Blue mustard/green catsup

I've been threatening to write this post for months. It's one of my favorite diatribes when faced with the absurdity of today's marketing world.

Blue mustard. Green catsup.

I can't believe it. Even for a major corporation, this was really crass. I mean, trying to appeal to the kids out there who will think it's gross or cool or "sweet" to squeeze a splot of green catsup on a plate of French fries. And can you imagine the color clash of blue mustard on a pink hot dog? Yuck.

All in the name of the All Mighty Market Share.

Let's face it. You can't change the taste of mustard much. Oh, they try. Flavored mustards line the shelves of the gourmet food store. I end up throwing out a bunch of teeny little jars of it that come in those gift baskets at the holidays.

But regular old mustard - YELLOW mustard as it is known on the generic brands - is, well, generic. It's almost like the Heinz and Hunts people have lost their patent and need to do something to jazz up the same ho-hum condiments.

Come to think of it, I haven't seen the blue stuff on the shelf lately. Maybe it got moved out of my line of sight: down to eye level for six-year-olds.

As it is, there are 18 different brands of catup and mustard fighting for grocery store top billing. Mostly its a packaging war: glass bottles, plastic bottles, upside-down bottles, combo bottles for picnics. So what do I buy? The Kroger brand with the red twist top that always leaves a tiny crust of dried mustard on the top.

Just last week I noticed that one of the Big Brands has come out with a mustard container that has a tiny lid that snaps over the hole, thus eliminating that dried crust. Might be worth a try. But first, I need to buy toothpaste. Now if I can just remember which one of these 156 varieties I bought last time...

Freedom

I heard the tapping first, as soft and quick as raindrops against my windows. Then I noticed the lower undertone, a frantic hum. And the frightened cries of a hummingbird, panicked beyond hummingbird imagination.

The little fellow had trapped himself in my garage. I had no idea how long he'd been beating his hard shell beak against the double-paned glass, wings a-whir. His squeaks of frustration must have gone unnoticed; there was no hummingbird contingent on the other side of the window, urging him on, to try harder to break free.

And freedom seemed so near. There it was, just outside the transparent barrier. Again and again, the tiny bird pelted himself at the glass, determined to fly off into the summer sky.

It was heartbreaking, if not glass-breaking.

The little guy didn't seem to grasp that the garage door was open, a giant invitation to freedom. I suspected that he had been locked inside for several hours, flown around and around and finally settled on the window as his most likely exit strategy. Apparently hummingbird minds are not easily dissuaded. He needed a little help.

The logical solution was to pull down the top window frame. removing the glass obstacle and allowing the tiny bird to finally succeed at flying straight out the window. But I only managed to increase the little bird's anxiety; the top frame was painted shut.

I thought briefly about trapping the little guy, but I didn't want to harm those delicate wings. I finally managed to wrench open the bottom tilt-out window. But the bird stubbornly maintained his vigilance at the top window, peck-peck-pecking, squeaking his terror.

In desperation, I grabbed a lightweight broom. Gently, slowly, I guided the terrified bird lower and lower toward the open window. The little bird fought back, tried to hold his position. I was suddenly afraid I would injure his fragile body even with the broom's soft bristles. He fluttered lower, then abruptly turned, noticed the broad opening of the garage door and was gone.

Smiling, I pushed the tilt-out window back into place and locked it.

It was such a metaphor for my own yearning, my insistent push toward freedom. It's right there. I can see it, beckoning, taunting me. And, like my little hummingbird friend, I peck ineffectively against the Big Barrier.

Perhaps it's time to stop beating my head against the glass and turn around. Wow. That other door is wide open. Excuse me while I fly.

Wrestling with the devil

OK, I will come clean.

There's been a problem with my passionate possibility, that stained glass balloon I bought in a state of dreamlike fervor.

The fact is: it doesn't fly.

I cringe as I write this. How the h--l could I do something like THAT? Plunk down thousands of dollars for a huge billowy baby that has never been off the ground (except tethered to a lightweight rope to test its bouyancy - it was dismal).

The guy who sold it to me was a smooth-talking, real live, whiz-bang con artist (OK, his name is Steve Sprague of San Antonio, TX -- he runs his own balloon business). Who knew? Maybe he believes his own lies. But while he claims the balloon is in great shape for a "used" balloon, the experts here tell me it should be out of service (translate: junked) because it has been "rode hard and put away wet." Probably literally in this case.

There are burn holes at the edge of the fabric. An FAA supervisor pulled gently on the fabric and it split like perforated paper. The top of the balloon is so porous it will only stay aloft for five or six seconds during testing (a new balloon stays aloft 60 seconds or longer).

Worst of all, the basket pieces and parts don't fit together; the commercial pilots who helped me inflate it the one and only time it's been released from its fat, smelly bag and spread out in the grass, spent 15 minutes on each of the rope loops trying to push the wooden toggles through to attach the envelope to the basket.

The loops were not only too tight, but the ropes were too short to attach properly. My pilots jimmy-rigged the thing to attach on the OUTSIDE of the supports--illegal for an actual launch.

This was my "first balloon." A beginners balloon that would get me through training. Large enough to be able to take up some of my clients at the end of the retreats I facilitate. Do I know how to fly? I planned to take lessons from the instructors here in central NC. But even the experts won't get in this balloon. One guy told his wife (both of them commercial balloon pilots) "You don't have enough life insurance to fly in that balloon!" It was funny. But it wasn't.

Because it's MY problem. Not only did this guy sell me a piece of junk (and would I have know the difference? No-- I am a complete novice who tried hard to get good advice, but instead got the runaround), but he also ripped me off for an additional $1400. Balloons need to be "cold packed" before you turn on the burner (see how much I've learned about balloons during this whole mess?? You can be impressed later). You need a big old powerful fan for that. So at his urging, I bought a brand new 8 horsepower inflation fan from him, too, as a dealer for Firefly balloons, built right here in NC.

But when I went to their factory to pick it up (or more appropriately, called ahead to say I was coming) they refused to give it to me. Why? Because their dealer (my incredibly "resourceful" salesperson) had not paid THEM the $1400 or whatever their wholesale price was.

So I am now out $11,900 for a balloon that doesn't fly and an inflation fan (to cold pack the balloon that can't fly) that has never materialized.

So sue him, right? That's the American way.

Sprague's too smart for that. He hides all his assets in other people's names so he can claim to be broke. There are already 11 default judgments against him in civil court-the last one for $1.5 million won by a women who was seriously injured in a balloon flight with him. He had no insurance. She lost her vision in one eye and had to pay the thousands of dollars of medical bills herself. Nice guy, eh?

If you met him, that's exactly what you'd think. A little flaky around the edges, but he seems pretty solid. Helpful, even. It's all a facade, a skillful blending of lies and truth. And I am really really blind when it comes to seeing through people who are deliberately deceiving me.

We have a saying at Coach for Life: "You spot it, you got it." Meaning that if you are sarcastic, you can usually tell if someone is being sarcastic. If you don't see it in other people, you don't have in yourself. I don't deceive people deliberately. I can't imagine selling a less-than-flyable (actually dangerous) balloon to someone and pretending that it was a great bargain. I can't imagine selling a new inflation fan to someone, taking their $1400 and not delivering the product. I just don't get it. That's because I just don't HAVE it inside me. Therefore, I wasn't able to recognize it in him. Probably won't next time either, although I might be a little more cautious. Might be.

You'd think I would learn how to be brittle and thick skinned about stuff like this. But, you know, I don't WANT to learn to be brittle and tough. I like being open and accepting and loving. Heck, at a deep level, I even love this guy. He's only doing what he knows HOW to do to get by in life. At a more superficial level, I am discouraged that folks like him believe they are permitted to break in line in front of the rest of us. To push and shove to get what they want with utter disregard for anyone else.

So now I am left with the remnants of a dream shredded to ribbons. My passion for floating in the ether, allowing my clients to ascend with me, leapfrog over their fears (don't forget, I am afraid of heights!). And to live like I was dying (see blog entry by that name in this blog) take chances that seem ridiculous at the time.

It makes me sad. It makes me feel stupid. It makes me embarrassed. But it won't make me devious or vengeful. Sure, I want justice. But I'll always stand still for a good ole life lesson, even an expensive one.

So what IS the lesson? Just forget about dreams? They're all cloud vapor and summer breeze" Or is it: if you really want your dreams, set your intention and MANIFEST all over the place? Maybe I was never meant to fly this balloon, only to BUY it. It sure inspired a lot of people (most of whom don't know the nearly-tragic end of the story; at least I didn't fall from the sky in a worn-out balloon). There are people in my life who still can't believe I bought a hot air balloon, just like that.

Just like that. Hey, you know. I DID do that, didn't I? I bought it, flew down to Texas all by myself and hauled it back behind a big 15 passenger van that I bought on eBay. That took courage. And determination. And most of all faith in myself and my dreams.

No matter how bad this guy ripped me off, he can never take away my dreams. They're mine, down to the very last little sigh of ecstasy. I am living my dreams. I'll live them with or without a flyable balloon. And that can still mean criminal charges for the guy who likely never met a dream he couldn't thwart. Until now.

Sleepless in Sikesville

I'm traveling. Again. This time with a dear friend from my far distant past. We spent our first night on the road in one of those medium-nice chain hotels. The kind that serve you breakfast as part of the package. And offers free Internet access.

I was tired. Had a short night before we left. And I was ready for bed. But I woke up at 4 am this morning with a niggling, yet familiar worry. My aging body is blurring out of its crayola lines. And people are noticing.

These days, when I say casually that I've got to lose some weight, no one argues. I find myself buying clothes that have looser waists. I bless, bless, bless the new stretchy jeans that have some "give" to them in the seat and thighs. I avoid mirrors like the plague or I use selective viewing when I am forced to use one.

I've never been terribly vain. I argue with myself that it's not important what people think. That their view of what a woman's body should be is ridiculous and only attainable by plastic surgery. But the sorry fact is that I am pretty bummed out about the way I am turning out. They say old age is for sissies. But I'm not old yet. And there's no reason I should give up the fight yet.

So I lay awake this morning trying to talk myself into the old diet routine, exercise 'til my face turns beet red, aching muscles and no carbs. And I just can't get motivated. All I can think is: I don't want to do this again. I am sick of the battle. I want some peace.

My first unofficial diet was as a freshman in high school. Instead of the school lunch, I'd order cherry pie and skim milk, Great nutrition, eh? Then I went to Weight Watchers and relearned the five food groups (and "bread units"). I'd lose weight and look great. Then I'd hit a tough streak and put it back on. Diet Center. The Ladies Home Journal Diet. Weight Watchers, Weight Watchers, Weight Watchers. Sugar Busters. Lately, it's been e-Diets.

Most of my life, I hung out at 10 pound above what the charts said I should weigh. My first husband thought it was a major problem. I guess he solved that by marrying a petite little thing who was probably never overweight a day in her life.

And while my current (and final) husband adores my body, tells me I'm not fat, gives me hugs at every available opportunity, I know things have taken an upward turn in bulk and a downward turn in self esteem. I just thought I could outwit it, pretend it wasn't there. Denial surprises me. I am usually the first in line to condemn myself, rough up my tranquilty. Denial is not working for me any longer.

There are only three options. Learn to live with myself in my current lumpy body. Go back to the rigid diets that have dotted my adult life. Or figure out a way to get into shape that works better for me. I opt for Door Number Three.

When I think seriously about it, the food that comes in to view in our culture is pretty awful stuff: donuts and macaroni and cheese and ribeye steaks and fried zucchini. My mouth waters at the possibilities. But my body shudders. All that fat and instantly available sugar is a huge amount of work for my system--squirting insulin at the right time, finding a place to store the extra fat that can't be used immediately.

So my body would thrive on plain veggies and skim milk. I just need to get my brain in sync with that spirit of health.

In the meantime, we are sitting in this medium nice hotel in Sikesville, less than a mile from Lambert's restaurant, home of the "Throwed Roll." I've only heard about this place in legend. The waiters throw five inch homemade yeast rolls across the room and you catch them in mid air. There are rolls everywhere. And fried okra and huge mugs of iced tea. Everything is oversize. And you never leave hungry, apparently. You tend to leave waddling. Just what my swollen body needs, eh?

After that we'll mosey down south to New Orleans, king of the food fests. Emeril's. Commander's Palace. Po'Boys and sweet but potent Plantation Punch. And beignets. With lots of powdered sugar. Ugh. Temptation is terrible. Or tasty, depending on your point of view.

None of this lets me off the hook. Long term, I really want to be thinner again, walk with a spring in my step and energy in my bones. So I will start listening to my battered body again. What DO you want for nourishment, my dear? Not donuts and coconut cream pie. I thought not.

I'm going back to broccoli and cottage cheese and leg lifts. Right after I finish that plate of beignets.

Serendipity reigns

It was just weird. Good weird. But weird.

I was moving slowly thanks to my darned toe. Every time I'd try to hurry, the pain would argue strongly against it. So, I found myself packing for San Diego until nearly 1 am. The alarm was set for 4 am. Three short hours of sleep. I gingerly tucked my foot into bed and slumbered.

Got up on time, but departed for the airport 25 minutes later than expected (slow toe again). I was so sleepy that it didn't dawn on me until we reached the terminal that I would need extra time, not less time to get to my gate. And there were lines. I had less than an hour before flight time and I was hobbling!! My husband pushed my suitcase into the Continental area and kissed me goodbye. I race-hobbled to the check in.

Fortunately, Continental had sent me an email allowing me to print my own boarding pass, so it was quick and easy (I must say I am impressed with this airline). I headed for security and the line...was at least 20 minutes long. And that was just the downstairs line. The upstairs line would be longer and slower. Resigned, I started limping toward the end of the line when some kind of a TSA helper came along and said briskly, "Honey, our escalators are broken, you need to get right on that elevator and go upstairs."

Wow. She had just saved me 20 minutes. I glided upstairs and was promptly inserted into the shortest line. Another 20 minutes saved. Wow. I hoisted my carryon bags onto the x-ray conveyor belt, confident that I would make my flight. But I was stopped. The little boot with the Velcro straps protecting my toe was apparently suspicious, so I had to be checked carefully for explosives. I guess that makes sense. A little.

Then I was off to the gate. Which was ALL the way at the end of the terminal. Where was one of those little carts when I needed one? I took a dozen steps and guess what? One of those little carts was sitting there, idle. I begged a ride and was delivered directly in front of the gate, where I was invited to board immediately. Wow.

I moved slowly to my seat, collapsed and slept all the way to Houston, then waited until everyone else was off the plane to hobble out again. My next gate was only two gates from the arrival. Hurray! But no, this plane wasn't going to San Diego. It was bound for Detroit. There had been a gate change. My new gate was two TERMINALS away.

Miracle of miracles, I managed to hitch a ride on the back of yet another electric cart that had stopped for me. Amazing. It took the CART 20 minutes to reach gate E21. I shudder to think of how long it would have taken me on foot. Or toe.

Once again, I was allowed to board along with "Platinum members." I wasn't allowed to sit with them though. I was still relegated to Economy class. But near the front of the plane anyway.

All that was left was the rental car. At SAN, I retrieved my suitcase, hooked everything together and went out into the balmy California sunshine. The Hertz bus was waiting for me! WOW!

We jiggled and joggled over to the Hertz lot, where the driver let us Gold Members out at the Gold Terminal. Everyone else scurried off the bus to find their cars, but I needed a minute to regroup. I stood right where the driver had dropped my bags and looked around to find the parking place slot for my car, "Roggli, Linda: 200:" blinked the Gold Members sign. Where was 200? There was 212, 202, 201. Number 200 was the white car with its trunk open right in front of me! Wow again. This was really getting weird. Good weird, as I said.

It wasn't over yet. I headed for Escondido, to drop off my luggage a the Hidden Valley Artists' Retreat somewhere up in the hills. I had left my directions at home, but no problem: I had my laptop with the email. Or so I thought. My laptop had failed to download that particular email. Hmmm. I would call. No. My cell phone was dead and I had only a wall charger. No car charger. I stopped at a Shell station, already discouraged that the guy would give me the brush off.

But wait. This was a WOW day. The clerk not only helped me find the address on a map, but drew directions for me! WOW.

And even when I got lost (several times) up and down the dirt roads, people helped over and over again. I made it to the retreat center, but had to leave again quickly to make it to my 2 pm appointment--the reason I flew all the way across the country.

I was 25 minutes late. Took the wrong turn on the I-5 and hit rush hour slowdown. My cell phone was dead so I couldn't call. But I walked in the door JUST as the guy was ready to give up on me. Instead, I made the appointment, did what was necessary and sailed out at 4:30. Wow.

Very weird. A totally WOW day from a series of disasters. The charmed life, I think it's called. It rarely happens to me, especially in this weird sequence one-after-another. But I'm not complaining. In fact, I think I'll order up a few more of theses weird-wow days. Pretty cool, eh?

Lessons from my little toe

OK, I know I should have moved the queen-sized inflatable guest bed out of the hall and back into the closet where it lives. But I was just hurrying out of the bathroom (back to my computer - natch) when I hit the door jamb. Hard. Really hard. With the little toe of my left foot.

Ouch.

My husband, a physician, was unimpressed. "Give it 24 hours. It's probably just soft tissue damage. The emergency people would just tell you to take ibuprofen," he said cavalierly. I've heard his subversive medical motto: "FIfty percent of the patients will get better even if you do nothing!" The other half will get worse, I suppose. It was a chance I was willing to take for a day.

But 24 hours later -- 25.5 to be exact -- I pulled into the urgent care parking lot, had my toe x-rayed and found it was broken. Not once, but in TWO places. I felt vindicated and a little smug. I TOLD him I heard that toe crack!

I gloated only for a moment. Then I realized: omigod, I have a Broken Toe. I am leaving for the airport early Friday morning. The airport with looooong hard-surfaced hallways that lead to looooong airline tunnels that lead to narrow airline aisles. My toe and I are not enthused.

But this hobbling gait IS a way to slow me down a bit. I ran into that door full force. I was in a HURRY. As usual. And now. Well, now I'm not. I'm crabbing sideways a little: step, hump, step. It's maddening for someone who likes to get there, get it done, move on to the next thing...

So the lesson is: don't run into door jambs. No, that's not it. Well, that might be it partly. but mostly, it's: Sit down. Pet the dog. Talk to my husband (he apologized for his misdiagnosis). And take my ibuprofen every four hours.

Live like you're dying, especially when you're afraid of heights

Passionate balloon 72 trans
Originally uploaded by PassionatePossibility.

Just returned from France and Switzerland where I had the chance to visit with a a good friend again. The same friend that unknowingly spurred me to buy a hot air balloon earlier this year.

Yes. A HOT AIR BALLOON.

At the time, she had no idea that she had inspired such an unusual purchase. Yet when we met in San Antonio at the end of February, she changed my life. "Hank (name changed for this blog) and I had treated the kids and grandkids to a trip to Hawaii," she said. "And as we sat there enjoying the beauty of Maui, we took a moment to appreciate our good fortune: Hank had just turned 60 and was on the verge of retiring, we were financially stable, our son and daughter were each happily married, we had two wonderful grandsons. Life was good!" Two months later, she was in surgery for advanced ovarian cancer.

She's been battling this unwanted invader ever since, almost two years now. Her CSA-125 is down (that's good), then it's up (not so good). She starts chemo, stops, starts again. This time she may lose her hair again. That, more than anything, is the clear, outward proof that there is something really wrong. And it's disheartening. Although she knows - we all know - that there is something funky going on even without the thinning hair and daily visits to the doctor. Her life has been changed forever. And she's not alone.

Another friend - OK, to be honest we were estranged by the time I found out that she was critically ill with advanced breast cancer - died last fall at age 52. She left behind not only her husband but a five-year-old daughter, their only child. My friend and I were exactly the same age. We graduated from high school the same year, different cities, same baby boom era. I think of her often these days. Our differences seem trivial now. I feel her presence "through the veil" and appreciate the depth of her grief at leaving this life prematurely.

And my former executive coach, who worked with me for four long years, was at the top of her game when she found out the numbness in her legs was multiple sclerosis. Two years later, she walks with a cane and falls a little too often. She struggles with depression and wonders how the heck she can convince the people at disability that she really can't work any more.

My best friend since the seventh grade is a breast cancer survivor. But she has lymphodema. Her left arm is permanently swollen to twice its size. And a paper cut on that hand can send her to the hospital with infection, a threat made more difficult due to her teaching schedule. First-graders use a lot of paper.

Everywhere I turn our fragile human bodies are breaking down, turning against us, reminding us that mortality is inevitable. We don't get out of this alive, after all. It's HOW we live that matters in the end. Because there WILL be an end.

My husband is on intimate terms with the brevity of life. He has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease that clogs his lungs and digestive system. For a decade and a half I have listened to him work for breath; he takes two breaths to my one. I can gauge how he's doing by the intensity of his cough. He was supposed to die at 12. Then at 20. Then at 30. And now, at 54, he kids me that he is cured, although we both know that each new infection scars his lungs. He has no time to feel sorry for himself; he's too busy living his glorious life. What an inspiration!

And so I decided to live like I was dying. Because I am. My friends are. We ALL are. One of these days will be my last. Who knows what kind of revolt my own body is planning RIGHT NOW, without my knowledge and certainly without my permission? Life is unpredictable. I might not even be here a year from now. But if I die next month, I decided that I will have died owning a hot air balloon!

So I bought one, even though I AM AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!!! Then I bought a big gas guzzling van (not proud of that but how else do you haul around a 500-pound balloon?). I flew to San Antonio, Texas by myself, picked up my red stained glass balloon, which I had already dubbed the Passionate Possibility balloon, and drove 1300 miles alone all the way back to North Carolina (more about that later).

It was an odessey. I was living directly from the heart, chest thrust forward, head tilted back, letting my heart lead instead of my mind. Yeah, there were some bumps. That happens when you lead with your heart. But I wouldn't give anything for the experience of taking that leap of faith. Like Luke Skywalker putting a foot out into thin air and finding a narrow bridge that was hidden until he trusted himself. For me, this adventure has always been more about BUYING the balloon than FLYING it.

Will I go ahead and take flying lessons? Of course I will, fingernails digging into the basket to steady my nerves!

I will FLY, lift off and float into the ether. Fearless and Free. A fitting epitaph for any of us.

And now I listen to Tim McGraw sing about a friend who went through exactly what my friends have endured.
"I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays...this might be the real end ... man what d'ya do?"

And the answer is loud, clear and vibrant:
"I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain mountain climbing...I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu
I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter and watched the eagle as it was flying...
Someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying!"

I refuse to wait until I am face-to-face with death to be fully alive.

Living at full throttle makes my skin tingle, my gaze soften and my heart overflow with absolute love.

Your turn. Wanna fly?

Push or flow?

So my question is: when's the right time to push forward, get assertive, follow your dream to the very hilt. And when's the time to just notice, sit back, let it all wash over you like a warm summer breeze that tickles your hair?

I have something very specific in mind, as you might guess. For a few days, I'm staying at a small retreat center north of San Diego. Although I do have appointments in San Diego (Solana Beach, actually), I decided NOT to waste five days away from office and home, but instead to spend that time wisely. Writing. So I created a mini-writing retreat for myself. Good for me, right?

Exceptionally good for me. Except for one thing. I fell in love with the place. It's everything I've ever wanted in a Garden Retreat Center, my vision for My Work here on Earth. It has organic gardens, housing for 20 people, orchards, rocky paths, a house with a pool and hot tub, pools, fountains, even goat pens.

But it's in San Diego, my husband reminds me. The unspoken end of the sentence is: "and we live in North Carolina." He's right. His job is here, his retirement is only a few years away. And we don't have $1.5 million in the bank to save this charming retreat center from the clutches of development. That should put an end to my speculation. Right?

Well, maybe not. I have frenzied imaginings of pulling together investors, drafting a quick proposal, energizing my business plan and making a valiant effort to get financing. Nothing is impossible, after all.

So how deep is this dream? How serious am I about throwing everything into disarray? Would I really move to California? I flirt with the idea of living bi-coastally, a commuter marriage. Do things like this come into my life to tantalize me, make me wake up to the possible -- the passionate possibility? And after the teaser, I am to close my eyes and let that summer breeze whisper: let it go, let it go, let it go.

There is something important in this experience. I didn't choose this retreat center at this time by accident; I don't believe in coincidences any more. I trust that everything comes into my life with purpose and possibility. I just need to practice patience until that message comes in more clearly,

Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow.