I was flashed twice by older men when I was a kid. The first time, a friend and I were leaving the deli and a wealthy looking guy in a red corvette pulled along side us to ask for directions - distracted by his arm gesturing below as he spoke, we looked down at his …
At the peak, there were two US Postal bins of letters stacked on my porch every day for a week. It peaked and waned - but I was getting letters for years after I posted the ad in Teen Beat's penpal section. At twelve years old, I was writing a wide variety of people from all …
I was eight years old when my family made the move from Louisville, Kentucky to New York for my father's job. We had moved quite a bit, but this one was traumatic for all of us. Even though White Plains was an upscale suburb, my parents, not sure what the public schools would be like, …
Continue reading 1980 – I Don’t Do Parades (Unless I’m In It)
Check out the great blog post: https://reimaginetherapy.com/2017/08/02/a-not-so-simple-opinion-on-forgiveness-2/ This speaks to what I wrote in my last post about a suggestion that not 'speaking my truth' resulted in my getting cancer in my throat area. I was so offended by that at the time - but it makes a lot of sense....
You know that feeling you're in a group waiting for your turn to speak and as that time gets closer - you go into a vacuum where you can feel your heartbeat and the blood rushing through your body? Yes? Good. Remember that feeling. When I was in school, I always felt I didn't “get“ …
My daughter says she can't dance. Every time she says this, I tell her why that is: She isn't feeling the music. She is so caught up trying to get the moves right she isn't listening. I tell her to pick an instrument and follow it with her body and she looks at me confused …
Continue reading Learning to Dance from My Daughter (Who Can’t Dance)
When I was fifteen, I hosted a French exchange student in my home for a week. Dmitri looked just like the drawings of Jean-Claude in my Tricolore text book with his wavy long hair and hawkish nose. I was crushing hard despite his matchy-matchy pastel sweatsuits that looked like baby onesies. Toward the end of …
Being my own midwife to midlife
