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dreams, spandex & death goggles

April 11, 2015

Though it was a great excuse to get away from the office grind, I was fully prepared for the barrage of buzzwords and bravado. It was, after all, a new business conference for advertising’s top brass—the crème de le crème of seasoned sales pro’s, spinning stories and selling dreams for some of the world’s biggest brands.

I’d been in advertising long enough to be jaded—exhausted by the echo chamber and marketese/mumbo jumbo that reaches a feverish pitch at conferences: “integration, transformation, disruption”…indigestion. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to hearing the war stories and hopefully walk away with even a smidge of inspiration amidst the talk of pitch strategies and procurement woes.  

When the young, tan, whispy-haired dude from Boulder, Colorado, shuffled onto the stage amidst the slick-suited, stiletto-clad crowd, I knew this would be a different kind of talk. But I had no idea what deep, existential ponderings were in store for all of us in the audience that day.

The title certainly didn’t sound riveting: “Reframe Your Business: A Growth Strategy Inspired by Personal and Social Values.” But he came from a place and echelon of success in our industry that very few could even fathom to reach.

Alex Bogusky was an original founder and partner of one of the world’s hottest ad agencies, Crispin Porter + Bogusky. He was the “Elvis of advertising”—a superstar. In Ad Age’s words, he was “as clever, brash, and iconoclastic as the campaigns that earned him a reputation as the most dangerous weapon in advertising. He relished playing cultural deviant—creating brazen campaigns for Virgin, Volkswagon and most notably Burger King." 

4 years ago, he left Crispin, Porter because he didn’t feel his values were aligned any longer with the business. He went on to found a series of companies and social related projects that “do good in the world.” He worked with Al Gore to raise awareness and action against climate change. He started Common, a creative community that helps social entrepreneurs “do shit that matters.” And just last month, he launched a new agency called Fearless, designed to help corporations, foundations and non-profits build campaigns around social issues.

It all sounds so lovely and idyllic—the former ad guru who cashed out, made millions by selling off his share in one of the most lauded ad agencies to “find his soul,” and is now spreading peace, love and pixie dust all over the world from his aptly named “Fearless Cottage” in Boulder.

The cynic in me scoffed. “Easy for him to say from atop his moral high horse,” I thought, reflecting on all of us poor schelps in Adland—and every other industry for that matter—who actually have mouths to feed and bills to pay as opposed to sinking riches into whatever cause du jour comes our way.

But when he hit the stage at the conference, he won me over—not with self-absorbed anecdotes from his glory days in advertising or business strategies to drive growth, but rather with personal “stories” and sage advice from someone who, at the pinnacle of his career chose to pave a different path—based on personal values and fulfillment rather than traditional notions of success.

7 Steps to Career / Life Fulfillment from Alex Bogusky

Below are some inspiring sound bites I scribbled into my moleskin almost a year ago at the Mirren Conference in New York. These thoughts have swirled in and out of my consciousness as I’ve transitioned to a new job, juggled the demands of work and family, and struggled to carve out the time for passion projects like writing my blog and photography, and even just unplugging from the chaos of daily life. The answers are far from black and white – but they’re nonetheless great reminders when you feel adrift or simply need permission: to dream, take risks or even simply baby steps toward the next stage of your own personal journey.

1.     “Aligning your values and work can be so fucking hard.” The truth hurts, doesn’t it? But there it is. Someone finally laid it out on the table. Landing your “dream job” or even figuring out what that is—it’s nearly impossible when you’ve got bills to pay, rent, a mortgage, god forbid the money pit that is kids. Based on where you are in your life and career, you may have to suck it up for awhile: earn your stripes, pay back your loans, do whatever you need to do to earn a living now. And accept that that’s ok. But if your ultimate goal is to do something more, something different, something better—then it’s also up to you to define where you want to be and what you want to do. It’s hard. Brutal even. And even if that dream job is eons away from your current reality, you have to start somewhere, with even little actions that will set you off in that direction. In the end, if you can achieve that kind of alignment, when you know in your gut and heart and your soul—not just your wallet—that this is what you were meant to do, it will all be worth it.

2.     Lycra: "It’s not always pretty… but it’s you.” This was the single best career advice I’d ever heard. Wear spandex to your first interview? No not exactly. What he meant was this: YOU have to decide what fits you perfectly. Screw what everyone else says about what path you should take or how to benchmark success. Wearing lycra means putting it all out there—every nook and cranny, every bump and blemish, every experience and talent that makes you uniquely you—and doing it fearlessly. There is nothing more empowering than finding your true, authentic voice…and screaming from the rooftops.

3.     Now is the time. All white slide. No other words on it. I got chills. When it comes to work or big life decisions, it’s natural to focus on the end goal. And because of the weight, we often find ourselves waiting: for “the right time” or “the right opportunity” or whatever real or imaginary barrier to be removed before we act. And big changes are scary as hell. Often the person watching with judging eyes, anticipating our own imminent failure is ourselves. On the next slide: “Our own internal voices are fucks.” The key is to realize that you don’t need to solve the world’s problems right here, right now, in one fell swoop. That’s a surefire recipe for failure. Whether it’s a job or life choice, we’re all WIP (Works in Progress). Simply begin to take steps. Little wins lead you one step closer to the end goal. 

4.     Lay back and dream. As big as you can. Again, not the kind of advice I expected at a new business conference. There is a reason people like Alex Bogusky or Steve Jobs achieve unfathomable heights of success while so many others wallow in mediocrity. They’re dreamers. Disruptors. They challenge the comfortable confines of the status quo. He proposed an exercise: Describe your ideal environment. Ideal collaborators. Ideal role. Even if it’s only a dream now, the mere fact of articulating it crystallizes it into something real and tangible to strive for.

5.     Do your little projects. You know, the ones you keep putting off, that you never have time for because they’re just “hobbies.” In advertising we are literally driven, often into the ground, by clients and deadlines and demands on our time. Every profession has its version of pressure or paperwork or pet peeves that drain your energy, rob you of precious time you wish you could be spending on things you’re actually passionate about. Make the time. Whether an escape or coping mechanism for your current state or an actual step, however small, toward the life or career you want, do it. Those “little things” go a long way toward making you a happier, well-balanced, more fulfilled human being.

6.     “Success.” Bogusky left advertising at the pinnacle of “success.” In describing his career trajectory, he talked about the relationship between his core values and the size of the firm where he worked. “Small” was exciting and entrepreneurial, but stressful in terms of actually building a profitable business. “Medium” was a sweet spot, with just the right amount of creative freedom and fun, balanced with the sense of doing really “good” work for clients. Yet as the company started to grow, it became harder to find “goodness” along with “bigness.” In his words, the values had changed, enough to inspire him to leave. In society, success is generally gauged by title and dollars. But once you throw other factors into the mix: your health and well-being, stress levels, impact on your family relationships, what is the true measure of success? I think we all have to define what it means for us personally and challenge the notion that money or things equate to #winning in work or life. 

7.     Death goggles. Bogusky actually opened his presentation by telling the audience a very personal story about his mother who had just passed away. With voice quivering, he looked out into the audience and said: “When you think about what you’re doing in life, do you ever ask yourself the questions: Do I matter? Does what I do matter? When I die, and people are gathered for my funeral, what will people say about me and the impact I made?” Again chills. Heavy stuff for a morning keynote session. The question pretty much cut through to my core.

I thought about my own mom who had passed away years ago. She worked her ass off for 30 years—healing patients in order to fund private school, college, med school and law school tuition, helping family members with medical bills and miscellaneous expenses. Based on her staunch religious beliefs, sense of moral obligation, and desire to give her children all the things she never had, she felt this was her role in life. But the trade off: the romantic ideals that I only saw in glimpses from old photo albums of her glamorous, carefree travels with my dad— that she left behind the minute she donned the white coat and the title of “doctor.”

Her one dream in life was to go to Rome. To stroll the streets like Audrey Hepburn, who she watched on the big screen as part of the triple features in the air-conditioned movie theatres of the Philippines, long before she achieved “success” in the U.S.  What did she get instead of her ultimate “Roman Holiday” after a lifetime of working hard? Kidney failure during retirement, excruciating rounds of dialysis, and a ticket to the Philippines for a transplant that ended in tragedy.

Such a harsh reality, but also an important lesson: Whatever path you choose in life, whatever decisions—big or small—make them count. Make sure that what you do matters: for yourself and those around you. Evaluate your priorities. Find “your thing.” Own it and live it, fearlessly…because it’s all you’ve got. 

In life, perseverence Tags life lessons, words of wisdom, alex bogusky
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forgive

forgive yourself

February 22, 2015

i’m only 53 days late for my new years resolution. and the xmas cards, which for the last few years have become the new years card, this year, officially became the facebook post.

i have a perfectly legitimate excuse. i left the company i’ve worked at for seven years—a job and people i know inside and out—and took a new post at another agency. better title, bigger challenge, a world of new opportunity…and a heaping helping of additional stress… all while juggling parenting, two kids, household chores, and the myriad of annoying little tasks that make up daily life.

yet somehow, the voice inside my head refuses to cut me some slack. i have this nagging sense of guilt. my conscience wags its critical finger, chiding me for all the failures i’ve racked up during this time of transition. cousin xmas gifts—finally in the mail, just shy of march. photo canvases and family albums—a mere figment of my time-zapped imagination. best friend phone call five months overdue thanks to the barrage of homework and nightly bedtime rituals. closet purging—suspended in my room, halfway done in once-organized piles that get a little more messy with each morning’s mad dash to get dressed and out the door. spring cleaning—yeah right. talk to the tornado whose name starts with “L” and ends with “ogan.”

i feel like a wimp for even whining about it. like the “dog ate my homework" excuse, it seems like a cop-out. “sorry, all of you fabulous friends who managed to go see santa (another mandatory ritual i also missed this year), crank out ten batches of cookies AND send out cards on time (hell, at all!)… i just got too busy so i opted out this year. and to make matters more egregious, i refused to confess my failure on facebook to make a point, if only to myself.

a couple friends who are also fighting the good fight, spinning, twirling and treading to get through each day, actually apologized to everyone for not getting cards out in time. this really broke my heart. i completely understood the sentiment… but it just wasn’t right. i know i certainly wasn’t holding a grudge. and i’m sure none of their 500 other frenzied friends weren’t either. 

inner-critic

i saw this photo on instagram many months ago and saved it because it just struck a chord. in this day and age, we’re all over-worked, over-stretched, sometimes just plain “over it.”

maybe, just maybe, it’s time we give ourselves a break. maybe it’s not all of your friends on facebook, posting perfect posts and curating catchy captions, that are judging you. maybe it’s actually YOU. trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that is just that: an ideal. a cosmo or stepford or cinderella myth—meant to make you feel bad for failing to live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection you hold yourself to.

i came to the realization recently on report card day. that one time nine years ago when i only had one kid and time to actually read parenting advice, i read an article in new york magazine about “the power (and peril) of praise.” it was both interesting and counterintuitive. my parents focused on grades. “all A’s…or else.” the outcomes were of supreme importance. but no, in this article, the preeminent authorities on the subject gave a very important directive: to set your kids up for success, you have to praise the effort, not the end result.” by focusing only on the outcomes, they fixate on failure, start buying into the narrative that they don’t measure up, find themselves lost, and lack the resilience to push through adversity.

sound familiar?

my resolution for 2015: follow the advice i constantly tell my kids. “as long as you try your best, that’s what counts.” as long as you’re in the moment during the times that matter, that’s true success. not the final grade. or your goal weight. or whatever it is that motivates you—and drives you mad.

all of us overachievers are gunning for the A+: holding ourselves to too high standards, trying to execute flawlessly, berating ourselves for all the things that didn’t go exactly as planned. instead we should be celebrating the little wins, daily victories. a kind gesture. a gorgeous sunrise. a good laugh with an old friend. a perfect hair day. a pat on the back for a job well done. or even, on some days, simply getting up and out of bed when all you want to do is hide under the covers until it’s safe to come out.

and even when you do hit the mark, no matter how high, at the pinnacle of so-called “success,” you may feel like an imposter, a fraud. but guess what? we all do. the truth is: we’re all winging it. “nobody knows what the hell they are doing.”

two cases in point:

the late maya angelou, one of the greatest writers of our time, once said: “i have written 11 books, but each time, i think ‘uh-oh. they’re going to find out now. i’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.’” 

similarly, david carr, a highly acclaimed reporter who covered the intersection of media and pop culture for the new york times, recently passed away. one of his most famous quotes echoes the sentiment. “i now inhabit a life i don’t deserve, but we all walk this earth feeling we are frauds. the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end soon.”

so just keep pressing on. stop comparing. start living. trust your instincts. be true to you. remember that everyone’s shiny facebook highlight reel isn’t the full picture of what’s real. and gratitude, rather than self-loathing, goes a long way.

most importantly, believe that your best is actually good enough. because it is.

In hope, life, perseverence, family Tags perserverance, perfection, motherhood, parenthood, well being
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riding the wave

September 24, 2014

i can remember the first time vividly. the blue beneath our feet looked harmless enough, light ripples in the sunlight—not a hint of warning about the turbulence to come.

when the steamy, translucent gates parted, we waded in slowly, gradually ascending the heights until we reached a point of statis. terra firma. level ground. the vibe was chill, relaxed, even inviting—especially for a first timer—but we stuck close together as his eyes enlarged to take in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and ever so peculiar smells engulfing him.

i thought it would be an amazing adventure: his first bus ride. and when we boarded, his excitement about embarking on such a reviled mode of transportation amazed me. i handed him the crumpled dollar from my purse and did my best to flatten out the bill, smoothing it between my fingers to ensure it would get accepted. he fumbled a bit, hurriedly trying to stuff it into the narrow slot as the bus driver watched blankly. finally, on the third try, he found his mojo, staring intently with delight as george washington’s face got sucked up ever so smoothly into the machine.

“third time’s the charm, bud!”

beaming with a sense of accomplishment and relief, he followed anxiously on my heels to see what was next. we slowly shuffled forward—you know the move: barely lift your feet and slide several inches, right-left, right-left, following behind the person in front of you, close enough to be able to slip into an empty seat if you stumble upon it, but far enough away where no bodily contact happens. ever.

his eyes opened wide as he scanned the strange surroundings. seniors, tweeners, hipsters and homeless people.  he was clearly fascinated by the array of colorful commuters he witnessed as we made our way to the middle of the bus. per usual, i scanned the rows for an opening while simultaneously avoiding eye contact of any sort (a skill honed and perfected after years of taking the dank red line subway).

nothing.

he looked up at me nervously.

“don’t worry, honey.” i pulled him close and showed him the shiny silver pole by the center doors. “just hang on to this and it’ll be fine,” i reassured him, intentionally leaving out the sordid images popping into my mind of the dregs of humanity, and all the grimy hands that grasped the metal lifeline throughout the day, even seconds before ours. “bring on the purell,” i muttered under my breath.

“huh?

“it’ll be fun, i can tell!” i articulated loudly, earnestly trying to reinforce his genuine anticipation.

he wrapped both hands around the pole, and readied himself. it was a white-knuckled grip for sure—not because he was scared, but simply due to the fact that he didn’t know what to expect. i, on the other hand, had wrapped my jacket-clad arm around the pole to stabilize myself while avoiding actually touching the cootie-laden structure. (i figured this was an intermediate lesson, a trick i could teach him on ride #3 or 4, after he had successfully completed this maiden voyage.)

the doors slammed shut, and as the bus began to move, it melted my heart to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle up when he smiled—just like mine—a giant grin that radiated happiness, though he was trying to play it cool to blend in with the crusty commuters surrounding us.

for the next few stops, he was in the groove, letting go of his vice grip as he started to get the hang of the ebb and flow. he clearly found comfort knowing the trusty old pole was there if and when he needed it. a safe base. the novice was getting his bearings. my little jedi in transit training.

things were all well and good…until we got to chicago and milwaukee, where the subway and bus stops converge. by the time we had arrived, it was rush hour and the mass of bodies pushed forward when the steamy glass doors swung open. unlike the nirvana of literally minutes before, we were packed in like sardines.

helpless to resist the momentum, we surged forward, slowly shuffling again, only this time with bodies pressed up against our backs. he paused to look up at me with a combination of slight curiosity and sheer terror.

“everybody move back! make way for the passengers boarding the bus!” the driver yelled sternly.

“keep moving until you can’t go any further.”

i nudged him forward until we were firmly wedged between a few fine specimens of the CTA variety, only to find ourselves in the worst possible predicament: caught completely adrift, with neither a pole to hang onto nor a place to lean against.

“oooh this is not good.” i thought to myself as i put a hand on his shoulder, regretting this brilliant maternal decision to subject my kid to the gruesome tortures of mass transit.

the doors struggled shut, then the bus hurtled toward the intersection. the amoeba of people that included us poor souls with no pole morphed with the abrupt forward movement. the rough jerk sent us flying, and we both reached for the invisible bar (also known as thin air). it was futile. with nothing to stabilize, we flailed. i grabbed onto his shirt and kept him (barely) upright.

“mommy, HELP! what am i supposed to do now? i am going to fall if i have nothing to hold onto?”

with each successive stop, he’d tense up, his entire body bracing for the impending wave to hurl him about like a piece of driftwood tossing about at sea. he’d look around, embarrassed, worried. hating the lack of control. dreading the possibility he’d fumble, step on a foot, bump into man, or worst of all fall flat on his face.

i leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “ok buddy. listen to me. you’ve got to stay loose.”

his face contorted. the sweet adoring “i love you, mommy” face was instantly replaced by an indignant “wtf are you talking about, lady??” look. “stay loose when i’m about to dive headfirst into this mass of scary humanity?!”

i smiled reassuringly. “I’m serious,” i said in a gentle voice. “at the next stop, just watch me carefully.”

his response: a hearty huff and eye roll (the latter another lesson he regrettably learned from the best…me).

as we approached the stop, i got into position, exaggerating my movements for dramatic effect. i planted my heels (all 4.5 inches of them) firmly on the ground, as wide as they could get in the 12-inch square block of space i had to work with. i bent my legs slightly and got ready to ride the wave.

he was intrigued now, watching me intently as i assumed the position. i cracked a big smile and winked at him.

the brakes screeched loudly as we pulled up on the next stop, and i rode it out, shifting my body weight subtly back and forth to counter the momentum. he watched in amazement as i maintained my balance, only hesitating once to grab onto his arm when the jostling got a hair too extreme.

the furrow in his brow slowly morphed into a grin of his own.

he whispered into my ear. “that was awesome!”

“i told you bud. i know what i’m talking about. whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

the grin transformed into an ear-to-ear smile. “i wanna try!”

he couldn’t wait test out the technique. as we approached the next stop, i watched his lips recounting the steps, and his body motions working in unison. he was ready.

“look mom! no hands!” he squealed.

and that was it. on an unremarkable wednesday, in the middle of rush hour on the CTA, i taught him an invaluable lesson about surfing…and life.

“whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

In family, perseverence, life Tags life lessons, parenthood
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family.jpg

we are family

June 15, 2014

father’s day. mother’s day. birthdays. anniversaries. they’re times when we stop to reflect on the special people we’re thankful for.

when i think of “family,” the first thing that comes to mind is MY family: our small, tightly knit unit. we live in a city where extended family is far away and we’re grasping for time and sanity to spend in quiet solitude. because our day-to-day is so chaotic, we strive for time alone: husband, kids, dog (when we had one). the occasional visit from my brother or parents. rarely room or time for more than moments we have to ourselves.

but to my mom, it was altogether different. she was the matriarch, the glue. and she was happiest when our house was ground zero for the parade of eccentric characters that came to “our family” holiday celebrations.

growing up i was always a bit annoyed, even resentful, of the mandates that family functions took precedence over friend parties, sleepovers, and all the “cooler” things that everyone else was doing. nope, we had to high tail it to the family get-togethers and endure the annual “traditions.”

they would come from near and far—two minutes to 200 miles away. the caravan of cars pulled in one by one, and lined up like cordwood, spanning the length of the driveway and half-way down the street. there would be hugs and howls as each family entered…and then the real fun began.

being cornered by the overbearing uncle, who would grill us about politics and life choices, and rant about how everything was better in his native country of germany. being simultaneously told you’ve gained weight while also being scowled at for not having a second helping of every dish my aunts cooked. trying in vein to hide from the camera-happy cousin taking pictures of everyone in their least flattering poses and glam shots of all the food on the table (yes, i’m pretty sure my relatives invented food porn long before instagram was ever a thing). having to sing a cappella christmas carols in front of the entire doting clan in exchange for presents at midnight on christmas eve. and later in the night, in the wee hours of morning, trying to find an open spot on the floor to sleep (one year my cousins and i actually slept in my parents’ walk-in closet!) because all the beds were taken by “the oldies.”

this was our family. huge. loud. eccentric. embarrassing…and yet at the same time, though i didn’t realize it then, endearing.

over the years we certainly had our fair share of family drama, and i remember hiding out in my bedroom with my cousins during these functions, fantasizing about the day we’d start our own “normal” traditions. they’d be shiny and civilized, and most certainly rice-less. we’d make a martha-stewart-worthy spread and wax philosophical about art and culture and other noble pursuits as opposed to gossiping about this shrewd uncle or that ungrateful nephew or the best place to buy bittermelon in china town.

but the further i was from home—going to college, moving to another city and ultimately raising my own family—the more i came to realize that i missed it…and understand why she loved it.

last thanksgiving, we had just the kind of holiday i pictured in my head as kid. perfectly roasted turkey, homemade sage cornbread stuffing, carmelized brussel sprouts and cranberries by candlelight, yoyo ma on the ipod and wine by the fire. it was lovely—180 degrees from the merry, motley crew of family get-togethers growing up.

the festivities went off without a hitch, yet there was still a vague, subtle sense of something missing. certainly not the torment or judgment…but definitely that feeling of something larger than yourself.

connectedness. despite all our crazy idiosyncrasies, the blemishes and black sheep that every family has, we shared a tie—that bonds us all together, when life pulls us apart. for better or worse, we share a past. a history. memories far more enduring than the ephemeral acquaintances that grace our facebook feed.

watching my kids at the rare family function, it struck me that sometimes the thing you’re trying to run away from is the very thing you gravitate toward. or at a minimum, with age and years and hopefully a bit more wisdom, you simply look at in a different light. a more forgiving one.

my black and white notions of what family was supposed to be: they’re softer, warmer, smoother around the edges. like an old cozy sweater, family is comfort, the familiar. no pretense. just there, on the shelf, waiting to wrap you up when you need it.

In family Tags family
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the muse

April 21, 2014

“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.

In beauty, fashion, portraits Tags beauty, fashion, perspective
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beast of burden

April 10, 2014

being a working mom involves a lot of schlepping. while i’ve got more than a few cute purses in cool shapes with fancy hardware, for the every day grind, you need girth—a bag big enough for the 13-inch mac, moleskin, munchies and assortment of random crap you cart around “just in case”: pens, printouts, receipts, lip balm, umbrella, kleenex, kitchen sink.

because the term “mom” is generally synonymous with pack mule, you get used to the weight—on your mind and on your shoulders. taking care of messy noses, raspy voices, dirty hands, making plans. carrying it all around because hey, that’s your job.

and speaking of work, sprinkle on some deadlines and the general cadence of meeting and juggling and spinning, and each day brings with it the pressing weight of life’s responsibilities.

recently i have been traveling a lot for work, and while i’ve pretty much got my rituals down to a science (the travel baggie full of pint-sized products, one carry-on, shoes and all, backpack for laptop, and swivel wheels for shuffling through the long airport lines), i had a curious feeling on a cross-country trip late last year that something felt unusual.

i was headed to costa rica for a team summit. my backpack was stuffed with the typical travel gear: computer, power cord, phone charger, moleskin and snacks. the only thing missing was my usual stash of trashy, in-flight gossip mags—no time for distractions as i had a date with a powerpoint deck for the long trip down to the tropics.  

it wasn’t an excessively long trek: one layover in houston, a sprint to catch a connection, and finally to our destination…but when i finally got to my hotel that night, my shoulders and back were sore.

“what the hec is in this bag?”

as i mentioned earlier, random items in my bags and purses are not an uncommon occurrence, but i started pulling out the contents to figure out why it felt so heavy.

a pile of change, yup. a brush, ok….wait whu??

i dug deep into the bottom and felt a smooth, cold object. and then another. and then a few smaller ones. i grabbed hold of the big one and pulled it out. it was a rock that my boys had collected on a summer trip to michigan. “it’s a heart for you mommy! it means love.” over the course of our vacation, the boys had picked a random assortment of heart-shaped rocks, plucked from the beach, and lovingly bestowed on me.

when we got back to reality, they proudly set them out on the table, and every morning hounded me to take them to work and put them on my desk as a reminder of our happy place and of them. and every morning, i’d scurry around, getting ready, searching for outfits, barking about being late, and telling them they’d be too heavy to carry in my backpack that day.

apparently they decided, on this particular trip, to take matters into their own hands. i schlepped these rocks four thousand miles down to costa rica and back. and though the burden was heavy, my heart was light.

a couple months later, i went to new york for another work trip. backpack was clean and only the essentials packed. yet again, when i got to my hotel room, a rock had found its way into my bag. only one this time. but one was more than enough.

as a parent, it can sometimes feel like you’re buried under the weight of all that you carry. but it’s also grounding, purpose. it’s bedrock—tangible reminders of love so pure and real that you can’t fathom what life was like without them. when you’re busy carrying on with dinner and homework and activities and obligations, never lose sight of the fact that those smiles and squeezes and random little gifts—and yes, even rocks— are the little things that can carry you through.

In family, perseverence Tags parenthood
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flower.png

paper flowers

February 23, 2014

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.

In life, portraits
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boy_wonder.jpg

boy wonder

February 8, 2014

i always believed i’d have a girl. a little mini-me in pigtails and polka dots, fancy shoes and frilly tutus. we’d bond over all things girlie: hair brushing, nail painting, craft making, cookie baking. but i’d also teach her that sweetness can be strong. she’d learn how to smack a tennis ball, when to speak her mind, how to fish while looking fabulous, how to choose which guy was right.

i had all the life lessons lined up in my mind. waiting for the day that “chloe” arrived.

but fate had something else in mind.

two boys.

princess pipe dreams up in smoke…and in their place, dirty toilets, tackles and tears, tiny hands meticulously dismantling every door hinge and futile attempt at haute décor.

despite the lack of a little girl bestie, i look at my boys and couldn’t possibly imagine loving anyone or anything more. there are different life lessons for them, and they’re sponges, soaking up answers and knowledge—and everything really— with rabid curiosity. yet what amazes me most is not what they can learn from me, but how much i learn from them.

with age comes a certain kind of wisdom…book smarts, even street smarts. but when i look at them, watch from afar, listen behind the door as they whisper under covers and sing in the bathroom, they teach me about the things that really matter. the things you forget when you become a “grown up,” when you put on your polished, professional face and wade into the weighty issues of life and work, politics and the so-called pursuit of happiness.

magic powers and mash-ups

last summer, we took a family trip to six flags great america. i’ll just go on record to say that amusement parks aren’t exactly my thing, but the boys were brimming with excitement so i took one for the team, surrendering to the snaking lines and sweltering heat, muffin tops and fashion emergencies. after all, it was only a day, and there would be funnel cakes, so hey, i’d survive.

inside the gates, we were welcomed by the massive, double decker carousel. we picked out our magical painted ponies and went for a spin. with each revolution, i felt…lighter. i looked at their faces: bright, beaming grins. hands petting the horses’ manes as if they were real, racing like the wind toward an imaginary finish line.

windblown and wistful, we scanned the map for our next destination. bam! the log ride was my jam as a kid, and it was one of the few rides that could accommodate gigandor, the little speed demon, and two oldies whose rollercoaster riding days were long gone.

in order to get to logger’s run, you had to weave through the carnival game village. we sped up our pace to try and fend off the sensory assault: flashing lights, fluorescent colors, life-sized plushies, and shiny, happy people preying on poor gullible kids with dollars to burn and dreams of winning big.

we were almost in the clear, when the little one stopped dead in his tracks. his laser eyes fixated precisely on the target: a superman cape. naturally, being a superhero, he had to have it.

“daddy, i want that superman cape.”

“nope, come on buddy, we gotta get in line so we can go down that giant hill and get splashed! it’s going to be so fun!”

“noooo. PLLLLEEEAAASSE!!! i can win that. i’m going to throw the baseball at those fuzzy guys and win.”

stone face. sheer determination. not a molecule of doubt in his body.

out of pity, guilt and the earnest desire to avoid a meltdown, daddy caved and pulled out his wallet. i mean, all of us wise folks know that the cute, fuzzy hair on the smiling clowns, goading young passers-by on, exists only to cover the gaping chasm between one target and the next. the poor little guy didn’t have a chance.

ok. 5 dollars. 6 balls. time to win the kid a cape. he’d let the boy toss a couple for good measure, then step in to save to day…

but the little man had other plans. his tiny hands grabbed a baseball.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

the ball tore through the tufts of hair, hit the back wall, and plummeted like a lead balloon.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

aim. wind up. here we go again.

my husband started to sweat. he grabbed two balls to stop the impending catastrophe.

“let me try, bud.”

aim. wind up. toss. miss. “shit! i mean shoot!”

“NOW ME!” bright-eyed. total belief.

aim. wind up. toss. HIT!!!

“DING! DING! DING! we have a winner!”

and just like that, our four-year-old boy wonder claimed what was rightfully his.

we were giddy…and in shock. here we were, convinced he’d fail, sure that we’d have to swoop in, protect him from the disappointment, fill the inevitable void he’d experience by trying, then losing. and there he was, convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he’d emerge victorious. and he did.

that belief. in magic. in superpowers. in good trumping evil. that unwavering belief in himself.

it was awe-inspiring. i marvel at these boys and their xrays eyes. they see beneath the surface, beyond the solid lines and concrete objects. rocks are magic amulets or heart-shaped tokens of their love. dandelions are bouquets and wishes that come true. legos and marbles and feathers and coins are a “circus exercise place with spinning rides” because duh, wouldn’t that be cool.

their toy boxes are disaster, and when they play, they dump the entire contents of mismatched game pieces, stuffed animals and fake food onto the floor. i flinch, and groan, and try to stifle the nagging and finger-wagging about cleaning up your room. and when i’m called back for the grand reveal, it’s always a delicious mash-up, an original masterpiece born straight from their imaginations—that looks nothing like the picture on the box.

they speak their own language. make up their own rules. believe they can do anything.

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it made me ponder when exactly the moment is when we lose that in ourselves. when did self-doubt and cynicism stain our view of the world and what was possible? was it the handslap you got when you dared to color outside the lines? was it at school or a first job? was it a trauma or tragedy? or was it not a moment at all—but rather a slow and steady erosion of your sense of wonder?

you need only watch the news or step outside your door to find the world is a rough, harsh place. and rules and structure and boxes and cubes will be there to keep you in line. but these boys remind me to see the other side, to look for it.

they sink their teeth into donuts with the same gusto that they do life—without the accompanying guilt, self-consciousness or fear of what others will think. while we try to run from life, they run, full throttle, toward it. faster than a speeding bullet, finding magic in moments and things that we miss.

it’s not just silly naivete’. it’s wisdom beyond their years. it’s the belief—no the absolute certainty—that everything’s gonna be alright.

it’s that feeling of swinging when your legs reach the peak. zero gravity for a split second before you plunge back down. or running full throttle down a sand dune. nothing but you and the air and your breath and your legs, pushing you forward with reckless abandon. no fear. no doubt. no purpose other than to feel the sand beneath your toes. it’s that place you’re transported to—familiar, safe, like home—when you sit with friends and talk in strange dialects and laugh until your sides hurt at the insane world, at each other, at yourself. it’s the thing we should hold onto when all roads lead to logic and reason. it’s laughter, lightness, letting go.

i teach. but these boys—and their wonder—remind me how much i have yet to un-learn.

In family, life Tags wonder, imagination, creativity, childhood, kids, parenthood
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monday morning

January 27, 2014

wrapped inside.

white. on white.

a cloud.

fading out.

a dream.

then in.

between.

cotton and camel.

warm.

safe.

cocoon.

embrace.


can’t go.

won’t go.

hell no.


too cold.

too harsh.

sharp lines.

razor’s edge.

out there.

just dread.


endless beeping in my head.


must go.

can’t stay.

surrender to the rat race.


calm.

then storm.

swirling.

whirling.


walking.


slowly.


sun kissed.

fresh air.

out there.

clouds.

sky.

in my eyes.

monday_am.jpg

okay.

new day.

 

leave it.

seize it.

believe.

it can be more.

In life, perseverence Tags monday, everyday inspiration
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the beholder

January 20, 2014

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.

In beauty, portraits Tags portrait, beauty, photography
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