The Difference Between Being a Therapist and A Writer

Dear Readers,

I have not abandoned you!  I lost the month of January thanks to a bout of the flu, bronchitis and an ear infection.  February was full of both literal and figurative digging (snow and writing).

Since this has always been intended as a writing blog, I decided it was time to address some writing issues/observations. This post deals with the difference between being a therapist and being a writer.  It’s pretty simple really — a therapist will find the quirks in a person and help fix them, making them more like everyone else, whereas a writer will expose those quirks, and still make that character more like everyone else (while also making them unique).  In both ways, the therapist and writer make people/characters more human by either fixing their faults or highlighting them.  It’s kind of strange, isn’t it?

There are many different ways to go about it.  Writers can take something that seems peculiar only because no one mentions that everyone else does it — and write in such a way that most readers recognize themselves.  Like real people, good characters in novels can make readers feel uncomfortable about them (the character) or about themselves (the reader).  For example, in an impromptu short story that I am working on for a graphic novel course, I wrote about a female superhero who takes a vacation to get away from the low paying and unrewarding job of saving people, only to find herself alone and bored on a beach.  She misses her work so much that she secretly hopes that a child will start to drown, just so she can save them.

After a reading — in which I got much laughter, people came up to me afterwards and said it was both “funny” and so “wrong.”

I’ll tell you why it was both.  People can relate to wanting to abandon the chaos of their lives, only to find that when they do, they miss the very things they were trying to escape.  That was an element of realism.  Then I took it a step further by creating the worst possible scenario — an innocent child in danger — and one thing worse would be hoping that a child would find themselves in danger.  As a parent, there is nothing worse. So why was it still funny?  I think it worked because the reader  was in the head of a character who wasn’t perfect.  She had evil thoughts as most humans do and it catches the reader off guard to think that someone who is supposed to be on the side of good is so — well kind of not a nice person.  How many of us are?  Have you never wished that someone would fall down on a sidewalk?  Or maybe laughed when they did?  (Which by the way, you shouldn’t — please go read my post about Karma). But to take it one step further, it also makes the reader uncomfortable.

The point is, that real characters and authentic writing should in fact make us uncomfortable — I might even say whenever possible. These are the books we can’t put down.  They should remind us that being human is so terribly and wonderfully flawed. And we shouldn’t fix that.  Leave that to therapists to ruin humanity (I’m saying this figuratively — so no angry e-mails from you therapists trying to “fix” what I said).

Therapists and writers are more alike than different, in that we want people/characters to become vulnerable with us.  It’s the only way we can really figure out what to do with them.  Neither of us can understand our client/character until we figure out where the hell they got broken.

And isn’t writing about a character much like leading a therapy session?  This week I followed my protagonist into the woods and watched her have a meltdown.  Did I lead her there, or did she lead me?  Together on this journey, we both discovered not only when she was broken, but I passively watched her attempt to put herself back together with glorious cracks and missing chunks — because as a writer, it’s not my job to fix her — not completely.  My only job, was like that of a National Geographic camera crew — to follow and not interfere.  To let her find her own way, even in the madness of circling the woods, when I might have known all along the trail that led out. To watch her and not judge. Most importantly, a good writer (in my opinion) will always let their characters get messy and maybe even stay a little messy.

So what am I really saying?  Perhaps that writers are therapists for fictional characters?  That therapists are useful for writers who are therapists of imaginary characters?  It’s still the idea of fixing vs. exposing to me.  Therapists tend to lead to moments of self discovery with the intention of correcting it, whereas writers simply follow the characters to it.  Maybe the difference is slight. Maybe we flaw the characters we create in order to fix ourselves…


If Karma Was Better At Communicating…

Okay — so  I took a few weeks off, and the demands are surprisingly pouring in from –YOU.  I guess I’m kind of flattered.  It means that people are reading what I’m writing.

So, here’s what’s been going on with me.  My patience is being tried.  My good deeds are being punished and Karma is really not playing fair, or more importantly, following my rules.

It started with a text that my friend/coworker sent:

Hey, did u c our checks?  We got our bonus!

December 10th:  I was supposed to get my “bonus”  — which if you really must know  was supposed to be a .05% one time lump sum bonus, that was cut down to .038% before being taxed – but hey, money is money. It would have come to a few hundred dollars.  I wait all year for this sad little bonus (because if I’ve failed to establish this already,  I am a writer and I have bills to pay).

I spend this money eighteen different ways before it even travels the electronic pathway to my bank account.  I might buy a pair of boots from England– the leather is so fine and soft. My husband even caught me, sitting on the floor with the open box of the first pair I had ever ordered and inhaling the smell of the leather like a huffer with an empty can of whipped cream. “Just smell them,” I offered, but he shook his head and walked away. I once dated a man, who smelled like leather — and weed, but mostly leather.  I can’t help, myself.

But then again, boots are kind of lavish, and with Christmas almost here, I could use the money to buy our holiday dinners. I could feed my friends and family a seriously nice meal. Oh, or I could buy my husband an i-pad, or maybe hire that photographer I met at my friend’s wedding to do some family pics, or I could maybe not spend it on other people at all…

Not that it wouldn’t be noble, but I could do something crazy — I could pay my cable bill, or my electric bill, or that stupid credit card that raised my interest for no reason and never told me, so I had no idea until that one day I was supposed to be writing my novel and instead started researching the interest rates of my credit cards… (believe me, this is not even a remotely strange way of procrastinating when you are supposed to be writing),  I could do something practical.  P-R-A-C-T-I-C-A-L.

This money would be spent — that was certain.

But when I logged into the system we use to view our future paycheck, instead of seeing my raise, I saw that this particular week I was making once cent less than my previous paycheck.

Obviously, a mistake had occurred.

“Maybe HR was going in alphabetical order and hadn’t reached me yet,” my coworker offered.

“But our names are six letters apart.”  Even HR, had to work faster than that.

I asked another colleague — a colleague I loath, but knew might have some knowledge of the paperwork that surely contained an error.  She was slow to respond about her “bonus” — which should have been equivalent to mine, but later confirmed, that she too had hers.  She suggested that perhaps, I was never intended to get a bonus, that perhaps my department didn’t think my work was worthy of an award.  I ignored her like I spend most of my days.

I wrote an e-mail to my director.  I used caps and exclamation points. I pointed out that I had a letter from the Chair indicating that I was getting .038%

Minutes later, both men appeared in my office — red faced and apologetic.

“It was an oversight in the paperwork.” He took responsibility and apologized twice.

I was relieved.  “So, you can fix it in my next paycheck?  That’s wonderful!”

He cleared his throat, “Umm. No.  I’m sorry.”

These bonus funds are limited and the money had already been allotted.  He promised to make it right next year — a WHOLE year away.  Another year in which I wouldn’t get a raise.  Another year in which my salary was slashed, thanks to an awful contract negotiation with the Governor of New York.  Another year, in which my taxes, childcare, utilities and tuition will rise.

My husband with his good timing called me and offered to take me to lunch.

Indian food made me feel better.  The apologies from men making well into six figures even provided some solace. I could live with the loss of a few hundred dollars because in a way I was blessed that this money would not be a detrimental loss to me, but rather an annoying glitch.  I returned back to the office with some sense of peace at the wrong I had felt earlier.

Then Fang (affectionately named by another close friend and colleague of mine who has not met her in person, but knows her reputation) –the same woman who had gotten her bonus returned, sat down in my cushiony chair and proceeded to tell me that a mistake had occurred to her as well.  That somehow through the same error that had cancelled out my bonus, she had accidentally received a bonus that was THREE times (yes 3 x’s) more than she was supposed to receive.

She was upset though because the same man, who had turned red and apologized profusely to me, informed her that she wasn’t supposed to get so much.  In the end, she felt disappointed that the amount was not a reflection of how much she was valued here, but an error.  (Play violins here then beat her over the head with them).


She came into my office six more times that day to gloat.  This same woman who makes almost $30k more than I do for sitting at her desk and playing Candy Crush all day.  This same lady, who delegates her work to others, even though she is no one’s boss.  Yup, the same lady who has personal packages of ugly shoes and terrible fashion choices delivered to the same office that she ordered them from (on her work computer) — was compensated for, her, rewarded even for doing almost no work all year — because of a typographical error??????

Suddenly the peace I felt evaporated and the naan in my stomach expanded.  It made me sick to realize that all of my hard work — of getting stuff done, of staying until I’m the last person in the office, was simply — unappreciated (well financially). That the bonus that had been meant for me, had instead ended up in her bank account.  That all of my hard work was about to buy her another ugly pair of flats.

Where was Karma in all of this?

My friends like to tell me that Karma takes its time.  Decades even before someone gets their due.  But I want Karma to be instantaneous.  How else will someone know they are getting retribution for their awful deeds? How does Karma teach anything if the lesson comes so late?

What if, this is Karma paying me back?????  And for what?

We need some sort of system.  Karma needs to leaves notes on your car windshield.

It needs to say, “Hey, that shit that just happened to you was from that time in 1986 when you knocked your brothers eye glasses in the radiator and they melted… while you were on vacation… because he wouldn’t let you play with his matchbox cars.”

And maybe my brother would get a card from Karma, that said “Hey, we got her back.”


Meet Finn

2014-07-26 18.21.56                 (Finn at eight weeks the day he came home)

Meet Finn, my almost six month old English Labrador puppy.  He’s been part of our family for nearly four months.

Having an EL puppy has been a real learning curve. He’s not like other puppies I’ve ever had.  His energy constantly demands my attention in a world where my attention is already in high demand.

I bought him for my son, my three year old  (not the best idea I’ve ever had), but really, I bought him for me.  I wanted a big yellow dog to sleep by the fire while I write my novels (did any of you ever see Funny Farm?).  To play catch in the yard with my son.  To jump in the back of my Volvo (I don’t have a Volvo but if you’d like to donate to my “I’m Just Writer So I’m Not Very Rich But I Really Would Like a Volvo Fund” — please feel free) while I drive to our  summer, vacation, cabin (which I also don’t own — but I can use the leftover Volvo funds for this too).  I wanted a family dog.

And this weekend, it finally all clicked.  Finn was well mannered and learning commands quickly.  I in turn was patient, showed him lots of attention and love.  I even learned to tune out the constant squeak of the pink, rubber, piggy toy my son picked out for him.  My son played tug-of-war with him, I pet his belly and let him cover me in puppy kisses. I rewarded him when he was good, picked out dead animal parts (really, there’s an aisle for this where you pick out hooves, ears, ribs and hocks) and we were all just perfectly — BALANCED.

It felt like it hadn’t really been a mistake at all.

I could finally look to my husband and say “See, I told you I knew what I was doing.”

But then sometimes, on rainy days, specifically rainy Monday mornings, when my world just doesn’t seem chaotic enough, Finn digs a giant hole in the garden that I worked on for the entire summer (and invested a rather large sum of my salary into as well).  On these days, it takes real effort to remind myself that our Finn is a cute and sweet part of our family — that’s he’s still just a baby.  That he is — precious and that one day (probably not in the near future) I will look at this photo and LAUGHbut not today.


If this were a teachable moment, then I would say that perhaps I am learning(ed) two things: 1) that I lack patience and really need to work on that — because he really had no idea why I was so upset, and screaming the words “new cashmere sweater” didn’t translate into puppy speak at all,  and 2) you can scream “I will murder you, no I will seriously kill you” and my neighbors won’t call the cops.

I don’t know how I feel about the latter, but I really need to work on patience.  I need to learn not to overreact even when it’s 7:45 in the morning and

2014-09-18 19.52.58

I’m going to be late for work and still need to drop my son to daycare, and the dog is covered up in some form of black mud that I didn’t even know existed in my backyard.   Sometimes, I just need to breathe, which is easier said than done.

I signed up for this (okay, well not this exactly). But really, I did sign up for this hectic life: for puppies,toddlers, and gardens — because on the good days it’s all pretty amazing.

Emergency Yoga Issues

I know, you’re thinking — she’s posting twice in one week, but hey you guys — something went down in yoga class!

My Tuesday night yoga class is sacred.  It’s not just any class — it’s K.’s class.  It’s sixty minutes  to take the stress of the day and let it go *ear worm alert* (okay I guess I could have inserted that warning sooner).  It’s an hour of coming to my mat, of honoring myself — which is sometimes as simple as accepting my body, being reminded that it’s perfect in the most imperfect way — a little fat and a few stretch marks, but this crazy wonderful body, brought an almost nine pound beautiful healthy boy into this world.  The same body that transforms from inadequate to a vehicle of enlightenment and acceptance when I come to practice, There’s no room on that mat for distraction or self doubt.  It’s not about what I didn’t do yesterday or have to do tomorrow, but about what I am capable of, right here, right now.  It’s all about the present.  This hour is a gift to myself.  It’s what it feels like when your mind connects to your body. There’s nothing like the present and how many of us can truly say we even know what that feels like?

When I first came to yoga, I was dealing with a lot.  I came to the mat postpartum and in the deepest depression I had ever experienced after the loss of my mother. I had gained nearly fifty pounds while attempting to learn to be a working mother to a beautiful but colicky baby boy who afforded me sometimes as little as four hours of uninterrupted sleep a night.  I had changed jobs and stepped down from a higher level position to a position I believed to be more family friendly. And just when I started to balance that out, I lost my mother to an aggressive and late diagnosed cancer.

My hormones were out of control.  My mind was disconnected from my body.  I knew I needed something to keep me afloat and I remembered that for a semester in my undergrad, I had practiced Iyengar yoga.  I felt like I needed to explore anything that might heal me and so I found a local yoga studio and completely self conscious of being the new fat girl at the studio, I put a call out on FB to any friends who might go with me.  Two wonderful ladies answered.
…And that’s how I met K., a beautiful woman (think Carol from the walking dead only much less scary and a lot more maternal).  Walking into her class was like walking into a kitchen with cookies baking in the oven.  Everyone was so nice and no one seemed to judge.  It didn’t matter to anyone that I couldn’t hold a downward facing dog for more than a minute before my arms shook and I came crashing to my knees.  I struggled in that class — cursing my body for being so unfit and myself for thinking this was ever an option.  But, at the end of class, K. thanked me for coming, for allowing her to teach me and in turn I thanked myself for practicing. She told me I was doing really good. She said, “I’ll see you next week.”

At my second class, everyone from the week before remembered my name and introduced  me the new students I hadn’t yet met.  I held my downward facing dog a bit longer.  I learned to bring my elbows close to my body during chaturanga.  I was sore but that voice inside my head cursed a little less.  Week after week I came back.  Sometimes taking two classes a week, but always class on Tuesday.  I started to fall in love with the beads of sweat that danced down my cheeks.  I began caring less and less when I couldn’t get all the way into a pose because I understood that as  Bhagavad Gita said, “Yoga is the practice of tolerating the consequences of being yourself.” My body had limitations — that was the consequence of being human and more importantly — being alive.

This little church-like community was unknowingly helping me to grieve and to heal.   These generous beings all in different stages of practice.  Each week smiling at me because I showed up and each week I was getting — better.  This warm little yoga studio next to a Peruvian restaurant was actually saving me. I suddenly fit in with these good people who  didn’t squash bugs or curse while driving, because for those 60 minutes — I   also didn’t curse or kill bugs.  And if you were reading carefully — you’d know that only the present matters.

So you can imagine my devastation when I walked into class tonight with my Ben and Jerry’s “I Like to Spoon” tee-shirt and unrolled my mat to find that K. wasn’t teaching class tonight.

But that’s just for tonight, right?

“No,” says J., “I’m taking over Tuesday nights.”

Uh… whuh… wait… what?   I missed one class ONE CLASS guys — last week, because the time change kicked my butt! One week and K.– is gone??  She didn’t check with me?  She didn’t take into consideration that I picked my MFA schedule purely based on being able to still attend THIS class!

And we didn’t put our mats in an intimate little circle or start class with an OM.  And my mind didn’t connect to my body tonight, because it was too busy mourning the loss of my tiny, precious, $18 therapy session.  My mind didn’t let go — instead it added the panic of, What if I never connect to my practice again?

I didn’t enjoy class.  I hated every minute of it.  J– pushed me because she didn’t know that my hips are tight and that my lower back is always tender — but K. knows this.  K. stretches my back out during class.  J.’s class was challenging but not in the way that K.’s was, instead I felt more than ever like the fat girl in gym class.  I desperately struggled.  Every pose seemed like an affirmation of something else I couldn’t quite get right. Half way through, I checked my watch to see if an hour could really be this long?

I am left with choices.  I can’t quit.  I mean I bought a sticker for my car that says “I (heart) yoga.”  It’s a car tattoo. It’s a commitment.  You don’t walk away from that.  I even bought a Jade mat on my two year anniversary to reward myself for sticking with it. And yet, Tuesday has lost something for me.
But on the other hand, in a drill sergeant like way, J– pushes me.  I get angry and dig deeper.  It seems contradictory to what yoga is about, yet what if it pushes me to try harder — accomplish more?  J– didn’t realize that last month I had a pretty bad back injury and that this is just my second class since resting that injury.  My mind was too full of resentment to listen to my body which was telling me to lay off. Maybe this is like starting over again.  Maybe I need to move beyond my physical comfort zone.  Maybe,  if I don’t connect to J. — that’s okay too.  I could check my ego and ask her to show me modifications for poses I simply can’t do.  I could even attend other classes.  The advanced classes — I have been practicing for two and half years after all, and maybe this is life’s way of saying, it’s time to step out of your comfort zone. I could even trust myself more and start practicing — at home (gasp).  It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing. I could build up my endurance and maybe the hard classes won’t be quite so difficult.

At the moment, I’m sitting in my same gray tee-shirt with a small stain from the Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Ice Cream I ate as a consolation. In other words, I’m feeling really sorry for myself, but I know that by tomorrow it’ll work itself out. I’ll just shake it off (yup forgot my ear worm warning there too).

I also know that tomorrow,  I’m going to be sore as heck…

Eat Your Turkey Before You Cut Down A Tree

So I find myself swept up into the early holiday season where Thanksgiving serves as a dry run for Christmas.  I made it through the August, “Christmas is just 8 billion days away” campaign (people I’m a writer not a math major). I didn’t buy anything that was holiday related.  I made faces and agreed with the older ladies that it wasn’t even Halloween yet.  I refused to let the voice in my head hum to any Christmas music.  I even forbade my three year old from singing “Jingle Bells” – which only encouraged him more.

And then Halloween passed——- and now I’m preparing not for Turkey and pumpkin pie, but for — who should we invite for Christmas and when should I bake my famous Sticky Toffee Pudding? I reason with myself that, Thanksgiving is really late this year and if I’m going to go through the effort of decking the hell out of house, then by golly, I want more than four measly weeks of enjoyment.

Then I attempt to convince myself that this mad rush of holiday spirit is simply because I love Christmas and is in no way an indication that I’ve been corrupted by marketing – because I am definitely smarter than all of that!

And so when I shop online and order a gift from my sister-in-law and—ohhhhhhhh – those shoes are really, REALLY cute and totally on sale and seriously, I need burnt orange– well I know without any tiny splinter of doubt, that it isn’t marketing factoring in.  No big corporations are not playing a role in the fact that most people like giving (to themselves) or that most profit increases during the holiday season are not in fact gift-buying but consumers taking advantage of sales for their own benefit.  No.

What’s really happening is that I’m negotiating.  I’m either  finding a practical reason for my purchase, rewarding myself for all the things no one else rewards me with,  or even more dangerously — because I deserve it.  I bought those wellies from England with little jumping horses on them because if there was ever a zombie outbreak, my feet would be safe for maneuvering through swamps (practicality).  I purchased a new handbag because I remained polite and professional in the face of dealing with a difficult client (reward).  I deserve a new tiny computer because I’m a WRITER dammit and how will all of you read my great posts and novels if I don’t have a new laptop that weighs less than a notebook (just because I’m me)?  They are all very valid arguments and I swear they make sense as I hit the “Submit Your Order” button time and time again.

It’s absolute reasoning (with the complete absence of reasoning).

Advertisers know how we think.  They study us.  They’re watching you right now!

It’s clear that I’m way too smart for all of their tactics (like those websites that tell you how many items are left in stock in your size).  And if I seem full of it — you’ve got me.  These advertisers are smart — SMART (yup in caps).  Even when I’m aware of what it is they’re trying to do, I still give in because how do you fight a system that has this much power?  I can stand back and look at all this with an air of superiority and this notion that I can rise above this. Heck.  I can move up to Maine (maybe VT) and live off the land. I won’t even need to buy new boots (because I already own wellies)!

But when my son watches commercials on tv, he shouts “Mama, I love it so much! Maybe for Christmas?”  — it’s then that I realize in all of my vigilance — it’s too late.  We’re all already infected.  They get to us at a young age, while our parents are in the kitchen cooking dinner. They seep into our bloodstreams and they convince us that what we have isn’t enough.

…Or maybe, this holiday season, I can reclaim my focus  (if I could paint you a picture of me reclaiming anything I would be wearing a magnificent sleeveless ballgown –red and green like a goddess of the holiday season– a giant staff raised above my head and “We’re Not Gonna Take it” played by violins while my long curly, red hair waves in the wind of fury and determination –and no my hair isn’t that long — but that’s really irrelevant).  Maybe there are little reindeer and primitive evergreens embroidered on the bodice — but I digress…

My point is peeps, we haven’t eaten our turkey yet! Carpe Diem — there is still time. Maybe it doesn’t even matter if “The Man” knows that I am boycotting him, rejecting his tug to ruin my holidays, quietly disagreeing with His attempt to make me (or my son) pawns of mass consumption.  He might not notice that I’m not shopping in his store on Thanksgiving OR Black Friday. That I will try and support a small business whenever possible — even if it costs me a few dollars more.  Who knows, maybe I’ll set a budget and stick to it — deciding that my love counts for itself and there is no point in trying to spend more money to prove it.  I might stop gratifying myself with unnecessary purchases.  Maybe, I’ll bake cookies with my son and give those out as gifts. Maybe watch holiday movies cuddled on the sofa with the husband and the dog while we have a fire in our little wood burning stove.  I might become a more conscious consumer and only spend where customers are valued and practices are ethical.  I could  save some of that money and instead of  buying more  “things” I could use it  for something I actually want (like a little cabin the woods).  Maybe, I’ll even send out Christmas cards to people I care about and don’t see often enough.
Anything might be possible if you stop focusing on not having enough and start being aware that what you have is–  everything…

FYI — I am 100% available for hire to write greeting cards and or fortune cookies.

Accidental Sushi – Unintentionally Eating Raw Fish and Other Questionable Life Decisions

Accidental sushi is sitting in a nice restaurant with good friends.  It’s ordering expensive dinners because hey, you’re earning points on your Amex card, your babysitter is booked for three more hours, and youth is fleeting.  It’s indulging in the Diver Sea Scallops and having them (four to be precise) served on a square dish with ginger sauce and some kind of exotic-hippy-salad (that let’s be honest,  you’d only eat if there was an actual zombie apocalypse and you were foraging for anything edible on a forest floor).  And it’s that very salad that makes the scallops all the more delectable — until they pass your lips and then they’re… cold.

You look at the only other person at the table who ordered the same dish and whisper, “Are your scallops cold too?”  You both rationalize that perhaps the chef had poor timing skills and  in err cooked your entrees before the steak and the rib risotto that your spouses ordered.

Two bites more and you find yourself cursing the mood lighting you found so agreeable earlier for now it’s a hindrance to determining if your scallops are cooked at all.  Did seared mean just the edges?  You eat more, wondering if you should send it back, but only three remain. You chew less and swallow larger bites.  Is it worth putting a damper on the enjoyment your all having?  You eat another, even though by now you are certain that the pinkish-beige hue of these sea monsters are all the evidence you need as confirmation.  And yet, you still eat them, because after all, you don’t go to places like this everyday and it took weeks of planning to get here in the first place.

This is the part whereas a writer, I’m supposed to tie the accidental sushi into a metaphor for life.  I have several options here.

I could  pull out the self-reflective  feminist card and question, why as a paying customer, I chose to eat raw seafood (when it’s well known that I eat very little raw anything in my life), rather than politely speak up and tell my waitress that this isn’t what I expected, that I deserve — or even demand better? But I don’t always speak up for myself.  Is it because I’m a woman — strong, confident, assertive and yet— well –not really assertive because I often don’t really tell people what it is I want.  I ate something that I didn’t like –could have potentially even made me sick just because I didn’t want to offend someone who obviously hadn’t done their job well.

I could go spiritual and tell you that there are no accidents.  That things happen for a reason, right down to eating accidental sushi. Then I could go on to tell you that sometimes things don’t turn out as you anticipate, but it can still be okay.  That life is full of disappointments, but these moments are usually temporary.  I didn’t get sick from the scallops.  I still laughed, had a night out with friends who I don’t see often and when something bothered me, I let go of it. I didn’t let it ruin my evening.  I still enjoyed the brownie sundae I ordered  afterwards in spite of the first disappointment.

Maybe it isn’t really about the raw scallops, but how we react to them when life serves us up a plate of under cooked mollusks. Sometimes we need to send them back, other times maybe eat them so we can learn what they feel like on our tongues and make better decisions in the future.

After all, isn’t life made up of raw seafood and brownies?


*Feel free to apply my mollusk-brownie-sundae metaphor to any area in your life — relationships, work, etc.  This is my gift to you.