape of Stitch Witchery hanging out of my sleeve. Oh screw it! It was hotter than HADES anyway so I took the damn jacket off and forgot about it for the rest of the day. Which meant I was now free to concentrate on what really mattered - Michelle Obama’s arms.

Eva Marcille, Vanessa Bell Calloway, Areva Martin, Star Jones

Monica and Star:
"Did you see that Stitch Witchery hanging
out of that poor girl's sleeve?"

But as she took the podium and began to speak, all my self- involved worries melted away. What I heard was a woman just like me, who had doubts, who did her best to be brave and stand up for what she believed in, who was striving to be a good mom, a loving and supportive wife, and to do the right thing even when it’s the hardest thing. I learned that the president of the United States calls his wife “Meesh” - I loved that. And I learned something about Michelle Obama’s arms. That they, like mine, comfort her husband at night when it’s been an impossible day, and

hold her children close to her, just as I do. I learned that we all belonged there on that day and that we are all, as “Meesh” said, in this together.

I learned that clothes do not make the woman (although they help), and that Prada shoes are torturously uncomfortable so who needs 'em (ask Monica) and that what counts is who we are and how we live our lives.

I also learned that 20 pushups a day are not going to cut it. I gotta get crack-a-lackin’.

The Injustice System

2011-06-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

This is a painting that hangs above my bed - of a statue I saw in front of a Memphis courthouse years ago, when I was just moseying around being a tourist. Little did I know what future meaning it held, and how it would become the battle cry of my life.

This morning, as I was getting ready to appear in court again, my husband asked how I slept last night. As I stopped to think about it, I literally could not remember the last time I slept well. I can’t remember what it’s like to NOT wake up at 4 am and toss and turn for hours with my mind full of worry.

I want justice, but the court system has not delivered. And what does justice look like anyway?

Every day through this trial, I have asked myself if we’re doing the right thing. What is the deeper, spiritual reason for all of this? Why is this guy suing us for a dog that he didn’t even realize was missing until a day later, a dog he left with others for months at a time while he went off to live in his other home in Hawaii…Why? At first, since he was suing us in unlimited court (up to $50,000) I thought it was merely for money. But now the judge has awarded him Stitch, but no money, and in fact he ordered the plaintiff to pay us for all the care we gave Stitch in the past year and a half (over a thousand dollars), and still he’s fighting. So why does he want Stitch? Why this fight?

In court, he proved himself to be negligent. In his own words, he let Stitch run free on a 50 acre property, and Stitch would sometimes go missing for a day or so, and that was no big deal to him. By his own admission, he’d lost him in L.A. twice, too. After losing him on numerous occasions, he never licensed nor microchipped Stitch. So why the sudden interest? Ego? A sense of entitlement? Or just a simple power struggle?

Why this fight?

I would never withhold a dog from someone I believed owned, and truly loved him. But in this case, I don’t believe either to be true. Even the judge wrote in his final ruling that the plaintiff’s case “lacked credibility” and that there was “no physical proof” of ownership. (I know…unbelieveable, right?) So I’m fighting. I’m fighting for Stitch because I fear what would happen to him in this guy’s care.

Driving to court this morning, I was feeling disheartened so I turned on the radio, hoping music would lift my spirits. There was Neil Young, sorrowfully droning on…helpless, helpless, helpless….I became more depressed. Yes, I feel helpless. Totally and completely helpless. What does it all mean? Am I to surrender? But what about Stitch- maybe that song is really about him. He is completely helpless. He has no voice but ours.

I have prayed and prayed for resolve with this trial, and gotten nothing but murky, fuzzy situations in response. So I decided to pray for a specific sign. I asked the following:

“If I’m supposed to fight, show me a white feather. If I’m supposed to retreat, show me a black feather.” But there were no feathers…

So I went to court, and because of a freeking clerical error, we have to go back next week. What a waste of a sleepless night! And then…when I got home, there was a small peacock feather on my porch: gray with blue tips.

Really?

Yesterday, the opposing attorney said to our attorney, “I’m bringing in the big guns to take the Dexters down.” And all because we adopted an abandoned dog. This is insanity. How the hell did we get to this point?

I’m an anti-war girl, and yet here I am smack dab in the middle of one, and as Troy said we’re “out of bullets.” How are we going to pay for this? Where will we find the strength to keep going? But what choice do we have but to fight for Stitch? Do we turn our backs on him because it’s too hard?

I remember hearing President Obama say in the midst of his own struggles, “Power concedes nothing without a fight.” So true. No true change has ever come about because all of a sudden one day someone said Hey, this isn’t fair and then wham-o, the scales of justice were balanced. Women who fought for the right to vote were imprisoned and starved, civil right activists were beaten and sprayed with hoses, and don’t even get me started on Prop 8 (and wow…suddenly this idea of fighting is becoming very unappealing). But if we just stay silent, or back down when there is injustice, then what do we stand for?

my "writing partners" in my "office".

We are really taking a leap with this appeal, hoping the net will appear. For now, I will walk through each day as it comes. My writing partners and I will continue working on the case, and promise to keep you updated.

I hope and pray we are doing the right thing.

Oh Gray feather, how you taunt me.

Damned If We Do…Damned if We Don't.

2011-06-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

Evan sick with fever, and Stitch helping him to feel better.

This drawn out lawsuit over Stitch has been so stressful and taken a toll not only on our finances but on our lives and emotional well being. I feel like I just crawled across the Sahara for a year and a half thinking when I finally got the verdict I’d get my first drink of water. Instead, no water. I have to crawl back across, and then maybe I’ll get that drink of water. And maybe not. So do I crawl…or collapse?

On Tuesday Troy and I were on a long conference call with our attorney, and as my little son lied beside me with 103 fever, he looked up with tears in his eyes and said “Mommy, please don’t answer the phone any more. I need you to take care of me.”

I just cried. This fight has taken so much time and energy away from my own family and career. Aside from the fact that, because I couldn’t afford to pay full attorney fees, I served as my attorney’s assistant - doing research, running documents back and forth to the court, helping to write the brief, I also had to build a website, organize a fundraiser, ship merchandise from the Save Stitch store, etc . It was beyond a full time job. But I thought it would soon be over. If I appeal, I’ve got to get up and fight harder than I did before. And I have no resources left. My finances are wiped out. I’ve seen too many of my friends lose their homes this past year, and I can’t risk that. I’m emotionally wiped out. My closest friends who’ve seen me go through hell are telling me to just let go- I’ve done all I could, that it’s not my job to be the lone fighter of the world. My child needs me.

BUT

If I gave up, I would lose Stitch, and that is unbearable. I’d have to turn him over to people I know to be neglectful and irresponsible.

If we gave up, we would have to live with ourselves. For the rest of our lives, we will know…we gave up on Stitch. If god forbid anything happened to Stitch (again) in their care, I will feel responsible. I can not even imagine taking Stitch from Evan. Every day at kindergarten he draws pictures of Stitch, and writes stories about him. Everyone in his kindergarten class knows and loves Stitch.

So basically I have to choose between two situations which, either way, will bring us enormous pain and grief.

It’s like…would you like to drink poison, or walk the plank? Which horrible choice would you prefer?

Last night my son lied in bed with a high fever, asking only for Stitch. Stitch cuddled up beside him, snoring away. Evan said, “If I didn’t have Stitch, I would be sick every day.”

And yet, my debt is piling up, and I need to focus on finding a job.

Late last night Troy and I sat by Evan as he slept, and asked ourselves- what is the right thing to do? We decided we will file the appeal today, which will cost hundreds just to file, not to mention attorney fees. I am desperately afraid of what this will do to my family, and yet, both Troy and I feel it’s the right thing, and we have seen throughout our lives that doing the right thing is never the easy thing. Are we setting my family up for more grief? We hope, and pray, not. But I remember Maya Angelou saying, “Sometimes, Sister, you just gotta step out on the Word.” I guess this is what they call blind faith.

Bitter-Sweet

2011-06-07T18:13:00.000-07:00

Although my life is sweet, fate has handed us some bitter the past two years. And as much as we try to shield our children from the stresses of life, we know our five-year old Evan feels it. So we cling to every bit of “happy” and “normal” that we can. Not that I’m in denial, but I want to show my kids that when life is kicking your ass, you still can choose to celebrate the good parts.

Last Wednesday was my grandson’s first birthday, so after rushing Stitch to the vet with some mystery illness, and finding out Anita was in the hospital, we still threw a little party for him. I could tell Evan was feeling pushed aside. I’ve been so buried in trial prep and phone calls, then I’m bustling around throwing a party first for Ayumu, then two days later a birthday dinner for our daughter Cristen.

So yesterday morning, still reeling after losing our trial, I was on the phone with one person after the next trying to figure out our next step, when Evan tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me Mommy, excuse me Mommy….I have something very important to tell you.”

I cupped my hand over the phone. “What is it Honey? I’m on the phone.”

“Mommy, did you know that it’s Tom’s birthday?”

I put down the phone.

Oh- in case you didn’t know, Tom is Evan’s sock monkey. Yes, apparently it was Tom’s third birthday. Tom had been feeling a little left out, and it was very important to Evan that he was given a proper party. Of course, this was not on my priority list yesterday, and yet there was nothing more important.

So while Evan was at school, Tom and a few of his fuzzy friends set up a little soiree. Evan was delighted. “Did they come alive while I was at school?” he asked. I just shrugged, wide-eyed. Evan and his friend Olivia made decorations and cards, ate cupcakes and sang happy birthday. It was quite the shindig, and Evan said Tom was very pleased.

Later that night my girlfriends called to see if I was too upset to host our usual Monday night painting group. Quite the contrary, I said. I can’t think of a better time for us all to be together. So they came, and we talked a lot about the trial, and injustice and other things. We drank wine, painted, commiserated, and even laughed. And then we stood in a circle, held hands and prayed for Anita.

Those simple sweet moments are what I strive for. We don’t get to choose the things that happen to us, but we do get to choose how we react. In spite of what life has handed me, I can still choose to love my husband and kids, to cherish my friends, to eat good food and drink good wine, to laugh, to celebrate a sunny day, and to take a half hour out of my busy life to throw a sock monkey party.

I have no idea what is going to happen next, and yes, I am afraid and sad. I don't know if I can win this appeal- or if the judge will deny it and I will lose Stitch. I can only give my best and live in today.

But while life is bitter, I choose to cherish every sweet moment while I have it, for it’s those sweet moments that make the worst ones survivable.

"Your Assome". Evan's sign for Tom, with an unfortunate spelling mishap.

When the Unthinkable Happens

2011-06-06T09:48:00.000-07:00

Tears are hitting my keyboard as I write this. I don’t even know how to begin, because I don’t want to break all your hearts the way mine has been broken.

What we thought was impossible has happened. We lost the trial. We have ten days to turn Stitch over to the people who neglected and abandoned him.

I know you are all in shock upon hearing this, as we have been all weekend.

The “plaintiff” never proved in court that Stitch ever belonged to him. He presented falsified documents that my lawyer readily struck down. His documents were for the purchase of a French bulldog with an ID number that was not related to Stitch, and didn’t have the guy’s name nor a date anywhere on the paperwork. All his witnesses, (one who sported a bleach blonde four-inch high Mohawk, another that seemed obviously high on the stand, another who came in weak and emaciated with a hospital bracelet on his wrist) lied on the stand and contradicted each other. The original owner of Stitch who “supposedly” gave Stitch to the plaintiff, didn’t come to court because he was just out of rehab.

This is the group of people the judge ordered me to turn our Stitch over to.

When Stitch was found abandoned in the middle of the highway in Nevada City, he had a cigarette burn on his neck. The guy admitted on the stand to losing Stitch as many as five times. He admitted that the last time Stitch went missing he didn’t go looking for him until a couple days later, because he “figured he’d turn up”, and because he lets Stitch run loose on the five acre property where he stays in a guest house. He said Stitch often ran off chasing bears and such. Okay, my dog is a French bulldog, not a hunting dog. They aren’t supposed to be outdoors for long periods because they have breathing problems and can overheat, leading to asphyxiation. Never in our care did Stitch even attempt to run off. In fact, he is such a loyal companion, he follows me from room to room.

The “plaintiff” had never given Stitch his puppy shots, never licensed him, never microchipped him even though he lost him numerous times and went on and on about what an “expensive” dog Stitch is (although he never paid a dime for Stitch or his care).

Meanwhile, everyone said our case was a slam dunk. We adopted Stitch and did all the right things legally. We microchipped and licensed him. We gave him all the proper vaccinations. He received regular vet care. We wipe the folds under his eyes every day with special medicated cloth. We give him oatmeal baths for his sensitive skin. We fed him expensive, organic food for his sensitive digestive system.

The judge based his decision on the “Lost Property Statute” which basically applies to material goods. In other words, as the opposing attorney used in his argument against us, if you leave your bicycle at the beach, and three weeks later you see someone else riding your bicycle, they are obligated to give it back to you. And we said the obvious “Stitch is not a bicycle. He is a living thing who needs love and care, and he was abandoned.”

But the judge ruled as though Stitch were a bicycle.

I got this news as we were halfway to Vegas, on the open road with our best friends Erin and Beth and two squirming five year olds. I have cried a mountain of tears this weekend. I stayed up all night asking my self How could this happen? Why did this happen? Did this really happen? Is this a bad dream? How can this be real?

And then I sucked it up and tried my best to smile and support my husband who was shaken and angry as he went up on stage to perform before 1500 people, and tried to put on a brave face for my son Evan who knows nothing about any of this.

Meanwhile, my friend Anita lies in the hospital in a coma. And I came home to the news that my trial-sister Amy Wise, who just fought a four year legal battle of her own, lost her brother in law to a hit and run driver.

Why?

So what the hell do you do when the unthinkable happens?

You do what you can.

You show up.

You love the best you can.

You give what you have.

You fight when you have to.

And you pray.

This fight has been a year and a half of my life. It has consumed my time, my attention, my energy, my creativity, my bank account… I am beyond depleted. But if I don’t fight, what will happen to Stitch?

So today I meet again with my attorney and we will discuss the possibility of an appeal.

I said in court that I have always, and would always abide by the law. But now that I think of it, that’s not really true. I protested Prop 8 when it became law in California, and I stood by my best friends as they broke the law and got married. The law has often been wrong. Slavery, segregation, Jim Crow laws, laws that kept women from voting, and this law….”Lost Property Statute”.

A dog is not a bicycle. They are living breathing beings who need love and care. They are our family members.

And so the fight continues.

Sometimes You Gotta Wave the White Flag

2011-06-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

Stitchy and Taylor taking a power nap.

For days now we’ve been anxiously awaiting the judge’s ruling on my dog Stitch, and with each day that passes I am more on edge, still reeling from the insanity of it. How did this thing go to trial? How did the trial last a whole damn week? And why didn’t we get a ruling at the end? Every time I think we’re at the end of it, it gets dragged out further. Here we are a year and a half later. My nerves are a jangled mess. For the love of God let’s just get this over already! How much can one person take? And as if that weren’t enough, Stitch has some sudden mystery ailment. He’s listless, depressed and moving slowly, and for the past two days he won’t eat. I took him to the vet yesterday and $200 later, they have no idea what’s wrong with him. I’ve lost two dogs to terrible illness in the past three years so to say I’m a bit paranoid….uh, yeah.

On top of that- one of my best friends, Anita, was rushed to the hospital yesterday to have a second heart transplant. How can a person as gentle and good as Anita go through this twice in a lifetime? When she made it through the first transplant nine years ago, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Until her second heart gave out.

Since the surgery yesterday, Anita has spent the last 24 hours in an induced coma, and I have spent that time basically flogging myself. I haven’t been a good enough friend! I haven’t visited enough. Called enough. Done enough. I’ve visited or chatted on the phone with her maybe once or twice a month. Yes my life has been insane with trials and tribulations, not to mention I’ve got little ones in my care, but if I am completely honest about it…the truth is that I haven’t seen her more because I can’t stand to watch my friend slipping away. It is so painful that I can only take it in small doses. If Anita can face all she has, then dammit I need to be stronger and face things I’m afraid of, like the possibility of losing her.

Cindy, Beth, Me, Anita and Erin

So here I am today, just a ball of stress, even though I know worry and stress (and self-flogging) serve nothing and no one. It is a complete waste of energy that should be invested into positive channels, like prayer, and faith, and positive action.

But what positive action can I take? Anita is in ICU. I can’t visit her, they don’t allow flowers. The trial is over, and it’s out of my hands. Vets don’t know what’s wrong with Stitch and he can’t talk.

Life is making it very clear that I have no control over anything right now. I’ve done what I could, and though I’m holding on by my fingernails to the illusion of control, my only real option is to sit here like a lump and wait.

I HATE WAITING.

So I do what I can. I write. I pray. I lament about it to you.

And when I’ve exhausted every other possibility, I surrender.

Que sera, sera.

(All prayers for Anita happily accepted! Keep 'em coming, people...)

Pray for Peace on Memorial Day

2011-05-30T11:03:00.000-07:00

On Memorial Day, enjoy a day off from work, enjoy your friends and family, the parades and barbeques, but before you do, please take a moment to watch this video and ...please, pray.
Just for a few moments.
Pray for the men and women who have lost their lives in service of our country.
Pray for their families.
Pray, with all your heart, for peace.
Pray that one day, we will no longer need to memorialize those we've lost to senseless, brutal war.
Pray not just for Americans, but for people everywhere who have lost those they loved to violence.
Pray for peace in your own heart, and let it spread to everyone.
Peace.
Pray.

Farewell Oprah. It’s Been a Wonderful Ride.

2011-05-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

The first thing that flashed in my mind this morning as my son poked me awake at 6:30 am was “Oh my God…this is it. The last Oprah show is today…”

Next thought: How will I deal with it? I thought about flying to Chicago, throwing myself to the floor and clinging to her legs, begging Don’t leave me! But that would be undignified. And creepy. I imagined myself screaming as the cops dragged me away…But you guys don’t understand! Oprah is my best friend!

Oprah truly does feel like a friend to me, and to so many of us. She has been a companion to my days for the last twenty-five years. When I’ve been hopeless, I’ve looked to her for direction. On so many occasions her show inspired me, pulling me out of a life rut. I’ve taken her advice on many issues. Like her, I too start my days asking that God use my life for something greater than I know. She taught me that.

In fact, Oprah taught me more than I ever learned growing up in my family. She taught me that you can be born a poor black child in the segregated deep South, and become the most beloved woman in the world.

When she shared that she was molested as a child, she taught me you can be damaged and still be happy.

When I learned about her hidden pregnancy at 14, and the baby’s death, it taught me terrible mistakes are not the end of your life.

When she exposed her secrets to the world, she taught me that it is okay to tell the truth, about everything.

She brought incest and child abuse and homosexuality and shame out of the closet.

She taught me that being happy for other’s successes lifts all of humanity.

She taught me that money and power is not necessarily the root of all evil. Some people use theirs for good.

When she sat down with guests who she’d had previous conflicts with, she taught me it’s okay to be wrong and say you’re sorry.

Through her struggles with weight, she taught that most of us will have lifelong battles that we may overcome, or we may not, but we are still worthy and lovable just as we are.

She’s taught women everywhere that you can rise to the top, be a powerful woman, have kids or not have kids, be married or don’t. Be yourself.

Growing up, I had never known a person like that. But since learning they exist, I have sought them out. My life is now filled with phenomenal, brave, honest people like Oprah. If it weren’t for Oprah and her influence on my life, I don’t know that I would have had the courage to start my own nonprofit for foster kids, to write my memoir, or to write The Shame Prom with Amy Ferris.

And for all you eye-rollers out there who have your doubts about her, I hear you. She is human. I’ve been mad at her here and there. She has her moods, she gets caught up in her ego sometimes, and is flawed like everyone else. And yes, I know she’s not God (though the jury is still out on that one…I mean, you never know…)

On the other hand, Oprah has had a positive influence on our culture, more than any other living person I can think of. Seriously, the Dalai Lama doesn’t have as much reach and influence (no offense, Dalai!). People in the poorest countries in Africa watch her. Women in Saudi Arabia gather in their burqas to watch her. I even believe that her personal endorsement was a big reason Barack Obama won the Presidency.

She has emboldened a generation, opened our minds to new possibilities, exposed us to other cultures and ways of thinking. She cast a strong bright light on the hidden shame we all carried. She brought positive television to the masses.

She gave us hope and laughter and truth when we needed it, and for that Ms. Oprah Winfrey, I am eternally grateful.

So long, dear friend. I will miss you terribly …

P.S. Will you miss me, too?

(For anyone who missed this previously, here is a recording of me talking on the radio with my best friend Oprah. My brush with greatness!)

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