New Worlds. And A Question

One of the things I love the most about the blogging is that it expands my world.   Surfing through other peoples' blogs, opening myself up to new thoughts and perspectives, is one of my favorite things to do.

I met a lot of people at BlogHer, and I wish I could have spent more time talking with each of them.  One of the biggest gifts of attending was walking away with new connections.

On my blogroll (to the right) I link to my daily reads.   I wanted to take a minute to introduce you to some new people - talented, warm, lovely women.   Take a moment to check them out, you won't be disappointed:

Alex, from Late Enough
Sarah and Jen from Momalom
Laura from The Hollywood Housewife
Jessica from The Mom Creative
Cheryl from Mommypants
Lora from A Fever (words) and The Urbanity (photos)
Christine from Coffees and Commutes
Kim from Prairie Mama
Kristen from Rage Against the Minivan
Esther from She Posts
Kalisa from The One In Heels
Lisa from Smacksy
Ann from Ann's Rants
Lindsey from A Design So Vast

And I have a question - what are your favorite blogs, and why?    I'm always looking for new worlds to explore.

The Next Right Thing - Tutus for Tanner

When I stepped off the train platform after six days away, Greta rushed up to me and encircled her arms around my waist.   She knew all about my trip, all the new things I was doing in New York.

The first thing she said to me was, "Mom?  Did you meet Tanner?"

Two months before I left, I had told her the story of Tanner, the eight year old boy who is dying of Duchenne's Muscular Dystrophy.   I explained that I was participating in the Tutus for Tanner 5k to raise money to help Tanner get his biggest wish:  to be able to live at home as his disease progresses to the point where he needs full time care.

Tanner's Aunt, Catherine, who blogs over at Her Bad Mother, explains his situation: 

"Tanner’s Biggest Wish is not really a wish that he has made for himself, because, well, he doesn’t know that it’s something he should wish for. Nor should he ever know, because this wish – that he be able to live out the time that he has left at home – is one that shouldn’t even fall into the category of wishes. That he faces not being able to live the rest of his very short life at home, with his mom and his family, surrounded by love, is something that just should not be.

But it is. My sister is a single working mom, and as Tanner grows bigger while his muscles continue to deteriorate, she is less and less able to do simple things like lift him in and out of bed and monitor him throughout the night and although she has some caregiving assistance, she is, soon, going to need that assistance around the clock, and her home is simply not equipped for that. And if it remains unequipped for that, Tanner will have to leave home, to be cared for somewhere where all of his physical needs can be met. Somewhere without his mom. And I just can’t let that happen.

Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, the disease that is killing Tanner, won’t be cured in his lifetime. But it might be cured in another boy’s lifetime. And there are other children out there who live their lives on an abbreviated clock, and other families who wrestle with the hourglass, counting the sands of time as they fall too quickly, and maybe – maybe, maybe, I hope – sharing Tanner’s story, and fighting for this cause, will serve some good."

When Heather told me about the 5k run I jumped at the chance.  At that point, I didn't know Tanner's story, but I loved the idea of running through Central Park in a Tutu.    After we spoke, I went to Catherine's blog and learned Tanner's story.

Heather and I stumbled into the lobby of the hotel at 6:30am last Friday morning, adorned in our Tutus.

The first thing I saw, which I wasn't expecting, was Tanner smiling away in his wheelchair, surrounded by women and men in Tutus, like a ring of Fairy Godparents.    His eyes were shining with joy.   

As we set off on the 5k, I thought about what this trip to New York was like for Tanner and his family.   How they were experiencing all of this for the first, and possibly last, time together.    I thought about what it would be like to know you are dying, to know you are losing a child.   How each moment together is precious, and how hard it is to remember that until you are faced with hardship like Tanner's.

As we walked through the early morning mist in Central Park, I saw the world with new eyes.   What would it be like, experiencing all these amazing new things, meeting all these incredible new people, all the while knowing your days were numbered?     Underneath the sadness - because it is incredibly sad - I felt an undercurrent of joy, of hope.    Bearing witness to people coming together to help an eight year old boy achieve his biggest wish was, in a word, beautiful.  

So when Greta asked me if I met Tanner, I told her yes.    "Is he going to be okay?"  she wanted to know.  

"He has a disease that can't be cured," I said, and her face fell.  "But we are all working together to help, to raise money and awareness, so that maybe someday in the future another child with this disease will have the right medicine."

She thought a moment.  "I'm glad you did the Tutu run, Mom," she said.   "I'm glad you helped.  It's important."

It is important.    Tanner's story is one of hope.    He is lit from within, this eight year old boy.   I take a piece of his light with me, now.    I try to look at the world through his eyes, to hang on to moments like gems.  

Catherine again:

"So here’s the thing: my husband and I are going to renovate her basement so that she can get a government-funded live-in care aide (well, my husband is, because he knows how to do that stuff. I’ll lift tools and carry drywall and yell words of encouragement and hold a Flip camera and blog. While wearing a tutu,* of course.) And we’ll get whomever we can to help, and it will be like a barn-raising, except not a barn but a basement, and it will make it possible, this thing that is so necessary, this thing that breaks my heart into a million pieces to even say – that Tanner die at home. But we can’t do it alone – this kind of thing is expensive – and so we need some support. We can put all of the time and energy that we have toward this, but we also need to fund materials and expert help for those things that need expert help (plumbing, electrics) and do all the things that a very, very modest and limited version of Extreme Home Makeover would do (yes, I e-mailed them; no, I did not hear back), well enough that they’d pass a Holmes Inspection, and that requires money, and so I am asking (which is really, really hard, but that’s another, possibly irrelevant, story). I’m asking.

You can read the whole story, with links to more information, here. 

My heart soars to see that Tanner's Biggest Wish will come true - so far over $29,000 has been raised - 117% of their original goal.  Every amount over their goal will go towards the Muscular Dystrophy Canada and Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy.   Let's find a cure.  You can donate through the widget below:





If you can't donate, that's okay.   Please do the next best thing: take a piece of Tanner's light with you, too.   Slow down, take it all in.    Hug your family.   Cherish the moments you have together in this crazy life, because they are gems.

Coming Out of The Dark

Addiction lives in the dark.

It thrives in the isolation of feeling broken, damaged, less-than.   It takes root in the fear of hoarding a deep, dark secret, and blooms in the terror of that secret being discovered.   Not simply because people would know you struggle with alcohol, but because people would know you struggle with life.

Alcohol created a barrier between me and my emotions, an impenetrable force field.    It made it so I didn't have to feel the bad stuff; I could drink and manufacture the feelings I wanted.    Until, of course, I passed that maudlin point of no return, where emotions went on a steroidal rampage.   I could think about a long dead pet or an ex-boyfriend and sob on someone's shoulder for hours, thinking I was making a real connection.    I didn't know the difference between real pain and alcohol induced pain any more than I understood real joy, or real peace.

I didn't know the first thing about how to make a genuine connection.  Unless, of course, I had been drinking.    Then everyone was my best friend.    When I wasn't drinking I didn't know how to be vulnerable, scared, joyous or silly - I just didn't know how to lose control like that.   Cocooned by a self-centered fear of rejection, I stayed with safer emotions, like friendly, happy, funny or pleased.

Even in sobriety, my greatest gift and biggest challenge has been learning how to be real.   To allow vulnerability, silliness, fear, joy or anger to bubble to the surface unedited.

~~~~~~~

I first noticed Heather when I read her blog post admitting she was an alcoholic, and that she was getting sober.   Her honesty and bravery struck me immediately, as did her gorgeous writing.   I commented on her blog, she commented on mine, and a tiny pilot light of kinship flared to life.   We began emailing, sharing our struggles and fears.      Her courage inspired me, her friendship gave me warmth.   We spoke on the phone, whispering into the late hours of the night.    By the time we agreed to room together at BlogHer in New York, I felt like I had known her for years.  

Getting to know Heather led me to Maggie and Corinne, two more brave women coming forward, stepping into the light and away from the darkness and isolation of addiction.   

I couldn't wait to meet them in person at BlogHer, to finally wrap my arms around these women who shared this sobriety journey with me.

~~~~

As I waited in the hotel room for Heather to arrive, I didn't feel nervous.   I didn't wonder whether or not she'd like me, or if we'd get along.     When she stepped out of the cab, smiling gratefully to finally be at her destination, we hugged.   It felt like seeing an old friend after years apart.   We immediatly fell into an easy rapport, chatting, joking, laughing.    Oh, the laughing.

We had late-night talks that swerved effortlessly from the profound to the ridiculous.   Deep belly laughs, snorting and gasping like a couple of tween girls.   I haven't laughed like that for years.    A no-holds-barred giggling, tears streaming down my face.   What we were laughing about doesn't matter, wouldn't make sense if I tried to explain it.     It was silliness of the highest order.   I felt something I thought I may have lost forever: the ability to lose myself in laughter.       

I remember a lot of laughing when I was drinking, a lurching, self-amused type of humor that required everyone around me to be equally lubricated.    A desperate attention-seeking kind of laughter, usually at my own expense and never as funny as I thought.  

And there we were, sober, buckled over, giggling.  Happy.  Free.

~~~~

It was inevitable, I suppose.   The crazy pace of New York, the newness of it all, the networking and small talking finally caught up to me on Friday night.    Rushing from event to event with barely time to eat had left me shaky, hungry and exhausted.   It was close to 9pm and I was spent.   Heather, Corinne and I found ourselves standing in the main Ballroom, throbbing music and flashing lights pulsing around us, the line at the bar twelve deep as party-goers lined up to lubricate themselves.

It was all too much, and we fled.

We ended up in the Serenity Suite, a room set up for people who needed to get away from the crazy pace.   Maggie was already there, and we all sat together in the darkened room.    

It came upon me like a tidal wave - all the emotions I usually keep carefully tucked away came flooding out.   I started to cry, and I couldn't stop.    Sitting there with these women who were strangers 12 months ago, virtual friends for the past 6 months, I felt kinship and understanding because we know.  We know what the darkness and isolation of addiction feels like.  We know how hard it is to navigate the perilous waters of life sober, unanesthetized.    We know what it's like to feel, unedited, all the roiling emotions brought to the surface by the small talk, the parties, the constantly being on, the drinking.

What a gift it was, to let go.   To fall into the comforting arms of my sober sisters and sob.   I'm coming up on three years sober, and I hadn't cried in front of anyone except my husband.   Not even at a meeting.   That urge to control myself, to hold back, always stopped me.    Until then.   

I could look into their eyes and see love and understanding.  I was safe.  It felt like coming home.

~~~~

Saturday night I found myself in the same ballroom, with the same pulsing music and flashing lights.   I froze in place, felt the panic monkey stirring in my brain.   Maggie quietly tapped my shoulder and said, "let's take a walk around for a bit."

Twenty minutes later she's pulling me out onto the dance floor.   I wanted to politely decline.   I wanted to explain that I hadn't danced sober, that I wasn't sure I could.   But I didn't.    Kayne West's Gold Digger came on, and I began shuffling my feet, looking around nervously.    I saw Maggie's big grin, clutching her club soda and cranberry in one hand and her purse in the other, bopping her head to the music.  I noticed that we were actually part of a little circle of dancers, and that one of them was Kalisa, a sober blogger I had met only a couple of days ago, and she was dancing her heart out.    A little further away I caught the eye of another sober blogger, who remains anonymous, and she winked at me.  

I felt the fear and doubt drop away like a stone. 

Before I knew it I was dancing - not just your average shuffle your feet back and forth and move your head a little dancing - but an all-out, arm flinging, hair tossing, pelvic sort of dancing.   I was shouting out the lyrics, grinding down to the floor, laughing.     

I danced. 

~~~~

Addiction lives in the dark.  

Together we bring the light.   The light of the truth, the gift of being real, the blessing of being free.   We bring laughter, companionship and understanding.    We break down the wall of lies, of denial and fear.   Together, my sober sisters, we can do anything.

I drank for years trying to find a fraction of the joy, peace and kinship I have found in sobriety.   It was right here all the time, I just had to let go, surrender, to find it.

The Company You Keep

This is not the post I set out to write.

I'm home from NYC - a whirlwind trip full of new experiences, capped off by attending BlogHer, an annual conference of bloggers, most of them women.   I went there knowing about five out of approximately 3,000 attendees.  

I spent the past four days carefully crafting a post about my impressions of the conference.   Ordinarily I write and publish a post in a few hours.  This time, though, I sat down each night to review and edit, honing my observations and opinions down to a fine point.

I re-read it again last night, and it hit me:   I got it wrong.   

There was a lot about the conference that overwhelmed me.   I knew there would be networking, pressing of flesh and small talk.   What I didn't expect was the cut-throat social hierarchy, the emphasis on who do you know instead of what do you write about.     The blogosphere contains its own version of abbreviated celebrity, popular bloggers with huge followings who moved through the conference like royalty.   

It is darkly alluring, this form of celebrity.    The gravitational pull around the popular bloggers was impossible to ignore.     It all made me feel very small.  

Arriving at the conference I didn't care about how many Twitter followers I had or how many people read my blog.    I naively thought that most bloggers write to build a community, to be change agents for something they are passionate about.     By the end of the first day, though, as I stood on the periphery and observed, it seemed like one giant popularity contest.     I morphed into the tall, awkward 13 year old girl who was fearful of being picked last for the kickball team.   

It occurred to me, then, that writers write to be read.   Many bloggers, it appeared, write to be seen.

It was enough to make a girl want to fold up shop.   I felt so tiny, so insignificant.   I introduced myself to people and watched the realization dawn in their eyes that they don't know me, I'm not influential, I can't do anything to further their popularity.   They would politely hand me their blogging card and move on.

It made me angry.

So I spent four days writing and re-writing a post that highlighted the worst of it all - the dark underbelly of blogging.    It was a good post, if I do say so myself.   A poignant essay about the worst of the worst.   I was drawn to negativity like a moth to a flame, letting my anger and resentment towards these people consume me.

It's not even close to the real story, though.

I realized last night that I'm leaving BlogHer not chock full of resentment and anger, but full of validation and love.    The connections I made with the people I knew going in took root and blossomed.   I made new connections with people whose talent astounds me, whose grounded approach to blogging inspires me.   I leave there with a renewed sense of purpose, of hope.

Away from all the craziness, all the networking, I realize I know why I'm here.    I don't want to be the bright spotlight in the center of it all.     I want to be a warm campfire, a quiet place for people to find each other, share joys and struggles, swap stories.   A place of comfort, laughter and peace.

I believe people create their own light, their own warmth.    It comes from within, not from the admiration of thousands.   
 
Insecurity and negativity were tethered to me, like an overflowing bag of garbage.    I was hauling the heavy bag around resentfully, unable to let it go.     Last night, thinking through everything, I mentally dropped the tether, turned my back and walked away.    

There will be more to come on the trip:  the 5k for Tutus for Tanner, the hysterical laughter, the power of being in the middle of the crazy with my sober sisters, how we propped each other up, cheered each other on, what it felt like to be at this conference sober.

How meeting my friends in person felt like coming home.

For now, though, I'm turning these memories over and over in my head, savoring each and every one of them.    I'm grateful - so, so grateful - to have met these amazing, strong, inspiring women.    And to call them friends.

Tutus for Tanner 5k in Central Park

5k Tutus for Tanner with Heather

Maggie and Heather

With Corinne at Rockefeller Center

Heather, Corinne and Me

Out of My Mind

I haven't traveled alone for almost eight years.    

This morning, it was hard for to me believe I was once a seasoned business traveler, with all the right suitcases and systems.   That was me rushing through airports and train stations like I lived there, I know it was, but that woman feels like a stranger to me now.

As my husband deposited me at a local train stop for the commuter rail into Boston, where I would catch the connection to New York, my stomach brimmed with butterflies.    Feigning a confidence I didn't feel, I stood on the platform with one hip jutted out, looking bored, while I waited for the train.   Inside I was a roiling mess.

When I stepped off the commuter rail and into Boston's South Station, I looked around helplessly.   This isn't going to work, I thought.   I didn't know any of the systems - can I bring two huge bags on the train?   Where do I get my electronic ticket?    I couldn't find my train's platform, the bags were heavy, cumbersome, and made me feel like a walking target.   

A man noticed my pained expression and helped me with my bags, gave me the inside scoop on the Acela - sit in the Quiet Car, board early to put your bags on the big shelves by the door, sit near the window so you have a plug for your laptop.      I could barely look him in the face.   I felt like an idiot.

As the train pulled out of the station, my stomach lurched with nervous energy.   I was convinced I was on the wrong train, that I would end up in Washington D.C or Chicago.    I sat and awfulized for a full ten minutes, working myself into a nervous sweat.   How on earth did I do this for so many years, I pondered. 

Oh yeah.  I drank.

So what do you do now that you don't drink, I thought.   

Oh yeah.  I pray.

As the train clacked along the tracks, I closed my eyes, folded my hands, and prayed.   I didn't pray to a specific God found in any popular religion.   I prayed to the energies that flow through us all, kind of like a Divine Spirit, if I have to give it a name.   I prayed to get up and away from myself.    I prayed to find solace outside my mind.

Help me find enthusiasm for this amazing day, this incredible trip.   Help me get out of my fears, my insecurities.   Help me be present in the beauty of new experiences.  Please, please help me be grateful.

I took some deep breaths, and I waited.   Little by little my muscles relaxed, my jaw unclenched.   I looked out the window at the passing countryside, marveling at the open space.    

I slipped on my ear buds and listened to a guided meditation on my iPod.   The gently rocking train, the sunlight splashing through the window and the soothing tones of the meditation lulled me into a state of pure bliss.

When I stepped off the train at Penn Station in NYC, it felt like the entire world was on fast forward.  People rushed by, yelling into cell phones, trotting off to their next thing.   I stood still and took it all in.    I waited for the pulse of fear that I didn't know the systems here, couldn't even find the exit to the street.    It didn't come.

I walked, buoyed along by the crowds.    Snatches of conversations floated my way:  you want this big wedding, but where are ya going to get all this money?  and from someone else:  I don't care what you think you said, that's not what I heard.  This is all your fault.    Like something from a movie cliche, an old man wearing a sandwich board bumped my elbow, ranting about the end of days.

Eventually the crowd tumbled out onto the sidewalk, and I hefted my bag onto my shoulder and simply walked.   After a couple of blocks I found an available taxi and rattled off the address to the hotel.  I didn't feign a bored, disinterested expression to mask fear.   I peered openly out at the world rushing by.    I felt vibrant and alive.

The hotel is a quirky building, full of steep staircases, burnished wood and doors tucked into every available nook.   I dropped my bags in my room and stood there for a moment, debating.    Before, when traveling on business, I tucked into my hotel room with room service and a few drinks from the mini-bar.   That was how I used to keep the fear of the unfamiliar at bay.  I hid.

I put on some comfortable shoes, threw my purse over my shoulder, walked out the front door and turned left.   Just to see what I would see.    I walked and walked, covering almost sixteen blocks down 5th Avenue.    I shopped a little, but mostly I absorbed all the unfamiliar like a sponge.   I marveled at all the people - I wanted to stop and ask them who they are, where they are from, what they are doing here.    I slipped seamlessly into the sea of humanity and just watched. 

Now I'm back in my hotel room, tired but content.   Fresh coffee sits next to me; its aroma surrounds me like a blanket.    The sun is setting slowly outside my window, but I don't feel fear.    I realize I didn't need to be afraid of traveling alone, because I wasn't alone once the whole day. 

What I feel tonight is gratitude.   I'm grateful to be out of my head, at least for now.  I'm grateful to be sober and free - free from fear, and not because I'm hiding from it in a drink.    Free from fear because I spent the afternoon just being.  
 

Firsts

Okay, I'll admit it:  I'm nervous.

Not curl-up-in-a-ball nervous, but an excited jittery kind of nervous.   Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for NYC on what I'm now thinking of as my Get-Ellie-Out-Of-Her-Comfort-Zone Adventure.

What started earlier this year as trip to attend BlogHer, an annual conference of bloggesses, has ballooned into a whirlwind of firsts for me.

Attending the conference is a big deal for me.     I'm not a big traveler, and getting myself safely to New York, in a hotel, rooming with three other fabulous bloggers, already feels like a lot.    I have run-of-the-mill anxiety:  will they like me?   will I make an idiot out of myself?  what if I find myself standing in a corner with nobody to talk to?     Add to this the uncertainty of navigating these small-talky waters sober, and I find myself wringing my hands a bit, wondering how it will all go.

Then my amazing friend Heather (and one of my roommates) got me to sign on to the BlogHer 5k.  In a Tutu.     I'm not a runner.   I have been working out, so I'm not in the worst shape of my life, but running is something I try to avoid when possible.    The lure of tackling this challenge was too great, though.   I'll be almost 50 lbs lighter by then, it's for a good cause, and it's a terrific ice breaker.   I'm willing to bet I'll never get the opportunity to run through Central Park in a Tutu again.    So I'm going for it.

Then last week I was contacted by a local friend who told me about a discussion hosted by Liberty Mutual's Responsibility Project, one of BlogHer's sponsors, who is filming a Roundtable conversation about Celebrity Hero Worship.    I was intrigued, and had a 'casting call' phone conversation with one of the producers, and ultimately was chosen to be on the panel.   I don't know much more about it than that - other than I now have to be in Brooklyn, NY very early in the morning on Wednesday, do my own hair and make-up, and dress "business casual".    I'm just jumping in with both feet, not knowing all that much about it, because it's a topic that interests me and it seems like a great experience.   

And then the fabulous Heather told me about an opportunity to attend a Broadway show on Wednesday night.  Of course I can't say no to that.   Again - I don't have most of the details, other than I'll be seeing West Side Story (how cool is that?) and meeting other amazing bloggers (man, these women are talented.  See? I'm feeling insecure).

So instead of going to NYC Thursday, I'm leaving tomorrow morning, staying by myself at a hotel tomorrow night, going to Brooklyn first thing on Wednesday to be filmed in this roundtable discussion, going to a Broadway Show Wednesday night, heading to the hotel for the conference on Thursday, running a 5k in a Tutu on Friday morning, and then attending the conference for two days.

Whew.

And where are my children throughout all this?  They are happily attending day camp and staying with my parents in NH.   I dropped them off this morning for their first day of camp - oh, they were so brave - before heading back home to get ready.     I drove away from them with a lump in my throat.   I won't see them again until Sunday.  That's six days from now.  I know they are happy, I know they will have fun, but it was hard to leave them.  

I could see in Greta's face this morning that she was nervous.   She kept asking me how many days she would be there, when she would see me again, whether or not she would know any kids there (other than her cousin, who is there with her).     As I kissed her good-bye, I saw tears brimming in her eyes.   She swallowed hard, flashed me a smile, choked "see you Sunday!", and dashed into the camp's activity room before either of us could cry.   Finn was nervous, too, but he said this about it:  "I know I'll feel shy at first, but after a couple of hours I'll get used to it."

If they can be brave, I can be brave.   I don't know how it will all unfold, of course, but I know I'm in for an adventure of a lifetime.

So if you're in New York, in central park, around 6:45am on Friday morning, look for this:

I'll be the one jogging by, muttering to myself  "In a couple of hours I'll get used to it...."

P.S. - Thanks to my Mom, who made the Tutu.   She just waltzes into a fabric store, grabs a little of this and a little of that, and comes up with the best ideas, right on the spot.  Maybe I got my spontaneity from her?   It's perfect:

P.P.S - As you can see from this post, I'm in need of some Serenity.    Thankfully, the Serenity Suite is open for business throughout the conference, just for this purpose.   If you're going to BlogHer and you want to kick up your heels, relax, get away from the crazy, stop on by Room 4307.     I'll be here these times, if you want to come prop a girl up:

Friday: 2:30- 3pm (with Heather)

           6:30 -7pm (with Kalisa)

           9pm (with Heather)

Saturday:  6-7pm (with Heather)

                8:30pm (with Christine)

As you can see from the schedule Heather has figured out that I'm going to be following her around like a tall, awkward shadow for most of BlogHer.    She doesn't know it yet, but I'll probably stalk her on Thursday night, too, so if you're there early and want to come meet some cool people, the Serenity Suite will be open on Thursday as well.

Monthly Giveaway - New item!

Congratulations to Meg, who won last month's giveaway!    Thanks to everyone who entered!

This month's giveaway will be a gift certificate for any two pairs of earrings!    To view all the earrings currently listed in my shop, click here.     Here are some of my favorites:

To enter the giveaway, just leave a comment below and please provide your email address so I can contact you if you are the winner.   If you would prefer to send me an email directly, you can do so at:  ellieandsteve@verizon.net.

The winner will be chosen at random (my daughter picks a name from a hat) on September 1st!

This giveaway is open internationally.

Thanks so much!