portrait of cecilia... part 2

A Eulogy for My Mom

When my mom died after years of dialysis and a failed kidney transplant, our family was devastated. Many of you gathered here today knew her – and shared our sadness, pain and sense of loss. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we all tried in vain to make sense of what had happened.

WHY? Why would God take such a good person—who helped SO many people, touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From my kids? From ME?

We all reflected on the times we talked with her, worked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, were comforted or healed by her.

Many of us, myself included, were angry about the unfairness of it all.

The irony… The tragedy. That affected us all in such a deep and personal way.

She died 11 years ago. The process of healing for my dad, my brother and I was slow, but over time we came to accept what had happened. She lived on through our memories, stories, traits that she passed on to us, and all the little things—the scent of her  Estee’ Lauder Beautiful perfume, the quirks, all the things that made her our “mom.”

But we also knew that physically, in our daily lives, she was gone.

Three years later, my dad introduced us to Cecille. After our mom passed, we felt the void. But more importantly had always been worried about my dad. Would he be ok? Would he be lonely? The most important thing to us was his happiness so we accepted that he met someone new. She would be the companion he needed and we would be supportive of his decision… and that would be it.

But NEVER did we expect that she would be so, so much more than that—not only to him, but to our entire family.  She never tried to force her way into our lives. She simply won us over. With her kindness, her fashion sense, her clear love of our dad… When two people meet and fall in love, you usually say they “grow old together”…but these two, it was like they grew “young” together: active, adventurous, always on the go. She was open and completely adored my kids. She was the only Lola they ever knew.

Like my mom, she was beautiful, strong and independent. But she also added this dimension of lightness to our lives—fun-loving, willing to try anything (from tubing to canoing, dune climbing, traveling the world) and she embraced life and new experiences.

Beyond the countless adventures we shared with her and my dad, there were also the unseen moments—not broadcast on Facebook—times that happened when the lights were dim and you could see a person for who they really are…

One of my most special memories of her was something so, so simple and pure. We were on a family trip to California, and during a quiet time in between sightseeing, the kids had disappeared from our hotel room to the adjoining room where Lolo and Lola were. After an hour or so, we decided to check on the boys. When we opened the door to their room, there were the kids. Christian and my dad were reading from a joke book (naturally), and Logan and Lola were lying in bed. She was tickling him. He was squealing, and they were both giggling with laughter. It was a moment of pure love for these kids… and I teared up as I thought to myself “God these kids are so lucky to be loved by her.”

My brother and I felt that same kind of love from her too – talking in the morning over breakfast and coffee, laughing about the kids, sharing good times and even some of our hardest times together.

She didn’t replace our mom… but she was a continuation of her. And we truly loved her.

But now… we’re standing here today with this aching sense of déjà vu. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we are all trying in vain—again—to make sense of what happened. WHY? Why would God take such a good person, who touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From her kids? From my kids? From us?

We are all reflecting on the times we talked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, danced with her or were inspired by her.

There were certainly some strange hints from the universe that somehow she was brought into OUR lives for a reason.

There was her name: Cecilia Domingo. My mom and dad’s names combined! Are you serious?

Both she and my dad were #11 in the birth order of their large families.

How could that NOT be meant to be?

But many of us now, myself included, may be angry about the unfairness of losing her. The irony… The tragedy.

The things that her body and spirit endured at the end are unthinkable. NO ONE should ever go through that. But those of us who were there with her at the hospital are in AWE of her strength and will during that trauma. To come back to consciousness, and squeeze our hands and wiggle her toes, and fight through everything to open her eyes… and say goodbye to us one last time. As awful as it was, it was a GIFT.

I wish I had the answer why this happened. As we do in this type of circumstance, we struggle to find a reason for this terrible loss. It may take time… or we may never know.

All we can do now is focus on the light she brought to our lives, and what she left behind.

·      A husband who found in her a loving, vibrant companion and true partner.

·      6 kids: Carol, Neil, Michael and Louie + my brother and I, who were blessed to experience her love and support.

·      6 grandkids, who had the most generous, caring and supportive Lola.

·      A room filled with family and friends who were touched by her.

There is a connective tissue, a bond that ties us all together now. One that was created because of her.

And like my mom, she will live on through our memories…of her laughter, her amazing sense of style, her kindness, her bluntness, her goodness, and all the little things that made her an amazing mom, grandma, wife, sister, aunt, friend.

We were ALL blessed for the gift of her in our lives.

Her life was a reminder to all of us: to work hard.  love each other. travel. embrace adventure. dance. laugh. sing. cherish your family and friends…NOW. because you never know when your breath may be your last.

the muse

“She thought she had a big nose and big feet, and she was too skinny, and not enough breast. She would look in the mirror and say, ‘I don’t understand why people see me as beautiful.’”

Who was she?

She could’ve been a friend or a sibling. The neighbor down the street. A daughter or a mother. Any one of us really.

But no, this perplexed bundle of insecurities also happened to be one of the most jaw-dropping beauties of all time. Muse to Givenchy. Fashion icon. Doe-eyed and demure yet stunning in anything, from ball gowns to ballet flats.

She was Audrey Hepburn.

When I read the portrait in Vanity Fair, I was stunned by this account from her son, Luca Dotti, who shared her belief that her signature look appealed to people because it “must be a good mixture of defects.”

How could the infamous, impeccable Holly Golightly possibly think such deep thoughts?

When she’s on screen, you literally can’t take your eyes off of her. She’s effervescent, flawless, floating above mere mortals in haute couture creations, gliding across the ether of unattainable glamour and blinding beauty.

Yet the image projected on the silver screen was only a facet of who she was. In this account, she is also human—with her share of sadness born out of the “hunger and danger” of World War II, insecurity, marital strife, indignance at the suffering she saw as a Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF, and later in life, fatal illness.

Not that she was at all buried under the weight of these things, but rather, like all of us, they were deeply a part of who she was and how she perceived and pursued life.

What I find most interesting is that though the famous images of her are seared into our brains, it’s these quiet, beautiful qualities—her individuality, her simplicity, her elegance, her essence—that those closest to her loved and remember.

Hubert de Givenchy was her couturier, close friend and confidant for decades. When asked about their relationship, he said, “She was wonderful. She was someone unique. She was real. She was natural.” She inspired his most iconic looks and surely her beauty fueled his incredible creativity, yet in his description are words that have nothing to do with her physical appearance.

Her son shares a similar sentiment. When asked in what way his mother remains most physically present in his life, Luca says, “Through scent.” Not perfume…there are certain scents, you know, a certain cake, or a flower, things like that. It’s not so physical, but it’s powerful. And every spring, especially here in Rome, you have this smell of orange blossom in the air. Spring is coming and it was her favorite season. It makes me think of her.

paper flowers

portrait of maude

she was tiny. at first look, frail. her silver hair was short and nappy, swept up in a tousled bun with fly-aways from laying in bed too long. her dark skin was smooth except for the deep crevices that outlined the corners of her eyes, her forehead and mouth. she had cat eye glasses with thick, coke bottle lenses. and her hands were gnarled and thin, with faint veins that hinted at a life … long ago.

her room was midway down the long hallway in ward 1. despite the nursing home’s idyllic name, “sunny acres,” the scene was far from rosy. it wasn’t wretched either, a “one flew over the cuckoo’s nest” nightmare of a place, but rather there just seemed to be a subtle sense of sadness that permeated the space. odors, old-ness, patients, many with no family to speak of, lying in bed, tv on with volume low, barely audible, and eyes gazing out windows looking for an escape or maybe a return to days when they were husbands or wives or professionals or ordinary people…and not simply “patients.”

in high school, summer vacation for most of my friends involved lazy days lounging at home or odd jobs scooping ice cream at DQ or lifeguarding at the local pool. but for us, it was volunteering at the nursing home where my mom was a staff physician.

on monday, wednesday and friday mornings, i’d put on my crisp white blouse and red and white candy-cane striped jumper, and make the trek up the grassy, dandelion-spotted hill with my brother and the neighborhood twins. the daily routine started with a scan of the long list of patients we were slated to see that day.

i always looked for her name.

maude. room 126.

“i’ll take ward 1,” i said as i loaded up the wheeled cart with arts and crafts supplies: brightly colored tissue, pipe cleaners, tape, glue, and the odd assortment of beauty supplies: combs, hairbrushes, nail files and polish. i’d make my way down the hall, past the nurse’s station filled with overstuffed charts, orderlies in scrubs and white tennis shoes, patients getting bathed, and finally the section where the patients’ rooms were.

i pulled up to 126 and peeked in.

“hi maude!’

“oooohh! so good to see you honey!”

her whole face would break out into a giant, radiant smile. you could see her eyes light up—and well up—behind those thick, cloudy glasses. she’d reach out and pull you close, like she was about to reveal a delicious secret, then she’d stretch out her arms proudly to show you a fresh manicure, her bony hands brightened by a shiny new candy-colored hue. she’d giggle like a school girl yet with a deep, raspy voice, and periodically her dentures would slip out so she’d simultaneously tighten her lips, mid-sentence, to snap her teeth back into place, all without ever missing a beat.

“so what color do you fancy today?” i fanned the rainbow of brightly colored crepe paper before her.

her eyes would twinkle as she’d point. hot pink. purple. fire-engine red. throw in some yellow for good measure. i’d gather the chosen colors du jour and sit with her, talking and laughing, and making paper flowers that i’d leave in a vase when our visit was over.

we’d all spent many moments like this with maude.

and then one morning, her name wasn’t on the list.

there were others, too. ron. he was a big guy with a jerry curl and a soulful, stevie wonder voice. he was young, in his late 30s, and landed at sunny acres after a tragic swimming accident. he had gone to lake erie to spend the day at the beach with friends, and became paralyzed from the waist down after diving in too shallow water.

“over time, i’ve been building my castle of love…”

you could hear his rich, baritone voice booming down the halls as he zoomed toward you in his electric wheelchair. but his eyes, they were sad. on hot summer days, he’d ask for a chocolate-covered ice cream bar. i’d have to unwrap it and feed it to him because he couldn’t hold it himself. while he’d eat it, he’d sometimes talk. and other times, he’d just stare out the window in silence.

then there was mr. witherspoon. a little old bald man, toothless, wheelchair-bound, seemingly weak, but sassy as a whipper snapper. his eyes would tear up at the sight of any female that would cross his path: candystripers, nurses, even female doctors. he was rico suave of the senior set, full of compliments and comical, harmless little quips. if you smiled at him, you’d make his entire morning. and if you served him his peas and mashed potatoes, you won his heart forever.

unlike my mother, and eventually my brother, i never had a desire to pursue a career in medicine. but man did i learn a thing or two about life during those summers at sunny acres.

these weren’t merely “patients.” they were people. human beings. with unique stories. and simple wants. to laugh. to talk. to feel pretty. or special. to enjoy an ice cream bar on hot summer day. to be connected to another person. to feel such gratitude to be truly seen, even if just for a fleeting moment, versus looked over or looked through.

and just when you thought you were helping someone else, they ended up touching or even transforming you. they taught me that vulnerability is ok. that at the core, we’re not so different. here i was in high school with my whole life ahead of me, and yet i could feel and understand them in those moments. i realized that from whatever ends of the earth or experiences we come, we all want the same things.

i often see this meme shared on pinterest and facebook: “be kind. for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” in many ways, we’re no different than these characters i met long ago—only their afflictions, their pain was worn on the outside.

just because you can’t see it, we all have our stuff: insecurities, illness, dreams unrealized, uncertainty about the future. but don’t underestimate the power of sharing your truth and real moments with people, be it family, friends or whomever you come in contact.

those paper flowers we made were cheap little tchotchkes that were thrown away with the weekly room cleanings. but those moments of connectedness... they were beautiful, precious, pure.

i hope she took them with her when she left. because i did.

the beholder

portrait of max

at first i wondered what it was like. to see through those eyes.

pale green-blue. point and shoot. piercing through the veil of all that was vanilla. beige. boring.

he saw in technicolor. a modern-day toulouse. saturated. infatuated. bright lights. rouge lips. making love to the moment with his cannon and his quest: for beauty. for drama. for all that was “fierce” and fashionable.

sitting around on a lazy saturday afternoon, he turned ordinary objects, people, places into emotions, stories, operatic moments. hipsters in wonderland, shot in the front yard amongst overgrown succulents and the LA sunshine. a carnie side show in a rented palm springs palace. decked out divas at the decadent viceroy.

his imagination danced in shadows and light. he shot leaves, vases, floors, furniture. interiors. exteriors. patterns. textures.

he shot everything. and nothing.

he was, by no means, an optimist. rose-tinted glasses? hell to the no. try bold-tinted glasses. he was seasoned in snark and the scenester celeb scoops. his love of drama only deepened with the cast of characters he met in lala land.

and his taste was not for everyone. glamorous. garish. provocative. polarizing. certainly not for the faint of heart.

but that was no matter. his vision was his own.

costumes. camp. collages. and above all, color. they all converged in these eyes. that saw the potential, the possibility, to elevate. any moment. at any time.

to him,

every surface was a canvas.

every window was a mirror.

every sidewalk was a runway.

every ordinary person—with a splash of red lipstick and some sultry staging—could emerge a supermodel or a washed up socialite or a delicious diva at the drop of a floppy sun hat.

statues were ancient sirens.

and his beloved cat, bruno, a prince, persian royalty, his highness in the hollywood hills.

to linger on beauty. to chase light. to devour color. to infuse into things or people a feeling. or a thought. or even better to create an entire story in a single frame.

that is what it was like to see. through his eyes.

and now through mine.

fearless

portrait of JJ

he came into the office in cobalt skinny jeans, ready to #werq.

he’s a southern boy, a superstar, a pint-sized perez with a penchant for color and blue sky dreams of owning his own birkin.

it’s his first job out of college, yet he owns client calls. he spins circles around some twice his age.

“i’ve got a plan,” he likes to say, with a scheming, twinkle in his eye. lolla VIP, check. dinner with friends, check. 90-day roadmap to world domination.

while we stood around in our baggy flannels, jean shorts and timberland workboots, spewing gen x angst and smelling like teen spirit, JJ dons his rainbow wings and flies.

after the invincibility of our 20s, the risk is settling into this thing called life—where settle may be the operative word, where dreams and passions are put out to pasture in exchange for expected roles and real-world responsibility.

we old dogs piss and moan about “those self-entitled millennials,” shaking our fists and longing for the good old days of grunge…but i can think of more than enough examples that blow that generational myth.

twenty-something techies who are taking silicon valley by storm. suzy orman fanboys sitting on a pile of apple stock (holla dodsy!).

they aren’t bound by barriers. they don’t retrench from rules. they don’t cling to jobs or roles or boxes that hold them in. they’re fearless.

instead of vilifying them, perhaps we should admire the ones that stand out. the ones that stand tall—with pure belief, in themselves and their destiny. like JJ, perhaps we should take a page out of the peacock playbook and sprout some wings of our own. with shoes like that, there’s nowhere to go but up!

the superhero

portrait of betsy

"i don't know how you do it,"  they say.

she smiles and brushes it off.  she doesn’t know either.

she plows through every day. because she has to. because she wants to. because she loves to.

her mommy superpowers get her through.

she’s strong. she’s caring. she’s organized. she’s devoted. she’s invincible.

she's invisible. she does it so well that the effort goes unnoticed. she does it so well because it’s expected and she can’t disappoint. she makes it look easy…though behind the scenes it barely comes together. “her best” is so good that they just can’t see…

and then someone does see.

in between drop offs and pickups and the countless errands that fill her day, she stops at starbucks. fill ‘er up. fuel to function. energy for the endless day ahead.

“grande skim latte!” the cashier yells from behind the counter. today like any other day.

and then the pattern interrupt.

“i just have to tell you that you have the nicest eyelashes i’ve ever seen.”

like a blast of kryptonite, she’s crushed. pools well up in her big brown eyes.

in that moment, she is seen... for her beauty. as a woman. as a person. as someone other than “a mom.”

she is wonder woman. gold bangles. wellie boots. with the power to spin a million plates on any given day. she is everything to everyone.

she is an unsung hero.

she is a mom. but she is also more.

the spark

a portrait of passion

someone once said “lack of passion is fatal.” at first blush, it seems a bit dramatic. certainly a lack of food, water, oxygen: these are the things that can actually threaten our survival…but passion?!

if you think about it, so much of what we do on a daily basis—in work, chosen hobbies, the people we spend precious time with—has to do with purpose.  

no purpose. no passion. no reason to get up in the morning. or to believe that it matters.

my hunch is that many of us are succumbing slowly, perhaps without even knowing it. death by a thousand paper cuts…or useless meetings…or anything that stands in the way of feeling that fire in your gut.

it’s usually subtle. you hardly notice it as you scurry about to tend to your daily business. but then you encounter that rare someone in the light. with the kind of passion that emanates from their being. that you can feel when they walk into the room. and you realize that the little void is actually a chasm—between you and the life you want to be living.

we arrived en masse: myself, the lead creative, the account director and two designers.  a perky blonde popped up from behind the glossy, white lacquer reception desk and whisked us away to the conference room. we followed in single file, weaving between cubes and meticulously assembled scale models with perfectly placed mini-trees and glorious architectural projects that would put the 5,000-piece "millennium falcon" lego set to shame.

when we arrived at our destination, we graciously sat down—pleasant, client game-faces beaming­­—to await the arrival of the stakeholders. the assignment we were waiting to be briefed on: creating a brand identity for a new skyscraper being built in chicago's famed river north district. after several minutes of fidgeting in our spine-hugging aeron chairs and doodling in moleskins, the door opened.

"hi guys, it's nice to meet you. i'm russ!" salt and pepper hair, cocky and self-deprecating, he was the project manager, a proud "southern boy" with firm handshakes for all of us gathered around the table.

"now lemme tell you about this building," he said in his best george "dubya" accent. "it's gonna be special." he paused for emphasis and we perked up in our chairs, anxiously awaiting every detail of the new gem planned for the city's heralded skyline.

"state-of-the-art building. the fastest elevators. LEED certified. that's a big one." he fired off random phrases as we furiously scribbled them down, hoping to make rhyme or reason of them later.

i scanned the pages of my notebook. a lot of words...not much of a story.

and then he walked in.

the particles in the room shifted. he was an older gentleman, grey hair effortlessly combed back, in a perfectly fitted french cuff shirt and shiny, black onyx cufflinks. he didn't glide in, but rather descended on the table, clearly well-versed in rushing from one important meeting to the next.

now it was russ who perked up, as if the headmaster had just arrived with a ruler in hand. "all right guys, enough from me. he's the boss and he's gonna tell you exactly what you need to know." he smiled like an adoring puppy dawg. "take it away!"

he was responsible for some of the most prestigious buildings in the city. even with no real estate knowledge whatsoever, you knew instantly that you were sitting in the presence of power.

but on this day, for the hour and half that he spoke with us, he was simply a man with a pure, intense passion. unlike the rapid-fire sound byte session we had just endured, we sat riveted, as he wove a story of architectural legacy (the building was designed by mies van der rohe's grandson) and future possibility. he talked about every single facet of the building "experience": from the grand entrance and private drive to the luxurious marble and granite appointments, stunning floor-to-ceiling glass, and the vibrant surrounding neighborhood. he talked of the address as a status symbol, attracting world-class tenants to a building worthy of their business. it would be a landmark—in a crowded urban landscape—that was second to none.

he wasn't merely reciting facts and figures or selling office space. he was delivering a manifesto, which he believed with every ounce of his being...and we all felt it viscerally.

i watched him intently during the entire gorgeous sonnet, but when my pen stopped writing for a brief moment, i peeked down at my arm. goosebumps.

passion is infectious. it makes you feel. it's the fire in your gut. the reason that you push further, stay up later, do what it takes to pursue it.

it's also rare. elusive. it's not going to be served up to you on a silver platter. you have to look for it. work for it. fight for it. in fact, it's been years since i've met anyone with as much love for what they were creating. suffice it to say i've managed to cope thanks to a healthy diet of steve jobs commencement speeches and inspirational TED talks. 

but the moral of the story is this: finding your passion, fanning the flame, or even just blowing on the tiny little ember that's inside, is worth it. it's the difference between flat-lining and feeling something.

pushing through

portrait of my mom

when you’re struggling, dealing with a rough patch, it’s natural to feel lost, despondent, cynical of the so-called “grand plan.” you wonder how you’ll push through…but then you do. and one day, things take a turn. or maybe it’s not a single day, but a series of moments, strung together over a period of time, that help you realize you’ve healed, slowly. you’re wiser, and perhaps are stronger than you ever knew you were.

where does “it” come from—that drive to push forward when you just want to fold? in varying degrees, we all have inner strength. we get up every morning, put on our clothes, step out into the big, messy world, and get on with it. but going through the motions is not necessarily moving forward. bootstrapping it, carrying that burden on your own back, only takes you so far.

though you may not realize it, maybe “it” comes from somewhere else, somewhere deeper within.  from people who have touched your life: parents, grandparents, close friends, mentors. people who taught you how to be strong, by instruction or better yet, by example. 

when they’re gone, the lessons they taught stay with you. become a part of you. 

growing up, i always longed for the mother-daughter relationships i’d seen on TV. much to my chagrin, my mom was no florence henderson. we didn’t go shopping together, talk about boyfriends or crushes, share hopes and fears, discuss feelings.

but i knew what she was feeling. every day when i’d watch her roll up the sleeves of her white lab coat. when i thought of her, the youngest of 12 from a poor family in the philippines pursuing medicine when other women were busy perfecting their casseroles. when she’d spend as much time diagnosing patients as holding their hands for an extra minute or two. feeding them a bite of mashed potatoes and greyish green beans when they were too weak to do it themselves. bringing homemade noodles to the nurse’s station when the other doctors treated them like hired help. rolling in at midnight on a school night, waking us from a dead slumber and telling us to get dressed so we could grab pancakes at country kitchen, just so we could be together. taking phone calls and pages at all hours of the night—because that was what she did. who she was.

she was there to help. to heal. to lift people up. to prove, sometimes by sheer stubbornness and force of will, that somehow you can push through anything.

she did. and i do, because of her.

my mother.

sometimes the strength we have within is not just our own. but from those who came before us. those whose impact has become a part of us.

it always crushes me to think my kids will never know her…but maybe they will. through me.

looking through old photos today, my little one confirmed the suspicion.

“hey mommy, there’s you.”

i can only hope he’s right.

yin & yang

portrait of dominic

in nature, balance is an essential force that governs the universe. the push and pull of the tides. the magnetic attraction of protons and neutrons. day and night. sun and moon.

it seems fitting that, for many siblings, the bond that is shared follows the same paradigm.

balance when you’re out of whack. lightness when your heart is heavy. grounding when you feel uprooted. support when you feel alone.

in my life, my brother is that person.

people often remark about how close we are. yet in many ways, we are polar opposites.

he’s a taurus. i’m a libra. he’s a doctor. i’m a writer. he is structured. i’m spontaneous. he confronts. i counsel. he lives in control: pristine, uncluttered. i live in the moment: finding fulfillment amidst the frenzy.

our close bond was born out of a lifetime of balancing each other out.

when one was weak, the other was strong. when one sought advice, the other weighed in. when one lost their way, the other pulled back. when one was just crazy, the other voiced reason. and most importantly, when one wore a hideous outfit, the other was ready with the head-to-toe stare down and signature eye roll. :)

through it all, the constant was we were always there for each other.

dominic is someone who values the finer things, yet is generous beyond measure.

he loves his animals: dogs and cats and horses and fish…yet cherishes family above all else.

he craves constant change, yet is ultimately grounded.

he strives for perfection, but has learned to let go.

whether siblings or close friends, people who touch your life shape you, balance you, make you who you are.

dominic is always trying to be better. to do better.

and he inspires me to do the same.

keeping it real

a portrait of christine

i used to have a friend who was all about the rose-tinted glasses. if you asked about her family, they were "perfect." well-to-do, doting father, family dog, picket fence. at each stage of life, everything was wonderful. school? perfect. job? fabulous.  when you had conversations with her, sometimes you felt a tinge of wistfulness, even jealously, hearing about a trip to a tropical island or the family get together in aspen. i could picture them in matching reindeer sweaters nestled around the fire singing christmas carols.  it was almost touching...but mostly nauseating.

why? because in those same conversations, when she was talking to me, it felt like she was talking through me, rattling off some canned version of the perfect life she didn't have—but wished she had.  look into someone's eyes and you'll know.  i'm sure there were plenty of moments of genuine love, bliss, happiness...but no one can have that all of the time.

years later, when we found out her parents had split up, it was vindication of what we'd suspected all along, but never would've known had we accepted the "stepford" version of events.  living in denial (of fights or disappointment, fear or sadness) is not living—it's lying. to yourself and everyone else. i have no patience for that. the fact is, everyone's got their "stuff"...and that's why i prefer a healthy dose of reality.

we all have at least one person in our lives who calls bullshit. who hones right in on the truth, as brutal as it may be, and let's 'er rip. who tells you the chicken was ok, but a little dry. who warns you that your new jeans show off your muffin top. who tells you point blank not to date that guy because he's just not a good match.  ....and also someone who you love—because they'll never lie to you...ever.

i am lucky enough to have several of those people in my life, but the quintessential "truth-teller," the anti-candy-coater, is my cousin christine. she's got a heart of gold and a no-nonsense attitude. matter-of-fact, she can't be bothered with dancing around the issues. throw them out on the table, discuss, debate, and then she'll serve up a homemade raspberry tart to reassure you that it's not personal...because it's not. just true.  it's not out of meanness or insensitivity. just a desire to support. be there. provide feedback that actually means something. i admire her honesty. she'd apply it as readily to herself as she would to you and me.

case in point. we went to visit christine and her family in san luis obispo, a quaint ocean-side town that they call home. idyllic is the only word i can think of to describe their existence. stunning mountain vistas at every turn. amazing wineries churning out delectable pinots. goats, sheep and cows peacefully grazing on the lush grass. vibrant, fresh vegetables and cheeses at the farmers' market. scenic bike rides for the morning commute. laidback living with friendly neighbors. rolling waves and ocean breezes just a stones throw away at monte de oro, or mountain of gold.

but before you picture her blissfully romping through the fields in a gingham apron collecting buttercups, christine serves up a healthy dose of reality.  her take on san luis: "i love it...but i also need some grit in my life."  for her, growing up in toronto was filled diversity and debate. culture and concrete. passion and differing points of view. so every few months, she leaves her little haven and high-tails it to the nearest urban jungle—L.A—for her fix of some "grit."

on the outside looking in, some things can seem so perfect. but we all know that's just a myth. leave the rose tinted glasses to elton john. sometimes reality does suck, but i, too, prefer a little grit with the glamor. that's what grounds you, gives you perspective, helps you truly appreciate the good stuff.