The first word my daughter ever said was “ball.” The first word my daughter ever said, with prompting from Mommy, was “ball”.

She had the Mama, Dada and Wow words down pat. So, I started asking her to say whatever popped into my mind. Say doggie, say kitty, say Cuisanart, the list went on. But one afternoon, I asked, “Can you say ball?” And suddenly she did.

This feat was immediately followed by a shower of celebratory hugs and kisses. What I took away from this moment was that she was learning. What she took away from it was ball = hugs and kisses. Now, whenever she wants affection from me, my husband or any of our family members, she says the word. It doesn’t matter where we are, in the privacy of our home or the middle of the grocery store. I’m not sure which is crazier that she says it or that we respond – no matter where we are. To an outsider it must be hilarious to watch a little girl say, “Ball” and then a person or two run after her yelling, “I’m gonna give you kisses!”

My favorite thing is when she uses it after she’s done something wrong. She dumps a plate of fruit and cereal on the floor and immediately looks at me and says, “Ball.” Ah, if only life worked that way. Wouldn’t it be great it if you could screw up and then say a word to try to erase it all?

I started to wonder what word I would chose as my affection code word.  Ronkonkoma. I would say, “Ronkonkoma” because for absolutely no reason, I’ve always loved saying that word; I like the way it tumbles around inside my mouth. I would only share it with one or two people like my husband or cousin, people who wouldn’t mind looking downright insane tackling me with kisses and hugs. No PDA fear here. And I would want to say it at the craziest time like in the middle of my husband’s holiday work party or in the middle of a dinner with friends. I picture it going something like this:

“I heard the most interesting tip about bananas today,” a co-worker would say to my husband.

“Really, what was it?” he would ask.

“Ronkonkoma,” I’d say in a normal voice.

Suddenly he would tackle me, my head thrown back, wildly laughing while he covered me in kisses. It would be a commotion and then, just as quickly as it started, it would stop. Without any explanation, and acting as though nothing had happened, we would resume our former positions.

“So, the banana tip?” my husband would say to his speechless coworker.

What would your word be? Who would you want to say it too and what kind of hullabaloo would you like to cause?
 

Photo by Natasha Reilly

As I watched this relaxed penguin enjoying a food coma at the zoo, I could not help but wonder, if I were given a choice, what sea creature would I want to be and where would I want to live. While it would be nice to have room service, aka feedings at the zoo, I fear I may be bored with the same routine day after day. If I were a wounded creature living in a rescue facility, that would be a whole different situation. Then I would happily live in one place hanging out with the same crew day in and day out because I’d probably just be psyched to be alive.

However, I think I would either like to be a dolphin or a turtle. I know vastly different right? But I dig them both. The dolphin’s ability to use echolocation and swim with incredible speed is a huge draw. Yet, the turtle has a cool shell and lives a laid back life I could seriously enjoy. Maybe I would be some cool looking new creature called a turtlolphin.

My husband just decided he could never be a fish because they all get eaten. He’s contemplating the condor.

When you visit the zoo, what animal do you rush to see first? If you could work with any type of wildlife what would it be? AND if you could be any animal that lives on land, in the sea or both, what would you be? And where would you live?

Photo by Natasha Reilly

Although I am a city kid, my life makes the most sense to me when I am at the ocean. I have a million ocean stories ranging from discovering the beauty of starfish and coral to diving through waves with friends. However, my favorite beach story from now on will be the day my husband and I took my daughter to the ocean for the first time.

As we walked up the ramp to the boardwalk, she babbled away, as usual these days, trying her hardest to talk. But when she saw the stretch of beach extending a warm hand to the cool, blue ocean, she was rendered speechless. We crossed the boardwalk filled with people strolling along, the pressures of the workweek long forgotten, and descended the ramp to the sand. Small, excited screams escaped from her lips and one hand was extended toward the ocean, one tiny finger pointing forward; I imagined her yelling, “Charge!” When we finally reached the shoreline, she wrapped her arms tight around my neck and, filled with a mixture of fear and excitement, she squealed. She wanted to jump into the unknown and, at the same time, she wanted the safety of knowing I was there. I sang and danced while slowly lowering her to the sand. Holding my hand, she let the water tickle her toes before rising up around her ankles. She tried to hold her balance but the sand was whisked out from under her and she fell backward with a splash. Yet, there were no tears; instead, there was a resolve to get back up and do it again. A few moments later, she let go of my hand, ready to brave the waves herself.

Although several knocked her down she got right back up waiting for what was to come next. And then, the wave came that did not rattle her; she stood tall. There was a new bounce in her step. Her ability to remain standing despite a shifting floor, gave her wings, new wings, larger than the ones she found when she first learned to crawl and then walk. With such determination, I believe she could have touched the setting sun if she tried.

At one point, she held the hands of her father, leaning against his legs and watched the oncoming waves, letting them sway her, a look of wonder and respect on her face. I held out a seashell, it was the first she’d ever seen and surprisingly, she did not try to eat it. Instead she cradled it in her hands, the light and dark purple colors on the tips of the shell sticking out between her thumb and forefinger, and began to dance, stomping the sand beneath her feet.

My favorite moment was when she ran toward the ocean, chasing after her new friend and waving. Isn’t that how we feel when those we love come to play? We laugh and dance and throw ourselves into the moment.

As I watched my daughter, my heart felt exceptionally full. She fell in love for the first time, well, at least for the first time since she fell in love with her Dora doll. After seeing it through her eyes, I, too, fell in love all over again.

The ocean has always filled me with hope. When my world feels too small, the ocean reminds me just how large the planet truly is; it gives me perspective. Everyday we wake to an unknown. We give ourselves the false idea that we know or we control what our day will hold but we don’t. We never know what’s around the next corner, much like the ocean. Its secrets hidden amid its depths and mysteries lying beyond the crest of each wave, remind me how unexpected, beautiful, frightening and humbling this life is; it is to be treasured and loved. My daughter has just discovered this love; I am so honored to have been there to witness its birth in her.

Do you love the ocean? Do you have a favorite ocean tale? Has anyone helped you to fall in love with something all over again?

 You did it!!!

Our experiment was a success! You have won my heart. Today, Friday, June 6th, 2008, CreativeNachos has its first short story written in cyberspace by a group of people, most of whom don’t know each other. I’m so proud of you for making this a reality.

You have inspired me to create. You’ve shown me that anything we can dream, we can bring to life. Your willingness to share, to unleash your imaginations on this playground is something I treasure. The fact that you all found a way to work together to see it through to the end is amazing.

Now, CreativeNachos proudly presents, It’s All Invented, a tale written by Bridget, Scott, Judy, Danielle, Rowena, Chris, Nicole, Claire and Lorrie.

Please feel free to share your reactions, thoughts, observations, and celebratory remarks in the comments section at the end of the story. Let us know how you liked the ending. Enjoy!

It’s All Invented

A Short Story written by Bridget, Scott, Judy, Danielle, Rowena, Chris, Nicole, Claire and Lorrie

   Lisa’s life was unraveling. On the one day that every single minute counted, Steve was already a half hour late. As she strode back and forth across the office floor, panic settled upon her. For a split second she thought of jumping out the window, hoping in her car and driving away. The thought held such appeal that she raced to window; that’s when she saw him.  Two stories below, Steve paced back and forth on a small patch of grass that separated parking spots, like a tiger trapped by water. Dressed only in boxers and a pair of black socks, he waved his hands in the air and muttered to himself like a mad man.

   In that moment, Lisa almost felt sad for Steve.  Of course, she was furious with him but he was a decent guy and knowing his history, the two years spent in the nudist colony after college, and recent loneliness, there was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel sad.  It had only been six months since leaving the colony and he was still adjusting to “life on the outside.” The fact was she couldn’t really understand why the basic concept of putting some clothes on before going out in public continued to escape his mind. More importantly she couldn’t understand how this man had become such an important part of her daily thoughts, of her life.

   Actually, it was her brother’s fault. When she admitted to him that she’d been working on an invention, she’d expected that others in the world might be thinking about the same thing but she never imagined he’d know someone who was building the exact same thing. His suggestion that she and Steve meet to discuss it had initially enraged her. For once in her life, she’d wanted something she could lay claim to, something she could call her own. She was willing to offer him money to stop building it when she met him. Granted it was money she did not yet have as she had sunk everything into this idea but she was desperate. However as they talked, she realized that he had answers to her obstacles and she had thought of things he hadn’t yet. It occurred to her then that they might be more effective together than separate.

   That night brought tears to her eyes. She’d been intoxicated by their ideas, by him, and by the endless drinks she consumed. It was as though they were celebrating a victory they had yet to attain. It continued at her house where their clothes evaporated as they walked through the door. As she watched him, she cursed that night.

   Now, weeks later, she knew that the pregnancy test she’d been carrying around for days would be positive; Steve was the father.  She feared that her unborn baby would suffer the same illness as Steve; a disease that caused one to crave nudist colonies and sleep with married men or women depending upon the baby’s sex.  There would be no way to hide this from her husband who was due back in a week.

  As she watched him, a funny thought occurred to her. Too often she’d wish she had become a school teacher like her mom but in this moment, she wished she’d been a therapist. She pictured Steve, a client, coming to her for years with the same problems. She’d try to help him but she imagined him making little progress, showing up late and half naked time and again.  Colleagues would take bets on when he would forget the boxers.  Steve’s never-ending case combined with the mundane normalcy of her life helping her kids with their homework, cooking dinner for her often absent husband and writing her seemingly endless case notes would cause her to lose it one day as Steve entered her office. “You really AREN’T too sexy for your shirt, Steve!” she shouted out loud. A moment later, she heard someone behind her clear their throat. Mortified that she’d screamed out loud while alone in her office, she slowly turned.

   Caroline walked in the door. 

   “Hey, Lisa,” she said, pointing back over her shoulder.  “Did you know that guy who’s always panting around you is out in the parking lot waiting for the men in the white suits?”

   Lisa thought about explaining that he was really her brother’s friend who was crashing on her couch. She wanted to tell Caroline that she just remembered how she’d forgotten to flip the laundry in her haste this morning. All of Steve’ clothes remained in the washer as she rushed out the door leaving him asleep on the couch. She wanted to say that she hoped the power had gone out and that he had not woken wishing to start a clothing revolution. 

   Instead, all Lisa could say was, “I know.”  As she thought about the big interview, the one where they would promote their invention, she said, “I think I’ve made a big mistake.”

***

   As Steve paced back and forth uttering words of gibberish, the thoughts of having sex with Lisa wouldn’t leave his head. Yesterday, Steve would have said it was the best sex he’d ever had but now, the thought was horrifying. Early this morning, Steve received a phone call from his father telling him that he had wonderful news. As his father babbled on about some woman he met at an office retreat 27 years ago, Steve was trying to get dressed so he can go and meet the woman of his dreams. Then his father dropped the bomb. He said “Steve, you have a sister”.

   As the worst words Steve had ever heard replayed in his mind he couldn’t help but feel nauseous. He continued muttering to himself.

   “I mean ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? I spend all of these years in a nudist colony having random sex with hundreds of women and even some men without repercussion or even incident and its when I re-join the real world, start working towards a capitalist goal and find a woman who makes it all worth it that I become the star of the world’s worst Jerry Springer show?? How could this happen? What will I tell Lisa?”

   Lisa…saying her name out loud now brought Steve back to that night. To the many times he proclaimed her name in ecstasy.

   “Stop!” “Are you crazy? She is your SISTER! You will NEVER say her name out loud again!”

   The office parking lot was beginning to fill and as Steve’s voice started getting louder, he drew more and more attention.

   “Ohhhh, if you only knew, you smug drones! You have no idea!”

   For the first time, Steve felt jealous of the boring lives of these drones. They wake up, take out their business uniforms, stop by Starbucks for overpriced coffee and have a day just like the day before. What Steve would give for such monotony today. Who needs this type of excitement? Just as these thoughts passed through his head, he saw Lisa’s blonde hair shining through the front door of the building.

   “Oh GOD, she’s coming!” Steve was shaking.

    He wanted to run. Instead, he leaned over to straighten his left sock. Then he slowly stood, and met her eyes. Her glance flickered for an instant as she noticed the remote control in his hand.

   “We Must Begin Again,” he said, as his finger depressed the button and everything went white.

Lisa’s life was unraveling. On the one day that every single minute counted, Steve was already a half hour late. As she strode back and forth across the office floor, panic settled upon her. For a split second she thought of jumping out the window, hoping in her car and driving away. The thought held such appeal that she raced to window; that’s when she saw him.  Two stories below, Steve paced back and forth on a small patch of grass that separated parking spots, like a tiger trapped by water. Dressed only in boxers and a pair of black socks, he waved his hands in the air and muttered to himself like a mad man.

In that moment, Lisa almost felt sad for Steve.  Of course, she was furious with him but he was a decent guy and knowing his history, the two years spent in the nudist colony after college, and recent loneliness, there was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel sad.  It had only been six months since leaving the colony and he was still adjusting to “life on the outside.” The fact was she couldn’t really understand why the basic concept of putting some clothes on before going out in public continued to escape his mind. More importantly she couldn’t understand how this man had become such an important part of her daily thoughts, of her life.

Actually, it was her brother’s fault. When she admitted to him that she’d been working on an invention, she’d expected that others in the world might be thinking about the same thing but she never imagined he’d know someone who was building the exact same thing. His suggestion that she and Steve meet to discuss it had initially enraged her. For once in her life, she’d wanted something she could lay claim to, something she could call her own. She was willing to offer him money to stop building it when she met him. Granted it was money she did not yet have as she had sunk everything into this idea but she was desperate. However as they talked, she realized that he had answers to her obstacles and she had thought of things he hadn’t yet. It occurred to her then that they might be more effective together than separate.

That night brought tears to her eyes. She’d been intoxicated by their ideas, by him, and by the endless drinks she consumed. It was as though they were celebrating a victory they had yet to attain. It continued at her house where their clothes evaporated as they walked through the door. As she watched him, she cursed that night.

Now, weeks later, she knew that the pregnancy test she’d been carrying around for days would be positive; Steve was the father.  She feared that her unborn baby would suffer the same illness as Steve; a disease that caused one to crave nudist colonies and sleep with married men or women depending upon the baby’s sex.  There would be no way to hide this from her husband who was due back in a week.

As she watched him, a funny thought occurred to her. Too often she’d wish she had become a school teacher like her mom but in this moment, she wished she’d been a therapist. She pictured Steve, a client, coming to her for years with the same problems. She’d try to help him but she imagined him making little progress, showing up late and half naked time and again.  Colleagues would take bets on when he would forget the boxers.  Steve’s never-ending case combined with the mundane normalcy of her life helping her kids with their homework, cooking dinner for her often absent husband and writing her seemingly endless case notes would cause her to lose it one day as Steve entered her office. “You really AREN’T too sexy for your shirt, Steve!” she shouted out loud. A moment later, she heard someone behind her clear their throat. Mortified that she’d screamed out loud while alone in her office, she slowly turned.

Caroline walked in the door. 

“Hey, Lisa,” she said, pointing back over her shoulder.  “Did you know that guy who’s always panting around you is out in the parking lot waiting for the men in the white suits?”

Lisa thought about explaining that he was really her brother’s friend who was crashing on her couch. She wanted to tell Caroline that she just remembered how she’d forgotten to flip the laundry in her haste this morning. All of Steve’ clothes remained in the washer as she rushed out the door leaving him asleep on the couch. She wanted to say that she hoped the power had gone out and that he had not woken wishing to start a clothing revolution. 

Instead, all Lisa could say was, “I know.”  As she thought about the big interview, the one where they would promote their invention, she said, “I think I’ve made a big mistake.”

***

As Steve paced back and forth uttering words of gibberish, the thoughts of having sex with Lisa wouldn’t leave his head. Yesterday, Steve would have said it was the best sex he’d ever had but now, the thought was horrifying. Early this morning, Steve received a phone call from his father telling him that he had wonderful news. As his father babbled on about some woman he met at an office retreat 27 years ago, Steve was trying to get dressed so he can go and meet the woman of his dreams. Then his father dropped the bomb. He said “Steve, you have a sister”.

To be continued…

My husband likes to call me, Bo, after one of the characters in M. Night Shyamalan’s movie, Signs. He has bestowed this nickname upon me as a result of the numerous, unfinished glasses of water I leave all over the house just as Bo did in the film.

Once upon a time, I worked for a newspaper where my co-workers were entertained by the unfinished Pepsi cans I would leave behind me.  They would laugh as they followed can after can, with maybe a sip left, knowing that I would be at the end of that trail.

In the past, I was strictly a novel reading woman but lately, I’ve taken to reading essays and short stories. In fact, I’m currently in the middle of reading about three different books of essays. In doing so, I’ve broken my cardinal rule of reading one book all the way through to the end before beginning another one. What is all this?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a fear of finishing things due to my fear of failure which is equally as big as my fear of success. Time to call the Dr., this Mama’s got a big, ole bag o’ issues.

Don’t get me wrong there are things that I was happy to see come to an end like labor, root canal surgery and the last episode of Seinfeld. Despite my reluctance to see the things I enjoy come to an end, I do understand that most experiences have an expiration date so that new opportunities for growth can happen. I even get my fear of failure and believe most of you can relate. However, my fear of success has been quite puzzling.

For while, I believed that I did not deserve to be successful; that has changed.  Now, I think the fear is born from a worry that when I get to the end of a project, it won’t turn out the way I wanted. Or, to take it to the next level, it will turn out exactly the way I wanted and I will realize that it was not what I wanted at all. Does this make sense to you? Do you ever feel this way?

Regardless of my feelings about success or failure, I know I absolutely have to continue moving forward with all the things I am working on. There have been times when I’ve let fear stop me from accomplishing my goals. I would freeze and my indecision would lead to the decision not to follow through on what I had started.

So, I am going to start to change my behavior. Today, I will finish what I am drinking before I pour a new glass or open a new bottle, especially if it’s alcohol. Hahahaha…I love entertaining myself!

In addition, I will color another section and write another line and keep going. Hopefully I’ll know the end when it approaches and when it does, I’ll cross the finish line.

One Film Gets My Daughter’s Toes’ Wiggling

If the movie, Music and Lyrics, had not been made I fear my daughter may never have eaten. The moment the film begins, the world is filled with sunshine, the smell of roses permeates the air and she happily eats her food. When finished, my daughter gets down from her high chair and dances around. I need to send Hugh Grant, Drew Barrymore and Marc Lawrence, the writer and director, a thank you note.

Her obsession with the film got me to thinking about movies that I love, movies I can watch again and again without getting sick of them. There are films I watch to simply relax and others to re-ignite the fires of my imagination when I’m devoid of creativity. Here are some that make me laugh, others that make me want to move my feet, some that make me cry and finally, those that inspire me.

The Breakfast Club – but truthfully have you ever heard of the term “neo-maxi-zoomed-dweebie” used in any other film?

Sixteen Candles – the interaction between Long Duk Dong (Gedde Watanabe) and Jake (Michael Schoeffling) when Jake is looking for Samantha (Molly Ringwald) STILL makes me laugh when I watch it. And honestly, is there anything better than Jake suddenly appearing at the church and waving to Samantha?

50 First Dates – Hawaii, a penguin in a Hawaiian shirt, an adorable concept – making someone fall in love with you everyday – and 311’s song, Amber, make for a fun viewing experience.

Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – there are at least three different storylines going on at the same time and when they all collide it’s fantastic.

The Usual Suspects – he got me. Writer Christopher McQuarrie (he apparently wrote this at his parent’s kitchen table) completely got me with the ending. I still wonder about the difference between truth and fiction when I watch it. And Keyser Soze – what a name!

Jaws – I have some sort of serious obsession with this film. Oddly, I love everything about it, especially when Police Chief Brody (Roy Scheider), Quint (Robert Shaw) and Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) are sitting on the boat singing.

The Lost Boys – the music and the boys – Jason Patrick and Keifer Sutherland – they made this movie for me.

Before Sunrise & Before Sunset – the conversations between Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy are thought-provoking.

Four Weddings and a Funeral – the characters in this film were a riot. Although I hate Andie McDowell’s line, “Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed” at the end of the film, I like the idea of focusing the film around life’s big moments.

About a Boy – There is a warmth about this film. I like the idea of lonely folks – some who know and acknowledge that their lonely and some who deny it – finding one another and creating a makeshift family.

The Goonies – They’re the Goonies, they’re hilarious. I SO wish I had a friend with tons of gadgets. I would have enjoyed their adventure.

Say Anything – I wanted to date Lloyd (John Cusack)…period, end of story. If he’d held up a radio and played a song outside of my window there is no way I would have turned my back and gone to sleep.

Some Kind of Wonderful – Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson) was amazing…she was just well, kinda wonderful. And I adored the bald-headed guy that Keith (Eric Stoltz) met in detention.

Gross Pointe Blank – the idea of a hitman needing therapy (aside from Tony Soprano) was hilarious.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off – I still want to sing, dance and get a crowd going on a parade float someday!

As Good As It Gets – I ended up wanting that weird looking dog!

What are some of yours?

Recently, I have had a handful of people in my life talk to me about “not talking.” They have spoken of spouses, friends, children, and parents who do not talk or are shutting them out.

I am not an exceptionally good verbal communicator. Strike that. I’m not an exceptionally good verbal communicator when I have to admit that I feel vulnerable or give voice to intense emotions. I was a teenager when a long held secret was revealed to me. My father was not my biological father. It rocked my world. It was a secret kept out of love; a love to protect me till I was old enough to understand the complications that life is famous for. In the end, I grew to love my parents more for the struggle they faced in raising me. And this man who had bandaged my childhood wounds, counted the distance between lightning strikes in order to quell my fears and loved me unconditionally was the man I considered and called father. I still do. I think he’s extraordinary but initially, I didn’t talk about it much; which, as I look back, is surprising given the many issues to be dealt with after this revelation.

At the time, I felt I only had a few words, if any, to share and frankly I didn’t want to burden people with my problems. I wanted to be happy-go-lucky or at least, seem that way. My silence ate away at my insides. And yet there were times when I wanted to say to family members or friends, “I feel horribly alone. I worry that if you turn away from me, I might disappear.” I wanted to say, “Sometimes I ache inside so badly and I need you to hold me even if I say I don’t want a hug and I need you to say I love you even if I behave in a manner that doesn’t deserve it and I need you to tell me that I’ll always be a special part of your life even if you are leaving and I won’t ever see you again.” But I said none of this. Not one word. Instead, I acted out of anger. I would be silent or turn away or lash out at the wrong person because I hadn’t a clue as to how to speak about my feelings. It was actually work to open my mouth and it got to the point that it physically hurt to try to speak when it came to feelings. I would hold everything in and it would build and build and then all people would see were these blow-ups that didn’t appear to make sense. If I’d shared along the way, it would have been clear but instead I acted like things were fine, even when people told me they could see my hurt, until I blew.

As a society obsessed with being “happy”, there are times when people enjoy seeing others screw up. Some folks don’t want to hear a person talk about their pain, they simply want to exploit it. Tabloids talk about this one on drugs or that one getting caught stealing and make fun of, make money off of or pass judgment on these people, forgetting that sometimes people screw up because they hurt. Sometimes people act out because they need someone to throw them a life preserver and don’t know how to ask for it. They continue being self-destructive because they hate a part of themselves so much that they can’t stop from hurting themselves. I firmly believe that a lot of the pain we see in the world comes from a lack of communication. An inability to be who are when we hurt combined with a lack of people around who truly want to hear what we have to say causes resentment, hatred of self and of others. It can cause people to develop a distorted view of those they love and then pull away.

I’m lucky in the sense that I have people in my life who have stuck by me even when I know it hurt to do so, people who have loved me when I could not love myself. Those same people have helped me to learn how to communicate my feelings. Granted, I am much better at writing down my thoughts. That was how I started to give voice to what was inside of me. I started to write in my journals or in letters to people. Writing provides one place where I can be truly free. I am better at sharing through written words but I work hard at saying the things that are tough. Now, I can say, “Today everything went wrong and I felt like a failure,” and my ability to speak those words to another allows that person to help me to work through my day, find comfort and forgiveness for myself and remember that I’m simply human.

The knack for putting words together in an effort to communicate with another is a gift as clearly illustrated by my daughter who rails against her inability to speak. She’s working so hard and often gets to frustrated. I used to get frustrated when I could not explain myself the way I wanted. My frustration would come from people not understanding what I was saying but they couldn’t.  I wasn’t saying what I wanted to, what I felt. I was saying, “It’s raining and I’m angry,” or “The guy at the deli forgot to put mustard on my sandwich and I’m pissed,” instead of, “I feel like I haven’t a soul in the world to trust anymore.” I was saying, “I have to go” in the middle of phone conversations instead of, “Can you come over?  I need a shoulder. I’m really feeling blue.”

We all have things that we are holding inside. Why not take just one of those things and share it? Just one. It doesn’t have to be something good or bad, it just has to be something meaningful to you. In sharing with someone, you never know what will happen. The person you speak with may be waiting to hear your words or you may invite someone to say something that they have been holding within. Or that person may have no reaction at all. The reaction is not the point. The point is that you challenged yourself to open up, therefore allowing the possibility for creative joy to enter your life.

Whatever it is that challenges you - writing or speaking – choose one form to share with one person. There have been more than a few times when people have commented here and then written an email to explain that they are not writers but still wanted to share. It always amazes me when this happens because all the comments here are funny, smart, down-to-Earth insights that make me think. Whether through the written or spoken word, creativity and life thrive on the sharing of our ideas and feelings.

Like anything else, becoming a better communicator takes practice. I work at both the written and verbal on a daily basis. For me, this post is another step in trying to improve my communication skills. Thanks for “listening”.

Please feel free to challenge yourself to share here as well. My hope is that this will always be a safe playground for all.

My daughter, Dana, wants to be friends with everyone we meet on the playground which is great; I love her social nature. So, why as her Mom, do I always end up feeling like a dirty old man in a bar trying to pick people up? Whether we are in a restaurant or on the playground, if she spots someone, it doesn’t matter if it is a baby, a six-year old, a boy, a girl, or an adult, she walks right up, looks them directly in the eye and smiles. It’s her direct eye contact that gets me. In this city of more than 8 million people, direct eye contact with strangers only happens when individuals approach you bearing pamphlets filled with information on how to save your soul from eternal damnation. Or you are on the playground.

As a Native New Yorker, I love everything about this city from the ability to run out for milk and Oreos at 4am to the garbage trucks, fire engines and drunken people singing my city lullaby. I even love the “faces” I’ve acquired, an essential city survival tool. I have my “subway” face, my “elevator” face, my “grocery store line” face and more. These are vital elements of the street rules of engagement as the faces you make determine your level of interaction with fellow city dwellers.

However on the playground, children negate faces and all rules thereby forcing adults to communicate with one another. Now, there are ways around engaging with others. For instance, look for the parents clutching their cell phone between their ear and shoulder talking business while helping their young bucks to climb on the monkey bar contraption. Even if your child interacts with theirs, they won’t get off the phone to make small talk. Or seek out the nannies who glance up from the pages of their tabloid paper to check on the children from time to time. They don’t want to have to talk to the kids let alone interact with you so, plant yourself near them. You can even hover around the parents who cluster together to talk real estate. They’re so interested in comparing numbers that they don’t notice their own children beating the hell out of one another so they certainly won’t notice you.

However, you can’t avoid them all. Sometimes you look up and catch the eye of a Mom and you know the look. It says, “I’ve been doing this for hours and I need some adult conversation.” Sometimes I’ve even felt myself give that look to some unsuspecting parent. Despite my own shyness, I try to encourage my daughter to make friends by reaching out; it’s just that I occasionally end up feeling like a weirdo.

There are some folks I’m sorry my daughter ever stumbled across like the woman with the dog so big it could have eaten her as a snack or the woman who would not stop talking about how her 14-month-old climbs on the table every time she turns her back and she’s afraid he’ll fall. “I mean really, real fear, on the table, on the table you know,” over and over again.

Yet there are times when my daughter leads me down a good road. Recently, she walked over to a little girl, smiled and reached for her hand; clearly she wanted to run away with her to a place where they could climb and slide down the slide without Mommies hovering over them. The little girl’s Mom and I looked at each other, smiled and then looked away. We focused on our kids.

“Say hi,” I said to Dana, wanting to fill the awkward silence.

Dana and I followed the girl and her Mom to a small, bouncy bridge. This time it was the mother’s turn to fill the silent spaces. As her little girl looked up at her, she said, “I’m sorry but I can’t make the bridge bounce the way Daddy’s does.” Then she looked at me and we both started to laugh; that uneasy, what-do-we-say now kind of laugh.

“I’d help you but I’m afraid if I jump on this thing I’ll send my daughter flying through the air,” I commented.

As we laughed again, I felt the way I used to at a bar when that guy I’d been sharing glances with finally talked to me. I felt funny inside and yet, I realized that this was exactly what I had been looking for without knowing it. I wanted someone to share quick tidbits with, someone who got it, someone who understood this parenting thing that I am curently learning before I had to set off after Dana again.

A moment later our girls took off in different directions. We spent the next half hour running past one another; bits of phrases would fly through the air.

“Never knew I’d worry this much..”

“Just starting to let her go down the slide by herself.”

“…new game where I try to get her to run after me but she runs in the other direction.”

Her young daughter even demonstrated an elephant sound for Dana that was hilarious.

The long fingers of the evening began to stretch across the playground indicating it was time to head home. As I loaded her up in the stroller and started to walk out, I waved to the other woman.

“See you,” we both said, awkwardly hesitating for a moment. I wanted to say, “Hey what’s your name?” or “Can I get your number?” Or “Want to meet here again some time?” But I felt like an old man with stale pickup lines, so I simply walked away.

Regardless of whether or not you have kids, we have all faced similar situations and met people like this that we need in our lives. Whether we are standing on the playground or working on creative projects, we need to be talking with other creative folks if only to feel that we are not alone on our journey. We need to share ideas, thoughts, experiences, etc., with people who are in the same fields or working on comparable projects in order to learn and grow. Our diehard friends will always be by our side to listen and share with us but they won’t always be in the same place or in the same field so we need to reach out to others and make friends and/or business connections.

There are times I wish I could walk up to people the way Dana does with that openness and eagerness, minus my insecurities. As I thought about it on my way home from the playground, I reminded myself that we all feel awkward from time to time and that thought helped me to feel less alone and more eager to try to overcome it.

In a city where straphangers are smashed up against one another daily, yet don’t talk or if they do, it’s a only to share a quick word and then go back to the paper or look in another direction, making friends can seem like a daunting prospect. However when it comes down to it, inside each of us lives the child who once played on that playground.  Sometimes we want to play together in the sandbox and other times we just want to quietly swing.

That’s why this city works for me. It’s got my kind of balance. I like the fact that there are times I can get lost and times, when I can be found. As for the woman and her little girl, I’m sure I’ll see her again. I believe that and I when I do I’ll have the balls and the right words to ask her name and hopefully, I won’t feel like such a weirdo.

I spend so much time planning my life that sometimes I forget to live it.  I blame it on “the back-up”.

“You want to be a writer? That’s great but so many people don’t succeed and it’s not a lucrative field so you need a backup in case you don’t make it.”

“You want to be an actress? That’s terrific but it’s a tough business and very few actually make it big so you should make sure you have a backup.”

“You want to be an artist? Fantastic but many people don’t hit it big until they’re dead so you better have a backup.”

My family beat me over the head with “the backup” baton each time I shared an artistic dream. In college, communications was my chosen field. I got all the usual jokes about how it was not a “real” major; I didn’t care. It covered a wide enough range of interesting possibilities by which I could support myself as I worked on my writing/art craft. However, I would work so hard at my backup that I’d lose sight of everything else. I’d forget that the job was only supposed to a source of income and suddenly, my art became “the thing on the side”. Fear of losing my job or a desire to be the best at whatever I was working on caused me to work harder on things I was less passionate about and before I knew it, I was lost.

In an effort to crawl out of my frustration hole and get back on track, I’d start planning. First, my plan was to get a job with a good salary, work hard, put in a ton of hours and eventually save enough to quit and just focus on my art. The salary would always start out ok but after awhile it didn’t seem like enough and then, it never seemed like the right time to jump ship. So, I revised my plan. I decided to just work the needed number of hours and then in the evening spend time doing what I love. But inevitably, I’d go overboard putting in too much time at the job and end up exhausted and unable to give my art, my all. Have you ever done this? Is it a control thing? Is it an excuse to keep from getting down to the real work? Is it a fear of failure? Or – even crazier – is it a fear of success?

I’m trying to plan less and “do” more now.  I’m striving to give everything I have to my dreams. I’m still working at and enjoying my day job but I’m just not working at it like my life depends on it.

John Lennon said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” I want to be immersed in that life, the life that happens while planning.

I’m starting by chucking plans out the window.  Any ideas on where to go from there?