Retrospection

Retrospection:  noun
     The action of looking back on, or reviewing past events or          situations, especially those in one’s own life.

In retrospect, if my then-husband and I hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, Canada to get acting work during the Summer of 1994, we may never have gotten a divorce.

In retrospect, if we hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, where I was sitting around doing nothing while my dual-citizen then-husband worked non-stop, I never would’ve gotten the opportunity to audition for the rinky-dink 3-piece country band, by claiming that I had fronted bands back in Los Angeles (a fact I greatly exaggerated).  I never would’ve accepted gigs that paid only $50 for 4-hours a night singing at smoky dive-bars, VFW Halls, and Senior Citizen Homes.  Even though I was under-qualified, had never sung Country, and had to painstakingly learn 30 tunes, I’d been making a minimum of $200.00 per hour as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator back in L.A. 

The Rinky-Dink Country Band

 If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver, and if the then-husband hadn’t gotten all of that acting work, while I never got cast in anything, and if I hadn’t shown him my ugliest jealous behavior, he never would’ve said to me (in an effort to be kind):  “Don’t worry that you’re not going to make it as an ingenue.  Look at that woman who just got a role in 'The Titanic’ movie!  She’s been struggling all these years, and finally got a break, and she’s in her 80’s.  It can still happen for you when you’re older!”  {Gee, thanks}

In retrospect, if he hadn’t made that comment, the comment that became a tipping point, contributing to my wallowing in a deep depression bordering on suicide and spending long hours alone journaling in coffee shops while he was off working as an actor, I never would’ve discovered the creative expression of writing songs.  If I hadn’t been singing with the rinky-dink 3-person country band (guitar, bass, me on vocals and a drum-machine), I never would’ve been hanging out on a break at 1:00 a.m. in a seedy bar outside of Vancouver in the middle of Nowhere, Canada, reading an article by Pam Tillis in which she talked about “writing from title.”  I never would’ve had the impetuous thought on the long drive back to our apartment, that instead of driving off the cliff, maybe I could write a torturous country song instead.  I was convinced I could do it, because all of the 30 songs I’d recently learned seemed so simplistic that anyone could write them. 

If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver that Summer, If I hadn’t started spending all of my lonely hours writing heart-wrenching country songs, (albeit, they were very bad songs, and the then-husband didn’t hesitate to tell me just how bad they were every chance he got) I never would’ve gone back to L.A. with the hair-brained idea that I could become the next Country Star.  I never would’ve checked out the book from the library:  “Get Hot or Go Home” about the making of the Nashville Star, Trisha Yearwood.  I never would’ve had the thought, “it would be so cool to go to Nashville, but I can’t because I’m married.”  

In retrospect, if I hadn’t checked out that book from the library, and if I hadn’t forgotten to take it and several other books back on time, my then-husband never would’ve flown into a tirade, accusing me of being a “chaotic mess.”  He never would’ve screamed, “I’m sick of you, I want a divorce!”  {yep, those overdue library books were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back}

I never would’ve noticed that article in The (L.A.) Scene about an upcoming class all about “Getting into The Country Music Business.”  I never would’ve met my next mentor and teacher, Phil Swann, who wrote for Steve Bloch, owner/publisher of Southern Cow Music, and I never would’ve met my future “spousal equivalent,” Steve Bloch himself.  

I never would’ve imagined that three years later, single at 40 years of age, I’d pack up only what I could fit into my car, and I’d move to Nashville, Tennessee.  Especially since just months before this I was looking to buy a home in Southern California and I told my mentor (mentioned above) that I wouldn’t consider moving as far as Northridge, California, because I would be too far away from Hollywood--a statement he has not let me live down even after 17 years.

In retrospect, I never dreamed that after one year of living in Nashville, I would decide to stay longer and that the time would fly into 17 years, and it’s now the same length of time I lived in Los Angeles.   

I’ve often asked myself over the years:  “What am I doing in Nashville??  How did I wind up here?”  And whenever I dredge up the past to look at the trajectory of my life, I marvel at the perfect order of events.  I’m grateful that my far-from-perfect marriage ended 20 years ago.  Only in retrospect does the unfolding become so clear.  

We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.” 
― Milan Kundera, Laughable Loves 

Raining Cats and Dogs

     It's 45 degrees out and I'm sitting in the front yard, enjoying a little sunshine before the freezing weather returns later today, taking a much needed emotional break from tending to Spike, our 12-year-old great dane mix who is in the house suffering right now.   I'm journaling and watching the two remaining semi-feral kitties play.  (Sadly, Lillian, the third kitten, a precious little girl, got hit by a car a few weeks ago, leading me to start allowing these cats to sneak into our bedroom window and sleep in our room on the freezing cold nights).  This has turned into a routine.  The kitties hang out in our room, going in and out of a slightly-ajar window to eat and go potty outside.  They haven't had access to any other part of our house, but they're now sharing the front yard with our dogs; only the dogs don't even realize it, because they've never been introduced!  

     It's so odd sitting here watching the cats play, considering this is what I've enjoyed doing for the past 12 years with my  three dogs.  The kitties make sure the coast is clear--that I'm the only one in the yard--then they slip through the picket fence and their fun begins:   they chase each other, wrestle, hide in the bushes and dart out again, take pottie breaks, chase each other some more, and look over at me to make sure that I'm paying attention--just like a couple of toddlers, only these two cats are teenagers by now, I guess.  I can't help feeling guilty for laughing out loud. 

     12-year-old Spike has been struggling to stand up on her own for two weeks, apparently as a result of a degenerative disc disease which has decided to rapidly take over.  Spike is a gentle, stoic dog, now reduced to being hoisted up by her haunches with a large sheet wrapped around her hips just to get up long enough to go to the bathroom.  The vet thinks that with treatment, ie laser therapy, acupuncture, chiropractic and meds, Spike may get better (or not), but it will take about two weeks of intense treatment to find out.  Lily, our 11-year-old great pyrenees suddenly hurt her back leg on our walk today, and keeled over onto her side where she lay without moving for a good five minutes while Steve ran home to get the truck. Fortunately, she stood up again and limped home on her own.  I guess we'll know in a day or two if she is okay.  10-year-old Shortie has begun to limp as well.  

     So, I'm facing the not-so-far-off end of my dogs' lives, while experiencing the joy of watching the kittens' youthful enthusiasm.  I remember when my dogs were young and rambunctious, hiking with me at Edwin Warner, chasing squirrels, and leaping up on the bed with ease.  Back in the house, as I type this, tears running down my cheeks,  Shortie hears me sniffle, looks up and limps over to me,  concerned.  She hates it when I cry. 

My Mad Cat Capers

I am not a cat-person.  I don't understand them, I'm allergic to them, and ever since the time my mom decided to start her short-lived career as a persian cat breeder, and she locked up about 20 cats in cages in her garage, I have been turned off to cats.  The litter box is a disgusting invention, and the smell of it permeating a home is way worse than any dog smell, in my opinion.

Mama and her 3 kittens

But when I noticed a black and white cat hanging out in my backyard with her three kittens on Memorial Day, I couldn't help but want to see the babies.  I'd been told by my 93-year-old next door neighbor, Eloise, who had just moved into a retirement home, that she felt bad about leaving a cat behind.  It wasn't her cat, she said.  She'd just been feeding it scraps whenever the kitty would show up on her back porch.  So, I knew this mama cat resting with her babies in the bushes had to be the same cat, and now that Eloise had moved, the mama-cat had transplanted her kittens over to my yard.   I immediately knew I had to help.  I may not like cats, but I love babies of any kind.

Knowing nothing about cat behavior, I  learned quickly that the mama was feral, or a stray that hadn't been touched by a human in a long while.  She hissed any time I got closer than about 4 feet.  Still, she was hungry, so I'd put down a can of cat food and walk away.


In the mornings, I started watching the cats from my bedroom window.  I'd call out "mama" and "meow" to let the mom know I was there.  (I read an article that told me it was a good idea to "meow."  I figured it was worth a shot).  It turned out that mama was more frightened of me than the kittens were.  After just a few days, the first brave soul came out of the bushes to eat wet cat food from my hand.  I couldn't believe his mustache!  I named him Charlie. I didn't know if "Charlie" was a boy or a girl, but the name could work for either sex.  When I snapped my first photo, I could see that Charlie still had blue-ish eyes which meant the kittens were around 7-8 weeks old.

Charlie Chaplin, at 8 weeks old

From the moment I had two of the kittens eating out of my hand, I became obsessed with them, but I had no intention of bringing them into our home.  With three large dogs, we have our house full.  I didn't want to have to train the dogs not to kill the cats, and then there's that litter-box repulsion.  So, I started spending about a half-hour each morning and evening in the backyard with the cats (before walking the dogs out our front door).  I thought maybe I could train the kittens to get used to human contact, so that possibly I could find someone to adopt them.  It got to where I could pet two of the kittens while they ate, and I was almost able to pick them up (before they'd jump out of my hands).  The third kitten usually hung back with her mother; she was much smaller than the other two, and much more skiddish.

After three weeks of positive interaction with the kittens, just as one of the kittens was beginning to play with me, I came home that evening and all 4 cats were gone.  I was heartsick (but also a little relieved because I knew I couldn't keep them!).  My friend told me it was for the best.  If I wasn't going to bring them into my house and tame them, it was best for them to learn their feral ways from their mother so that they could survive in the wild.  Nonetheless, I was worried sick about them, and concerned that the mom could get pregnant again while she was out roaming the 'hood.  I spent a week searching and asking neighbors if they'd seen the kitties, and then I looked out my window one morning and they were back!  They all ran up the stairs to my back porch crying for food, and I wondered where in the hell had they gone, and why??  

Rudolph Valentino,  starting to play

It became clear after it happened several times that the mom was taking her kittens away from me so that they wouldn't have human interaction.  After another couple weeks of on-again, off-again appearances, I found out where the cats were living on the off days.  I spotted them four houses down, hiding under a car about 11:00 p.m. one night.  The next morning, I asked those neighbors if they had seen the cats and if they were feeding them.  They told me yes, they had been feeding the mother cat, that she'd given birth in their yard, then she had taken her kittens away but had recently brought them back!  I was stunned.  Mama Cat had another family!  I felt cheated on.  Those neighbors said they'd been feeding the mother cat occasionally for years, and that they'd watched several litters come and go.  

Meanwhile, I had been reading up on feral cats, and how quickly they can multiply.  I had already contacted "Nashville Community Pets," a feral cat organization who could help me get the cats fixed.  I borrowed traps, I was ready to catch the cats, but they had moved down the street!  I asked the neighbor if she was willing to trap and neuter the cats.  She said she didn't know how and was afraid to try.  So, I convinced her to stop feeding the cats, so they'd come back down to my house for food.  I'd trap them, and take get them to get fixed.  Once they were fixed, they could move back down to her house, but at least they wouldn't procreate and have more generations living on the streets.

My plan in place, I watched day and night for the cats to return.  With my flashlight, and my cans of cat food, I'd walk four houses down at midnight and meow, and one-by-one the kittens would meow back, then they'd creep out from under a car, run along some bushes to the edge of the neighbor's property where I laid in wait with the food.  This went on for several nights.  I even recruited my sister to help me when she visited in July.  They'd come crying to me for the food, but they wouldn't come back to my house.  

I was discouraged, and the feral cat organization wanted their traps back.  Then, after 10 weeks, when I was on the brink of giving up, I set the traps in my backyard, hoping I'd get lucky.  The kittens decided to come back at just the right time, and they walked right into the traps.  Then the mama came back and she walked right into a trap too.  I also caught a possum, but I let him go.  Unbelievably simple.  All four cats were fixed one month ago today.  The mama was indeed pregnant again, so she was fixed just in time.   

After they recovered in cages in my basement, I released them all, and the mother quickly ran away.  The kittens apparently decided to stay.  Or else the mom abandoned them.  I don't know.  But now I have three semi-feral, five to six-month old kittens living in my back yard, sleeping in my carport, eating square meals, playing with me and coming when I "meow."  I still can't pick them up, but they are warming up to me!  Rudy caught his first mouse.  Lillian finally let me pet her (for a moment) this morning.  And Charlie will meow like a Banshee when he's hungry.  Mama has shown up  a couple of times for a free meal, but she hisses and bats at her kittens and won't let any of us near her.  

I still don't understand cats, but spending time with them is opening my heart and mind--I just might be a cat-person, after all.

Rudolph Valentino (Rudy), at 5 months

Lillian Gish, at 5 monhs

    

Charlie, at 5 months

Breathing Deep

"Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes.  Don't resist them--that only creates sorrow.  Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like."       --Lao Tzu

I woke up last Sunday morning in Carefree, Arizona, feeling like the name of the town suggests.  While everyone else at the wellness retreat I was attending slept, I journaled, writing down my positive thoughts about the workshop we had on Saturday, which was all about how a breathing practice can change one's physiology, creating balance in the heart and mind.  I went for a 40 minute contemplative walk taking deep breaths and snapping photos of the cacti, the jack rabbits and the golf course.  I was remembering my dad, who died three years ago to the day--but I didn't feel much sadness, just fond memories.  I felt peaceful and connected to the Universe. After my walk when I looked in the mirror, I noticed how calm and happy I felt.

Then I called Steve.  Steve was holding down the fort at home the best that he could, while grieving the unexpected death of Eric, one of his best friends, since Friday.  Spike, our 11 year old great dane mix, had been sick with a very high temperature a few days before I left; but she'd been treated by the vet and her condition was stabilized, so Steve and I thought it was okay for me to leave town.  

"Spike is lethargic again, and she wouldn't eat her dinner last night," Steve said.  I took several deep breaths, recalling an exercise from Saturday, to help me stay calm.  "You're going to need to take her temperature," I said.  (Steve had told me before I left that he wouldn't take Spike's rectal temperature-the thought of it grossed him out, or scared him, or something).  "You're going to have to take her temperature," I said, without emotion--(while feeling a freaked-out fearful anxiety welling up in my chest). 

Slowly and methodically, between deep breaths, I walked Steve through the process of how to take a rectal temperature: where to find our digital thermometer, how to turn it on, where to find the sanitary probe covers, and how to cover the thermometer tip, how to lubricate it, how to insert it, step by step, over the phone, while I sat in the arizona sun by the pool, acutely aware of my breathing.

Spike's temperature was 105.  I knew this was dangerously high, as we'd already been through this with the vet last week.  So, I coached Steve all day Sunday while he iced Spike down and covered her with wet, ice cold towels that he changed every 15 minutes.  I called Steve every half hour for a temperature update.   While Steve stayed by Spike's side, I worried from 1,700 miles away.  And I started thinking about the inevitable: Spike is going to die.  Just like my dad.  Just like Steve's friend Eric.  Just like we all will.  I went from bliss to grief in a matter of seconds and I kept breathing.  I felt raw, just like I felt from the moment my dad was diagnosed with cancer, until he died four months later.

Steve and Spike were both troopers.  Steve saw Spike through two hellish days until I came home.  And Spike could teach me a lot about grace and dignity (and breathing deep).  She has always been a regal girl.  She was calm and agreeable while Steve took her temps and kept the ice coming.  She gently responded as the veterinarians probed, ran tests, took shots and x-rays, and gave her an ice cold bath.   She apparently has some mysterious disease that is incurable, and the vet says that if we can keep her stable with steroids, "to consider it a win."   

Spike, in her younger days

Today, one week later, Spike is feeling somewhat like her old (younger) self--I know this because she wanted to hang out in the front yard this morning and while I was on the phone she managed to escape and she took Little Shortie with her!  Lily, our great pyrenees,  came to the door to let me know her friends had gone AWOL.  I felt my panic rising, as I searched for the two of them and I went to the worse-case scenario in my mind.  I was breathing deeply when I spotted Spike and Shortie in our back yard (somehow they'd wiggled through a hole in the fence), visiting with a neighbor's pitbull (who had jumped his own fence and was in our backyard too).  Spike was enjoying the moment.  I went from panic to gratitude in a split second.  Breathing Deep. 

Looking Forward, Looking Back

This morning, I was trying to think up something inspirational and informative to blog about--other than the obvious horrifying news topic on my mind right now (there's nothing soothing or significant I can add to the conversation about the tragic event that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Connecticut last Friday.  There is nothing to say.  Just a heavy sigh).

I feel incredibly grateful that I have gotten through 2012 relatively unscathed, with my future still ahead of me.

Given that December is my favorite month of the year when I take time to reflect on what I've accomplished in 2012, and I dream about what I want to accomplish in 2013, I decided to focus on this when a title popped into my head, and the title seemed perfect.  I immediately thought, "Surely it's been done;  after all, it ain't that original."  

So, I referred to that most awesome source of information for writers of the 21st century:  Google.  And I found the most wonderful song and video written and performed by Slim Dusty, an Australian singer-songwriter I'd never heard of.  Nothing expresses a sentiment better than a great lyric and melody.

I shed some tears as I watched an Old Slim Dusty singing "Looking Forward, Looking Back" and reflecting on his life.  (Slim Dusty died in 2003 at age 76 after a career in music that spanned nearly seven decades).  Again, I was filled with gratitude that I have great friends, a supportive "spousal equivalent", loving sisters, brothers, nieces, and cousins, sweet dogs, enough money to get by, and good health.  

As the Connecticut rampage reminds us, we never know how much time we'll get to live on this earth, and I'm blessed to be one of the fortunate people alive in her fifties, looking forward to another day.  

Here's the sweet and simple song/video:

Slim Dusty singing "Looking Forward, Looking Back"

It's About Time

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.
Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 
I can't believe it's been six months since I've posted anything on this blog!  I had planned to post at least once a month this year.   So what happened?  LIFE.  ("Life is what happens to you, while you're busy making other plans".)

As I sit here reflecting upon where the months have gone, (or the year 2012 for that matter), I can see that I've been quite busy.  It's only when I allow myself the time to sit and reflect that I realize I've accomplished a lot.  Most of the time I beat myself up for not doing enough, and lament that so much time has passed.  I wonder if this is just something my particular being does, (I recognize it's a pattern of mine) or if this is a human condition?  Some days there's so much I want to get done that I become paralyzed and can't figure out what to do first, so I fiddle around with Facebook, watch t.v., or do any number of other procrastinating activities.  My ex-husband used to accuse me of running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, creating busy-work in order to feel productive--but I digress...

(What about a J-O-B, you might wonder, if you're someone who doesn't know me and you're actually reading this blog).  

Being self-employed can be a curse.  Without a boss telling me what to do, I have to juggle my possible money-making activities with my many creative pursuits (which sometimes make money), and somehow find a way NOT to continually go into fear (about not making money) or overwhelm (usually connected to my fear about not making money).

So, yesterday was a rainy, chilly Monday.  I had no real estate appointments and I was looking forward to working from home.  I have no house that I'm currently renovating, no vacant rental properties to get filled, and no theatrical productions to perform in.  I guess I could've written a song, but it seems that songwriting has moved to the bottom of the to-do list at least for now.  

I planned to get on-line to search for homes to show buyer-clients, and I  planned to work on the homework due for a marketing class this coming Wednesday (I haven't even started), and I planned to send out thank you notes that are long overdue, and to contact any and all possible real estate prospects; then I planned to finish up my new acting resume and search on-line for possible plays to audition for, and I planned to exercise, and oh, I can feel myself going into overwhelm just thinking about it!

So I decided it was finally time to get back to the blog, 'cause I didn't feel like doing any of the above.  I looked for inspiration for something to write about and couldn't come up with a damn thing (Kind of like my songwriting these days.)  I got into my usual head trip: "who cares about what I have to say?"  "who's gonna read this anyway?"  "what can I express that I haven't already said over and over ad-nauseam?"  What started out as a healing blog while I was laid up with my broken femur (for my own personal healing, not anyone else's) has turned into a blog without a cause.  Except I realize:  The femur is healed, but I'm still broken.

Now it's Tuesday, and I'm sitting in front of the fireplace for the second morning in a row.  With just five more minutes until I head off for a real estate appointment, I find this inspirational message from the blog-o-sphere:  Things-happen-slowly-not-all-at-once ...Perfect.  

Some things I've done since May:

Did a major home renovation, then got the home rented out

Sold some Real Estate

Performed in "The Dixie Swim Club" at Chaffin's Barn

                                                                                          

Attended the Texas Songwriter's Cruise

Went to California to see friends, attend a conference, and visit my sisters

Finding Good News in Bad Manners

 "Opinions are like assholes.  Everybody has one."  However, most polite people will keep their unsolicited opinions to themselves.  So, I thought maybe the stranger was kidding when he posted under a recent photograph of me on my Facebook page:  "Boy, have you let yourself go since the show"  (The show being "The 20-Minute WorkOut," a t.v. exercise show which I starred in back in 1983, when I was in my 20's).  

Link to the photo

I was taken aback by the comment.  I examined my photo carefully, and saw what the stranger must've been seeing--I had wrinkles, my teeth didn't look perfect, and considering it was a head shot, and my face must've looked fat to him, he was obviously able to tell that I'd put on weight in all of the other parts of my body.  (When I posted the photo back in November of 2010, I thought I looked pretty good--otherwise, I wouldn't have posted it!)


Since I couldn't be sure of the stranger's motives with his comment, (and I was dying to know) instead of merely deleting the guy's message, I responded with a sarcastic "Thanks!"  (I figured if the guy was kidding, he'd reply back with something like, "ha, ha, gotcha!)"  But instead, this was the reply I got:  "surprised you took that as a compliment, it wasn't meant to be, you looked better on the show then you do now" 


 I was aghast.  So many thoughts started whirling through my head:  I should just delete his damn comments, and delete my horrid photo.  Obviously I've been in denial about how I look to the outside world.  Obviously, I'm old, ugly, and fat.  Who the hell do I think I am posting a photo of myself on Facebook for all of the Assholes with Opinions in this world to view and judge?  Who in the hell does this asshole think he is??  How dare he find my facebook page just to insult me!  My adrenalin was pumping, my solar plexus was on fire--I was raging mad.  Against my better judgement, I found myself going back and forth with comments to this person, with the insults from him just getting worse.  There is no reasoning with a person who is self-righteous in their opinions.  Finally, enough of my real Facebook friends jumped in and responded, and ridiculed the stranger into a public apology. 


Though this person had no evidence (other than a single photograph) for making his generalized statement, since he has no idea about the personal struggles or triumphs or roads traveled by Holly Butler over the past 30 years, the good news is that there was a glimmer of truth in his blatant, big-mouthed proclamation:  In the domain of my weight, I had let myself go!   In 29 years, since the 20-Minute Workout aired, (and I was at my tiniest) I have put on up to 50 pounds--1.72 pounds per year.  What this jack-ass surely doesn't know though, is that I've already lost 20 of those pounds in the past three months, and he has fueled my fire in a big way, helping me to stay on course! 


So, thank you, Mr. Who-Ever-You-Are for your profound wisdom and astute observation.  Although I have no intention of getting back down to my baby-weight of the 80's (sorry, I guess you'll just have to watch re-runs),  I am on my way down--20 pounds and counting!

The now infamous photo--Yep, I have really let myself go!

True Confessions and True Grit

Back in January, I wrote on this blog that I intended to get my weight down by exercising diligently.  I promised to take three water aerobics classes per week, hike at least three days a week, and work-out to my 20-Minute Workout tapes several days a week.   (see:  "Oh How I long to be Fit and Fabulous after 50")


Well, around mid-February (February 22nd to be exact), I was feeling pretty good, like maybe I'd dropped a little holiday weight gain, so I decided to step on the scale after my water aerobics class, and weigh myself for the first time in a year.  To my absolute horror the gym scale registered my weight at the highest I'd ever seen it!!!  I knew the scale had to be wrong.  There was no way in hell, that in just one year, I could have gained 18 pounds--broken leg, or no broken leg.  I complained to the gym manager, telling her the scale must be wrong.  And I spent the rest of the day fantasizing that perhaps the hardware in my femur weighed a good 10 pounds, even though it's titanium, and apparently titanium is as light as a feather, and it still doesn't explain an 18 pound weight gain!!  


After several people told me that titanium couldn't possibly explain my weight gain, I decided to go and buy a scale.  I'd prove once and for all that the gym scale simply had to be wrong.  On February 24th, I brought my new scale home, removed all of my clothes and stepped on it.  Awwwwwww, Sh__!!!!!  My new scale agreed with the gym scale.  


169 pounds.  Closer to 200 pounds than 100.  Startling, since at 5'6'', I used to be a lean 125.  I thought I had been eating healthily and yet, I had to face the fact:  I had packed on 18 pounds in a year, and about 30 pounds since I moved to Nashville 13 years ago.  I've been in denial way too long.  I was so disgusted with myself that I decided on the spot to start a diet journal, documenting every morsel I put into my mouth, and counting up my daily calories--since obviously my "healthy diet" wasn't working. 

I have no idea why I convinced myself for years that I didn't need to keep track of my weight.  Buying the scale was the best thing I ever did.    I step on it everyday, and today, after 9 weeks of real healthy portion-controlled-eating, and lots of exercise, I'm down to 153.  My next goal is 140, and I know I can do it!   

Just the Break I Needed

One year ago today, on a beautiful, sunny morning, I took a step in my yard and slid backwards down into a 3 feet deep hole (dug by my dogs) that swallowed my leg and snapped my femur in two places.  That moment will be forever embedded in my memory.  And today, during a matinee performance of the play I'm in, as I was joyfully doing the charleston backstage, I flashed on all of the pain I endured, and all of the baby steps it took me to get as far as I've come.  Finally, after one year, I'm wearing high-heels again, skipping on-stage, and dancing.


If you've never had a serious accident, you might think I'm overdramatizing because you can't relate.  (Just like people who haven't lost their parents can't relate to what it's like to be a member of the parent-less club).  But as a member of the "Broken Femur Victims Unite" group on Facebook, I know there are others out there around the world who can relate.


I was talking to someone a week or so ago, who was telling me about his recent broken bone, and he made the statement, "it was just the break I needed."  "Wow," I said.  "What a great pun."  And I started reflecting upon how my break created a great break for me too.  It really shook up my routine.  It decimated my habits, and I've been developing new ones.  It slowed me down.  It made me think.  I discovered the generosity of friends and acquaintances.  I discovered that I could enjoy just laying around.  I re-discovered the absolute importance of daily exercise.  I started a blog.  I got back into acting.  And now, in retrospect, I'm really grateful that I got to have the life-altering experience of breaking my femur.


So, I'm celebrating my anniversary today, doing the charleston!  And every year on March 6th, I'll give thanks and congratulate myself for my resiliency, and my sheer determination to rise above a hugely challenging situation.  Both of my parents would be so proud. 

No Business Like Show Business!

It's hard to believe it's been four years since I've performed on stage in a play.  Four years since I got my real estate license and decided that I needed to focus on making money at the age of 50.  I'd been eking out a living as an actress and songwriter long enough!  I remember bemoaning my choice to my friend, Nancy, at a women's support group, and I'll never forget her words of wisdom:  "But you're still an Actress.  You're just acting like a real estate agent right now."  Truer words have never been spoken.


When I got my real estate license, I imagined a flexible lifestyle where I would incorporate all of my various creative interests:  Acting, songwriting, creative writing, fitness, home renovations and dog wrangling.  But somehow, I found myself always working (I believed I had to be available 24-7 to succeed in real estate).  That is, until I broke my femur last March.  Nothing slows you down like not being able to walk!  


Over this past year, being slowed down by the broken leg turned out to be a blessing (cliche, I know, but these things usually do turn out to be blessings in some way, if you choose to figure out the way).  It allowed me time to soul search, and while I was searching I realized I wanted to find my way back to doing what I love.  Fortunately, Steve, my "spousal equivalent", prefers to be around me when I'm happy, so when I announced that I was "auditioning for a play, and after I finish the play, I'll work hard at real estate again, " he cheered me on.  And, as if the Universe were supporting me too, the audition was one of those rare instances in my life where I went in expecting to be hired.    


So, it's been three weeks so far of reporting to rehearsals at 9:00 a.m., working with a group of professionals who share passion for the theatre, memorizing lines and stretching emotions, all under the direction of Maryanna Clark, who has built an impressive theatre company, The Tennessee Women's Theatre Project.  I haven't been this thrilled to get up in the morning since I had to be on set at 6:00 a.m. when I was a series regular on a short-lived soap in Los Angeles (with my very own trailer!).  
I've been hiking most days after rehearsal (for my femur) where I run lines, and soaking in the tub most nights (for my femur), where I run lines again.  I love the process of figuring out how my character walks, talks, and feels.  I'm obsessed with my role, it's all I can think about.  And, as if the Universe couldn't be any more on my side, I'm getting real estate calls, referrals and leads without focusing on real estate at all!


The play, "The Disappearance of Janey Jones," opens in one week, and I will get to "play" for three more weeks of glorious performances.  There's no business like show business, like no business I know.....

Famous Last Words

As my father was approaching his final days in this world, he told my sister Beverly and me one evening:  "You two have done all right for yourselves; "Holly, you never got what you wanted, but you've done okay."  Beverly and I exchanged looks and laughed, but I didn't know what he meant by the comment.  Was he talking about my failed marriage, my not-so-illustrious career(s), the fact that I never had children, or that I wasn't financially successful?


I didn't ask Dad to clarify.  He was tired, over-medicated, and dying, after all.  But now, two years since we lost him on February 3, 2010, I wish I could tell Dad that I'm better than "okay."  I always wanted him to be proud of me.


When I was a teen, Dad would often say, "don't worry about getting a boyfriend at your age, there are so many fish in the sea."  Late one night my freshman year, he showed up at my friend Tina's house, (where I was supposed to be spending the night) and sat in her drive-way until I rode up in a car with Tina's boyfriend at 3:00 a.m.  My dad grounded me for two weeks, but believed me when I told him that NOTHING happened in that car.  


When I was suspended from school my senior year for calling my band teacher a "prick", Dad met with the principal, and sided with me when I explained that my band teacher had ridiculed me in front of the class. 


Dad believed in me.  When I was jealous of Beverly in high school because she was prettier, more popular, and head songleader, he'd say, "yes, but she can't play the flute! You're the first chair flute player!"  And, when I got my first professional theatre job at Disneyworld, it was my dad who received the call, came down to the Modesto Junior College, and pulled me out of class to excitedly give me the news.  


There were so many times when my dad was there to pick up the pieces when I crumbled emotionally, and many more evidences through the years of my dad's support of me and my dreams.  Oh, how I wish he could've been around this past year to watch me overcome a broken femur, and see me slow down enough through the healing process to realize that I can choose to spend more time doing what I love.  He'd be thrilled to know that I'm performing again in a professional theatre production!


As I sat here writing this, I had an epiphany:  What my dad was trying to convey with his comment was that he still believed in me, all the way to the end.  He was trying to tell me that not only have I "done okay", I am okay. 

 Dad, joking around while making pancakes! 

The Proof is NOT in the Pudding

The proof is NOT in the pudding.  It's in the putting.  As in putting one foot in front of the other, putting your best foot forward and putting your body into motion.  


At my senior water aerobics class yesterday morning, Jackie, a stately, slim, and glowing woman old enough to be my mother told me:  "You just have to make yourself do it if you want to live long."  She went on to say, "I'm in better shape now than I was when I was 41."  She told me how she had slipped a disc in her back at 41, and that it felt like forever before she could lift anything again.  She's pleased that she can now easily lift a shrub in her garden.


We were talking about the fact that I was sore from my workout the day before.  My "workout" being that I single-handedly moved an enormous couch out of our tiny den, (while Steve was at work and knew nothing about my impulsive decision to rearrange the furniture and dispose of said couch) by pushing, pulling, and eventually lifting it up on end and stuffing it through the door.  I felt so strong and powerful!  It was like lifting weights and I totally forgot any limitation my right leg might have had.  While I was moving the furniture around, I thought about how much I enjoyed renovating homes, and that it might be just about time to tackle another home renovation, if we could find a cheap fixer-upper.  Coincidentally, (or maybe there are no coincidences) I got a call from a real estate investor right after class who told me about a CHEAP fixer-upper that Steve and I might be interested in buying.  (Wow!  I'm thinking, just look at what moving a couch can do...)  For good measure I got on my exercise bike and rode it hard for 20 minutes.


I don't know the origin of the phrase, "The proof is in the pudding," but I think the only proof I'd get from pudding is weight gain.