No one can break your heart like a woman...

None of us have gotten this far in life without enduring some heartache. I’ve had my heart broken more than I’d thought possible, but that’s the price I pay for loving- and not just romantically, but loving friends as well. Nine times out of ten, the rewards far outweigh the risk. I have great love in my life, and am blessed with deep and meaningful friendships. But I’ve had some really bad experiences, the kind that make you never want to reach out again. Yes, men have hurt me, mostly by being thick-headed. But women…women are another story. There have been women in my life who have been vindictive and conniving and intentionally cruel. Women who have smiled to my face while stabbing me in the back. In my experience, no one can break your heart like a woman.

So why is this?

Could this be why the ERA has never been eradicated, and why women are still making 77 cents to every dollar a man earns? I think it is. We've put too much focus on men for our inequality, when we need to get out of the victim role and start looking at ourselves. 

It is my personal belief that as women we aren’t yet standing in full equality because we don’t stand united. We want to rise in the ranks, but we fear there isn’t room for all of us, so what do we do?  We turn on each other. Not believing in our own full power, we knock others down by gossiping and judging and berating- all projections of self-loathing, (and in my opinion, this stems from shame). According to author Iyanla Vanzant, women cut each other down to feel powerful, but this is false power. She says, “It’s easy to be queen among paupers, harder to be a queen amongst queens”.

When we honor ourselves for who we are, the need to minimize others falls away. Happy, successful women don’t feel the need to criticize others. They can be glad for others’ success without feeling threatened.

I love what my friend Amy Ferris says about this- women should complete each other, not compete with each other. Amy and I achieved this while working together on our book over the past year and a half.  We completed, never competed, and because of this, we were able to make a dream come true - and do something positive in the world, to boot. Because of this, we are both stronger women. To me, this is feminism.

Personally, I’d rather be a queen amongst queens. The women in my life are strong and feisty and confident and powerful, and that’s just the way I like it. They inspire me to strive for excellence every day. I would never, ever say or do anything to detract from their bright shining spirits. One flower choking out all the others is not a garden. A garden is only is beautiful when it's brimming with blooms of every variety.  There is room in this garden of humanity for every woman to blossom, to shine in her own unique color and shape. There is room for every one of us to be exactly who we are.

I believe we’ll only find our happiness, strength and equality when we help other women find theirs. But first, we've got to stop breaking each other's hearts, for no woman truly succeeds until all of us succeed. 



Amy Ferris wrote a companion piece to this blog- read it here: MarryingGeorgeClooney.com

Reasons and Seasons and a lifetime of lessons.

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- 28 years)

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

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?

Hollye and Amy Ferris discuss the finer points of BLURG

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)

Dancing at 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...

Lessons Learned At A Funeral

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.

Climbing the Mountain

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 Save Stitch 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 fundraising house concert (for Stitch's legal fees) 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/

How I Got Published (in a Totally Random Way)

When I got the phone call that Seal Press had bought our anthology Dancing at 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.

Michelle Obama’s Arms

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’.

Sometimes You Gotta Wave the White Flag

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...)

What is Forgiveness?

Say you’re standing in line at the Post office and someone accidentally steps on your toe. They quickly move back and say “Sorry!” and you say “No problem”. It’s over and quickly forgotten. But what if they say “Sorry!” and then continue to stand on your toe? Are you still going to say No problem?

What exactly is forgiveness?  Is it condoning the other person’s behavior? Denying your own pain so another person can feel better?  Letting another off the hook, and then carrying their shame for them? Is it as simple as letting go of a balloon that floats away into the atmosphere? I think it is much more complex than that.

Forgiveness is a huge buzzword these days. Everyone says you should do it. Oprah says you should do it. Doctors say you’ll be healthier if you do it. Jesus did it on the cross. Stanford University even has a “Forgiveness Project”, where researchers say it is a skill that can be learned, a decision you simply make. But I don’t see it as a decision any more than falling in love is a decision.

Forgiveness is a spontaneous shift in the heart, and like love, it can’t be forced. It is an unwritten contract between two souls. A door of genuine understanding and remorse must be opened before you can cross the threshold of forgiveness. You can’t bang that door down yourself. In other words, forgiveness is not a one-way street.

To me there is nothing worse than an empty apology. I remember on one occasion that I actually got my mother to show up for therapy, my therapist asked if she could apologize for lying to me, because her lies had affected my life and damaged my trust. The best she could muster up was an indignant, “I’m sorry you see it that way.” But she wasn’t sorry, and therefore no shift could take place on either side.

A forced forgiveness serves no one. Remember when you were a little kid, fighting with your sister, and your mom forced you to hug and say sorry, but behind her back you were sticking your tongues out at each other? I recently read about a woman who at 15 had been raped by her Sunday school teacher. Her pastor told her that she had to forgive him, it was the Christian thing to do. So she went to the rapist/Sunday school teacher and forgave him. And he would later rape her again. So what good did forgiving do? It wasn’t true forgiveness, therefore nothing changed, and no one was healed.

On the other hand, when a person is sincere in opening that door, you feel it in your soul and it changes you. True forgiveness is grace in action. I know because I have experienced this.

In 1995, after my house burned down and I lost everything, my best friend dumped me. I needed her more than ever, but she turned her back and never told me why. I was beyond devastated. Losing my home and all my possessions was nothing compared to losing my best friend. It was a hurt that took years, and much therapy, to get over. Eleven years later we bumped into each other in a record store. She seemed so happy to see me, while I was ambivalent. She hugged me with real feeling, and asked if I would meet her that week to talk, and I agreed.

We met at a Starbucks. As soon as I sat down, she took my hand, looked me right in the eye, and said tearfully, “I love you.” She squeezed my hand hard, not bothering to wipe away the tears rolling down her cheeks “and I have missed you in my life, so much. I am so sorry for the way I treated you. I don’t know why I acted that way back then, I guess I was afraid. Afraid of what was happening to you, and how it was affecting me. If you can forgive me, I really want another chance to be in your life, as the person I am now.” I felt the instant shift in my heart. Forgiveness. It wasn’t hard to do, because she opened the door. I knew her life had been turned upside down in the years that had passed. Her marriage fell apart, her career ended. Her heart had been broken open, and I was able to get in. That was four years ago and our friendship is still going strong.

What is forgiveness? I don’t know that I could encapsulate it into simple words. Like love, I know it when I feel it. When it happens, it is a beautiful miracle, like a butterfly landing on my shoulder. But I think it is a different experience for each person.

I’d love to know what forgiveness means to you, and how it feels.

But if you don’t comment today, that’s okay. I forgive you.

Venus and Mars

A blog by Hollye and Amy Ferris 

HOLLYE

I know it will make me unpopular to say that men and women aren’t equal, but its true. I mean, we are equally capable of course. We can reach the same magnitudes of greatness and accomplishment, but the way we get there is entirely different because – let’s face it, we are not the same animal.

Case in point: Amy and I spend a considerable amount of time weighing what we imagine other people are going to feel about any given situation. We second guess our friends behaviors and surmise what their emotions might be.

“A was a little quiet the other night. You know she’s been really fragile lately. Do you think B said something to upset her?”

“C hasn’t been commenting on facebook. Is she mad about something?”

Things of that sort.

So the other day I’m telling my very kind and patient husband a long drawn out story about something that happened that week and whose feelings appeared to be hurt and should I say something or mind my own business, because after all, she may not have been feeling anything at all and I’m just interpreting it wrong.

At that point my truly sensitive, sympathetic, sweetheart of a guy burst into uproarious laughter.

When he catches his breath, he says,“Oh honey, you can not imagine the enormity of the fuck I do not give.” He continues laughing.

I have to admit, I was a little miffed.

“Seriously sweetie,” he said “Can you imagine me saying this to you: The other day I called John and he seemed distant. I wonder if he’s upset because I had beers with Mark and Dave?”

And then, in spite of myself, I started laughing too. No, I can not ever imagine him saying something like that, nor any of his friends. And that’s where men are lucky. My husband feels no responsibility to take on his friends’ emotions, and they return the favor. Every man for himself.

But women? We are so freekin’ complicated and maybe it’s our intuition, or our built-in caretaking abilities, but we are always digging below the emotional surface. It seems to be in our nature to pick up on every cue, a slight difference in body language, a telling sigh, and geez, can that ever be exhausting. Especially in our relationships with men.

One time, after recounting an argument I’d had with my husband I jokingly said to a lesbian friend, “It must be so easy for you. At least you girls understand each other.”

“Not so easy.” She said. “If one of us is jumping off the emotional cliff, the other one follows.”

So maybe that’s where the Venus and Mars thing comes in handy. When I’m jumping off the emotional cliff, he brings me back to Earth. When he’s skimming the surface I show him how to dive, to see a different world underneath.

AMY

This is what I love about my conversations with Hollye. They're chock full of goodies. And because we share the same exact birthday, we're often, not always, but often in a similar mood. We share horoscopes, emotions, many (new) girl friends and... it does appear the same type o' guy. The thing about this particular blog which makes it oh so yummy, is that both Hollye and I had virtually the same exact conversations with our husbands (although slight variations on their & our reactions.)

I said to Ken that I needed/wanted his opinion about someone and something, and should I, you know, mind my own business. Ken looked at me, in a sort of tilting head kind of way, and said, "You know Hon, men never ask these kind of questions, we don't give a shit if one of our friends is having a beer with another friend and didn't invite us. We just don't give a shit."

And I looked at Ken, tilting my head, and I said, "And this is exactly why you have been married three fucking times, and I have only been married once, okay, and I have an entire virtual room full of Facebook friends and you're not even on Linked-fucking-In. Nevermind, I'll go ask Liz what she would do."

And he laughed, a thank you Jesus kinda laugh.

And so, I called Liz, and asked her what I should do, and we ended up talking about this, that the other thing for a good fifty-minutes and then she said/asked: "Are you going to Amy's tonight for dinner?" Uh-oh. No. No. I wasn't invited. Are you, I asked. No, she wasn't invited. But how did she know, I asked. Brenda told her. Uh oh. Brenda? Brenda is going, and we're not. And then the bulk of our conversation was about the fact we hadn't been invited and then of course, we went into a whole crazy whacky "wonder why" scenario. Did we say something? Do something? Insult someone? Gossip? Should we call and apologize and try to get invited to the next shindig? Were there other parties, other un-invited events and nights?

Amy is my best friend - why wouldn't she invite me?

I was mortified. 

And as I was hanging up, Ken came into my room, and saw that I was mortified - with a capitol M. I waved him off. Go away. Shoo. I said good bye to Liz and felt so, you know... excluded. He thought, assumed someone died. I continued shooing him away. But he pulled it out of me. He did. I didn't want to share it with him because I knew from his earlier reaction he was going to say, "Oh who gives it a shit, don't worry... it's only dinner."

"Fine, you wanna know. Amy didn't invite us to dinner, and she's having a party and..." and before I could finish, he interrupted, the kind of interruption with both hands up and the 'don't say another word' gesture: "Oh shit. I forgot to tell you, she called yesterday. I was supposed to tell you that she was doing a dinner tonight."

HOLLYE

Friendships amongst women can be a tricky thing. We feel too deeply, we care too much. Relationships with men can make us feel like we’re banging our heads against a brick wall half the time. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Early on, a marriage therapist said to Troy and I “Learn how to celebrate your differences.” We’ve held fast to that through the years as we count to ten and try to allow each other to be exactly who we are

And, as Paul Mc Cartney said, Venus and Mars are alright tonight…  

(and PS from AMY: Liz was also invited to the dinner, HER HUSBAND didn't give her the message!)