Stephanie's Stories

I'm Moving!

2010-07-21T15:43:00.003-04:00

Hi Everyone-

Finally, I'm moving...not physically but virtually.

From now on I'll be posting at my new site StephanieBaffone.com. Please stop by my new digs, poke around and BE SURE TO RESUBSCRIBE to my posts so you don't miss anything.

Thank you for sharing my first home here in the world wide web but now I'm all packed up and ready to go.

I'm extending you guys a personal, cordial invitation to stop on over at my new, brighter, improved digs!

Come on, go ahead click over to StephanieBaffone.com and I'll see you there!

This Is Not The Story You Think It Is or Maybe It Is

2010-07-13T02:06:00.003-04:00

(Our Bella)

Hi Everyone,

Well, it's been some time since I found my way back here. Mostly life has been full of highs but we had one very, very low that found me wandering off into the woods to lick my wounds privately.

After being a part of our family for almost sixteen years, the time came when we had to put our little doggie, Bella down. As I sit here typing this the tears well up, my heartbeat quickens and I find it difficult to catch my breath.

Lopsided

Our home feels so lopsided without her in it. We were a family of four, two with two legs and two with four. We are down to three now. When The Bird calls on his way home from work and asks his routine question, "Hey, Babe, have you fed the dogs?" He catches himself mid-sentence and with no comment from either of us corrects himself and says, "Did Bianca eat?" I'm sure his heart sinks as low as mine does at his natural slip of the tongue. For so long in our house dogs was plural.

Death is such a mystery. I hate it. The sadness her loss provoked in me felt all too familiar. Emotionally, it took me to a place I forgot I could go. After the death of my Mom, I tried to close the door on that dark, dank hallway that leads only to pockets of pain. While I cradled Bella in my arms on her last day with us, a sense of powerlessness crippled me.

“How can it be that my hysterical ache for her to get up and walk again and be whole, is of no consequence?”

It was the very same feeling I had holding vigil at my Mom's beside seven years ago. Holding my rosary beads, I pleaded with God to bequeath a miracle on our family and restore my mother to perfect health. I begged-I pleaded, I threw myself on His mercy. With no attempt to disguise my attempts at manipulation, I shrieked every scriptural quote I memorized as a child at Him. In essence saying the equivalent of the soldiers who crucified Him, “If you are truly the Son of God, come down off that cross.”

Surrender

My Mom passed away as we cried, caressed her forehead and kissed her and in the wake of her death wake was a palpable sense of surrender.

Surrender is a complex concept, one I haven’t befriended very graciously. But surrender is not phased by the presence or absence of grace or dignity. Unaffected by my emotional temper tantrums, surrender suggests itself a viable alternative to emotional meltdowns.

While I’m willing to give surrender a nod for the peace it brings when embraced, I’m hardly at a place where I’d consider it the first place I’d turn in the face of a crisis, although I do have it listed in my phone book under "friends."

What helped me get by

Over the last few weeks I stumbled upon a book that kept me up at night and I found a way to interject into just about every conversation I had. It is the best first person account of embracing surrender I’ve come across. It should be required reading periodically throughout our lives. If you haven’t read, “This Is Not The Story You Think It Is,” by Laura Munson yet, close your laptop (or turn off your computer), put down your smart phone, grab your keys, put on your hazard lights and race to your local bookstore. Pick up a copy for yourself and every friend and family member you care about, even the cashier at your grocery store or pharmacist or trash man/woman. It’s that life changing.

With reckless abandon, she exposes the private precincts of her gut-wrenching attempt to adopt an attitude of non-suffering (which doubles in my book as surrender) in the face of a very raw, personal crisis.

Making the horrific decision to put Bella down circled me back to a place where I initially made no room for surrender. Laura’s book, however, reminded me that surrender really is the only friend we can rely on in the face of crisis. Surrender has the potential to liberate us from angst-albeit fleeting at times (I’m speaking for myself).

Hope you guys are all well. Please, make space in your schedules to read Laura’s book. You’ll thank me for the nudge.

Sixteen years is a long time. What are some benchmark moments for you, from the last sixteen years? Me, I buried my Mom and my dog and my husband’s best friend but we’ve also had some write-in-your-journal highlights too. I guess that’s how life is-the bitter with the batter as my Mom used to say.

Reading suggestions on this topic:

The Five Ways We Grieve by Susan Berger

This Is Not The Story You Think It Is by Laura Munson

Chickens, Ducks, Nieces and Nephews

2010-05-13T00:30:00.014-04:00

Hey Guys,

So, where did April go? Hmmm....I felt like she breezed in and breezed out. Her short stay was reminiscent of a daughter (or niece in my case) who visits from college for the weekend, loaded down with dirty laundry who stays just long enough to launder her clothes.

Well, at least she smelled fresh as she breezed out.

Happy, happy spring. Here the honeysuckle is in full bloom. The air around here is so pretty and fragrant I feel like God leaned down and spritzed us with eau de springtime. Isn't that nice of Him?

Some quick updates:

I'm busy working on my memoir and also some other pieces for my bi-monthly column at SavvyAuntie.com and my new site which should only be weeks away from debuting. I can't wait to share it with you!

In the meantime, I took a short break from work related activities tonight, to fill out birthday cards and graduation cards for some of my nieces and nephews. As I sat here writing out their cards, it occurred to me how lucky I am. One of my nephews stopped by this afternoon after work and hung out for a bit while we pruned flowers and fed and watered the chickens. There are few things I enjoy more that an unexpected visit from one of them. When the door opens or I hear them pulling up in the driveway, my heart starts to shout, "Hey, they're here! They're here!"

Mother's Day came and went this year and I'm happy to report I survived it gracefully, which truthfully, is progress from years gone by. But while I thought about the children I never conceived or birthed, thoughts of the children I do have in my life fluttered in.

As you guys know, my nieces and nephews are the stars of my life. While I see some of them more than others, they each have touched my life in one way or the other. As I sat filling out cards for them tonight, I had a vision that every time one more of my thirty nine nieces or nephews was born, God said, "Ok, angels, let's add one more to Aunt Steph's brood. I know her. Her heart is vast, she'll be tickled if we keep adding more to love."

He's right.

But yet, this time of year finds me teary. I do miss my own Mom. I ache for her so often. I want to call her to tell her I just got accepted to The Colgate University's Writers' Conference, that I'll be featured along with four of my other non-children dear friends in a story in MORE Magazine, that writing about my life growing up with her as a Mom makes me proud and teary. Instead, I shed my tears, buy a single rose to place near her urn and count the love in my heart for my nieces and nephews.

So this post is mostly an update but I would love to hear from you guys. How do you get through Mother's Day if you are suffering the loss of your Mom or if you don't have children yourself? I'd love to hear your stories.

I posted some pictures of a canoe ride my niece, Julie and I took a few weeks ago in our pond out back. Two little baby geese paddled behind us, quacking and carrying on as we paddled around in the sun. Also, the chickens love to take a dirt bath. It's the equivalent of a trip to a spa for we humans.

The animals keep me grounded. I envy the simple lives they lead and sometimes I just take a time out and watch them cackle around the yard or float with them on the pond watching them live simply. Bianca my one dog only asks for a belly rub and to be fed twice a day. Now how cool is that? I have to learn to be more like her, "Just a belly rub please."

Go out and try to see the view from the belly. Bianca loves it. It's her favorite vantage point and then come back and tell me what you saw? Deal?

2010-04-27T23:04:00.009-04:00

Tips for the Loved Ones of People Who Suffer From Infertility

Last Christmas, after an afternoon sledding and munching on homemade Italian cookies, my niece Lauren, opened the refrigerator door and said, “Aunt Steph, it’s really a good thing you never had kids.” Poking around for the milk, she added, “No one would have liked them.”

Lounging on the loveseat with my knees bent up to my chest, I laughed.

“Really?” I said. “Is that right?” sipping a glass of red wine.

“Yup,” she poured a glass of milk and turned to place the carton back on the shelf.

I knew why she said this and hearing it put a smile on my face so broad my cheeks hurt.

It was Lauren’s way of saying she didn’t ever want to share me.

She wasn’t the first of my nieces to tell me this. As my husband and I made the painful decision to end fertility treatments, several of my other nieces expressed Lauren’s sentiment.

“Let me get this straight,” I’ve said to each of them. “If we had a baby and had a party for his or her baptism, no one would come?” I paused. “How about birthday parties? No one?” I chuckled.

“Yup. That’s right.” They all said. “If you had children, you would be distracted and never have time for us. So, in the end, it worked out.”

Distraction

I couldn’t argue with that. If I had my own children my attentions undoubtedly would be divided.

As my husband and I labored to come to terms with failed fertility treatments, the children in our lives knew how to provide comfort. Conversely, well-intentioned adults often struggled to find the best way to offer support.

National Infertility Awareness Week

Infertility is a complex issue the dimensions of which even those undergoing treatment don’t fully comprehend. But what we do know is that certain things people do or say are helpful and others miss the mark. Sadly, like many who grieve, the job of educating our loved ones on how they can be supportive, falls squarely on our shoulders.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week I encourage those grappling with infertility to take this opportunity to share with their loved ones how they can be helpful. In my practice, I have witnessed the reparative value doing so has on the strained relationships infertility leaves in its wake.

Suggestions

For the loved ones of those battling infertility, here are some tips on what to avoid and a suggestion of how you can be sensitive.

Avoid the temptation to say, “Just relax!”

o This implies blame. Trust me, we are good at blame all on our own.

Avoid asking “Why don’t you just adopt?”

o Adoption is a gift beyond measure for those who feel called to it, but it is not a panacea for the desire to conceive, birth and raise a biological child.

Understand when we pass on baby showers, birthday parties and christenings

o Sometimes we need time to lick our wounds.

Gentle presence

So what is helpful? My favorite suggestion comes courtesy of Henri Nouwen, a renowned priest, author, and respected professor. He said:

When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is the friend who cares.

If you or someone you love has been touched by the despair of infertility, jump off the sidelines and join me in the game to raise awareness about an often-misunderstood condition. It's lonely being the only person on my "team" so suit up and come off the bench!

Please feel free to link to my post, tweet it, comment or email me. I need your help to educate and raise awareness. The journey of infertility is lonely. It's not so isolating though, when others meet us on the road and wave a warm hello!

I know people want to help they just aren’t always sure how to do so effectively.

So, did you "suit up?" Hope to see you on the field!

Spreading the Word About Infertility

2010-04-19T00:00:00.006-04:00

Hey Guys,

Next week is National Infertility Awareness Week and if you're anything like me you're thinking, "My Lord, what will they think of next?"

I'll bet if I did a Google search I'd find a week that commemorates National Shoelace Week and National Garage Door Awareness Week too. Somedays, it seems a little ridiculous but next week, National Infertility Awareness Week makes sense to me.

Why you ask? (Oh, wait, maybe you didn't) ;-)

Many of you know I've suffered from infertility and never parented. For those of you who don't, now you do and you might be asking, "Hey, Steph, why didn't you just adopt?" For the long answer, click here but the short answer is we didn't feel called to it.

Infertility comes with a host of unanticipated issues. It is riddled with uncertainty and angst that most people can't fully appreciate unless they've traveled down the bumpy, foggy road. But personally, one of the most challenging struggles is that the number of myths circulated about infertility outnumbers the sands on the shore. (Ok, I admit that's hyperbole but sometimes it feels like that). My sense is this is because only the success stories make the headlines.

In the next few weeks, I am publishing an ebook called, The Forgotten Patient. It is a compilation of essays from women who've ridden the unforgiving roller coaster of infertility and never succeeded. This book will pay homage to our population and also educate others on what it is like to live in a world where we don't always quite fit in.

Infertile people are persona non grata in so many circles. The infertility professionals distance themselves from us because we represent failure and in others people just don't quite know where we fit in. The struggle of identity is reminiscent of Simon Cowell's comment last week about Sibohan Magnus. "Siobhan," Simon yawned, "We just don't know who you are. What kind of an artist you are. I think you're confused and so are we."

When we can't quite "pigeon hole" each other, we struggle. Our brains search for a frame of reference. If you watch American Idol, this analogy makes sense. Mike is like Luther. Lee is like Daughtry. Crystal is like Melissa. Sibohan is like...hmmm....uh, hmmm. See what I'm getting at?

Infertile women often struggle themselves with a sense of identity. Lord knows, if we don't know who we are, the rest of the world won't either.

I am grateful that no matter how silly we have gone with "National" awareness weeks, this upcoming week April 26- May 1st is dedicated to raising awareness around a topic so near and dear to my heart and my client's hearts as well. I'm participating in it and so is another woman I met via the world of social media who has walked in my shoes.

Pamela is a gifted writer who tirelessly works to raise awareness about those of us who have struggled with infertility without success. She authored the book Silent Sorority, a must read for anyone who had been there or loves someone who has.

Please check out her latest post on Open Salon titled, Would You Tell Someone You Are Infertile? It made me cry and left me shouting, "I know, I know!"

Please share a link to it on your blog, Twitter account or Facebook. I'd be so grateful and I know Pamela would be too.

Is there something you would like to know more about in terms of infertility? Maybe how to help a friend, deal with the grief yourself? Ask away and also, I'll be tweeting next week using the hashtag #infertilitymyths. Join me, guys! Really, join me!

Doris, Sophia and Me: Lessons From My Mother Who Didn't Live Long Enough and My Daughter Who Was Never Born

2010-04-08T03:24:00.010-04:00

I'm really excited to announce that for the next few months, my blog posts will feature pictures from my childhood. Now before you start asking why in the heck you should care about my photos, (see, I heard that!) allow me to elaborate.

While visiting my Dad in Florida this week, now ninety-five years old, this idea came to me.

One quiet, still, evening after everyone else went to bed, I changed into some warm,emotional courage and pulled out old photo albums, with a box of tissues my only companion. As I paged through the albums, I found photographs that are snapshots from many of the significant moments I am writing about in my memoir, Doris, Sophia, and Me: Lessons from My Mother Who Didn't Live Long Enough and My Daughter Who Was Never Born. I would love to share them here with you.

My hope is that when you stop by and take a peak at my pictures, thoughts of your own childhoods will come to mind. Please feel free to drop me a comment or even a picture or two of your own. My purpose for posting this pictorial book is to pay homage to the generation of men and women who were our mothers and fathers; to the legacies they left behind as well as provide you with a sneak peak into my memoir.

I know I am not the only woman out there who felt reduced to the likes of a ten year old little girl after her Mom died AND continues to struggle with living in a world her Mommy no longer is in.

I like when things are clear. So, this first post, starts at the very beginning. The beginning of the days when I was safe in the world...

Someone Who Watched Over Me...

My Mom, Doris

(pregnant with me and my identical twin sister circa 1966)

Are pictures worth a thousand words?

2010-03-31T03:55:00.008-04:00

This week, I am traveling again. So instead of of long posts, I'm going to post some pictures that evoked something really emotional in me. Something that spoke to me about safety in this world, our vulnerability and love.

While I don't mind listening to myself, I'd prefer to listen to you. So, please stop on by and make a comment. I love comments!

Mantra Monday-What's Faith?

2010-03-22T23:34:00.002-04:00

Happy Monday!

This Monday's mantra is sponsored by a day trip I took with The Bird this weekend.

When God said, "On the seventh day, you shall rest," He knew we needed it.

This weekend, I rested on the sixth day, which I don't think is of any consequence. Although we did get to Mass on Sunday, like we always do.

Saturday, felt like May around here. After munching on some raisin toast for breakfast, I said to the Bird, "Let's go to Wildwood to have dinner with your sister and the girls."

"Seriously?," he asked. "You want to ride down and come back today?"

"Yup," I said finagling my way up from the lazy boy made for one but that morning we used for two.

We checked in with my sister-in-law. "Sure!" she said. In a matter of an hour, we headed out of the driveway, Jersey Shore bound.

With the windows down, we popped in my IPod and I serenaded my husband the whole two hours down.

On my IPod, Usher is sandwiched between Michael Card, a Christian song writer and Frank Sinatra. Usher'sYeah followed my favorite song by Michael Card, That's What Faith Must Be. At that point, The Bird turned to me, peaked over the top of his sunglasses and said, "That's some eclectic collection you have there."

I smiled as he tapped me on the head and we both laughed.

On the ride to and from the shore, I replayed That's What Faith Must Be about four times. The song speaks to me, especially now as I write my memoir. Any writers out there know what a crap shoot writing is. You wonder if the effort is worth it, if you are really hearing God correctly and doing His Will. You get no immediate feedback after pouring your heart and soul onto the page.

There are plenty of days when I make my way into my office and Doubt greets me, with his feet resting on my sofa, hands folded behind his head.

"Oh, wow. You came back.Really? That's surprising," he says, milling around the office, picking up various things and examining them like he's new to the place. "I thought we went over this already. You have no idea if what you are writing or saying is any good or will ever have any real impact. In fact, I thought I convinced you this effort was a total waste of time."

I reserve a special spot just for him when he shows up. I pop open my problem notebook, and start telling on him. After I scribble down every insult he levied, good and satisfied I didn't miss anything, I shut my notebook and turn to him. "So noted, Doubt, but if you're going to keep showing up in my office, you'll have to live inside this notebook."

In a memoir writing class my instructor encouraged us to get a "problem" notebook. She suggested we spend a few minutes jotting down all our doubts, fears, anxieties, challenges, and worries each time we sit down to write. The beauty of the process is to rid your mind of all the anxieties that sabotage the creative process. My favorite part of this exercise is that you write in the notebook with the idea someone else will come along to solve the issues written inside. My problem notebook is now home to Doubt but on Saturday, this jerk hopped in the car to do a ride along.

No problem notebook easily accessible, I did the next best thing when he started yapping in the backseat. I listened to Michael Card's That's What Faith Must Be."

The lyrics squash my doubts, worries, concerns.

To hear with my heart, to see with my soul,

to be guided by I hand I cannot hold,

to trust in a way I cannot see,

that's what faith must be.

I love this song because lyrically it reminds me that faith is a mystery. It requires oodles of trust. Trust in something that takes on no physical from, we can't see or hold. That's a tall order but in just over two minutes, the song reminds me that my decision to write is rooted in faith and faith my dears, is a mystery.

Don't misunderstand me, I struggle with that on a daily basis. But in my dark moments, I remind myself that faith is a mystery and I forge ahead in well, faith (sometimes kicking and screaming).

This week, I'll only be posting today. I'm off to a conference for a good part of the week but check back next week, God willing, I'll be here. ;-)

What keeps you forging ahead when you feel uncertain? Try the song. It's catchy.

Blessings!

Trust The Process

2010-03-19T16:39:00.001-04:00

This week, on my way out of the gym and into the b e a utiful sunshine late Tuesday morning, it occurred to me. I had to take my own advice to let go and trust the process.

Earlier in the morning, I was whipping up a huge batch of anxiety and worry. I didn't need to pull out the recipe. I know it by heart.

5 lbs of of getting way to attached

8 cups of squeezing out God

2 sticks of buying into the idea that I can control things

3 cups of wringing my hands

4 teaspoons getting caught up in myself

Mix well at a feverish pace and bake in the oven until it's burned to a crisp. Tastes terrible and serves not one person.

After spending some time that morning on this God-awful dish (no pun intended) I headed to the gym. After a hearty run on the treadmill, something shifted inside me and I felt soooo liberated.

I remembered that the times in my life when things have worked themselves out, have often been when I've taken a bit of a more passive role, trusting there is a force much greater than I. It is a force who knows what I need more than I do and will reveal it to me, if I remain open.

How do I remain open? Well, somedays I don't but on the days I do, meditation is key.

Meditation frees up the mental space formerly occupied by pesky worry and anxiety, so God's guidance and direction can move on in. It reduces what I call "the frenzies." You know, those moments when we run around like chickens with our heads cut off, attempting to manipulate our circumstances from a total human position, absent of the divine.

So this week, I find myself repeating this mantra, "trust the process."

Not always easy, but trust me, much easier than the alternative and far less mentally exhausting (and more tasty).

Do you find at times you can trust the process more than others? When? I would love to hear all about it!

Great Contest!

2010-03-14T13:54:00.001-04:00

Hi Everyone-

If you are a writer you might want to check out this very cool contest. Entry requires little more than following a few very talented and gifted authors with representation on their blogs, Twitter and Facebook. The grand prize is a partial review from an agent from Fine Print Lit

Here's the link: Contest

Good luck!

Nursing a Tummy

2010-03-13T00:26:00.003-05:00

Blame it on my tummy.

Thursday came and went. My Thursday plan included a blog post, my tummy had other plans.

Here I am and as promised I wanted to address Karen's question.

In my last post I wrote about my mantra of ridding myself of attachment. She asked, "Do you have 'specific' steps or progressions to accomplish that?"

Great question, Karen.

I am doing my best to live as mindfully as possible. It takes practice and I would hardly tout myself as a master of the process but I would accept an award as a professional practicer.

What mindful living has taught me is to to be more aware of what I am feeling. When I notice I am feeling anxious, angry, annoyed, jealous or worried, I counter that awareness with a conscious reminder to detach. Rid yourself of attachment. I repeat this to myself until I feel more peaceful.

So here's the steps:

Bring into your awareness what you are feeling-Notice it.
When you are experiencing something you'd like to shift, remind yourself of the mantra to rid yourself of whatever attachment you are clinging to.
Repeat it until you notice a shift in how you feel.

Hope that helps. It is a Godsend to me and I am glad to pass it on in hopes it will be helpful to you too.

Have wonderful weekends and I'll meet ya back here sometime next week.

2010-03-08T15:11:00.004-05:00

Happy Mantra Monday!

Today I would like to share with you one of my most useful mantras.

I can't remember exactly where I first heard it but it comes from the Buddhist tradition:

Rid yourself of attachment.

No doubt, this is a tough concept and when I first heard it I thought, "You're kidding, right?"

I am attached- not only to my husband but to my ideals, my loved ones, my hopes, dreams, disappointments, failures, successes, feelings, hair, lipstick, favorite shoes. You get the idea.

But after prayerful consideration and study, I adopted it.

The times in my life that produce the most anxiety have one common denominator. I'm clinging for dear life to something. Sometimes it's an emotion, like jealousy, sometimes it's to an idea, sometimes it's to a need, desire. The specifics of what I hold on to are of no consequence. The fact that I'm busy clinging is.

Over the weekend, I had a conversation with one of my nieces. She was clinging. I could hear the urgency in her voice. A circumstance in her life left her angry, disappointed and hurt. After I gave her the opportunity to vent, I offered my mantra to her.

"Honey," I said. "I really hear that you are upset. Your reaction makes sense to me. But may I share a thought with you that I've found helpful and maybe you will too?"

(Short commercial break)

One of the most important techniques used in therapy is earning the right to ask a question. This is why I used so many qualifiers. I asked her permission to offer advice, in case that’s not what she really needed at the moment, even though I was certain “Aunt Steph”-the oracle of wisdom had something really meaningful to offer).

"Sure, but Aunt Steph, I'm just really mad!"

"Sweetheart, somewhere in my travels I heard the Buddhist concept of ridding yourself of attachment. You know I am in the throes of writing a memoir. These past few weeks, I took leave of my center, my core being. I let my ego hijack my spirit, who wasted no time scribbling in my calendar the following reoccurring event: Wake up, cling, obsess, cling, obsess and then dare to be productive."

We both laughed.

"Honey, ridding ourselves of attachment takes practice. Regular meditation helps you become proficient in learning to release your ego driven death grip."

Drawing from a recent personal experience, I said, "We cling to people, places things, ideas, etc. for dear life. Much like a small child on the monkey bars, we wrap our psychological hands around some suspended lifeline, believing that if we let go harm and injury await us. The irony is the harm comes from clinging not from releasing. Ridding myself of attachment is a daily practice, a struggle, and one I admittedly still wrestle with. But when I am able to dial my ego back, my fear and anxiety dissolve.”

This sparked a profound conversation with her and by the end of the phone call, we both laughed as we ran down our own silly litanies of things we are attached to.

So today, I pass this on to you, in hopes you might find it helpful. Release your ego grips. Let go and see if peace follows.

To what do you cling? What are your thoughts about attachment? I learn from you guys too. So share away!

Oh, and if this was helpful, pass it on! The more the merrier.

“See” you Thursday!

Thoughts on Therapy Thursday

2010-03-04T16:06:00.008-05:00

What is your favorite day of the week?

Mine is Thursday. For two reasons.

To me, Thursdays are to the weekend what Christmas Eve is to Christmas Day. They brim over with the anticipation of the weekend.
I don't have to make dinner. Thursdays we go out with my in-laws for "spaghettis"as my mother-in-law likes to say. Our local spaghetti hangout is a cozy, Mom & Pop Italian eatery that on the inside looks like a scene from any one of a number of mob movies. When we arrive we are greeted with hugs and kisses from the owners and staff. I'm a sucker for ritual, tradition and attention ;-)
I get to share some info here on my blog about therapy.

For those of you who might be new, welcome to Therapeutic Thursdays and to my faithful followers, thanks for being here!

Want to be sure you get my posts hot off the press? Subscribe up top. Better yet, become a follower. Not sure how to do that? Just scroll down to the middle of the page and on the right hand side, click on follow. That's it...welcome to the neighborhood!

The relationship between a client and therapist is very intimate and personal. People trust us with their shame, sadness, fears and anxieties. Therapists are the keeper of their clients souls, at least for a period of time. We companion people while they navigate the dark, back alleys of their very selves. Pulling back the curtain of their psyches, the goal is to empower them to make whatever changes they seek.

I've always been very upfront that I've done this work myself. I'm not convinced you can sit opposite of the "couch," if you haven't lied down on it first.

In my early twenties, I began to see my dear and beloved therapist, now clinical supervisor, Dr. JM. She is my true guru.

Elizabeth Gilbert said in her blockbuster hit, Eat, Pray, Love, "Unless you were born one of those rare shimmering saints who come into life already fully actualized, you're going to need some guidance along your journey toward enlightenment. If you're lucky enough, you will find a living Guru."

I was lucky.

Gilbert defines a guru as "...a great Yogi who can actually pass a state [of enlightenment] on to others. The word guru is composed of two Sanskrit syllables. The first means, 'darkness,' the second means 'light.' Out of the darkness and into the light."

She goes on to say, "You come to your Guru, then, not only to receive lessons, as from any teacher, but to actually receive the Guru's state of grace."

This Thursday, Dr. JM gets so much print because this is precisely the relationship she and I have developed over the years. Although at no time in the past, has it reached quite the profundity it has in recent weeks. I share this with you in an effort to pass on her grace and provide some education about the beauty of therapy.

Dr JM is going blind. She was recently diagnosed with macular degeneration. Her diagnosis is devastating. When she shared the news with me, I sobbed-with her and for her.

In her literal and figurative darkest days, she has displayed a true state of grace and selflessly, passed it on.

She said to me recently, "Steph, this will be a wonderful opportunity for me to teach you about letting go. One of the reasons I am drawn to the Buddhist tradition (although she is a practicing Catholic) is because it emphasizes that suffering is simply a part of life. In meditation we learn to detach, separate ourselves from that which we cling to. In that space lies peace."

These last few weeks, I've been a bit of stage five clinger...ok, more like a stage six. I've been so aware of how delicate and uncertain life is. How powerless we really are. I hug my husband and my dogs, nieces, nephews, tightly. I call my 95 year old father, I talk to my twin sister-with the very real awareness of how precious these moments are.

I am a lucky girl no doubt. But more importantly, my hope is to spread the love. Therapy can quite possibly lead you to your own guru and more importantly- to a state of grace.

Please keep Dr. JM in your prayers.

Do you have a guru? Someone who guides you at a soul-level? I'd love to hear about it. Oh, and what is your favorite day of the week and why?

Thank you for stopping by...have wonderful, grace-filled weekends.

This Too Shall Pass

2010-03-01T01:58:00.008-05:00

Saturday marked sevens years since my Mom passed away.

I miss her.

I just plain miss her.

For me, the last breath my Mom took, forced me over the threshold of "just a little girl" to grown woman.

A few months before she passed away, one cool January afternoon, she needed help getting out of the wheelchair and into her bed after a going to the bathroom. Only two months earlier, she was diagnosed with an aggressive malignant brain tumor. This cancer lived up to its reputation. In only two months time, my Mom could barely hear or stand on her own.

"Mommy, are you ready?" I yelled from the hallway.

Sitting in her velour workout suit and grey knit hat, her crown of courage, she called for help outside of her bathroom. The radiation stripped her of her hair. She now covered her head even indoors.

"I'm coming Mommy," I shouted.

When I made my way into her bedroom from the hallway, there she sat in her wheelchair, patiently waiting for help right outside the bathroom door.

"Where's Bobby?" She asked.

"Where is he?" She repeated making no effort to disguise her panic.

"Mommy, he's doing something in the kitchen. I'll help you." I bent down and placed my arms around her waist.

"No, no, no Steffi! No! You're just a little girl. Where's Bobby?" My brother, Bobby, heard her shout and rushed into the bedroom.

"Right here Mom. I'm right here," he said, before he even got into the room. He bent down and adjusted her before he lifted her up.

"Mommy, I can do this. Really, I can." I stepped back to make room for my brother to transfer her.

"Oh, Bobby, I told Steffi, she's just a little girl."

That afternoon, we all got a good laugh out of that, considering I was pushing my mid-thiries. But my Mom's words waxed poetic. Watching her die, I did feel like "just a little girl" who needed her Mommy to comfort her, while she watched her Mom die. Other women have reported sharing this exact sentiment. No matter what our driver's license's say, in times of crisis, most of us want our Mommy. For me, there was no other crisis during which I ached for her more.

These past few days I've felt more like I am "just a little girl" than a grown woman. As I write my memoir, especially these last few weeks, a confluence of events and anniversaries have made me particularly weepy. But last night in spiritual direction, Sister reminded us of the mantra I bring you today.

This too shall pass.

God bless my Mom, Doris. Who I miss every single day. My world will never be the same now that she isn't in it. Her uncompromising love and devotion, makes writing my memoir possible.

l wish for every girl, a mom just like her.

And Now Back to Our Regular Programming-Mantra Thursday

2010-02-25T23:25:00.010-05:00

If you live on the East Coast, you'll understand when I say, this winter has been a real stage five clinger (did you see the movie Wedding Crashers?). Winter this year feels like the clingy, needy girlfriend/boyfriend who calls incessantly and doesn't know when it has overstayed it's welcome. If I could talk to winter, I'd say, "I've been thinking...I think we need a break for a while. It's not you, it's me."

Anyway, while Monday was four days ago, I am finally feeling more like myself (no thanks to winter) and do have a mantra to pass on.

A few years ago, like six million others, I read Elizabeth Gilbert's bestselling memoir, Eat, Pray, Love. Dog-eard, highlighted and with marked up margins, my copy sits on my desk for easy reference still, several years later.

Many of Elizabeth's reflections moved me but one of those that really stayed with me was:

No one can see their reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.

-Taoist Proverb

If memory serves me, Elizabeth shared this wisdom in regard to her meditation practice. This adage is indisputable but getting people to slow down long enough to make out what they see, it another story.

Oh, yes,-yes, I am. I am speaking about myself.

I have three older brothers, who were 14, 17 and 19 years old when my twin sister and I were born. My brothers are children of the sixties and encouraged my parents to eliminate artificial colors and flavors from our diets, avoid any meats with nitrates and meditate.

My oldest brother embraced the practice of transcendental meditation and began initiating neighbors, friends and family into the practice as well when I was only six years old, including me.

We learned at the young age to use our "word" and looking back I am so grateful for such an early introduction into an ancient valuable practice.

But I'd be lying if I told you, I've been faithful over the years. My meditation practice lives a parallel existence to my prayer life. When a crisis sets in I go running to God, full of excuses for my absences Mondays through Saturdays offering some half-cocked bargain in exchange for crises averted.

Meditation is something I wish I did more faithfully. Prayer along with meditation are my "go to guys" when life's serves up a crisis or worry but as a regular practice, ummm...I need-practice.

Good thing I have someone like my Bird (my husband) who often provides the ultimatum I need. "Steph, meditate or medicate."

Yikes. I meditate. On the days I haven't reigned myself in on my own, The Bird's mandate does it for me.

In my meditation, I learn to simply be an observer of my thoughts and feelings, without getting attached. Attachment is where the "trouble" sneaks in. Emotions are nothing more than thoughts added to sensations. Replace attachment with observation and emotions shift and answers come.

Sometimes I simply do a breath meditation (when I just follow my breath-not getting caught up in any thoughts, just simple, non-judgemental observations of it's flow), other times I do a guided meditation (Dr. Bernie Seigel's are terrific) and other times I go back to my TM practice I learned when I was only knee-high to a grasshopper. Some people are purists me, I'm more eclectic.

So here publicly, I am going to commit to a more regular practice. At least daily. It is Lent, a season of reflection and contemplation, an appropriate time to revisit my commitment. If Jesus could wander off to the desert for forty days, I think I can find 20 minutes a day to visit with my spirt and His.

So, yes, you really can't see your reflection in running water. The promise of personal movement is in the stillness.

As always, guys, thank you for stopping by. It makes me smile to see you here. So, what are you doing for Lent, anything, nothing? Do you meditate?

Stop by next week. I'm pretty sure I'll be here :-) I hope you will be too and if you liked this post, please pass it on to a friend or provide a Twitter link or even Facebook link to it. Let's spread the word!

Mantra Monday and Name That Product

2010-02-15T13:27:00.008-05:00

Hi Guys- (I borrow this salutation from my adorable 2 1/2 yr old niece, Olivia. Whenever she comes into a room she says, "Hi Guys" even if the room is empty. How cute is that?)

So, Hi Guys.

Today's post is sponsored by the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, stuffy head, fever, sore throat (name that product) I've been sporting for the last few days and because of these uninvited guests, this Monday's post will be short and sweet and comes courtesy of one of my other beloved nieces, Jessica.

Jessica is a nurse and pediatric dentist and yes sir-ee I am bragging.

When Jess was born, my twin sister and I were 5 years old. It was her birth that catapulted me into the wonderful world of being an aunt first.

When we are out together people shake their heads when she tells them I am her aunt. In big families with large age gaps like ours, we don't find it puzzling but to others to whom that concept if foreign, it seems funny because we look more like sisters.

Anyway, Jess and I sometimes have our own two person, cozy book club. We spend hours on end some nights discussing the meaning of life, and the wisdom we've discovered from inside the pages of the books we've read.

Something that came from these intimate conversations is the practice of ending the day with a mental or even email list to each other on occasion, of the things we did right.

I think I speak for many of us when I say, we often spend the evening, brushing our teeth and crawling into bed simultaneously going over a litany of all that we didn't get to and perhaps failed at.

Dr. Wayne Dyer says sleep on that which you did right.

In those moments when my trash-talking internal critic starts mouthing off when I have a mouthful of toothpaste at the end of the day, I shut her up by bringing to mind Jess and Wayne.

"So, what did you do right or accomplish today?"

Positivity is the kryptonite to my loud-mouth critic. She melts like the Wicked Witch of the West when she gets a healthy dose of right-and I for one sleep much better when she's not lurking around.

So, at the end of your day, review what you did right (and by right I don't necessarily mean well, just what did you accomplish even if it was made dinner and went to work) because some days that's enough.

Now, off to take some more...well, name that product.

Be well, guys.

2010-02-08T22:09:00.007-05:00

Macaroni, Marriage and Mantra Monday

Happy Monday! Guess what I did this past Saturday? Go ahead, guess.

Did you say, "Stayed in due to one of the biggest snow storms in Philadelphia area history?" then yes.

Over two feet of snow blanketed the greater Philadelphia area and for a good forty eight hours while stuck indoors, I cooked a mean baked rigatoni, seven layer cookies, a yummy cheesy chicken dish and thought about Mantra Monday's post.

This Monday's mantra comes sponsored by the institution of marriage.

A few weeks ago, as we sat around the dining room table at my sister-in-law’s after a Sunday dinner of macaroni and meatballs, the topic of marriage came up. My two nephews who are in their twenties, my nineteen year old niece and other extended family rounded out the crowd as we sipped wine and enjoyed some homemade Italian pastries.

“Aunt Steph, seriously, I don’t see the benefits of marriage,” my nephew said.

Exasperated, I sighed and exhaled into a defeated slump. “How sad,” I thought.

After some anemic attempt to defend an institution I’ve come to know and love after twenty happily married years to his uncle- my high school sweetheart, I decided this was one I’d have to let marinate.

Goin’ to Twitter

Harnessing the power of social media, I sought assistance to answer his question via Facebook and Twitter. “My nephew doesn’t see the benefits of marriage. What can I tell him?” I posted.

My question generated quite a firestorm and the responses I got fell everywhere from “I agree!” to “How sad!” but as I began to gather evidence for my cause, it occurred to me what is missing is a more realistic perspective of love and marriage. Not a cynical perspective, like you see on TV shows like Everyone Loves Raymond or Married With Children but an authentic, candid, charming contextual framework of the promise of marriage and true love.

My go-to-guy is my Bird and so I asked him, “How do you answer the charge that marriage has no benefit?”

Real Love and Diamonds

My husband likened marriage to a diamond. It starts out in a very raw, unpolished state but undoubtedly precious. It takes skill and time to refine it into something brilliant and multifaceted.

In my practice as a therapist, I see couples frequently who are struggling in their relationships. The fairy tale they were sold as kids hasn’t materialized. Happily-ever-after looks more like, “What happened here?”

More often than not couples say, “It’s not supposed to be such hard work” or “This is hardly what true love is.”

Supersize Me

My sense is we have fallen victim to a fantastic notion of love and marriage perpetuated by a society that wants everything in shocking and compelling thirty -second sound bites, fast, super-sized, hot and steamy and now in only 140 characters. The sprint is the superior of the marathon.

By offering couples a reframed notion of marriage and love with a more mature concept, the couples I have the privilege of working with no longer feel “had” if you will and are more prepared to sustain flight in turbulent times, which they now understand are more a matter of if not when over the course of a lifetime.

As an aunt, I do my level best to dispel the myth that love and marriage don’t require heavy lifting periodically. A few years ago, my niece said to me one afternoon on the ride home from school, “Aunt Steph, I can’t wait for my wedding day. It’s going to be the happiest day of my life.”

I nearly ran off the road. “Honey,” I said in my best do-not-come-off-preachy- tone, “your wedding should be the gateway to a lifetime of happy. Not the defining moment.” TV shows like Platinum Wedding, sure are fun to watch but I suggested it is best to devote as least as much energy and time into the marriage as the wedding day itself, because the payoff stands to be immeasurable in dollars and cents.

What is real love?

A realistic view of marriage and love should include the understanding that the charm lies in the marathon not the sprint. There will be times when you feel more like walking than running and even times when you need to take a break-not literally necessarily but times when you need to regroup.

As far as the benefits to men specifically, my dear nephew, Men’s Health made this answer easy in an article titled “The Benefits of Being Married.” The top six included higher pay, living longer and even beating cancer.

Need I say more?

My mantra this Monday-marriage indeed has enormous benefits. The institution holds tremendous promise but does require time and nurturing in order to deliver.

This Valentine's Day, the Bird and I celebrate twenty-five years since our first date. He just old enough to legally drive and me, just old enough to vote he gave me a card after school asking me to be his Valentine and for the last 25 yrs I've said a resounding YES!

What do you think about marriage?

Thoughts on Therapy Thursday

2010-02-04T16:46:00.004-05:00

Yahoo! The weekend is only a day away. Believe it or not, a huge snow storm is forecasted again for Saturday so it looks like Saturday's are morphing into snuggle Saturdays, which honestly, I don't mind. When the weather forces me to slow down, I like it because on my own, in the slow down category, I fall into "needs improvement" sometimes. How 'bout you?

Movies, hot chocolate and naps will fill the day, so if you have any suggestions for good movies, I'm all ears.

Today, I'm going the personal and professional route again. As Thursday approached and I formulated this post, I found myself more cognizant of those things I personally find therapeutic. Establishing Thoughts on Therapy Thursdays has really encouraged me to take greater advantage of what those things are. I hope it has for you too. Leave me a note in the comment section if you have too!

Now, at the risk of sounding redundant, I gotta say, this week, one of the things I found most therapeutic is my goats, Zuzu and Petals. They are better than Prozac.

People have asked us, "What's the deal with you having goats? Do you milk them?"

Nope, they are not dairy goats. We got them for the pure delight of watching them live their simple little lives. There is something very organic and grounding about watching animals. They don't worry about where their next meal is coming from, with whom they are in conflict or worry about the weather. They trust the universe will provide. Every time I let my dogs out, the goats bleat to say hello and when I rub them behind their horns they smile and it feels like is God whispering to me, "Hey, I got them covered. Let that be a reminder, I got you covered too."

That's the personal part for this Thursday, now here's the professional part.

In my practice, I see lots of couples who are finding their marriages broken and in disarray. It happens. In school our education system focus on reading, writing and arithmetic with virtually no tools on relationship-ing, if you will ( I just made that word up, I kinda like it). We need relationship-ing badly. Just look at the divorce rate.

Early on in my our own marriage, The Bird and I sought support in how best to resolve conflict and now twenty years later, when people ask us, "How have you stayed so happy?" I say, we learned and mastered the scientific techniques necessary to resolve conflict effectively and committed to them.

One of my favorite resources I recommend routinely to couples is the book, Fighting For Your Marriage. It is based on the scientific research the authors conducted when they set out to discover what factors have the most predictive value in determining whether or not a relationship/marriage will be successful. They observed couples discussing issues that are bones of contention in their relationships and after 30 years of research, they were able to determine within 96% accuracy which couples would stay together and which couples would fail, simply by observation.

Their research yielded four main pitfalls that couples doomed for divorce engage in. They are:

invalidation ("That's stupid. You shouldn't feel that way. That's ridiculous.")
escalation ("Your just like your mother/father!")
withdraw/avoidance (walking away, ignoring your partner)
OK, the last one totally slips my mind and I lent out my copy of the book to my niece and I can't find #4 on Google...forgive me

The book in invaluable and what I like most is it is research based. I use it in my practice and it works. Fail proof when couples are committed to the process.

So how about you? Today, any questions about this? Shoot, I'll answer or what do you think about these four pitfalls? Did you recognize anyone?? (Me, I'm a reformed escalator) :-)

Have wonderful weekends, guys. See ya Monday for Mantra Monday.

Mantra Monday

2010-01-31T22:45:00.005-05:00

Hey Guys-it's Monday.

Hope the weekend was all you wanted it to be.

Here in the North East, Old Man Winter made another fine appearance and left about three inches of snow so we hung out inside for most of the weekend. If anyone sees spring, would you please pass this message on, "We're w a i t i n g."

First, I'd like to ask a favor. One of my wonderful and supportive followers recently lost her mother. If you have a moment please stop by Diana's blog and offer a cyber hug. For those of us who know the pain of losing a mother, you can appreciate the power a few comforting words have. Diana, my thoughts are with you.

This Monday, my mantra comes courtesy of my former therapist and clinical supervisor, Dr. H. (By the way, if you find yourself ever in the market for a therapist-here's my litmus test-make sure they have been through the process themselves. If not they won't be able to tease our their own stuff from yours, which is critical to the therapeutic process).

Many years ago, Dr. H shared something very personal with me in an effort to help move me through an issue with which I was struggling. The act of sharing your own personal stories or experiences with a client is called self-disclosure and it should be used judiciously. But this story tremendously impacted me and her use of self-disclosure on this occasion was profoundly appropriate.

She grew up in Minnesota where the winters showed no mercy. One winter, when she was in her early twenties, her father killed himself.

There are no words to describe what this does to a family. Loss is hard enough but when suicide is the reason, it adds another dimension that complicates the grieving process.

Dr. H shared with me a memory she has of her mother in the wake of her father's death that left an indelible mark and ultimately became her own mantra for navigating her way through difficult and sorrowful periods.

Shovel and cry, shovel and cry.

Her father's death emotionally crippled her family. But she drew strength at the time and now in her own difficult and seemingly impossible circumstances, from the image of watching her mother in the bitter cold, that winter, shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying.

The snow didn't stop just because her family's heartbeat ended. It had to be cleared.

Often when sorrow shows up, the temptation to sit and let the "snow" pile up is hard to resist and in some circumstances I encourage my clients to do just that but as a rule, shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying is a reasonable mantra to help move the process along.

In my practice, I've seen people resist getting back into a normal routine because they have a sense it is a betrayal to the memory of their deceased loved one. When this issue comes up, I often share Dr. H's story with them.

Today, my heart is heavy. Someone close to me is facing a life threatening illness and the odds are against him that he will survive. Barring a miracle, he will die.

I don't feel like much like shoveling. I'd rather let the snow pile up. But as I write this, I am reminded of Dr. H's mother, whom I am certain never knew the impact that her simple act of shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying would have.

Today, I let the snow pile up. Tomorrow, I'm gonna shovel.

How 'bout you? Have you ever been in a place where you'd rather cry than shovel or maybe shoveled and cried? Did it help?

Thoughts on Therapy Thursday

2010-01-28T01:06:00.000-05:00

My lips asked if they could start out this weeks edition of Thoughts on Therapy.

Because they asked so nicely, I said, "Sure."

Check this stuff out:

It's a therapeutic lip treatment made by Fresh, called Sugar. Just the name made me lick my lips. The recommendation first came from my niece, Cecilia who said her college roommate swears by it. Cecilia was going to school in Boston at the time and Boston winters wreak havoc on lips. A recommendation from a Boston girl for a lip treatment that works? I took it. It works.

Some lip treatments glide on your lips about as easily as a bird without any wings-not very well but this? This is so smooth it could pick up Angelina Jolie. It spreads as easily as some trashy celebrity's legs. Nice and easy, without a need to coax. ;-) I get it at Sephora.

Thank you to my lips and now, let's move on to something a little more cerebral, shall we?

My mother's death fostered my therapeutic interest and subsequent speciality in grief and loss.

When my Mom passed away the foundation on which my sense of safety in the world was built, crumbled. It fell out from underneath of me like a collapsing scaffold and I found myself lying on the ground in the rubble, rubbing my eyes, shaking off the dust, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. The moment she drew her last breath and my emotional safety net gave way, was the very first time I ever felt I was officially a grown up.

Last week, I stumbled upon a post by Julie who recently lost her father. She echoed the very thoughts I had when my own Mom passed away.

"And so I find myself, like all those characters who tales I recount time and time again, starting off on a path without my guiding force at my side, without that sense of home, devoid of that someone who would ALWAYS welcome me, and love me when I walked in their door. I find myself, my own leader, my own wise woman, I find myself, at long last, a grown-up."

Is there any more therapeutic feeling than the sense of being understood or better yet, a sense that what you are experiencing is actually normal? When you can shout, "Me too! Me too!'?

One of the most therapeutic aspects of grief therapy is the discovery that what you are feeling, doing, or thinking in the wake of a loved ones death is normal. People often underestimate the therapeutic power this discovery has. Don't. It's powerful and often provides the shift people need to move forward.

If you are struggling with the loss of a loved one, you might want to check out How to Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies by Therese A. Rando, PhD. It's a great resource.

This Therapeutic Thursday, are you wondering if something you are doing, thinking or feeling is normal? Ask me! I'll do my best to provide some insight or -share your own stories of when you first really felt you were officially a grown-up. I'd love to hear them.

As always, THANK YOU for stopping by and sharing part of your day with me!

Mantra Monday

2010-01-25T12:39:00.000-05:00

Yup...Monday again. It keeps comin' round, like it or not, guys.

Remember the song, "Just Another Manic Monday. I wish it were Sunday...cause that's my fun day?" (who knows the group that sang this... HELLO 1980's in the house)

In my line of work the pressure to practice what I preach keeps me honest so today when Monday morning mania woke me up with its bad breath I said to myself, "Steph, if you're going to live with integrity, girl, you gotta find a way to embrace Monday."

Ask and you shall receive.

Guess who provided? The unlikely Rachel Held Ev ans.

Rachel is a gifted author, blogger and speaker, who says on her blog's description:

"Charles Darwin said that the survival or extinction of an organism is determined by its ability to adapt to its environment. I think faith operates the same way. Changes in the environment--be they cultural or experiential—test the resilience of our faith and challenge us to rethink our most fundamental beliefs and values.

That’s what this [my] blog is about. It's about how faith survives by continually changing."

I made Rachel's acquaintance when I hopped over to visit my friend Wendy's blog, All in a Day's Thoughts and read Rachel's brilliant guest post. Quick commercial for Wendy: If you are a writer, you're missing out if you don't follow Wendy's blog -who happens to be my very first follower :-) Wendy, there is a special place in my heart for you, sister!

Rachel periodically shares her personal "mantras" on her blog-those quotes and words of wisdom that have become part of her live's vernacular.

I loved this idea so much I am copying it, with Rachel's blessing. (Thank you Rachel for such a cool idea and the blessing to adopt it.)

Mondays until further notice will now be...Mantra Mondays!

The definition of a mantra according the the free dictionary is:

1. Hinduism A sacred verbal formula repeated in prayer, meditation, or incantation, such as an invocation of a god, a magic spell, or a syllable or portion of scripture containing mystical potentialities.

2. A commonly repeated word or phrase:

No matter how self-actualized I'd like to think I am, I must admit there are moments when anger and bitterness intoxicate me, take advantage of my inebriated state and cart me off to their dark side. But the sobering mantra that spares me from a severe emotional hangover came from Wally Lamb's page-turner, I Know This Much Is True about ten years ago, when

I tucked this book in my big, South Philly girl pocket book and prayed every traffic light I came to would turn red-so I could keep reading it.

On its own the story is compelling but when you consider I am an identical twin, and the main character is an identical twin it's more personal. Three quarters of the way into the book, Wally's main character comes to this insight:

*Love grows from the rich loam of forgiveness*

For months after I read this, it took the place of "Hey girls!" when I picked my nieces up from their respective bus stops after school. A born-again evangelist for the concept of forgiveness, I wanted them to know that forgiveness is a gift you give yourself and from it...love blossoms.

In no way do I want to come off Pollyana about this because I do know forgiveness is a tough pill to swallow-but...when you ingest it, you feel better, right?

Have you tried forgiveness? Do you struggle with it yourselves, too?

Thoughts on Therapy

2010-01-21T10:30:00.005-05:00

Thank you guys...for making me feel normal! Your comments humbled me and normalized my feelings about this land called grown up.

Last week I shared a snippet from Mary Pipher's memoir, Seeking Peace: Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World that compelled me to grab my highlighter.

This week and from here on out- Thursdays will be “Thoughts on Therapy.” I’ll post insights about my personal work as a therapist, the field and what I personally, find therapeutic.

For the majority of my time here on this blog, I haven't discussed much about my work as a therapist but in the last few days the thought occurred to me that maybe I should.

I invite you to participate on Thursdays by posting any thoughts, questions or comments you have about therapy in general, the process or anything you’ve always wanted to know but for whatever reason never asked. You name it and I’ll do my best to answer it. This is a chance for you to get the inside scoop about what is otherwise for many an enigmatic process.

Without further ado, please give a warm welcome to our first Therapeutic Thursday.

(Applause, applause!)

This week-I’d like to share two things I find therapeutic:

· D Dr. Bernie Seigel’s morning and evening meditations. You can download them at ITunes or click on his name for a link to find out more. On those days when The Bird says to me, “Steph, meditate or medicate”- I pick meditation. When my mother was undergoing radiation treatment for brain cancer, I would pack some of Dr. Seigel’s other meditations to take with us. Listening to his hypnotic voice comforts me. I highly recommend these meditations to family, friends, clients and now you guys.

Ti Time out for the old doggie belly rub.

o Bianca is needy and codependent- and the only reason she gets away with that is because she is four-legged and furry.

Boy do I need to take a page out of her book. She has no problem asking for what she wants, which more often than not is a belly rub. With no real concept of time, if she asked for one ten minutes ago and she wants another one ten minutes later-she just rolls over, paws in the air. I used to get annoyed because I felt badly that I couldn’t take the time for her. But now I interpret her requests as an opportunity for me to take my own timeout. Call me crazy but I think she senses when I need the break. Now, I get right down on the floor and have at it. I feel her soft fur; I bury my face in her belly and squeeze her really tightly. Which releases oxytocin-the cuddle hormone and makes me feel instantly relaxed.

This concludes Thoughts on Therapy.

What do you find therapeutic? Or-what is that burning question you’ve always wanted to ask about therapy, the process, therapists, anything. Fire away guys and I’ll answer.

Grown Up

2010-01-18T10:27:00.007-05:00

Monday already?

For me that means loads of laundry, a trip to the grocery store, the gym and some other mundane grown-up chores.

Not sure about you guys, but as a child, I spend some time wasting my days away, daydreaming about the promised land called Grown-up.

In this magical, faraway land, freedom would ring.

Meatloaf never to pass my lips again, in the promised land I'd eat what I wanted WHEN I wanted and how much of it I wanted, the word curfew would be foreign and a general atmosphere of frivolity and rebellion would reign supreme. Grown up land would be magical. Free of nagging parents, constant academic deadlines and a drainboard piled high with dishes waiting to be moved into their rightful places (my Mom's rule was-wash, dry and put away...it drove me crazy!), this promised land would be a place in which I would do what I wanted, when I wanted and with whom I wanted. I couldn't wait to get there.

In the early days in grown-up-ville, I remember one of my first exhilarating moments.

In line at our local K-mart, I saw it. A Hershey bar.

With a cart full of new, shiny things for our apartment, my roommate, Tina and I waited for our turn to check out. And that is when a great moment of insight came to me. "If I really want to, I could buy that Hershey bar."

In little-girl-land, the act of buying candy at any check-out counter was forbidden.

"Excuse me," I pushed pass Tina. With a sense of pride and liberation, I reached for it.

I bought it.

I ate it. Grown-up land was shaping up to be all I imagined.

Then, I turned twenty-eight and the promised land threw me a curve ball I hadn't anticipated-I could not get pregnant. No matter what-it wasn't happening.

Twenty-eight turned into 35 and I still suffered from unsuccessful infertility, an unimaginable loss I did not anticipate. This sorrowful circumstance was in direct contrast with the lease I thought I signed with this so called promised land-Grown up.

My early childhood ideals of this place included things like having a family with lots of children, never having to mourn the death of my mother -a place absent of worry, anxiety, grief or loss.

Grown-up land didn't care about my fantastical childhood expectations. It masks itself to kids as one thing and quite often turns into something else when you arrive. This is not to say some things haven't worked out just as planned but as a rule-over the years, I've been surprised.

Today, I don't feel like doing laundry, or quite frankly going to the grocery store...but I will. The Bird prefers clean underwear and we gotta eat.

But in the aftermath of the fiasco of infertility and the death of my Mom, I did a bit of research on this grown-up land. It is guilty false advertising and in my opinion there is grounds for a class action suit. Who's in?

In my memoir, I am writing much more about the unexpected trials I ran into and how I made peace with the one constant being a grown-up promises and that is- uncertainty.

What do you think of your grown-up land? Is it a bit over-rated? Did you run into some unanticipated obstacles or is it just me? (Oh please don't say it's just me?)

Somethin' for Saturday

2010-01-16T12:45:00.003-05:00

Here is just a little somethin' for Saturday.

My goats, Zuzu and Petals are simple creatures. When I throw open my door each morning and say, "Hello my baby goats!" they turn their little faces and look up at me. And in that brief moment, any anxiety, worry or concern is suspended-washed away in their simplicity.

Have wonderful weekends, guys and see ya next week.

Faith on My Own Terms

2010-01-14T11:34:00.027-05:00

Horrified.

If my eighth grade teacher, Sister Mary Imelda, IHM peaked inside the pages of the books in my personal library she’d be horrified.

“Miss DiCerbo, (my maiden name) come here to me,” she'd say.

When Sister called you to the front of the class by your last name- the smart kids knew to pack a towel for the imminent shower of shame.

“You bold brazen article. Who do you think you are defacing your books?

For those of you who attended Catholic school, you know two things:

1. Questions like this are rhetorical.

2. Words like bold, brazen article precede public, demoralizing assaults, the likes of which only Catholic nuns perfect.

Me-the consummate, compliant, Catholic schoolgirl, I never suffered this walk of shame. Dutiful, I bought into the rules with an underdeveloped capacity for independent thought.

When Billy Joel said, “You Catholic girls start much too late,” I know his reference had nothing to do with marking up virginal textbooks. However, if you consider a broader interpretation he implies Catholic schoolgirls take much longer to psychologically weed through the stringent childhood introjects beaten into us.

Ok, Mr. Billy Joel, I admit it, that's me.

The courage to deflower the margins of my books didn’t come until I was reasonably certain the wrath of Sister Imelda was no longer a threat. Now, just about every book I own is marked up, dog-eared with a cracked spine. The sentences and paragraphs I highlighted, and the handwritten thoughts that take residence beside them, were taken in anticipation of someday passing them on.

Joan Erikson, wife of the famous developmental psychologist Erik Erikson once said:

“If you have wisdom from which others might benefit…you are obligated to pass it on.”

So that I will do.

Periodically, I will pick snippets that struck me from inside the marked pages of the books in my library and share them here.

They are the literary saviors that rescued me from the depths of grief, loss, and spared me in my battle of reckoning with the startling incongruence of life as a grown-up and the childhood expectations I idealized when I was “just a little girl” -as my Mom affectionately referred to me when I was caring for her in her last months.

In my memoir I recount in more detail my relationship with these literally saviors but because I appreciate you more than you could possibly know and could use your feedback, I’ll continue to provide sneak peaks just for you.

A thought about gratitude

Jimmy Fallon never misses an opportunity to say thank you to his viewers when he returns from a commercial break ( I love him!). His sincerity makes me feel like he is speaking to me-just me. Sometimes he comments that he recognizes the infinite viewing choices out there and geuninely expresses his gratitute that his viewers choose him.

In honor of Jimmy and my mother, who impressed upon me the incalculable value and social grace of a simple thank you...Thank you.

Today we have more choice than we can shake a stick at. More blogs that we could live long enough to read. Thank you for taking some time to pop in and share part of your day and life with me here on my blog. Just like Jimmy-I appreciate it. My life is richer because of your contributions here.

So, back to wisdom worth passing on. Mary Pipher, in her book, “Seeking Peace-Chroncilces of the Worst Buddhist in the World, says:

“All transformations are returns. After setting forth on a voyage of discovery, being chased by monsters, encountering great suffering and beauty, getting lost and being pummeled by storms, we find our way back to our original place and realize that the truth has always been there waiting for us. We connect with that which we knew before we were born. We can resume our ordinary lives with eyes unclouded by longing.”

Mary is right.

The tragedy of infertility and my despondence following my mother’s death fueled a fierce soul-empty spiritual crisis. Ever heard the expression, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?" My faith scorned me and yes, oh, yes, on a quest I went to find answers-The truth.

Here I am several years later, exhausted from my tireless trek and Mary is right. The Truth had always been there waiting for me.

But now, I am no longer a sycophant to my religion but a woman, who chooses to stay, rooted in the Catholic faith she grew up in – on my own terms.

How 'bout you? Where is your faith (or not) and how did you arrive at it?

Committment

2010-01-12T00:22:00.013-05:00

Happy New Year!

I hope your Sundays were sacred and your holidays filled with family (only if that is a good thing), loads of love and joy. Indeed mine were.

My time in Florida with my Dad , brothers and sister-in law soaking up the sun, was just what the doctor ordered. By engaging in virtually no true linear thinking, some of those "Ah ha Moments" I'd been searching for had found the space to move in.

I'd like to share them with you.

Business

In about a month or so, I will be unveiling my new Wordpress blog. More than just a blog, it will be a place to find good solid links, resources, books, etc on issues related to love, loss and learning. Parenting and Non-parenting info too, that I like to recommend to my clients, friends and family. It will have more bells and whistles, useful content and a spot where I will blog. More on that as it gets closer. I would like to thank Lauren at Restored 316 Designs in advance. If you need a blog or website, she is your girl!

Personal

I have a confession to make.

My stomach is speaking to me as I write this but here I go anyway: Me and follow up don't share a relationship that I would characterize as chummy. There I said it.

At first, I threw my lack of follow through right under the infertility bus. Most of my professional activities were extracurricular while I waited to pop up pregnant. Then it was due to my Mom dying. Follow-through and distraction top the list of natural symptoms of the grieving process. Yup, that was it. It seemed the world around me engaged in some morbid conspiracy to turn me into a professional un-follow through-er and now I am taking responsibility. The time to admit this out loud has arrived.

I felt shame because " I didn't just pick something 'normal' to be when I grew up and stick with it like most people do." And then, I read an essay by Kelly Corrigan and felt liberated. She writes about her own demons of being a dabbler. Hmmm, maybe I'm not that strange after all. She's a best-selling author now.

Tonight, The Bird and I came upstairs to call it a night after toying around in my office down stairs trying to get the new wireless printer to work. Complete frustration set in for me and he could see the meltdown coming. To be honest, I was making no efforts to conceal it. The trail of heavy, exasperated sighs up the stairs clued him in.

"Oh, Babe, come 'ere," open arms he made his way into my closet. This time I didn't have the mental energy to stay rooted in frustration. I fell right into the warm, waffle patterned Eddie Bauer pull over he still had on. He wrapped his arms around me and placed his signature kiss my forehead.

Standing in my dressing room, my vision boards our backdrop, I said leaning into his chest for more than just physical support, "For a girl who has trouble with commitment -in the marriage department I've done pretty well." I felt like he needed a reminder but in true transparency-I needed it more than he did.

Leaning back still holding on, he looked up and laughed. "In the marriage department you've done pretty darn well-you're right honey-this is something you fully committed to almost 20 years ago and haven't looked back."

His chuckle infected me and I laughed. In that moment wrapped up in his arms I felt loved-inspite of my deficit. I was quick to remind him about Kelly Corrigan, holding her up as an example of one super successful woman who for a period of her life dabbled and struggled with some of the same demons I do.

"I love you-period. Follow-through or not, dabbling or not. I believe in you. Period." The litany of projects I still need to complete that had been racing around in my head, exhausting me and fanning the flames of my meltdown, disappeared.

The first few months of this new year, I am on retreat (at home) and will be posting excerpts from the book as I go along. Wish me luck.

Although I have real disdain for the ritual of new year's resolutions, let me say this. It'd be awfully nice to be at peace with myself more often this year than in past.

Tell me, are you a dabbler, follow-through challenged or the opposite?

An All Important Review of My Pity Party: My Latest Column on Savvy Auntie

2009-12-24T00:01:00.005-05:00

Boy can I throw a party.

I know this because for an unsettling period, I had the party throwing acuity of Martha, Rachel AND Oprah.

Not the kind of parties that would render Martha Stewart necessarily wicked- witch-of-the west-green or draw celebrity A-list crowds, or the kind where red velvet ropes are requisite for crowd control to separate the distinctive guests from the chaotic frenzy of the paparazzi.

Quite the contrary.

This was a pity party and no ordinary pity party at that. I was a force to be reckoned with. In attendance, one indignant infertile woman, who naively sat peering out the window, convinced if you throw it they would come.

“Who wouldn’t want to join the crusade against the injury of my infertility?” I reasoned. In anticipation of huge crowds and to be sure they were well fed, I scattered crudités in every nook and cranny.

You might be overcome with shock when I tell you this and be warned- you might even want to take a seat.

No one came.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

“Steph, I’m so sorry.” Quiet, shameful whispers filled the room on those rare occasions when a few compassionate folks would show. They spoke in the kind of whispers people use in chemo lounges and funeral parlors. They didn’t stay long and no one brought casseroles.

In a preeminent martyr tone, I responded, “Thank you for coming. I appreciate your stopping in.”

Post catastrophe, as typically happens, the crowd (I use the term loosely) thinned and I was left single-handedly to reconstruct an identity outside that of Mommy.

In my forthcoming memoir, Doris, Sophia and Me, I write about what I call the Charlie in the Box syndrome. Fans of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer know Charlie. (That's him at the top). He is the self-appointed sentry on the Island of Misfit Toys. Constructed to look like and resemble a jack-in-the-box, what relegates him to this dank and destitute locale is his unforgivable misfortune. He was named not Jack, but oddly, Charlie.

He doesn’t fit in.

Infertile women often feel akin to Charlie

In a recent guest post for the New York Times, Shelagh Little says, “Motherhood is still central to womanhood, the magical thing that women’s bodies do. Motherhood is also socially rewarded and is a sort of proxy for femininity.” She further shares, “After work, young couples chat on lawns while their children ride bikes and draw on the sidewalk with colored chalk. My husband and I are sidelined, left to feel aberrant. Infertility is a unique kind of loneliness.”

Shelagh, you can say that again.

The struggle of infertility can transform even the most psychologically sound woman into a fragile being that after time even she doesn’t recognize.

I was no exception.

I needed help.

After running a psychological marathon, my psyche bushed and raw, I uncovered life-altering information.

My locus of control had to shift from external to internal. A life lived re-actively rendered me pathetic. If I was to survive the trauma I had to live proactively.

In a recent piece Janice Marie Simon, one of the other Savvy Auntie Experts, brought up the question, “Are you Happy?” In her same titled column, she shared the findings of Marcus Buckingham, author of Find Your Strongest Life: What the Happiest and Most Successful Women Do Differently. “Happy women spent their time on building up and leveraging their strengths.”

And that is what I began to do, although the times of year when traditions take center stage were tough. If I never had children of my own, to whom would I pass on the rich holiday customs my mother went to such great lengths to establish? With whom would I roll out sugar cookies and cry with when Frosty the Snowman melts?

Something magical happened while I was busy licking my wounds. My proactive posture became the conduit for answers and organically, those questions got answered and took the form of children often heard shouting, "Aunt Steph, Aunt Steph!"

My niece Christina was quoted as saying in First for Women magazine this month, “Aunt Steph, my second favorite day of the year is the Christmas Scavenger Hunt you design for us, next to my birthday!”

The cornerstones of our lives are constructed not from packages and bows or even as I learned, from biologics. The strongest foundations are those bred from traditions and memories carved out of love.

As always I share my own stories because I've learned over time, that the wisdom I've garnered along the way transcends me individually. Intimacy and healing occur when we expose our vulnerable sides.

My hope and purpose here remains, to offer others ideas and support so the heavy lifting of life isn't quite as well, heavy.

What are the cornerstones of your own lives? Did they come requiring heavy lifting like mine?

A Snowy Sacred Sunday

2009-12-22T11:49:00.023-05:00

For those of you living on the East Coast, you know of the storm of which I speak.

It started Friday night and didn't head out until the wee hours of Sunday morning.

Twenty inches of snow broke two records.

The first. It was the heaviest snow to fall ever in December in the Philadelphia area.

Second, it was the first time the Christmas Scavenger Hunt I do for everyone was postponed.
The fierce competitive spirit of our family was no match for the driving snow and blizzard conditions Saturday that were so crippling all the states in the surrounding Philly area declared states of emergency.

"Do you guys still want to come over?" I must have repeated 20 times on the phone to each of my in-laws Saturday, as we continued to assess the weather.

"Heck ya we wanna come!"

This family single-handily keeps the local Chevy dealership in business. When everyone converges on one household, it looks more like a Chevy new car lot than a local neighborhood driveway. Suburbans abound, so a little snow doesn't scare anyone-but we didn't just have "a little snow." Regardless, Saturday we had a crowd and Sunday the crowd swelled even larger, once the state of emergency was lifted.

So what was sacred you might be asking? Sacred?

You know the expression, "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts?" The sacredness of this weekend can best be described by adding two letters to that saying- a and s.

"The whole was AS great as the sum of it's parts."

All of it. Saturday night we played Pictionary Man (if you don't have this-get it!) ate, drank and sat by the fireplace, our faces glowing from the warmth of the fire burning in the fireplace.

The floor once again kept cozy by all the bodies sprawled out on it. My nieces talked to their cousins until the wee hours of the morning, The Bird joining in too. (He stayed awake that late! I love when he does and so do the girls).

Sunday morning they made me eggnog french toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. My niece Lauren, asked me as soon as I came down the stairs, "Aunt Steph, can I fix you a plate?" Here comes the drama...I teared up.

"Of course you can!"

"Aunt Steph, sorry for the mess. The first batch didn't turn out so good. We kept fighting about who knew how to make what the best." Four of my nieces played Julia Child and did a splendid job in my opinion.

I ate, laughed. The phone rang. The front door revolved. We sled most of the day and repeated the same holiday process from the night before, only with a bigger crowd.

At one point, after making my way down our hill on a snow saucer, I stopped. Stuck in the snow, I said, "Oh, Lord. Thank you. Thank you. Last week I was in such a different place. Thank you for always rounding things out." Infertility seemed like a distant relative as did the grief associated with it from last Sunday.

Because pictures are worth a thousand words, I've posted quite a few.

For you, what was sacred about your weekend? This time of year is tough, yes. I've felt it myself. Inside the peaks and valleys, nostalgia and joy, lies hidden-the sacred. What did you discover?

I'll be away visiting my Daddy in FLA for a week or so and expect to be back blogging regularly right after the new year.

Merry Christmas you guys. Happy New Year.

Thank you for stopping by and making my life richer by sharing pieces of yours with me.

I wish for you a year of sacred moments, love and laughter and strength and comfort should you need it.

Lots of love- and now for the Code of Elves (couldn't resist one more Elf reference)

Sacred Sunday

2009-12-14T22:23:00.015-05:00

Yup. It glows. Pretty, huh?

I took me a few minutes to get going on this post because I kept staring at it. I made it. *Smile*

Yesterday afternoon, fog rolled in and stole the show from the clouds by the time the clock struck three thirty. Of the eight of us (my four nieces and three sisters-in-law) piling into the car making our way to the Gingerbread House Workshop my dear friend and decorator, Zoe was hosting, none noticed. Our excitement and the serenade of Christmas carols on B 101.1FM provided a great distraction on our twenty minute Suburban sleigh ride through the rolling hills of Chester County, Pennsylvania.

Rushing to get out of the rain, we made it to the front porch. "Hi Zoe!" The smell of the freshly baked gingerbread greeted us when she opened the door.

"Come on in."

To the untrained eye, you'd assume Martha Stewart waved her magic wand but no, it was the Zoester (The Bird's nickname for her). Who in my book would beat the pants off of Martha in any Iron Decorator competition? Zoe can take a bird's nest, nestle it with a few sprigs of holly and evergreen boughs, shove in a few pine cones and produce something that belongs on the cover of Country Living. I love her.

She baked the gingerbread house pieces, put out a spread I'm sure I just saw in Country Home and demonstrated to the group how to assemble the pieces. James Taylor crooned one of our favorite songs, "Baby It's Cold Outside" and the fire burning warmed our cold tootsies.

The picture up top is of my house. If you crush up hard candy and bake it you get something that resembles stained glass windows and when you place a tea light inside the finished house, the windows glow. See, that Zoe is somethin'?

As we got busy assembling our houses, Zoe's friend, Karen asked, "What's your favorite Christmas movie?"

"Aunt Steph makes us watch Elf as early as June."

My nieces told tales out of school. "You guys love it." I laughed, although the thought occurred to me that when said out loud in public, it sounds like something a freak would do. My face felt redder than the Twizzlers on the table jockeying to win a spot on our gingerbread houses.

Talk about sacred. I adore those kids and am so, so lucky to have married into a family that considers eating, drinking and being merry life's calling. The Bird is the youngest of ten children. That explains the majority of my thirty eight nieces and nephews. So when just a fraction of the family shows-it's instant party.

When you consider over the years there were periods when my life's focus was more on bitter than blessed, it makes days like this that much more noteworthy. As the hours passed at Zoe's, I soaked in the sacredness. Go ahead and make your case that this is getting a little melodramatic but when you stack it up against the way my morning started you might want to hold out calling, "Your honor, I object."

Eight days passed. Yesterday made nine and two days ago I caved in.

I paced around trying to pretend my late period did not peak my interest but Friday morning I folded.

For those of you who have ever struggled with getting pregnant this story will sound like I hijacked it from you.

My period was late which is highly unusual. Friday I trekked up to the drugstore, grabbed a pregnancy test and while waiting for the cashier to make his way to the counter, the familiar loop started.

"This is such a waste. What arE YOU DOING? We've been down this road before! It always lands you on the Island of Misfit Toys! Get out, back away. GO HOME!"

"Be quite," Hope said.

Hope won out. After shelling out another $19.99. I drove home. Got in the door, plopped down my keys and went to town.

Peed on the stick and waited the eternal 3 minutes.

Busy making things up to do while passing the three minutes from hell, here’s the litany of thoughts that intoxicated me.

"I knew she'd come. I knew it. Maybe there is something to that stupid Secret after all." (For two years while we tried actively to get pregnant I journaled to my never to be conceived daughter, whom I named Sophia. Hoping that by writing to her, I’d will her to us).

"This could be great. This time in a few years I could be taking my own daughter with me to make gingerbread houses at Zoe's. I'll cradle her in my arms (nothing against boys, believe me I'd take one) teach her funny names for body parts like Coolie (the Italian nickname for well, the butt), cry watching her sing in Christmas pageants, show her how to make the sign of he cross, introduce her to Jesus, kiss her boo-boos, help heal her first broken heart, cheer her on, discipline her when necessary and when the time comes, be the mother of the bride. And now for the piece de resistance, I will never have to die alone."

No.

That's what the stick read.

I stood there waiting for the test to come to life. Expecting it to laugh maniacally and say, "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. You are such an easy mark. We got ya again."

Instead, I just threw the evidence outside into the big blue trash can that only the trash men ever see, for fear of shame and embarrassment.

Sunday morning- still no period. A glutton for punishment, I caved again. In less than three minutes the test said the same damn thing it's said for the last 19 years of my life.

No.

Quietly I made my way to the kitchen and began checking my email. Hearing my husband stir upstairs, I put on my best "I'm fine" face before he came down.

"Babe, what are you reading?" He sauntered into the kitchen. Without waiting for an answer he asked, "Who wants some pancakes?"

I mumbled something incoherent. On purpose.

With my face squarely focused on the New York Times article that would soon relegate me to tears I said, "Nothing."

"Really? Nothing?"

"Uh, huh."

Walking around with what I call our dinglehopper, (who knows what movie that is from?) he turned to me who at this point was now a slobbering mess.

"Steph, what ARE YOU READING?"

"I'm late. My period is late. I took two pregnancy tests like a DUMMY. I'M DUMB. DUMB." By now, I could hardly make out what I was saying myself.

He sat down at our small farmhouse kitchen table, dinglehopper in hand and faced me.

"I'm just like a Charlie in the box. Remember Charlie from Rudolph? The self-appointed mayor of the Island of Misfit Toys? He looks like a jack-in-the-box but his name is...Charlie. He doesn't fit in. I don't fit in. I'm broken. I'm not even fixable. I DON'T WORK. It doesn't matter how many nieces or nephews I have or how many books I read or what Depak Chopra, Joan Chittister, Joan Anderson, St. John of the Cross, Mary Pipher, Wally Lamb, Wayne Dyer or even Jesus says. EVEN JESUS. I'm broken. Broken and now at forty-three, I guess I'm not just broken I'm OLD and broken."

I trailed off. Said lots of things prefaced by maniacal hormonal f-bombs.

"F#$&# therapy, f#&$*^every book I've ever read, every rosary I've said, every prayer, every journal entry, the f#$&*ing Secret. F them. I just want a baby. I want my body to work. I want to be a wife that works. I am a weirdo."

I don't remember the last time I cried from that dark, excruciating place. But one late period can transform even the most psychologically sound woman into a person who even she doesn't recognize.

“I guess the truth is I've never really given up." I wailed.

"I guess since we were unexplained infertility, I’ve held out hope in some secret corner of my soul that someday it would just happen. Most days I am ok but today I just want to fall in step with the rest of women. I want to be able to stand around cocktail parties and recount what a surprise our pregnancy was. Laugh with other women, reaching for pigs in a blanket and say, “I know. One day I went to put on my jeans and they were tight. I had to use both hands to count how many days late my period was.” Flip my hair back behind my ear and chuckle while rubbing my growing belly.

“It never really occurred to me what it would feel like when the time came and my period slowed up. The window of hope closed forever. I never thought about what it would be like when the time came and biologics stole my hope and I had to really, really say ok, this will never, ever happen. I won't be a Mommy."

The rain pelted the windows. The gloom outside that rendered our resident flock of Canada geese invisible matched the mood inside my heart.

"Can I sit on your lap?" I asked.

"Of course." Dinglehopper still in hand my husband held me as I nestled my head on his shoulder.

He leaned down and kissed me.

We sat in silence and time seemed suspended. The only sound in the room was the steady hum of the refrigerator.

I whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Babe, don't be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for."

He always says the right thing. But the truth is, I feel terrible. Like I let him down.

"I know but I’m sorry. I'm sorry."

"I love you, Steph. I love you no matter what. You're not broken."

He rocked me in the little wooden black chair at the table until I could take letters and begin to form sentences again.

"I know now that I am powerless to fix this. I gave that up years ago but God, it still hurts. I forgot how much it really, really hurts."

"I know, Steph. I know."

The ice machine clunked. The fridge hummed and the silence provided me the safe space in which to slowly exhale.

In slow deliberate stages, I moved off his lap and slid back into my own chair. My head now in my own hands.

I don't remember how we made it upstairs to shower and change but we did. We went to breakfast and then before I knew it everyone arrived to go off to our gingerbread house workshop.

My heart still felt raw and I had a lump in my throat all day that didn’t have the common courtesy to ask if it could hang around.

My period came late last night and as much as I hate that it came, at least it well, came. I waved hello and said, "Oh, hi, Hope. Boy am I glad to see you, even if you are nine days overdue."

I never really imagined that the time would come when the hope of being a mother would be escorted away without my permission permanently. These last years I've worked on the concept of surrender. What a dichotomy. By embracing surrender you don’t so much as give something up as gain something else at times even more profound.

Make no mistake about it though. This is no Pollyanna post. Some days I feel like I’ve got surrender in the bag and other days I exhaust myself kicking and screaming trying to break free out of its suffocating space.

I love surprises but not this kind. I feel like I have another remnant now that requires closer examination before I can decide how best to weave it into the tattered and rich fabric of my life.

That will undoubtedly take time.

How about you? What things have come into your lives you very well could have done without but added a rich dimension from which you learned profound lessons? (Tonight, I could do without profound. I'm busy entertaining pity).

And that is how my sacred Sunday shaped up.

Something Worth Smiling For

2009-12-05T03:04:00.008-05:00

How could I possibly start this post without doing two very important things first?

1) Diane- you knew it, you knew it! Buddy the Elf is alone in the tiny bathroom when he said, "Papa, I just need some alone time."

2) Tell you how overwhelmed I am with your love and support. It warms my insides better than any whiskey or hot toddie ever could or did. I am humbled by your well wishes.

And now for the exciting news...

I am featured in an article in the Dec. 28th edition of First For Women Magazine (see cover above) which just hit newsstands this past week. You can find it at your local grocery stores, drug stores, etc. If you turn to page 100 there you will see a photo of me sitting with 4 of my nieces and 1 nephew and a short story about the Christmas Scavenger Hunt I do for them every Christmas season. The kids are so excited and truth be told so am I.

These past few years, it seems we'd be hard pressed to find someone who has not in some way been effected by the tough economic times, present company included. The scavenger hunt has morphed into the "big" present I give the kids and their parents, which isn't something you can wrap but according to Dr. Barbara Becker Holstein, author of The Truth: I'm a Girl, I'm Smart and I Know Everything, is priceless. "The value of being together in a connective way like this is priceless." A direct quote from the article. Thank you Dr. Holstein.

If you look closely at the photo, you'll probably feel compelled to leave me a note with the name of a cosmetic surgeon who can administer Botox. Don't bother, I already have a accumulated a rather extensive list. :-)

In the meantime, here is my video submission for sacred Sunday. What today, touched you as sacred?

Yes, I've Been MIA

2009-12-01T13:23:00.003-05:00

Oh, Lord. It's been too long. Several Sundays and a major holiday have passed since I found my way back here.

When it rains it indeed does pour and if you've wondered, "Where the heck is Stephanie?" Here's the answer.

Stuck out in the rain-with little emotional protection.

A sibling hospitalized, now in need of a double organ transplant combined with the anniversary of my Mom's cancer diagnosis left me reeling, seeking a space inside me, to lick my wounds ultra privately.

Normally, if you know me, a definitive ENFJ on the Myer's Briggs Personality Type Indicator, I am wired to lick my wounds more publicly. This time though, as Buddy the Elf says in my tied for second favorite holiday movie, Elf-I just needed some alone time. (Tell me in what scene Buddy says this and I'll give you a special mention in my next post as my newest best friend :-) )

Thanksgiving found me finally feeling like the rain let up and at one point almost smiling, I said, "Hey sun? Is that you?" After a week of company and now traveling to FLA to put my Dad's Christmas decorations and tree up for him, I made my way back to you.

This can be a tough time of the year, filled with the dichotomous sense of both joy and sorrow. Joy of the Christmas present and sorrow for the sadness of Christmases past-when no one was ever missing from our holiday tables. And yes, I am speaking for myself.

It's been seven holidays now without my Mom. My father is now 95 and I have a brother facing a serious health crisis. I know in years to come she won't be the only one missing. For now, I am doing my best to focus on the present moment. Breathing in the fresh, sunny air here in Florida, laughing at the funny things my Dad says critiquing my placement of every ornament on his tree and soaking in the joy of games and laughter with my nieces and nephews. All the while, knowing that nothing ever stays the same.

I am not the only one grappling with these issues right? How are you managing the joy and nostalgic sorrow of this time of year youselves? I could use some suggestions and my suspicion is so could others.

PS If you are not an organ donor PLEASE consider it. One of my dearest friends lost her husband who died waiting for an organ. Now, my brother is facing a similiar circumstance. Like they say, Heaven knows we need them here. xo

Sacred Sunday with Steph

2009-11-09T00:41:00.004-05:00

I miss you guys!

My goal is to visit with you here twice a week but this month, I beg your indulgence. I am participating in NaNoWriMo and my fingers are busy typing away to reach the 50k word goal by the end of November.

The discipline of this exercise is invaluable but my only suggestion to the organizers would be they consider holding it during any other month than the month of the year that kicks off the holiday season. Anticipating hosting family the week of Thanksgiving and then traveling the week after to see my Dad, reaching the 50k goal will be a real challenge. Regardless, I am writing away.

In the meantime, I am bound and determined to stay on top of our Sacred Sunday challenge and today, I knew by the middle of the afternoon precisely what would make it to the pages of my blog.

Napping on the couch with The Bird.

After Mass, we had a yummy lunch-hoagies from the only real deli in our area that has real, South Philly Italian hoagies. With full intention of taking advantage of the unusual warm, springlike afternoon, post lunch we only got as far as the couch.

The Bird pulled me close, wrapped his arms around me, kissed me on the forehead, closed his eyes and next thing we knew, it was two hours later.

We didn't get to hike, clean out the garage or lay down a new bed of straw in the hen house. We never got to take that late fall canoe ride. What we did do get to do was just be with each other. Rest with each other.

Typically, on the rare occasions when I sit down and take a load off, my mind follows, wags it's finger in my face and shakes my long list of things to do. Finally relenting, when I roll over to ignore him, he walks away he shouting, "You're gonna be sorry, sister!"

Sometimes, he's right. But today, he wasn't.

So, what were your sacred moments? Please forgive me this month if I am a little delayed in visiting you guys at your own virtual "homes." I'm not ignoring you, just desperately trying to reach the magic number of 50...50 thousand that is. Words.

2009-11-02T16:55:00.007-05:00

It's time to review of our Sacred Sunday moments. What's sacred Sunday you might ask? Please feel free to click on the link, poke around and come on back to join us!

When you start poking around for the sacred moments in life, even in the face of loss, sadness or disappointment, guess what? You find them. If you look through the world with a lens shaded in sacredness, you will see the sacred.

This past weekend ushered in loads of sacred moments. Saturday evening as I began my mental list, the shear volume left me giddy. I felt tickled by life. Like those times when you get tickled so long you can't breathe? Like that.

Normally I pick the one that was the most poignant, but there were so many I couldn't discriminate. But before I am off and enumerating, I'd like to say this. In my travels, I'm come across books, speakers, websites, blogs, etc. who, in my opinion, highlight the positivity of life at the expense of a Pollyanna tone. Yes, a shift in perspective can drastically change things but this is not to say life is void of suffering, grief, loss or disappointment or that we don't need to acknowledge our pain. I am a proponent of being with whatever we feel. I don't advocate getting stuck in it but shaking hands with it and saying, "Hmmm, so how do you do?" Our feelings when ignored become the proverbial elephant in the living room when we ignore them. After climbing over the elephant with big fat phony smiles on our face, it is my experience we find ourselves exhausted, with little energy for much else.

Make no mistake, Sacred Sundays are not meant to ignore any such sadness. Only suggest that dark moments or periods of life don't sting quite as much when we remember to seek out the sacred hidden inside them. And not to be out done by difficult moments, my hope is the challenge of Sacred Sundays will help raise our awareness so that the sacred moments in our lives don't slip by unnoticed regardless of circumstances in which they arise.

Yikes, I think I hurt myself jumping off my soapbox. There, I'm done.

Drum roll please...

My Sacred Moments:

Waiting for my twin sister and her husband to arrive late Friday night remembering how hard things were for her only a few years back. She has blossomed into the twin sister I always knew was inside her after a rough go of it for so long.
Sitting in the car with my husband, talking about our Phillies while waiting for my niece to arrive from NYC on the train. Who was coming home for the big Phillies weekend.
Being in a room filled with other Phillies fans Saturday night. The sense of oneness was palpable. For a moment, collectively we became whole, were joined in communion in a space where being male, female, tall, skinny, Italian, Catholic, Jewish went unnoticed and more poignantly suspended. It was sacred.
My two year old niece coming over unexpectedly Sunday to bake cupcakes. Darn she is cute!

So, there you have it. My blessed weekend filled to the brim with sacred moments.

How about you guys? What were some of your sacred moments on Sunday? I always enjoy reading them .

Tip Jars. Weigh in!

2009-10-30T00:20:00.005-04:00

A few months back I was asked to write a piece for The Journal of Cultural Conversation. Christa, one of the uber talented editors found me via Twitter and we've been friends ever since!

I wanted to share this piece with you guys here in my virtual home. It's a bit off topic from what I normally blog about (grief, loss, sacred moments and infertility) but I had such fun writing it and my hope is it will give you a chuckle.

So, after you read it I'd love for you to weigh in on the tip jar trend. What do you think?

Have wonderful weekends and I'll "see" ya next week. Oh, one more thing. Next week I am joining lots of other talented writers in NaNoWriMo. Even though I am not writing fiction, my dear friend, Melissa, who I also met virtually, twisted my arm until I cried, "I'm in! I'm in!" Any other writers out there who'd like to participate, sign up! I'd love to be a support to one another.

Without further ado...

The Tip Jar

I landed a big one. A really big one.

An interview even Oprah will probably never land (ok admittedly might not want).

Who is this obscure character, you might ask?

It’s a tip jar.

Yup, you heard me; it’s a tip jar, well, technically it’s a tip jug. But not just any tip jar/jug, it’s this tip jar/jug.

He’s somethin’ isn’t he?

On a recent late night jaunt to bustling Main St., Newark, with a new semester just underway in our small, Americana college town, this tip jar greeted us as we bellied up the counter to order a late night snack. The Bird (my husband) and I instinctively turned to each other. In slow, unintended synchronicity, we laughed in horror.

Sure I played it off like, “What the heck is that!?” Did my best, “That’s outrageous!” using nothing but the good old-fashioned head and eye-rolling combo, so as not to directly insult the hats on backward, underwear showing staff, pleasantly ignoring us. But if I don’t admit to someone the dirty little secret I’ve been harboring since that fateful late night, I’m going to drink myself silly with my own frothy malt beverage!

That night, like the girl who always falls for the bad boy, I fell in love with the tip jar/jug. Adolescent, can’t sleep or eat, afflicted with the flutters, fell in love with this bold, brazen article, as Sr. St. Vincent, my 6^th grade teacher used to say. How did he have the audacity to sit on top of a filthy counter, in such an unkempt, efficiency challenged pizza shop, boldly soliciting contributions?

Desperate to understand his “deal,” questions consumed me. I knew I had no other choice. My mission became clear- interview the tip jar.

The long period during which my husband and I stood at the counter, skeptical we’d ever be acknowledged, never mind waited on, I made good use of. Feeding off of tip jug/jar’s bravado, I mustered the courage to ask him if he did interviews. “Sure,” he said.

Aware time with me cost him money, I kept it brief, doing my best to contain my delight.

Me: Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. You are really something; so honest, original and innovative. Tell me, how did you get here?

Tip Jar/Jug: If I may, lady, first I’d like to point out I’m green. Not color green, recycled green. Most of the jugs I came up with are now taking up space in landfills. I’m thrilled to have been saved. I have no shame. I’m blessed to have a shot at a second life, even if it is in the questionable profession of tip jars, here stuck next to an earsplitting TV listening to reality shows for the rest of round two.

How did I get here? The guys who work here made me. Pardoned me from a death sentence, picked up a sharpie and the rest is history.

Me: I am wondering if you are familiar with the etymology of tipping. It’s an acronym meaning “to insure promptness.”

Tip Jar/Jug: Yeah, uh, I didn’t know that.

Me: With all due respect, we undoubtedly had an experience here in your shop but promptness wasn’t a part of it. Your thoughts?

Tip Jar/Jug: So what?

Me: Hmmm. OK. Just curious. In my day, tips were customary only in certain professions and warranted when well, the service was, let’s say, prompt and the help didn’t typically need a bath. Little guys like you are relatively new to the scene. How to do respond to the charge you are bold and brazen?

Tip Jar/Jug: Brazen? What does that mean? Anyway, ever heard of ask and you shall receive? You say bold I say creative, entrepreneurial! Our innovative spirit should be celebrated, man. Do you know how many people crumble under the power of suggestion, don’t want to look cheap or for whatever reason, even sometimes out of the kindness of their heart, make a deposit? Why let those tendencies go to waste.

Me: Interesting. Indeed, you are one of the most original I’ve seen and you did say please but “Beer money. Help the sober,” though? In the world of tip jars, do you think you are worthy of praise or criticism?

Tip Jar/Jug: Well at least we don’t charge $5 for a cup of coffee. We just sell pizza at a reasonable price.

Me: Why beer money?

Tip Jar/Jug: We’re located just outside a college campus lady. That’s why.

Satisfied we made an intimate connection, the interview concluded. I expressed hope we’d run into each other again without coming off as desperate and because he was simply irresistible, I deposited my loose change, with one caveat. He must use it for a good cause, like helping out the sober.

Bruised, Battered and Sacred

2009-10-27T13:43:00.009-04:00

I stirred in bed. My eyes not quite open, I reached for the proverbial bat, lying in wait under my bed.

It is my weapon of choice. We go way back. For years I've use it to beat myself up. If emotional self-destructive thinking was an Olympic sport, rest assured I would medal. My bat serves a dual purpose; to inflict tangible wounds as punishment for that which I didn't get done the day before and that which I anticipate I won't get done in ensuing 24 hours.

I speak figuratively of course.

Years of my own therapy and training as a therapist have provided me with alternatives to such a self-destructive pattern but as they say, old habits die hard, even with the knowledge they are completely inefficacious. Monday old habits won out.

Still with lots to learn, this much I do know for sure. I am not alone in beating myself up with negative thinking. But never fear, I come with good news!

This past weekend, I finished up reading Mary Pipher's recent memoir Seeking Peace: Chronicles of the World's Worst Buddhist. I owe her a debt of gratitude for sharing so publicly her own struggles with grief, loss and exhaustion. Reading her experiences normalized my own loss. But more so, I am eternally grateful because she included in her book a technique she has found invaluable in overcoming emotional self-mutilation.

She says, "Prayer is vastly superior to worry. With worry, we are helpless, with prayer, we are interceding. When I hear sad news, I try to say a prayer, for the victims. When I am troubled I will say a prayer that asks for relief for myself and for all those who suffer as I do. 'I pray for all other people who feel anxious and edgy at this moment'....May they be happy and free of suffering.'"

So tomorrow morning, I'm going to relieve my bat from it's duties. Won't be needing his services any longer. Thanks to Mary.

Sacred Sunday report: Spending an impromtu afternoon with my niece picking apples. Absolutely sacred.

Ok, what's your proverbial weapon of choice and what do you think of trying Mary Pipher's idea instead? I love it...it works!
Oh and remember to share your sacred moments here with each other!

That Ball is Outta Here!

2009-10-22T20:55:00.008-04:00

What a day in our town.

For those of you not Philadelphia sports fans, last night our Phillies clinched another National League Championship which earned them a spot in the fall classic-The World Series-again.

Again.

The operative word here is again. Back for seconds as the headline read in the newspaper today. Sure, I could write paragraphs and paragraphs of how proud I am, as if I swung the bats and fielded balls myself but this is not necessarily a sports blog.

Riding over to the park, having made the easy decision to trade in the treadmill for a hike on this unusual short sleeve day in late fall, I tuned into to Mike Missanelli at 97.5 FM to fraternize vicariously with my fellow Phillies fans. Hopping out of the car, camera in hand, the thought came to me. It's not about the Phillies.

Sure, the town is painted red, white and pinstriped but what we are really feeling is a sense of community, connectedness. Over the course of the last few weeks, I've conference called my Dad and my three brothers together as we chewed our nails down to a nub and jumped off the couch in exuberance.

The woman at the front desk of the gym has said hello to me everyday I've worn my Phillies t-shirt and we've now become rather friendly. I stopped to ask her more about herself when she shared with me as I turned through the turnstile that she was born and raised in the city.

I've seen shared affinities for sports teams bandage bruises in families and friends. The love for a particular sports team transcends economic and social status. It is the great equalizer.

Yes, some of my fondest memories growing up include watching the Phillies and listening to my Dad, uncles and brothers lament continual losing seasons but what sticks with me most is the feeling of camaraderie in our home.

At the moment, I can't quite think of anything else that can pull a community together and for a short period suspend discord. If you can think of something share away! But in the meantime, what sports story do you have that fostered a greater sense of connectedness where perhaps it did not formally exist?

Oh, and I would love it if you subscribed to my blog. I figured out last night how to add that to my page. :-) Who wants to be first...ok, ok stop shoving! :-)

And if you'll allow me...may I say, GO PHILLIES!

More Like Swine Flu Sundays and Changes

2009-10-19T12:06:00.006-04:00

So, what do ya think?

I made some changes around the place. Did some sprucing up. In another month or so I anticipate making some even broader improvements and can't wait to debut them. Stay tuned.

On a totally different note, not sure about any of you guys but flu season has arrived in our neck of the good 'ol USA with a vengeance.

Friday afternoon the Bird arrived home earlier than usual. The tag from the tea bag dangling on the outside of the Wawa cup in his hand told the story. Drinking tea is indicative of only one thing-he didn't feel well.

Our Phillies, scheduled to start game two of the NLCS playoff series against the Dodgers Friday afternoon at 4:07pm were already underway. On this raw, bone-chilling rainy day, I looked forward to snuggling up together on the couch to watch the game together.

Like half the nation though, our household was visited by the swine flu which thwarted our plans. The Bird ended up nodding off, resting by the fireplace while I watched the game, largely alone.

Sunday found him feeling no better which meant I made my way to Mass on my own. Flying solo walking up the concrete path to the church doors, I was overcome with a sense of how grateful I am for my faith. In spite of the fact we've had a rather love/hate relationship since my days of struggling to come to terms with my infertility and the death of my mother.

While 20 years ago it would be fair to say I was a step-ford Catholic, today my faith has matured. I question it, I wrestle with it. It confuses me, confounds me and comforts me. The older I get the more I realize there is so much I don't know and probably will never know in this lifetime. But one thing I am certain of is that the ritual of it is my rudder. It provides me with a context in which to live in this crazy world and for me my time spent inside the four walls of my church on Sundays is sacred.

How has your faith changed or shifted over time or what is a sacred moment you've had this past week?
PS Wash your hands and stay well :-)