Sunday, September 21, 2014


Dear Frankie, says the poem.
I need you.

You look straight at me
as you flatiron your hair, ignore
the coolness through the window, that
touches you all at once
at 3:11 am
The Hello Kitty digital clock blinks at you
as if you missed a power outage, flipping with persistence to
the next minute.

You think that the words are not
formed yet, no good grammar or
inspiring reason, you think that you
should write of motherly soul love and pulsing after sex, you think that the
metaphors aren't perfect, but your
children are sleeping in beds far away
this morning, your body is

Dear Frankie, says the poem.
I have no rules. Put the commas everywhere.

Memories of your father's demise, stage 4 cancer all over
in untruths that spread.
Your sisters, the thieves of houses and
baby pictures,  rolls of pennies
saved from his fear from
the Great Depression, cancer
in your marriage, tiny brown brown viles
with a tiny spoon in the cap you found
in your husbands dirty laundry, the gaping
holes in everyone's bank accounts from atm cash

The wind touches everything all at once, it
changes the landscape of everything
over time.

Continents break apart.

Snow caps melt.

Species go extinct.

It's not personal.

Dear Frankie, says the poem.
You need me.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Where is the love?

This week has been one of difficult conversations.  By that I mean saying the things that need to be said and being willing to deal with an upset while standing for a miracle.  There's love in the rigor of my communication.  I do what I can so that people hear it. Sometimes I mess it up and other times, they get it.

It started with my 13-year old's dad.  They are going on vacation for two weeks.  He wouldn't tell me where.  When I asked, he said that they'd be at his mom's but my daughter mentioned camping in the Sierra's.  I asked again, brought up the camping and he said that they were indeed going camping, but refused to tell me where.  What ensued where emails that copied his attorney, threats to take me back to court, fear.  I have been representing myself, "pro-per" as it's called, but I find it mostly improper.  I simply called the local police station and spoke to a very nice policeman who said to ask my daughter's dad to meet me there at drop off and they will enforce the order that states he provide an itinerary.  It turned out that the police station was not necessary and I was provided the necessary information.  I'm committed that he is the best father that he can be.  Sometimes, my commitment looks like this.

Tuesday brought a conversation with someone I used to coach who has a new coach.  They've not hit it off.  When he realized the impact on his life when he is unwilling to accept love from others, the solitude he recently came out of, he shifted. He brought the love that he wants to be known for in the world.

Wednesday brought client conversations about changes in what I was hired to do.  How do I brand powerful human beings whose life purposes grow exponentially everyday?  I have yet to figure that out.

Thursday morning brought a conversation where I said I was going to celebrate my birthday as planned, no matter the other commitment that my boyfriend didn't realize he had.  An "us" thing out of town has turned into a "me" thing with a great friend.  There's an adventure ahead.  We talked about other stuff.  I was squirmy inside but the words came out straight. No hearts were broken.  Nothing tragic happened.  Voices were calm.  A kiss that sent him to work, as usual.

Last weekend I saw the movie, "Chef."  It made me miss myself. The self that used to go salsa dancing practically every week.  The poet that had something to say at the podium on a regular basis. The filmmaker that met with amazing actors to attach them to my projects and went to film festivals.  The mom that celebrated my 28 year old daughter's 13th birthday in a French cafe on Melrose, on a weekday with my artist friends, making her stay up until midnight and had the chef bring her creme-brulee with a lit candle from the kitchen.

This was my most difficult conversation.  How I traded salsa dancing for a husband and a Spanish style bungalow with a pool in the valley. When that went away, I didn't want to dance anymore. Life's biggest lesson:  Frankie, you don't have to trade one for the other.

It's been almost 5 years and my heart is leaping for a good time.  It's leaping to write with no filter, ignoring my biggest censor, myself.  To dress for the red carpet and drink French espresso or vodka like the Russians from Odessa showed me, talking to brilliant people at midnight.

It's time to wear the silver shoes with the cork platform that I bought for the Warner Bros rooftop party in Venice, the red strappy heels that I bought for the Access Hollywood holiday party, the pleather corset, and zippers, snaps and shiny things.

I'm looking for the next podium to step up to and say what others can only think.  To be that voice.

I'm calling Laura Harring to ask who she wants to play her new love interest in the film.

It is my word in the matter of our lives.  The truth doesn't hurt.  There's love in the rigor.  Listen. Can you feel it?

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Birthday Moment

This morning's birthday started with an almost perfect array of those I care for sleeping in my home.  My older daughter is missing from this scene.

Regret I can't shake:

1.  Having my single-mom stress distract me from fully appreciating her. She's 28 now and I have the same fear of the world having it's hold on her as the day I left her in her kindergarten class.  Back then, I picked her up 4 hours later and she was mine.

My face.  Growing up, I was called "bongo lips" because of the obvious and I inherited the flaring nostrils of my father's Native American roots.  I've heard stories of my possible tribal ancestry and I'm not certain of anything except that my great-grandfather's name was "Geronimo."

My spiritual and transformational work intellectually tells me how in the wisdom that comes from aging, I become more beautiful.  My eyes search for that beauty in the subtle downward direction my skin has started to take, in my neck and breasts that have given life and love.  Soft lens please.

In my adolescence, I learned not to compare myself to others, and as I age, that has served me well. My best friend had silky caramel hair that fell on thin shoulders, Bambi eyes and the graceful neck of a swan.  My hair was thick and disobedient.  My body was the same.

Many of my childhood friends are dealing with health issues now.  I ache, knowing the many things they have yet to do.  We all still think of ourselves as athletes on the volleyball team, cross country runners, cheerleaders.

I am grateful to have a kind man in my life.  I didn't realize that I had a desire to be protected until the protector showed up.  We are an unforeseen match, our flaws compensating, blending, creating wholly.  Trust makes for fun, passion and intimacy.  Laughter is served up all day, everyday.  Sometimes he frustrates me.  Often, I forget to do things for him that I said I would do.  He listens.

I look back at the nights alone, thinking that my best days had passed.  That the shards from the shatter of a divorce were actually me.  It was the relationship that broke.  I learned that I wasn't the relationship.

I sit typing in a messy apartment, looking at the Pacific Ocean.  There's a "knowing" of myself and proficiency in creating what I want.

This time writing will make me rush to get ready for a coaching call.  I get to cause breakthroughs for a woman who is climbing Half Dome for her 50th birthday.  I can talk and she will listen until her journey is as phenomenal as the accomplishment.  Until it's all a match for her beauty, vulnerability and power.  This time writing will have me rush to my client meeting in Santa Barbara.  Times like these, my face might show up squeaky clean, no time for make up, something I'd have never done when I was younger.

Today, I allow the wisdom and all of the confidence that comes with it to take the lead.  I strive for the perfection of my birthday, when my older daughter, the foundation of "my first ever family of my very own," will be with me.

Friday, January 17, 2014


"Silly," she thinks as she rolls over to her other side, bare smooth legs wrapped in her white down comforter.  The things that wake her at night, a gentle nudge, an alert to begin her daily worry.  She opens her eyes to the darkness.  She sees what is not visible in the light.  "No one needs to get into trouble for wanting what they want."

She reminds herself that mistakes can be made.  Her biggest failures forced her to plant fruit where her house used to stand, the one she tore down and had hauled away.  Fertile ground is hers and follows, lays itself down at her feet when they stop, as she unzips her boots, flips off her jeweled sandles, removes her highest heels starting with the back strap.

Seeds in the sand.  Salt water rushes them with brut force.   The full moon sets as the sun takes over.  A knelt prayer pierces the surface as it rises.