Exactly one year.
One year ago I was 8 days away from tackling 40 with all kinds and sorts of celebrations planned.
One year ago I was 2 days away from starting an exciting new job that landed in my lap unexpectedly.
One year ago I was heading into remission from a horrible 8 week flare that sent me to hospitals, kept me from driving, left me in bed for long periods of time and rendered me far less attentive to my support crew, though most showed up anyway to help me, feed my family, and bring good cheer... and not just of the adult beverage variety, though they did that, too, of course.
One year ago I found out that the person among them that I thought cared the most just wasn't strong enough to handle that which needs to be handled when the going gets tough in my world.
One year ago I was an awesome kickboxer despite joints that were screaming from daily pain.
One year ago my kingdom was shattered into a million little pieces.
One year ago I became a prisoner in a house I could no longer stand.
One year ago I weiged 45 lbs more than I do today.
One year ago I stopped going to the neighborhood pool.
One year ago I realized that I should have listened better to my screaming gut because it never fails me.
One year ago I remembered just how perceptive children are.
One year ago I realized, with great sadness, that I could no longer allow myself to love too many people unconditionally or trust even my most trusted friends.
One year ago I received the best note ever from someone I've never met that said, quite simply, "one piece at a time".
One year ago I made a commitment.
Eleven months ago there was a repeat performance and so I remembered that people don't change but that they can evolve if they put their minds to it.
Ten months ago I continued my attempts at diagnostic and prescriptive measures to aid in the evolution.
Nine months ago I found out the treatment option still wasn't working, which I should have known, because the necessary evolution was not my own and you can't force that upon another soul.
Eight months ago I realized it's exhausting to have the life sucked out of you and, being the cranky and stubborn princess that I am, I fought back, because I was determined to never again fall victim to a... ummmm... life sucker.
Seven months ago I found my voice... though most would argue I never lost it. I blame my susceptibility to strep for my bouts of silence.
Six months ago there was no number six. Obviously.
Five months ago I knew what I wanted.
Four months ago I wished I would be miraculously cured and never again have to worry about health insurance.
Three months ago I just knew something wasn't right in every single arena.
Two months ago I learned about monoclonal proteins and was forced to consider, briefly, the possibility that I might not have too many more years upon which to reflect.
Last month took me to paradise and back.
And here I sit, exactly one year later, wondering how it is possible to have been through so much, learned so many things, traveled so far and yet still be in the same place as I was back then on so many levels.
Life is funny like that.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Truth (a precursor to a HF...)
"No man is worth your tears, and the one who is won't make you cry."
Well ain't that the truth. Not sure who said it, but as soon as i read it, I liked it.
Well ain't that the truth. Not sure who said it, but as soon as i read it, I liked it.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Indeed We Do
Spring shows are an integral part of every dancer's world. When Exhibit A was young, as I've mentioned before, I used to dread sitting through the one and only recital in which her class performed. I just didn't get it on so many levels and watching all that flounce and twirl while waiting for my precious angel's 4 minutes on stage seemed like a colossal waste of my time.
As she matured as a dancer and I started to understand more and more about the techniques and processes, I began to enjoy every minute of every show and appreciate the work, dedication and passion that goes into producing them. When you can watch the three year olds take the stage and do what three year olds will (or in many cases will not) do one moment, and in the next be wowed by a senior taking the stage for her final senior solo, you see where your child has been and where she's going, and you simply can't help but be a little inspired.
This year marked a big milestone for Exhibit A in that it is the first time she and her company have performed on stage en pointe. She's had her toe shoes for fifteen months... fifteen months of technique classes, ouch pouches, tying ribbons, retying ribbons, countless battements, cutting V-s in toenails, moving straps, moving them again, breaking boxes, pancake spray, new auditions, lengthy fittings, private lessons, stitch kitting and ankle strengthening... and the moment finally arrived.
The dance was beautiful, of course, but what struck me more than the movement itself was the change before me. It was, afterall, as if I was watching her grow up right there in front of an entire audience full of folks who didn't even know that they were bearing witness to such a profound moment. It is true that we watch our kids grow, on some level, day in and day out, but it's not often that time is suspended for us just long enough to recognize it in the here and now, but this performance afforded me that opportunity and there's no pirouette-ing back. My daughter has crossed the threshold as a dancer and, really, as a young woman.
The opening number this year was one of the most beautiful dances I've ever had the privilege to see. It was Bollywood-style, complete with coin skirts and ankle bells. They used every inch of space on the stage and took to the aisles of the theater, completely surrounding the audience at several points. No one there will soon forget the crispness of the movement or the level of energy the dancers created. One of the other fun pieces was a video about flashmobbing. It explained what a flashmob is and showed a clip of one of our instructors participating in a flashmob gig at Philips Arena. Oh, and then, of course, we got to experience a flashmob firsthand as our attention was drawn from the screen to what was happening in the aisles and rows all around us.
Throughout my daughter's dance journey, I've developed an eye for and appreciation of brilliant choreography. I've come to understand the subtle differences among the choreographers I know and can generally identify their work when I see it. I've learned how they each express a broad range of emotions through their art from sheer joy and whimsy to contentment to fear to utter despair and many things in between.
This weekend, however, I also learned how they, as well as a group of young girls, and even a few boys, express their grief.
As you may recall from a previous Hissy Fit, my daughter's modern dance teacher, Mr. A, passed away last summer leaving a huge void in the lives of many aspiring dancers. It's been a tough year not only for them but also for the parents and other teachers. The Nutcracker production this year was dedicated to his memory, but as the spring shows approached, it became very apparent that his picture and some lovely lines on a page in the Nutcracker playbill simply wasn't enough of a tribute to this man.
Therefore, at one point during the show, the bed used in the Nutcracker dream scene was wheeled onto the stage. An instructor, Ms. P, who, incidentally, was Mr. A's best friend, was in the bed. Cue music. "This Woman's Work". Dammit. That song makes me cry just because it is what it is and I feel connected to it on a number of levels, plus, it conjures up images of a tormented Kevin Bacon in that scene, though I suspect that image has now been replaced with this new one. So yes. The music. And then the dance.
Ms. P, in the aforementioned bed, appeared to be restless and dreaming. From stage left, comes RD, his dark skin juxtaposed against his bright white tank top and pants.
RD is a graduating senior whose senior page in the spring show program read, among other things: "Thank you for the gift you gave me. Mr. A, you are the reason I push on when times get rough because you never allowed me to settle for anything less than great". RD is an inner city kid who had a scholarship to our dance program for the past two years. Attending classes every day except Sunday, he relied on public transportation to get to and from the studio, a couple of train and bus transfers, each way. Mr. A used to teach at the arts magnet program in the city. He recognized the talent and potential RD possessed and made it his business to ensure that this young man had an opportunity he would not have otherwise had. RD was very hard hit by Mr. A's death and even performed a gut wrenching dance at the memorial service, another fact readers of both HF and BT may remember. RD resembles Mr. A not only in his physical traits but also in his dry humor, his movement, his dance style and, most certainly, his aura. None of this was lost on those in the audience who knew Mr. A.
And it hit me. I knew immediately what this dance was about. Ms. P was dreaming of Mr. A. RD appeared as an angelic Mr. A, and Ms. P was happy. They danced together. They smiled, they hugged, and then he ripped himself away from her. She collapsed on the stage in a breath-taking moment of pain. Out of the darkness, one by one, other female instructors took to the stage to "heal" her, to support her, to help her, to turn that moment of grief back to one of joy. Through their dance, they shared memories and happy thoughts.
RD suddenly returned to the stage and the women were elated, but it was short-lived. Sadness ensued as RD slowly did "the Mr. A modern walk" off the stage, a move we all recognized. Ms. P crawled, quite literally, back to bed, her friends surrounding her, their heads resting on the bed. And as they paused there, just breathing, comforting each other, doing what women do, RD returned to the stage and stood, perfectly still, at the head of the bed. And just in case anyone had any doubt about the meaning of this dance, in which not a word was uttered, RD was holding a Starbucks cup.
And the stage went dark.
The instructors involved in this piece were emotionally spent after each performance of it, often dancing through tear-filled eyes. Many of the company members barely made it on stage in time for their next act due to the amount of cosmetics touch up required. Runny mascara doesn't look good under the spotlights, it seems.
The show must go on, and so it did. It kept going right through to the finale.
"Breaking News" began with a newspaper girl shouting out the headlines... "Extra, extra, read all about it! War rages in the middle east... the economy tanks..." and so forth. She continued on while the dancers milled about on stage, ignoring her, until the moment when she called out "Beloved teacher Antonio S. dies at age 35, studio devastated, dancers vow to keep dancing..."
And dance they did. A joyful dance full of twists and tumbling passes and flexi-bendy poses. The newspapers became an integral prop as they threw papers into the air as if it was confetti to celebrate a life well lived. They performed to the song "Live Like We're Dying" because really, we should, and in many ways, Mr. A did. At one point the kids came off the stage and stood all over the theater throwing out into the audience red construction paper hearts. Each of the hundreds of hearts had a personalized message to Mr. A hand written on it by members of the company... the one that landed on my lap read: "Mr. Antonio, You told the best stories. I miss you." He did. And I miss him, too.
Returning to the stage, they sat in a row with piles of newspapers stacked neatly in front of them. Simultaneously they each picked up the first newspaper in their individual stacks and held them in front of their faces as if they were reading. A large, black letter appeared on the back of each paper and, down the line, a message appeared. "Dear Mr Tony", it said. In perfect unison, they put down the papers and picked up the next papers in their piles. "We Never Got". Next papers... "The Chance". Next... "To Say". Next... Goodbye". And then "We Miss You". At which point the letters M-I-S-S were put down and replaced with the letters L-O-V-E. "We love you".
We miss you, Tony. We love you.
Indeed, we do.
Fade to black.
As she matured as a dancer and I started to understand more and more about the techniques and processes, I began to enjoy every minute of every show and appreciate the work, dedication and passion that goes into producing them. When you can watch the three year olds take the stage and do what three year olds will (or in many cases will not) do one moment, and in the next be wowed by a senior taking the stage for her final senior solo, you see where your child has been and where she's going, and you simply can't help but be a little inspired.
This year marked a big milestone for Exhibit A in that it is the first time she and her company have performed on stage en pointe. She's had her toe shoes for fifteen months... fifteen months of technique classes, ouch pouches, tying ribbons, retying ribbons, countless battements, cutting V-s in toenails, moving straps, moving them again, breaking boxes, pancake spray, new auditions, lengthy fittings, private lessons, stitch kitting and ankle strengthening... and the moment finally arrived.
The dance was beautiful, of course, but what struck me more than the movement itself was the change before me. It was, afterall, as if I was watching her grow up right there in front of an entire audience full of folks who didn't even know that they were bearing witness to such a profound moment. It is true that we watch our kids grow, on some level, day in and day out, but it's not often that time is suspended for us just long enough to recognize it in the here and now, but this performance afforded me that opportunity and there's no pirouette-ing back. My daughter has crossed the threshold as a dancer and, really, as a young woman.
The opening number this year was one of the most beautiful dances I've ever had the privilege to see. It was Bollywood-style, complete with coin skirts and ankle bells. They used every inch of space on the stage and took to the aisles of the theater, completely surrounding the audience at several points. No one there will soon forget the crispness of the movement or the level of energy the dancers created. One of the other fun pieces was a video about flashmobbing. It explained what a flashmob is and showed a clip of one of our instructors participating in a flashmob gig at Philips Arena. Oh, and then, of course, we got to experience a flashmob firsthand as our attention was drawn from the screen to what was happening in the aisles and rows all around us.
Throughout my daughter's dance journey, I've developed an eye for and appreciation of brilliant choreography. I've come to understand the subtle differences among the choreographers I know and can generally identify their work when I see it. I've learned how they each express a broad range of emotions through their art from sheer joy and whimsy to contentment to fear to utter despair and many things in between.
This weekend, however, I also learned how they, as well as a group of young girls, and even a few boys, express their grief.
As you may recall from a previous Hissy Fit, my daughter's modern dance teacher, Mr. A, passed away last summer leaving a huge void in the lives of many aspiring dancers. It's been a tough year not only for them but also for the parents and other teachers. The Nutcracker production this year was dedicated to his memory, but as the spring shows approached, it became very apparent that his picture and some lovely lines on a page in the Nutcracker playbill simply wasn't enough of a tribute to this man.
Therefore, at one point during the show, the bed used in the Nutcracker dream scene was wheeled onto the stage. An instructor, Ms. P, who, incidentally, was Mr. A's best friend, was in the bed. Cue music. "This Woman's Work". Dammit. That song makes me cry just because it is what it is and I feel connected to it on a number of levels, plus, it conjures up images of a tormented Kevin Bacon in that scene, though I suspect that image has now been replaced with this new one. So yes. The music. And then the dance.
Ms. P, in the aforementioned bed, appeared to be restless and dreaming. From stage left, comes RD, his dark skin juxtaposed against his bright white tank top and pants.
RD is a graduating senior whose senior page in the spring show program read, among other things: "Thank you for the gift you gave me. Mr. A, you are the reason I push on when times get rough because you never allowed me to settle for anything less than great". RD is an inner city kid who had a scholarship to our dance program for the past two years. Attending classes every day except Sunday, he relied on public transportation to get to and from the studio, a couple of train and bus transfers, each way. Mr. A used to teach at the arts magnet program in the city. He recognized the talent and potential RD possessed and made it his business to ensure that this young man had an opportunity he would not have otherwise had. RD was very hard hit by Mr. A's death and even performed a gut wrenching dance at the memorial service, another fact readers of both HF and BT may remember. RD resembles Mr. A not only in his physical traits but also in his dry humor, his movement, his dance style and, most certainly, his aura. None of this was lost on those in the audience who knew Mr. A.
And it hit me. I knew immediately what this dance was about. Ms. P was dreaming of Mr. A. RD appeared as an angelic Mr. A, and Ms. P was happy. They danced together. They smiled, they hugged, and then he ripped himself away from her. She collapsed on the stage in a breath-taking moment of pain. Out of the darkness, one by one, other female instructors took to the stage to "heal" her, to support her, to help her, to turn that moment of grief back to one of joy. Through their dance, they shared memories and happy thoughts.
RD suddenly returned to the stage and the women were elated, but it was short-lived. Sadness ensued as RD slowly did "the Mr. A modern walk" off the stage, a move we all recognized. Ms. P crawled, quite literally, back to bed, her friends surrounding her, their heads resting on the bed. And as they paused there, just breathing, comforting each other, doing what women do, RD returned to the stage and stood, perfectly still, at the head of the bed. And just in case anyone had any doubt about the meaning of this dance, in which not a word was uttered, RD was holding a Starbucks cup.
And the stage went dark.
The instructors involved in this piece were emotionally spent after each performance of it, often dancing through tear-filled eyes. Many of the company members barely made it on stage in time for their next act due to the amount of cosmetics touch up required. Runny mascara doesn't look good under the spotlights, it seems.
The show must go on, and so it did. It kept going right through to the finale.
"Breaking News" began with a newspaper girl shouting out the headlines... "Extra, extra, read all about it! War rages in the middle east... the economy tanks..." and so forth. She continued on while the dancers milled about on stage, ignoring her, until the moment when she called out "Beloved teacher Antonio S. dies at age 35, studio devastated, dancers vow to keep dancing..."
And dance they did. A joyful dance full of twists and tumbling passes and flexi-bendy poses. The newspapers became an integral prop as they threw papers into the air as if it was confetti to celebrate a life well lived. They performed to the song "Live Like We're Dying" because really, we should, and in many ways, Mr. A did. At one point the kids came off the stage and stood all over the theater throwing out into the audience red construction paper hearts. Each of the hundreds of hearts had a personalized message to Mr. A hand written on it by members of the company... the one that landed on my lap read: "Mr. Antonio, You told the best stories. I miss you." He did. And I miss him, too.
Returning to the stage, they sat in a row with piles of newspapers stacked neatly in front of them. Simultaneously they each picked up the first newspaper in their individual stacks and held them in front of their faces as if they were reading. A large, black letter appeared on the back of each paper and, down the line, a message appeared. "Dear Mr Tony", it said. In perfect unison, they put down the papers and picked up the next papers in their piles. "We Never Got". Next papers... "The Chance". Next... "To Say". Next... Goodbye". And then "We Miss You". At which point the letters M-I-S-S were put down and replaced with the letters L-O-V-E. "We love you".
We miss you, Tony. We love you.
Indeed, we do.
Fade to black.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Word Power
"Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world"
~ Buddha
I often write about my belief in the power of words and their ability to connect people on an emotional level. Words do, indeed, have the power to hurt, anger, destroy and, conversely, to heal, uplift and unite.
Throughout the years, writing has been the greatest therapy I've ever known. For me, putting thought to paper (erm... screen?!), is utterly cathartic. It allows me to think aloud without actually... well... articulating out loud. It has enabled me to explore thoughts and analyze feelings and situations in ways that, were they stuck inside my head, may never really have been brought to light in any meaningful way. It's opened my eyes to patterns of behavior, both in myself and others, and allowed me to weigh options and make decisions in a most deliberate manner rather than relying on reactive response.
I was recently asked why it is I don't write more Hissy Fits and thought, perhaps, I should explain it here instead of elsewhere.
While I may not post here as often as some might expect given my obvious propensity to write, the fact is that there are countless Hissy Fits that reside in "The Mighty Draft Box". These are pieces that will likely never be seen by another pair of peepers. They are often just a few sentences or even a simple splash of words, filled with raw emotion that range from sugary sweet and sky high happy to streams of anger, frustration, sadness, resentment... sometimes all of the above and everything inbetween... and are often directed at specific nouns of both the proper and common varieties.
The fact is, though, that in the draft box is where they must stay. It's not that I don't acknowledge the events behind these thoughts, it's just that giving them a life of their own serves no purpose other than to stoke some fires that, in general, are better left to smolder and die.
That is not to say that my writing is all hearts and flowers, for as any Hissy Fits reader knows, it's certainly not. It's just that I believe that the true power of words lies much less in their ability to separate, accuse or hinder than in their ability to connect, build up and inspire.
And so you see, it's not that I don't write more, it's that, at the end of the day, while this space is, indeed, about me, I am acutely aware of the intellectual and emotional sparks that can and do reside in words and I want the effect of my own words to be that they leave each person they reach thinking slightly bigger thoughts, wondering more than knowing, changed just a little for the better and maybe, just maybe, a bit more inspired than before happening upon the power of my words.
~ Buddha
I often write about my belief in the power of words and their ability to connect people on an emotional level. Words do, indeed, have the power to hurt, anger, destroy and, conversely, to heal, uplift and unite.
Throughout the years, writing has been the greatest therapy I've ever known. For me, putting thought to paper (erm... screen?!), is utterly cathartic. It allows me to think aloud without actually... well... articulating out loud. It has enabled me to explore thoughts and analyze feelings and situations in ways that, were they stuck inside my head, may never really have been brought to light in any meaningful way. It's opened my eyes to patterns of behavior, both in myself and others, and allowed me to weigh options and make decisions in a most deliberate manner rather than relying on reactive response.
I was recently asked why it is I don't write more Hissy Fits and thought, perhaps, I should explain it here instead of elsewhere.
While I may not post here as often as some might expect given my obvious propensity to write, the fact is that there are countless Hissy Fits that reside in "The Mighty Draft Box". These are pieces that will likely never be seen by another pair of peepers. They are often just a few sentences or even a simple splash of words, filled with raw emotion that range from sugary sweet and sky high happy to streams of anger, frustration, sadness, resentment... sometimes all of the above and everything inbetween... and are often directed at specific nouns of both the proper and common varieties.
The fact is, though, that in the draft box is where they must stay. It's not that I don't acknowledge the events behind these thoughts, it's just that giving them a life of their own serves no purpose other than to stoke some fires that, in general, are better left to smolder and die.
That is not to say that my writing is all hearts and flowers, for as any Hissy Fits reader knows, it's certainly not. It's just that I believe that the true power of words lies much less in their ability to separate, accuse or hinder than in their ability to connect, build up and inspire.
And so you see, it's not that I don't write more, it's that, at the end of the day, while this space is, indeed, about me, I am acutely aware of the intellectual and emotional sparks that can and do reside in words and I want the effect of my own words to be that they leave each person they reach thinking slightly bigger thoughts, wondering more than knowing, changed just a little for the better and maybe, just maybe, a bit more inspired than before happening upon the power of my words.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Hadley
An oldie but a goodie from my other blog:
So in my line of work (the real job, not the hobby), there are certain cases that leave an indelible mark on your soul. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Hadley. Hadley was a kid with a severe disability with whom I had the pleasure of working. Hadley was special to me not only because she had an incredible spirit, but also because of her parents. They were amazing advocates who did two things that changed the lives of a significant number of children in their town and, really, across the country.
First, Hadley's father, after determining that it is unfun to have to medicate a child with nasty tasting drugs day in and day out, developed a little something called FlavRX. You know, when you go to the pharmacy and get to order your kid's medicine in specific flavors? Yup, that was him, and done solely for the love of his daughter but with a far reaching impact.
Second, Hadley's mother was on a mission to make Hadley's life as "normal" as possible. One of her huge frustrations was that her daughter couldn't play like other kids. Not to be deterred, this mom had an idea. What if she created a playground that was completely accessible for children who are differently abled? Thus, the idea of Hadley's Park was born. Hadley's mother was able to get some pretty major sponsors to step forward, including McDonald's Children's Charities and Playmobil, to create a theme-play park where, literally, all children could play. There's no use in trying to describe it as, really, you have to experience it first hand. It covers a huge amount of land and has larger than life interactive Playmobil structures (a fort, a castle, a ship) as well as many other fun things like a racing strip for bikes, big wheels, scooter, wheel chairs, walkers, or maybe just a pair of fresh legs. All of the equipment, including the climbing areas, is wheelchair accessible. The signs that tell about each area include the descriptions in braille. There are ASL blocks with which kids can practice signing the alphabet, there are swings to support all kinds of kids, even those with the lowest of muscle tone. Hadley's park opened many years ago and my children and I were blessed enough to log countless hours there when we lived close by. Ultimately, several other playgrounds were built in the National Capital Area and beyond using Hadley's park as a model. Today, parks like this exist in many places... though really, there ought to be more.
Not too long ago, right on the edge of Centennial Olympic Park, an "All Children" playground was dedicated. It's small, but it's there, and it's a start. It's rewarding for me to see that causes I've taken up or been inspired by through my work expanding. This is one of my favorite things to stand behind and I hope the trend continues.
I'd like to think that people strive for inclusion, though, sadly, I know this is not always the case. The fact is that the reward of inclusivity is far greater than that which comes (or, frankly, doesn't ever come) from being exclusionary. Hadley's parents had the means to figure out a "taste good" medicine mask at home as well as to create a perfect playground for her right in their own backyard, but instead, they chose to do these things for all the children in their town and beyond.
I guess it's all about how you view your circumstances in relation to the world at large and realizing that regardless of what you're going through, there are others who have been there or will be there... for really, life is a shared experience.
So in my line of work (the real job, not the hobby), there are certain cases that leave an indelible mark on your soul. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Hadley. Hadley was a kid with a severe disability with whom I had the pleasure of working. Hadley was special to me not only because she had an incredible spirit, but also because of her parents. They were amazing advocates who did two things that changed the lives of a significant number of children in their town and, really, across the country.
First, Hadley's father, after determining that it is unfun to have to medicate a child with nasty tasting drugs day in and day out, developed a little something called FlavRX. You know, when you go to the pharmacy and get to order your kid's medicine in specific flavors? Yup, that was him, and done solely for the love of his daughter but with a far reaching impact.
Second, Hadley's mother was on a mission to make Hadley's life as "normal" as possible. One of her huge frustrations was that her daughter couldn't play like other kids. Not to be deterred, this mom had an idea. What if she created a playground that was completely accessible for children who are differently abled? Thus, the idea of Hadley's Park was born. Hadley's mother was able to get some pretty major sponsors to step forward, including McDonald's Children's Charities and Playmobil, to create a theme-play park where, literally, all children could play. There's no use in trying to describe it as, really, you have to experience it first hand. It covers a huge amount of land and has larger than life interactive Playmobil structures (a fort, a castle, a ship) as well as many other fun things like a racing strip for bikes, big wheels, scooter, wheel chairs, walkers, or maybe just a pair of fresh legs. All of the equipment, including the climbing areas, is wheelchair accessible. The signs that tell about each area include the descriptions in braille. There are ASL blocks with which kids can practice signing the alphabet, there are swings to support all kinds of kids, even those with the lowest of muscle tone. Hadley's park opened many years ago and my children and I were blessed enough to log countless hours there when we lived close by. Ultimately, several other playgrounds were built in the National Capital Area and beyond using Hadley's park as a model. Today, parks like this exist in many places... though really, there ought to be more.
Not too long ago, right on the edge of Centennial Olympic Park, an "All Children" playground was dedicated. It's small, but it's there, and it's a start. It's rewarding for me to see that causes I've taken up or been inspired by through my work expanding. This is one of my favorite things to stand behind and I hope the trend continues.
I'd like to think that people strive for inclusion, though, sadly, I know this is not always the case. The fact is that the reward of inclusivity is far greater than that which comes (or, frankly, doesn't ever come) from being exclusionary. Hadley's parents had the means to figure out a "taste good" medicine mask at home as well as to create a perfect playground for her right in their own backyard, but instead, they chose to do these things for all the children in their town and beyond.
I guess it's all about how you view your circumstances in relation to the world at large and realizing that regardless of what you're going through, there are others who have been there or will be there... for really, life is a shared experience.
Friday, April 9, 2010
There Will Be an Answer
And so it came to pass today that I found myself surrounded by various people who are involved in the care and keeping of one cranky, albeit sassy, princess. I assure you, this is not an enviable position in which to find oneself, for me or for them.
It's exciting times for these folks when someone like me comes in while "active" and with out of the box symptomatology. I vaguely remember a flurry of activity and an injection as well as Ms. WhyNPsAreSometimesWayBetterThanDocs (AKA: The Angel) pulling out her cell phone and placing a call to a new rheumy she had just had lunch with to personally make me an appointment for next week and asking one of her assistants to phone Dr. RollsHerEyesAtMe and Dr. LooksAtMyMushyBrainz to give them an update and state her plan of action... and trust me, it was a statement, she never once was seeking their opinions.
As Ms. MightAsWellBeAVampire was sucking me dry to fill up vial #5, The Angel leaned over to me and whispered, "There's something here. I know it. You just need someone to connect the dots now. This time, we will get it figured out, and there WILL be an answer."
Let it be.
It's exciting times for these folks when someone like me comes in while "active" and with out of the box symptomatology. I vaguely remember a flurry of activity and an injection as well as Ms. WhyNPsAreSometimesWayBetterThanDocs (AKA: The Angel) pulling out her cell phone and placing a call to a new rheumy she had just had lunch with to personally make me an appointment for next week and asking one of her assistants to phone Dr. RollsHerEyesAtMe and Dr. LooksAtMyMushyBrainz to give them an update and state her plan of action... and trust me, it was a statement, she never once was seeking their opinions.
As Ms. MightAsWellBeAVampire was sucking me dry to fill up vial #5, The Angel leaned over to me and whispered, "There's something here. I know it. You just need someone to connect the dots now. This time, we will get it figured out, and there WILL be an answer."
Let it be.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A Thank You Note
Among my greatest blessings in life is to have known Mrs. R. Words can in no way adequately express my deep gratitude for her influence and support in my life during some exceedingly turbulent times. She touched, shaped and deepened my life on so very many levels, and I truly believe that I am the woman I am today in large part because of her influence on me.
I was fortunate enough to have Mrs. R. as both my junior and senior English teacher at the Princess Academy for Young Girls. She was also my senior project advisor who not only encouraged me to follow my heart when my heart started to change, thus resulting in my most difficult conversation ever with my father that went something like "I know we already have paid a deposit to that one college but I need something different...", but also cried with me over children I couldn't save... and I knew, deep down, she wasn't really crying about my stories, about my unsaveable kids, but about her own "I can't save them" stories. It was, perhaps, the first time I realized that there was shared emotion in my writing and that I had the power to connect with people on an emotional level simply by writing about my own experiences.
As a teacher, Mrs. R. created a riduiculously fun learning environment where we could share our thoughts and writing with one another, gaining confidence in our ideas and trust in our perceptions. It was here that I learned how to really discuss a book and analyze my own writing as well as that of others. The lively classroom discussions and activities inspired me to read and write more and left me excited to do homework for the next day's class. Yes, really. Why? Because our homework was simply to journal on a daily basis and write one short story per week. How lucky I was to attend a school with an emphasis not only on technical writing, but also on creative writing. To this day short stories are my "thing"... and I credit Mrs. R. with that.
Mrs. R. taught me that the best writing comes from that which we know... and that journaling could and would be the springboard for good writing, the kind of writing that comes from the soul and leaves the reader wanting more. The kind of writing that ignites a fire in both author and audience and connects them on both a conscious and subconcious level.
I remember Mrs. R's warm smile and dry sense of humor that always seemed to put things in perspective for me. And I will never, ever forget the day she pulled me aside and said, "I read your story and I laughed. I cried. I wanted more. You have a gift and you must share it with the world."
I think she would be proud to know that I have tried to share my musings with the world. I wish I could share it more. I wish I knew how. My writing still comes from a place of raw emotion and I will always remember that it was Mrs. R. who first read my writing without simply judging the content of it but, rather, by reacting to it. Thank you for believing in me and for inspiring me, Mrs. R. You will be greatly missed.
I was fortunate enough to have Mrs. R. as both my junior and senior English teacher at the Princess Academy for Young Girls. She was also my senior project advisor who not only encouraged me to follow my heart when my heart started to change, thus resulting in my most difficult conversation ever with my father that went something like "I know we already have paid a deposit to that one college but I need something different...", but also cried with me over children I couldn't save... and I knew, deep down, she wasn't really crying about my stories, about my unsaveable kids, but about her own "I can't save them" stories. It was, perhaps, the first time I realized that there was shared emotion in my writing and that I had the power to connect with people on an emotional level simply by writing about my own experiences.
As a teacher, Mrs. R. created a riduiculously fun learning environment where we could share our thoughts and writing with one another, gaining confidence in our ideas and trust in our perceptions. It was here that I learned how to really discuss a book and analyze my own writing as well as that of others. The lively classroom discussions and activities inspired me to read and write more and left me excited to do homework for the next day's class. Yes, really. Why? Because our homework was simply to journal on a daily basis and write one short story per week. How lucky I was to attend a school with an emphasis not only on technical writing, but also on creative writing. To this day short stories are my "thing"... and I credit Mrs. R. with that.
Mrs. R. taught me that the best writing comes from that which we know... and that journaling could and would be the springboard for good writing, the kind of writing that comes from the soul and leaves the reader wanting more. The kind of writing that ignites a fire in both author and audience and connects them on both a conscious and subconcious level.
I remember Mrs. R's warm smile and dry sense of humor that always seemed to put things in perspective for me. And I will never, ever forget the day she pulled me aside and said, "I read your story and I laughed. I cried. I wanted more. You have a gift and you must share it with the world."
I think she would be proud to know that I have tried to share my musings with the world. I wish I could share it more. I wish I knew how. My writing still comes from a place of raw emotion and I will always remember that it was Mrs. R. who first read my writing without simply judging the content of it but, rather, by reacting to it. Thank you for believing in me and for inspiring me, Mrs. R. You will be greatly missed.
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