so many mediums, aspects, genres, styles, designs, plots, inspirations, ideas, creations, emotions, scripts, presentations, performances, showings…                                                 and on, and on…

like our sexuality, it is not a choice. we are artists.                                                                  and, no, we do not need your approval to be this, to do this, to live this.

WE. ARE. THIS.  unlike so many professions, we ARE our artistry.

it is life, breath, it is existence. period. and, it is, at times, many…many…many…times very painful.

the criticism, skepticism, and, well, disdain for the lack of financial security related to our artistry, by others, for our supposedly ‘chosen’ path, to create the very amazing, mind-stretching and brilliant works that entertain everyone else who can afford to enjoy our art, is sad, insulting, mind-boggling and shameful.                                                         even those who love us, like us, tell us we are “talented, wonderful, even geniuses” are not fully “in”. ‘gosh, you are so smart, you would be so good at…(fill in the blank)’.

thank god, we don’t give a shit if ANYONE likes what we create and have the fucking balls to expose to everyone on a regular basis. some see it as bravery, others say crazy.

we have no choice.

creation is innate and raw, and contrived, and self-imposing, and selfish, and lovely, and selfless, and necessary…it is necessary to those who create, and especially for those who are the recipients of the creation. you need us. you do. and, as such, should be compensated fairly for our necessity. but, guess what? when we are not, we keep on.       because…we must…and because it is a love so insistent. because.

just because…

love you long time…

Do you have a situation that requires great decisions and reflections? A situation that feels like it will never be resolved and, more importantly, a situation that feels like it is uniquely yours that no one else could possibly relate to….???

Of course, you do. You are human. And it sucks a whole f’ing lot of the time. And you wonder…”Am I the only one who…(fill in the blank)?”  No, you definitely are not.

But, that doesn’t make your situation unimportant. In fact, it makes it perfectly relevant.

Why? because, believe it or not, we all relate. Someway, somehow. We are all dealing with S#$t, and we all have to go to work, take care of children, take care of our parents, do a job we hate, do chores we dislike and work with people we might not necessarily choose to work with….Damn it, just take care of f’ing everything!


And, you know what? we have to keep doing it. Just like our great-grandparents did. Like our grandparents did. And, maybe our parents. Keeping a stiff upper lip isn’t necessarily bad.  Wearing our crap on our sleeves all the damn time, is heavy. It is counterproductive. It is useless. How does it aid in solving our personal crimes, our maladies, our misgivings? It doesn’t. Because, as my daughter might say, most people only care about themselves.

Does that hurt? Too bad. Because it’s true. Most people only think about how almost everything relates to them. Their pain, their joy, their heartaches, their victories. YUP. True. All of it true. We like to think that others are concerned with our well being. Some are, but most are not. We are all self-consumed.  The truth is difficult.

Take some time to love YOU, and you will be amazed at your ability to reach beyond yourself to love others and genuinely care about them. And, maybe, just maybe, all of that S#$T might be bearable…My experience is that, yes, being selfless yields positive results…Just saying…




I have served a community of individuals for the last 26 years in the art of developing grace. A word associated with ballerinas and dance. A word associated with sensitivity and forgiveness. 

If it weren’t for grace, there might not be an option to err and recover from our own flaws and missteps.

Surviving the fallout from our mistakes requires grace. But, it also requires grace received from those who are the recipients of our blunders.

As fallible humans, it is essential to be allowed to err and accept those who err.

With grace. 

It is painful to be discredited for our faults and oversights. 

What is that that Matthew said?  Judge not lest ye be judged…? Just saying….




So much to say…

First, I had a great revelation at the dishwasher. All of the years that we as parents dread emptying the dishwasher suddenly became an enormous void for me.

As I gazed upon the FULL dishwasher, thinking that I will not be emptying so many drinking glasses or dishes in the present or future, I was struck by the reality that I would soon be an “empty nester” ….I really, really despise that term. I DO have a  dog and 2 cats after all…geez…

LIVE. live in the present. ENJOY. enjoy each and every moment. LOVE. love it all – even those moments that appear for all unimaginable reasons to be unloveable. EMBRACE. embrace the now…the people…the moments…it all….

and, that’s all…but again, it’s everything…as I MAY have mentioned before…take heed.

Silence is ROTTEN!

SILENCE IS GOLDEN….Keeping one’s mouth shut is a great virtue, as in Don’t tell anyone else about it—silence is golden.   Although this precise phrase was first recorded only in 1848, it is part of a much older proverb, “Speech is silver and silence is golden.”
Yes!!!  because, I seriously don’t want to hear all of the BS most people have to unload.
I think that in the “olden” days people were more discreet and didn’t feel the need to “share” every personal detail of their lives with simply EVERYONE who cared to hear, read or “social-medialize” their information.
And then the flip side of my thoughts prevails…opinion and its validity.
Silencing myself permanently for the sake of peace is like being constipated.
That is the gist.  I’ve “lost” friends for the sake of opinion. Sadly.
It is ironic that those who preach tolerance have lost their sight in terms of practicing tolerance.
I won’t hide anymore. I am me. I am who I am. And that is that. Silence is only golden when preservation is imminent, necessary and prudent. Not out of fear. Period.

Don’t worry, be happy!

I can clearly remember those insanely hot summer days where the only place to get cooled off was in the pool while my mother and her neighbor friends sat inside in the air conditioning playing mah johnng, and all of the kids splashed happily in the pool until the sun started to set. The 1960’s were a different time. Most mothers stayed home and fathers went to work. My mom was a “homemaker”. My dad was a highly functioning alcoholic. I guess I was happy. Probably about as much as anyone else I knew. But I did know that I always felt like my family had this big secret. When someone in your family has a ‘drinking problem’ it is the family focus. It’s the white elephant in the room. Of course, at that time, I had no idea that I wasn’t the only one. No one talked about this stuff. Oprah didn’t exist to administer advice on self help remedies for all the maladies of the world. Fortunately, although I was practically almost an only child, I had my imaginary friend Smokey the Bear and all of my creative projects to keep me going. I don’t ever remember being bored. And there were the massive murals I drew on the hallway linoleum and the bedroom walls. (yes my mother, not only allowed it, but, encouraged this expression- when you’re surrounded by artists, this is not terribly unusual). We didn’t have 3 million TV channels to watch. No cell phones. No handheld devices to entertain us. No internet to explore. Our explorations were tangible. I’d ride my bike around the neighborhood for hours on end and my parents didn’t have to worry about where I was going or for how long. I built my own treehouse by standing on top of the swing set and feeling so proud when it was done. I made my own Barbie camper out of a shoebox and pipe cleaners because my parents thought $11.00 was too much to pay for it at the toy store. Depression era parents are a different breed than the parents today who shower their offspring with massive amounts of nonsensical possessions that end up at Goodwill anyway.

Those were the days. And looking back on it now, my mother was probably not experiencing the same sense of joy and freedom that I was but she did her best to shield me from the daily shit she endured.

It went like this. My dad went to work, then he went to happy hour (an oxymoron in some sense), and if he wasn’t too drunk when he got home my mom served his dinner and I waited anxiously for the arguments to begin and then after dinner he’d resume his nightly ritual of vodka and (fill in the blank) orange juice, grapefruit juice or my kool aid. I hated it when he used my kool aid. That was mine. To this day, thinking of kool aid conjures up unpleasant memories for me. If he was pretty drunk already when he came home he’d usually pass out in his chair, and I was grateful for that. Mind you, this man never missed a day of work no matter how drunk he was the night before.  Well, that’s not entirely true. The 3 times he had his drivers license revoked he went to jail for a short time and my mother had to drive him everywhere for 6 months each time this happened.(as an aside, I must mention that my dad really was a great man…)

But, I don’t know how my mother did it. Really. I’m a recently divorced self employed single mom with 3 children (we’ll get into that later in another post), and I cannot imagine having to deal with this nonsense with kids, and school and everything that goes into being an adult. We all have our issues to deal with, and I suppose that we learn to accommodate the idiosyncrasies that plague our daily situations, but in those days, as I mentioned before, people didn’t air their dirty laundry. This had to be a terrible embarrassment to my mother. I know that as I got older, I could never invite friends over if it was after 5:00 p.m. It made my teenage years tough, and it’s not as if those years aren’t tough enough already. I know, wah wah, I had it so tough. But, as I said, I guess I was happy enough.

Which brings me to the topic at hand. Happiness. So if you look up the definition of happiness, it merely says “the state of being happy”. What?! And if you look for other answers to the meaning of happiness, what you will come up with is its subjectivity as a feeling or state of being. I’ve been thinking of ways that happiness is perceived or used to describe people and their lives or situations. Like the statement “I’m not a happy camper” or “you make me so happy” or “as long as you’re happy”. What do those things really mean? Pleasure, joy, exhilaration, bliss, contentedness, delight, enjoyment, satisfaction, contentment, felicity are words that imply an active or passive state of pleasure or pleasurable satisfaction. “Happiness results from the possession or attainment of what one considers good; all synonyms for happiness.”The word origin and history of happiness: 1520s, “good fortune,” from happy + ness. Meaning “pleasant and contented mental state” is from 1590s. Phrase greatest happiness for the greatest number was in Hutcheson (1725).

And why does everyone want us to be happy? It’s been quoted, somewhere, that “extreme happiness begets tragedy.” After all, the antonym is misery. These descriptions are akin to pleasure and pain.

I suppose the point of all of this is that, like my life as a child, which was a strained mix of happiness and misery, and pleasure and pain, I chose to be “happy”. Despite the many, many days, perhaps years, that I experienced what would be considered an unhappy environment. I chose to create my own world of joy. I lived in a place of my own where it was happy. Because, although I rarely saw any real affection or love between them, I knew that my parents loved me and probably each other. There is no a tangible way for me to determine this, but I’m pretty sure there was something between them. Fifty six years is a long time to stay married…

I have grown so weary of the election of so many to be unhappy and to maintain a stance of being unhappy when one could just give into it and be damn happy. It really does feel better to choose this felicitous state. I can bring myself to tears in seconds dwelling on things that are upsetting and that make me feel unhappy and I hate it when that happens. And I know that I am the culprit of these feelings and emotions. That makes me even more upset with myself.

So, my resolve for 2015 is to revive my childhood approach to life. I choose to be happy. And so far, I am and in fact, almost blissful at the proposition of regaining a sense of innocence and naivete. Happy, happy new year to me…