Zany, zippy zone

As I wrap up the A-to-Z Blog Challenge, I am starting to realize what I different person I become when I write. I am not going to steal the thunder of my reflections post scheduled for May 7, but it has become obvious to me over the last month that I need to write more.

For one thing, writing makes me downright zany.

Oh, sure, I'm a bit of a nut-job most days, but when I write, it unleashes a giant goofball that sometimes gets lost in the madness of my life.

For example, during the last month, I have named so many wild animals and made up so many back stories for them that my boyfriend has started asking me the names of critters we see. I do this when I'm in a good mood. These stories just pop into my head and I must blurt them out. Andy secretly loves it, even though he pretends to be concerned that I've lost my mind. I just know he is worried about the squirrel family, Fred, Wilma and Pebbles, who live on the road by my house, too. Pebbles really likes to play in traffic when Fred and Wilma start fighting. I'm worried for them and wonder if I should speak to them regarding some parenting classes or perhaps family yoga. Suicide by traffic is a plague affecting the squirrel population and someone really needs to address it.

I certainly know that routinely writing makes me happier.

I am striving for more energy these days. I want some zip with my side dish of zany. Sometimes, writing does that for me even better than caffeine. (She said, mouth watering as she hears the beep of the coffee pot.)

Well, more to come in the reflections post, but I just have one small request: make me write more. It's better for me and the squirrel population.

'Y'oung survivors

Julie, riding the bull at one of our conferences.

If you know me or have read my blog for any length of time, you know I'm part of an amazing community of young survivors of breast cancer. I found these ladies when I was desperately searching for more information about breast cancer just a few short weeks after being diagnosed in 2006. With my first lumpectomy failing, I finally stopped for a moment to ask, "am I doing the right thing?" I was searching fruitlessly online for answers, when I suddenly decided to enter "young breast cancer."

The rest is history.

From there, I found this community of women diagnosed under 40 who were able to help me ask the right questions and find the answers, whether good or bad. Until then, I hadn't met one survivor with a 4-year-old child, none that were even thinking about their fertility — most didn't have it — when going through treatment, and not one person worried about whether she see her child grow up. Until then, every woman I had met was gray, mostly well-insured and surrounded by women who understood what she was going through. I didn't have that until I found my tribe.

Julie, at left, with some of our tribe. Me at right.

One of the first women I met was Julie. She was diagnosed around the same time as me and, therefore, was going through a similar cycle of chemo, surgeries, medications, etc. Along with several others, we were a band of sorts, a "chemo class." Julie, actually, was ahead of the class by just a couple of months, so she became a mentor of sorts.

She was the sweetest person you can imagine. I ran into her by surprise at a conference, after having only met her in person once before. She was in treatment for a recurrence and I didn't recognize her right away, until she flashed her smile! Then, I knew it was sweet Julie! We sat and talked for a while. She was so freaking positive about her recurrence. I wanted to scream for her, but she seemed to shrug it off. She had no choice but to survive.

I've known a lot of people who have died. I know a lot of people who are dealing with first and second occurrences, myself included. I know so many young women with children who have stage IV breast cancer. So, I don't say this lightly: Julie was the strongest freaking person I've ever met. There is a lot of talk around cancer about being "strong" or "a fighter" or "a warrior." I generally eschew that language. But Julie was absolutely a warrior until the end.

A couple of months ago, when the cancer seemed like it might win, she wrote to her young survivor sisters and asked us a favor: when she passed, she wanted us to send pink roses to her funeral from each of us. And she wanted us to tell her young daughters how important they were to her.

Julie died this week and her funeral was yesterday. There were more than 120 pink roses from her young survivor sisters all across the country.

Some of the flowers. Thank you for organizing this, Melinda!

'X'-chromosomes

While I am wildly inspired by women in my life, I am not wildly inspired to be writing this post. I just needed something to fit X! Since X-chromosomes are a major part of my life — and not just because they make up me — I thought it appropriate.

Do you know the biggest risk factor of getting breast cancer, which I've had twice? XX, baby. Being a woman. Ta da!

I often find myself counting all of the ways I surround myself with women. It's pretty crazy, actually. Sometimes, I'll be talking to other women and realize not everyone does this. We all *think* women migrate toward other women, but that's not true. Unfortunately, women also can be incredibly mean, which forces some of us to avoid other women. To you, ladies, I say: come back! Ignore the petty and embrace the the parts that smell like lavender! We are more awesome than not, I promise.

Here is a brief overview of how I sometimes forget there are men on this planet:

1. I graduated from a women's college.

2. I work for a non-profit that has only women as its members. Women are in all of the top positions. Most of their ministries are focused on women.

3. I am active with a network of young survivor's of breast cancer — hundreds and hundreds of sisters.

4. I have actual sisters. I love them, too! And a mom! She is pretty awesome! Even my sister-in-law is cool.

5. Despite the fact that most books sold are written by men and most music sold is recorded by male artists, my book and music collection is DOMINATED by women. I sincerely forget not everyone is reading and listening to as much girl-focused stuff as I am.

Forgive me, but I really believe the world would be a better place if everyone's experience of it were more skewed in my lady-laced direction.

'W'onder



My beaYOOOOtiful daughter and
the magical cake.

(I'm backdating posts again. This actually happened after the date on this post, but, 'w'hatever. ;)

My daughter had her 11th birthday party last weekend.

It was hosted at her dad's house and was a LARP — live action role-playing. It was totally fun!

The kids had a blast — no doubt because they got to beat on adults with padded sticks.

My job was to make the cake. After much contemplation, I settled on a medieval castle, since the LARP was set in medieval-ish times. You can see a photo here.

I have learned not to stress too much over the outcome of birthday cakes that I make. Sometimes, I hit huge, but others I could totally do better if I had a second chance. Unfortunately, I usually only get one shot at it, so I just have to set my expectations low.

I was pretty happy with how the castle itself looked, but I wasn't thrilled with how the added colors turned out. I had wanted something somewhat realistic in color tones, but I ended up with pinks, blues and greens that were cartoonish. Sigh. If you have ever used gel food colors, you know they are completely unpredictable. You can go from pastel to "70s acid trip" in half second. And the icing darkens as it dries. It was much too late to change course by the time I started adding color to the grey castle, so I had to roll with it.

We safely transported the three layer castle to the party site and various people complimented me. I appreciated the remarks, but I wasn't thinking of it much — if I dwelled on the cake and the color choices, I would be annoyed at myself. I knew it was good enough for a kid party, but the little nagging voice in my head wanted it to be better.

My daughter has a little step-brother who is 5 1/2 years old. He is completely cute and sharp as a tack. I came into the kitchen and caught him at eye-level with the cake. He had his nose on the counter and was inspecting the cake with HUGE eyes as best as he could from his height. When he saw me, he said with all of the breathless wonder of someone seeing the ocean or the Grand Canyon for the first time, "How did you make all of this?"

I felt like a rock star as we talked in detail about how I made the stones, the roses, the grass and the water. Sure, I've been adding food coloring to coconut since I was kid to make grass, but it was like magic for someone who had never seen it before. And water made out of cake gel? I might as well have been turning water into wine.

I was completely over myself after that conversation. Cartoon colors were completely perfect for my target audience. I just needed to open my eyes to the wonder of it all.

'V'ulnerability

"Vulnerability is kind of the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears it is also the birthplace of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love." — Brené Brown

A few years ago, when I was starting a process of rebuilding my life, I started having the oddest encounters with people.

I should tell you that I was not merely rebuilding my life, I was trying to figure out what my life was. I was lost, but I think, to my benefit, I knew I was lost and I knew I needed to wander around for a while and figure it out. I was incredibly vulnerable, but I also knew that I had to get by. When you are a woman with a child to protect finding yourself in an incredibly vulnerable position, you have no choice but to put on a very strong front. My mom instincts had kicked in big time and it didn't matter how I felt; I had to take care of the child and shelter her from the world. I was living for my daughter because I couldn't figure out what else to do and, honestly, it was more than enough at the time.

During this time when I hoped I looked exponentially stronger than I felt, I started having the oddest encounters with people. Strangers — mostly woman — started to walk up to me in the grocery store, in a restaurant, in a bar and tell me that I was beautiful. Now, I'm not sure about the rest of you, but at the time this started happening, I had zero recollection of it ever having happened before in my life — ever. Maybe some women are used to being told by strangers who want or need nothing from them that tehy are beautiful, but that was not my life. I was floored. Just floored. (And thankful, y'all. Feel free to walk up to any stranger and tell her that today. It will make her life.)

At the same time, men started to tell me that I was both strong and vulnerable. The word vulnerable came up often in these conversations. I will share, too, that most of these men were not on any sort of a track toward romantic involvement with me. Many, actually, would have had their balls chopped off by myself or their wives if they had tried. This wasn't about sex or desire or love. For whatever reason, women decided to tell me I was gorgeous and men decided to note my vulnerable-but-strong vibe.

(I'll note, too, it took much vulnerability for me to accept those compliments from women — things I had rarely heard in my life. I didn't deflect them. I just accepted them and said thank you. They helped. I don't know if they know they helped, but they did. It put so much spring in my step and a smile on my face. I felt it was shallow and silly and I still don't care. It was nice and I appreciate it still.)

I've thought about these moments a lot over the years. I've thought about the word vulnerable a lot. I hated it when I first started hearing it, then I started to embrace it as I realized allowing myself to be vulnerable was opening me to all sorts of awesome experiences. In my vulnerability, I grew by leaps and bounds. When I exposed my raw self, I had nothing left to lose. When I laid it all out for the world to see, that was it — there were no more skeletons to be afraid of someone finding. I was done with fear and could focus on living.

Being vulnerable, I found, was incredibly freeing.

I promise, this will be 1 of at least 10,000 times you hear from me on this subject because I think it is an extraordinary idea and one that is almost impossible for people to understand. (I have saved V for this subject through the entire A to Z Challenge!) We are taught to be strong, yet we are one of the most vulnerable species on the planet. (And I have the cancer to prove it.) We need to learn to accept our vulnerabilities because that is when we become the strongest.

Brené Brown gives an awesome TED talk about vulnerability. I can't wait to read what she has to say in her books. I am so completely in tune with this message — I think she says it much better than I can right now.

'U'nexpected

One little guy on the ground.

I drive a long way for work twice a week. On Tuesdays, I drive about 160 miles. On Thursdays, I drive 80, then drive the other 80 on Fridays.

Tuesdays are a very long day. I usually work at least nine hours and drive a total of three. I'm usually very happy to be home. I'm also usually starving, tired and ready to put my feet up, although that never happens. I usually drag myself inside, grab something small to eat and usually head right back out the door again to pick up my daughter.

So, it was very unexpected last Tuesday when a beautiful sunbean was highlighting my parking space at home. It was so pretty: light coming through the trees. It was a gorgeous-looking day (although very cold and crisp), but I'd only seen it from inside of my car or office. It was fun to see the sunshine beckoning me the last few feet home.

Then, I saw them.

Dozens — maybe even a hundred — butterflies! They were scatted over the ground and when I drove up, they spun into the air. There were so many, I thought I was seeing a dust devil, at first, then realized it was dozens of butterflies flitting — they were actually FLITTING — around my parking area.

A few on the tree; a few in mid-air
to the right.

I'm sure I had child-like eyes of amazement as I stepped out of my car and into the sunshine. The butterflies were everywhere. They even landed on me and my car. A few blew past and tickled my legs.

I walked around trying to see what was happening. Did they hatch in my little shade garden nearby? On a bush? Were they just attracted to the sunshine in my parking space on a really cold day?

I watched for about 10 minutes, even observing several up-close. They seem entirely undisturbed by my presence.

Two days later, I was driving with Andy in the car and one of these same butterflies began flying next to the driver's window. I told Andy to look and the butterfly flew in front of us and flitted back and forth in front of the front window as I drove. Finally, it couldn't keep up with my speed and was off. After a few moments of silence, I said, "You saw that, right?" He did. It was not my imagination.

Mid-air flight of several, taken
with my cell phone!

'T'ale of two Teds

A couple of years ago, thanks to an old-fashioned technology once referred to as "e-mail," I discovered the TED talks.

If you don't know what these are, let me share with you their tag line: "Ideas worth spreading."

I think that's it in an nutshell.

TED is a series of talks on a wide variety of subjects by people who are experts — at least experts about the one thing for which they were asked to speak. It's hard to explain, so you should just watch or listen to some. Maybe one like spoken-word artist Sarah Kay's "If I should have a daughter." Or something really funny like Julia Sweeney having "The Talk." Or you can have your mind entirely blown with Tal Golesworthy's tale of how he, a boiler engineer, repaired his own heart. Or remind yourself why art is so critical to our world as Taryn Simon explains her piece "The stories behind the bloodlines."

I've been so inspired by these talks and it has allowed me to "get to know" inspiring people — people who aren't really famous, at least, not how we generally describe fame. They might be known in their fields — or maybe not. They, perhaps, just gave a really good talk somewhere and got the attention of TED. The presentations are a wonderful antidote to the constant media assault of violence, despair and simpering reality TV stars.

It's a wonderful bonus of this information age that we have the ability — cheaply and ubiquitously — to choose whether we watch, hear or read crap or whether we choose to seek out thoughtful, inspiring, action-oriented role models and information. Our minds are no longer enslaved to one form of media or thought process.

I have been really thrilled at rediscovering the TED talks recently, when I started a job that requires me to spend more time driving. In preparing for my long-hauls two or three times a week, I look for audiobooks, podcasts and other things that keep me awake. I was really delighted in this search to find the TED app has "TED radio," where I can click and listen to a stream of presentations. It's great because it's a stream not of my choosing, but just whatever was in the queue that day. I am constantly surprised at how a random talk about something that wouldn't interest me if I were making my own selections turns out to be a piece with a nugget of information I just can't live without! I've even found myself pulling over to jot down notes or names of presenters, so I can listen to them again later.

What I love so much about these talks is that they are really just people telling a little piece of their story. They might be currently passionate about the subject, maybe it's their life's work or maybe it's just a tale that can't help themselves from telling. Whatever it is, if someone were writing a biography of their lives, the subject of the TED talk would at least be a chapter.

I've mentioned my obsession with how we tell our own stories and I thought it was funny to me that one of the big ways I got inspired to do this was by a person named Ted — not the website TED, but a real, live person. His name, actually, isn't really Ted, but that's what everyone calls him. Ted is a nickname, although, strangely enough, it's not derived from his first, middle or last names, all of which are typical first names. (Think something like: James Robert Howard.) I can't remember the exact story, but it was something like Ted was the name of his imaginary friend when he was little and somewhere along the line, Ted got treated better than he did. So, he decided he wanted to be Ted and forced everyone to call him that. Thank heavens his imaginary friend wasn't named Fluffy.

But I digress.

When I first met Ted, I told him a bit about my story and, somewhere along the way, he learned about my blog. (I'm not going to lie here. I'm sure I blurted it out in between telling him about my most recent surgery and the state of my vaginal discharge.) Some time went by and when I ran into him again he told me that he had been reading my blog. This makes me very nervous. I know people read my blog, obviously, but when someone starts a conversation with "I've been reading your blog," it usually means they have suddenly seen me in a different light. I was struggling with this at that time. In fact, struggling to the point that I didn't want to write a blog anymore. People were starting to "meet" me via my blog and believing they knew me. While I believe — still do — that the blog is as honest as I can possibly be and I try to share stories in a fair light, whatever makes it to the blog is a teeny, tiny portion of my reality. Miniscule. Imagine the blog is de-planetized Pluto and my life is the universe. Or maybe the blog is that speck of dust I just flicked off my desk and the universe is me. You get the point.

Ted then told me he decided to start reading the blog at the beginning. This was new. To my knowledge, the only people who had ever done that were the ones related to me. Certainly not a virtual stranger.

"It has been a really interesting process," he said. "Like I'm reading a novel where I know how it is going to end. I've gotten caught up in some of the characters. I don't like how this one character is developing! I even sensed some foreshadowing. I have to keep reminding myself it's true."

The foreshadowing made me laugh. Still does. Oh, baby, how I wish I could foreshadow my own life.

It made me laugh so much and wonder if this was how complete strangers saw me. I was strangely offended at first — this was my life, not a novel! It's not only a true story, but it's still happening. But then I saw how funny it must be to be torn between what felt like a compelling novel where you couldn't wait to get to the end and knowing the subject was someone you knew.

It became funny to me that "the end" was never going to happen - never. I had inadvertently discovered immortality. If I die, the blog ends, but does the story? My successors get to keep writing my story (literally or figuratively). Even if they forget me, that would be part of the story.

I believe that our lives are important. No matter how insignificant you feel, you have been significant with someone or somewhere and that is passed on from one person to the next. Obviously, in some families, remembering loved ones is very important, but I believe even those who seem to be sadly forgotten affect others, who affect others and so on. It's absolutely possible — likely — that you don't even know your own significance. It's doubtful Ted has any clue — until he reads this — how this little exchange several years ago has set me off on an exploration of how we write our own stories. Yet, that impacted me and, in turn, my ability to tell this story might impact others.

It was a profound thought — that I sit here writing a never-ending story. It continues to be profound to the point of having shaped me into a happier person. Even if I never leave this house again; even if I never have one single future experience worthy of sharing; all that has happened so far can be told in one, two, three or thousands of ways — all which would be true.

This has been life-changing for me. I'm a writer and an editor. If I don't like the way a story is written, do you know what I can do?

Rewrite.