Projecting positive thoughts to the universe

Judy and Kathy, my cheerleaders at my neighborhood Ace Hardware

"Happiness looks great on you."

So says the message inside the foil wrapper of my Dove dark chocolate.

Although a wise woman doesn't build the foundation of her philosophy on pithy phrases printed on candy wrappers, no one ever called me wise. So this foil message has become part of the photo collage on my refrigerator. Every day it reminds me to replace a lifetime of negative self-talk with positive self-talk.

Happiness does look great on me. I'm living proof that a woman can undergo a series of unfortunate events and come out on the other side with a smile on her face--and 50 pounds lighter too!

About 18 months ago, happiness wasn't a key ingredient in my life. I was feeling deer-in-the-headlights panic. Shock even.

After my divorce, I was laid off from my job without warning, and immediately had to sell my house in the worst housing market in decades. Incredibly, the house sold, I paid off the mortgage and had just enough money to pay rent and a deposit on a cheap, one-bedroom apartment. My dear mother co-signed the lease for her down-and-out unemployed daughter.

Today, looking back on that time, I took an online Holmes & Rahe Life Events Scale test, checking off which life-changing stressors I'd experienced. Divorce. Laid off from work. Change in residence. Major changes in my financial state and my living conditions. My daughter had moved out about six months earlier, and when I had to sell the house, my son moved out too. Now I was alone, with only my cat, Anakin Skywalker, to keep me company.

My score was 328 on the stress test. I received a message that I'd experienced "a significant amount of life change and had a significant susceptibility (about 80% probability) to stress-related illness."

Here at the lowest point in my life, the universe began to shift. Or perhaps I was the one who shifted. Instead of being angry, I became hopeful. After all, what more could go wrong?

I believe if you're positive in your life--in the way you see yourself and you project that positive energy--it gets reflected back to you.

Everywhere I went, people helped and reflected that positive energy back to me.

On my moving day, a week before Christmas, 17 friends and family helped me move.

Two days before moving day, I broke a tooth--an old root canal--and had to have emergency oral surgery. I had no money to pay the bill. When I checked in, I told the receptionist a little about my circumstances. As I was leaving the oral surgeon's office, the receptionist said: "Your surgery was doctor's gift to you. Merry Christmas."

My car needed $900 of work. My dear mechanic, Don Orange, owner of Hoesley Eco Auto, did the work at no charge. "It's on us," he told me.

And on my many expeditions to my neighborhood Ace Hardware to get settled into my tiny apartment, I chatted with Kathy and Judy and shared my circumstances. They listened, smiled, encouraged me, cheered me on.

In the past 18 months, I got a new job as a newspaper reporter, an all-new career for me. I started paddling on a women's dragon boat team, the Mighty Women. I started eating better and taking care of myself. I lost 50 pounds. I look and feel better than I've felt in 20 years.

Looking back, the severe losses and stressors I experienced were tough, but they actually made me a stronger, happier, joyful person. I'm still paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty Women. And recently I've tried skiing, swing dancing, belly dancing--and even dating.

The old me was too bogged down in unhappiness to imagine I could try new, fun experiences.The new me appreciates that life can change direction without warning at any moment. Life is a gift that should be cherished. Savored. Experienced with gusto. And dark chocolate.

Last week when I stopped by Ace Hardware to buy strawberry plants for my garden, Kathy greeted me with: "There's the woman who reinvented herself!"

I smiled. And bought a piece of chocolate.

Step out of your comfort zone and belly dance with gusto

Life is short. Belly dance--with gusto!

Imagine yourself in a mirrored dance studio, wearing yoga pants, a camisole and a scarf tied around your hips. You're standing in front of the mirror, and you realize you're the largest woman in the class. A year ago, I couldn't have done this.

But I'm the new me--50 pounds lighter and 400 times braver--and I'm up for almost any challenge. Even a daunting wall of mirrors. And standing in front of thinner women, shimmying my hips. And grinning.

About a week ago, I found myself moving my hips and learning to shimmy in a belly dancing class. Belly dancing is completely out of character for me. I'm the sporty woman who paddles a dragon boat and hikes. How did I get here, and how did I convince two girlfriends to try it with me?

I'd never given belly dancing a thought until a couple weeks ago. I'd just tried downhill skiing after a 34-year hiatus, and was feeling triumphant. I could do anything. Belly dancing was the next adventure to tackle on my bucket list. 

I am not a natural dancer. When I was 6, Mom signed me up for ballet lessons. I don't know why. The poor teacher couldn't even help me point my toes properly. When I took a ballet class in college, I was equally frustrated.

Yet, two weeks ago, I had a hankering to try belly dancing. Amy, a newsroom colleague and belly dancer, referred me to Viscount Dance on Sandy Boulevard in Portland. I posted on Facebook that I was trying belly dancing on Saturday. Did any brave girlfriends want to join me?

Immediately, friends began replying "This sounds like fun" and "I've always wanted to try belly dancing" and "I'll see if my husband will watch the kids." One fellow paddler and writer said, "Okay, you officially qualify as FEARLESS in my book now. And you must blog about this."

Facing a wall of mirrors with other women can be daunting. If you're like me, without meaning to, you begin comparing yourself to every woman in the room: "I'm bigger than her. I'm fatter than her. My rear is way bigger than hers...." 

Over the past year, I've been retraining myself to replace that negative self-talk with positive self-talk: "Yes! I conquered my fear and I'm standing in a dance studio with other women--facing a wall of mirrors. I look pretty good!" And my favorite mantra I repeat as many times as needed: "You can do this!" 

It's challenging to break my lifetime cycle of negative self-talk, but I'm working on it every day. And whenever I have the opportunity, I mention the benefits of positive self-talk to my gorgeous, young adult daughter, who is finding her own way and facing her own wall of mirrors.

Let's face it: women, particularly American women, have a body image crisis. We give our girls Barbie dolls to play with and indoctrinate them early into what the ideal woman should look like. If Barbie were a real woman, she'd be 5’9” tall and would weigh only 110 pounds. Barbie would have a BMI of 16.24 which is severely underweight. Her cartoonlike proportions--39” bust, 18” waist, 33” thighs--would make it impossible for her to walk upright on those tiny size 3 feet (molded to fit stiletto heels, no less). Barbie would have to walk on all fours.

We are bombarded with images of anorexic models and actresses on the magazines at the supermarket checkout stands, on billboards, on TV and the movie screen. Everywhere we go, girls and women are told we should strive to be like these waif-like creatures: extremely tall and severely underweight.

I am the antithesis of a model. I am extremely short and until last summer, I was obese. Now, through mindful eating, paddling a dragon boat and other exercise, I've lost 50 pounds. I'm no longer obese, but technically, I'm still overweight according to the evil BMI (body mass index) chart. 

I still have 20 to 25 pounds to lose, but I'm learning to love my body, just as it is. I'm no longer afraid to step beyond my comfort zone and to have fun. I was definitely up for belly dancing.And unlike me, the dragon boating diva, top-heavy Barbie would not be able to belly dance on those tiny feet. 

And dance we did! Wendy, Kathleen and I moved our hips, shimmied, swooshed our veils through the air--and we had a blast. It was empowering to belly dance with gusto beside two friends. I felt brave. Even sexy.

I may have even pointed my toes!

Wendy, me and Kathleen--the belly dancing divas!

Be bold--and don't lose your nerve

Last weekend, I found myself careening downhill on skis -- going too fast and out of control. I lost my nerve and fell on my back. Hard.  

It was a flashback to my first skiing experience 34 years earlier as a teenager. I hadn't skiied again since then.

In 1979, my boyfriend at the time, an experienced skier, dropped me off at the bunny hill and left to ski the big hill. I watched the little kids around me and tried to figure out how to ski. I was at least a decade older than all of them. Later, my boyfriend returned and insisted I was ready for the big hill.

I didn't know how to turn. Or stop. Stopping seemed important. After nearly falling off the chair lift, I kind of fell all the way down the mountain. That one ski run was such a scary experience that I never skied downhill again.

Until last weekend.

In the past year, I've tried dragon boating, stand up paddle board, kayaking, snowshoeing, ziplining, contra dancing and swing dancing. Plus online dating, the scariest of all. Downhill skiing seemed like the next progression on my bucket list of adventures.

I was determined to have a fun experience and to not lose my nerve on the slopes as I had more than three decades earlier.

My first step was getting a private lesson with a professional ski instructor who is calm and ever so patient. I chose Kirby Records, who spends his weekends teaching 3-year-olds and adults to control their skis while having fun on the slopes. He's also my boyfriend. But he's very different from my high school boyfriend.

Before I tackled the bunny hill, Kirby taught me to snowplow slowly down the slightest incline, the pre-bunny hill. He skied backward, right in front of me.

"Just ski toward me," he said. "I'll catch you if you start to fall."

I knew he would. I summoned my courage, eased forward and followed him down the hill. I did it! And I didn't fall!

At the bottom of the hill I got in line to ride the magic carpet lift, a sort of conveyor belt that transports beginning skiers to the top of the tiniest hill. Not only was I the only person over four feet tall riding the magic carpet lift, I also was four or five decades older than all of them. Many likely still drank from sippy cups.

The sippy cup gang on the magic carpet lift.

                                  

With Kirby's coaching, I gained confidence and control by skiing the itty bitty hill half a dozen times.

"Ready for the bunny hill?" he asked.

"Yes! Let's go!"

Kirby showed me how to grab the handle tow to ride to the top of the bunny hill. So far, so good. Again, he skied backward in front of me, zigging and zagging down the bunny hill. I followed him all the way to the bottom. And I didn't fall!

Soon I was skiing the bunny hill without Kirby skiing in front of me. He left for his next lesson, and said he'd return later to see if I was ready for the chair lift and a bigger hill. But no pressure.

I continued skiing down the bunny hill. Shortly after he left, I fell. It was a soft fall. I wasn't hurt, but I flailed around in the snow trying to stand up. Finally, I removed a ski, stood up, put my ski back on and continued down the hill.

I fell again. And I got up again.

"You can do this," I repeated the mantra I tell myself when I feel myself losing my nerve.

On several more runs down the bunny hill, I tightened my turns and practiced slowing and stopping. I was gaining confidence. But I was getting tired.

So there I was, careening out of control down the bunny hill. Now, for an experienced skier watching me, I'm sure my speed wouldn't qualify as "careening," but to this novice skier, I was careening. I was almost at the bottom and needed to stop, but instead of calmly doing what Kirby had taught me, I freaked out, lost my nerve and fell. Hard. Right on my back.

Until 30 seconds earlier, I'd had an excellent time skiing. I was exhausted and thought I'd quit while I still thought skiing was fun. So I removed my skis, stood up and walked to the lodge to warm up, read my book and wait for Kirby.

Last weekend, I conquered my three-decade fear of skiing downhill--and I had a great time. True, I took one nasty spill, but that was because I lost my nerve and forgot to be bold. I won't make that mistake again.

Kirby and I are planning many adventures together: hiking, backpacking, kayaking. He's teaching me to swing dance too.

This morning, I paddled a dragon boat with the Mighty Women. Tonight, my paddling teammate Wendy has agreed to join me for my next adventure: belly dancing!

After all, I am a Mighty Woman.

Low-tech yearnings in a high-tech world

My antique Underwood No. 5 typewriter (circa 1900-1920)

 "It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."

My apologies to children's author Judith Viorst.

Like Alexander, the little boy in Viorst's picture book "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," I've had a less than stellar day.

It's not that anything terrible or horrible happened. It's just that several little things that could go wrong did. And together, all those little things added up to a hard day.

Mostly, today was about me and technology not seeing eye to eye.

The day started out promising. I read to third-graders at Marshall Elementary this morning as part of "Read Across America Week." I'd brought two gloriously illustrated books about ancient Egypt to share with the class and my teacher-librarian friend, Kay Ellison. We had an excellent discussion about the Egyptians. Kay took some photos of the kids and me. I planned to post the photos on my "schools" Facebook page. And then I'd tweet the Facebook link with the cute photo.

Wrong! No matter what I tried, I could not post today's school photos onto Facebook. I post photos to Facebook often without difficulty. Not today, apparently.

Tomorrow I will ask SueVo, a journalist friend and techno-goddess, for guidance.

Once home from work, I did manage to complete some tasks that required some degree of technology. For dinner I microwaved the excellent mushroom prosciutto tortellini soup I'd made from scratch yesterday. I washed a load of clothes with no problems whatsoever with my modern washer and dryer instead of resorting to my antique scrub board I display in my laundry room. I made amazing pumpkin spice muffins with dried cranberries and mini chocolate chips--and baked them to perfection in my modern 1970s electric range.

That gave me confidence to try uploading the photo again. I sat down at my laptop and attempted to upload the cute photo of third-graders to Facebook. No deal.

Then I was instant messaging a friend on Facebook, and she asked me to email her the order form for my dragon boat team's spring plant sale fundraiser. I have used my scanner successfully hundreds of times. Tonight, my scanner refused to scan. I'll try again tomorrow.

Even as I've been writing this blog post on my laptop, a message flashed across the screen: Error! Cannot save! For Pete's sake!

Sometimes I feel as if I'd fit in better in the 1920s than I do today. One of my favorite book series features protagonist Maisie Dobbs, intrepid, spunky, gutsy solver of crimes--in 1930s London. My 1940s apartment is filled with antique furniture, appliances, artwork, books, record albums and photos. I even own an antique hat collection.

I do own a laptop computer and a Smart phone, but the only tablet I own is yellow and is lined for writing in cursive. Does anyone out there use cursive anymore?

Thanks to a journalism friend, I also own a vintage Underwood No. 5 standard typewriter, the workhorse used in newsrooms and modern offices from 1900 to 1920. If only I could find a new ribbon for it, I'd be in business.

Unlike Alexander in the children's book, I am not planning on moving to Australia, at least not anytime soon.I'm charging both my laptop and my iPhone as I write this. Tomorrow, I will download those photos. Tomorrow I'll climb back on the horse and will tweet, make Facebook posts, download photos from my phone and even get the darned scanner to work.

For now I've climbed into bed with a mug of hot cocoa, pulled my favorite purple fuzzy socks onto my freezing feet and have reached for a favorite old book--not an e-book on an e-reader--but an actual book.

Perhaps tonight I'll dream I'm Maisie Dobbs in the 1930s, wearing a chic cloche hat and solving a mystery.

Finding your muse in unexpected places

Have you ever found your muse in the most unexpected place?

Two weeks ago, I left newsroom deadlines far behind me as I drove solo the 375 miles to Dad's in Spokane. With my favorite music providing a soundtrack to my journey, I had the luxury of an entire day to myself and my thoughts.

In the flat land about 20-30 miles north of the Tri Cities on Highway 395, a sign to an obscure road caught my eye: Muse Road.

It struck me as ironic because The Columbia Basin landscape of flat, treeless desert stretched onward as far as I could see. And even though I'm a country girl who appreciates the beauty in nature, Muse Road seemed to be in the middle of uninspiring scenery.

Muse Road! Really? How could anyone fine her muse here, in this stark landscape?

I'd considered pulling over to take a photo of the Muse Road sign surrounded by miles of desert, but I didn't want to lose any time.

Later, I commented to my friend, Kirby Records, that the desolate landscape around Connell, Washington seemed an unlikely place to find one's muse. Kirby is a man who chooses to venture off the beaten path to see what adventures might be hidden from view. His response made me realize that as I zipped along 395, I'd missed missed an opportunity to see what was just beyond my peripheral vision.

"Up above Connell along 395 is a deep canyon along the side of the freeway," Kirby started his story. He often starts with a story.

"And all these little draws lead down into it. The freeway has been leveled so people driving on the freeway don't really notice the draws and only get a glimpse of the canyon once in awhile," he said.

"I see wonderful places to explore in these rocky-edged draws," he continued. He went on to tell me stories of finding amazing surprises in the desert: spending the night in a cave, finding a hot springs and a hidden campsite on top of a cliff.

Kirby's words made me think about how I sometimes prevent myself from being open to an experience because I've already made up my mind about something--such as thinking inspiration is incongruous with a desert landscape. And not having the vision to notice a breathtaking canyon just beyond my view.

I also was reminded of the words of Jane Kirkpatrick, my dear friend and an accomplished, published writer. Jane often speaks of being open to allowing ourselves new experiences, rather than to let preconceived ideas determine our response to what we're seeing.

Instead of speeding through the desert landscape and labeling it "boring" and "uninspiring," I should have opened my eyes and noticed the spectrum of colors painted across the sky and the undulating desert floor.

Now I'm wishing I had stopped to take that photo of Muse Road surrounded by desert.The next time I come upon something that on first glance seems uninspired, I will take the time to reconsider my point of view.

Below, courtesy of Kirby, is a photo he took of an inspiring landscape hidden from view of the main road in the Eastern Oregon desert. Now, after hearing his stories, I'm ready to explore desert landscape and see what stories it might inspire me to write.

The following link is another writer's blog post about identifying and caring for your muse.
 http://www4.uwsp.edu/education/lwilson/creativ/muse/idmus2.htm/.

Close your eyes and banish your fear

Photo: My team, the Mighty Women, proudly displaying our silver medals for placing second in our division in the Portland Dragon Boat Races in Sept. 2012. Debbie is in the back row, second from left. I'm in the front row, third from the right.

Rain pelted the river and flowed in rivulets into my eyes. It seemed as if someone was standing over me in the boat, flinging buckets of water into my face.

I blinked, trying to see clearly what lie ahead of our dragon boat. But it was no use. I couldn't see.

For the last three months, I'd been paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty Women through our wet Pacific Northwest winter. I'd experienced feeling drenched and chilled--yet elated--simultaneously. In spite of the discomfort, I loved paddling a dragon boat. Although I've spent most of every winter feeling cold and damp, I didn't mind being wet. And once we started paddling, I warmed up.

But this particular day on the dragon boat felt different. It had been raining with such force that only  my team, the Mighty Women, and one other team, the Amazons, had braved the torrential rain and the swelling Willamette River.

My benchmate for this day's paddle was Debbie, who is always jovial and in good spirits. She's also one of our strongest paddlers who doesn't get ruffled easily. I find this astounding because Debbie is blind.

We didn't have a full boat of 20 paddlers, so pulling water was challenging. The swirling river and buckets of rain compounded our challenge.

During these weeks and months of paddling, I'd never considered dragon boating to be dangerous, never taken into account the possibility of disaster. But that morning, as we pulled our paddles through the churning water and were passing beneath one of Portland's many bridges, we were pulled forcefully toward the enormous bridge post.

As inexperienced as I was, I realized the potential danger and cried out, "Oh no! We're going to hit the post!"

As unruffled as ever, Debbie calmly reassured me, "Just close your eyes, Susan."

These words of wisdom, spoken wisely by a blind dragon boat paddler in the middle of the river, calmed me immediately. I took Debbie's direction and closed my eyes. When I could no longer see the potential disaster looming ahead of me, I relaxed and continued paddling in cadence with my team.

Our intrepid tiller averted disaster by steering us away from the post. For the first time in my experience, practice was cut short and we headed back to the marina. Later that morning, authorities closed the river, and practice was cancelled for several days until the water calmed.

Debbie's sage advice to "just close your eyes" applied to my life outside of the dragon boat too.

In the months previous to averting disaster on the river, I'd been laid off at work and went on unemployment for the first time in my life, lost my house, had no idea where I'd live or work. Or when my feet would be on solid ground again. I couldn't see where I was going. In a way, I felt blind.

Now I know that when potential disaster looms in my path, it's best to close my eyes, take a deep breath to banish my fear--and to keep paddling.

Believe in yourself

Flexing my dragon boating muscles while speaking to a women's weight loss support group last summer.

In less than a year, I've reshaped my body, my mind and my life. It wasn't easy, but it's doable. I'm proof that you can change lifelong habits and develop new, healthier habits--and still eat really excellent dark chocolate daily. Now 50 pounds lighter, I'm only 15 pounds from reaching my goal. I'm determined to do it.

How did I do it? For me, what worked was mindful eating, paddling a dragon boat and working out with a weighted hula hoop and yoga mat in my living room. I have a bad left foot and will likely never be able to run a half marathon. But paddling is the cardio workout that makes sense for me.

Last week at the grocery store I ran into someone I hadn't seen for a year. In my typical weekend mode, I was dressed for comfort and wore no makeup. My hair was brushed, but just barely. I saw him first and called out a greeting. It took him a minute to place me. When he realized who I was, he told me I looked wonderful. And so happy.

I practically pirouetted right there by the eggs. "I AM happy!" I said with feeling, and meant it.

Recently I had the opportunity to share my success story with a women's weight loss group. I brought my weight loss secret weapons to demonstrate: my yoga mat, my dragon boat paddle and my weighted hula hoop. For inspiration, I wore my little black dress. And as I talked to the women, I hula hooped and encouraged them on the way to their own successes.

I shared what I've learned along the way:

• Believe in yourself.
• Do it for you.
• Find what works for you.
• Make it fun.
• Measure yourself.
• Challenge yourself.
• Set realistic goals. 
• Find new non-food ways to reward yourself for victories large and small.
• Invite a friend to join you in your challenge.
• Journal your journey.
• Celebrate your milestones.
• Share your good news.

Paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty Women has changed my life. Dragon boat paddling may not resonate for you, but if you keep trying new things, you'll find a form of exercise that works. Have you tried contra dancing? It's an amazing workout!

Don't be afraid to reach beyond your comfort zone to reach your potential. Paddle your own canoe.