Broken Into But Not Stolen

Last Friday evening I returned home from a wonderful 4^th of July celebration with several close friends, only to find our home had been broken into.  Thankfully, nothing had been stolen, but our home had indeed been intruded upon.  I’m keenly in tune with the energy and rituals of our home and sensed immediately, upon entering, that something had upset its balance. There was an unsettling feeling that prompted me to cautiously walk through my home.  Additionally, I have two fiercely protective dogs that appeared highly agitated upon my arrival.  They had come to greet me from the back of the house versus their usual spots on the couches in the front room.  As I approached my kitchen I straightaway realized what my heightened sense of concern was about.

I have a large decorative cabinet that resides underneath my kitchen window.  The contents atop the cabinet had been removed and placed on the floor.  The kitchen window was opened, which was disturbing because I had closed all the windows earlier in the day to run the air conditioning.  There were also muddy footprints on the cabinet.  Noticing all of the above took mere seconds and immediately, panic and fear shot through me.  I yelled to my dogs “let’s go” and ran out of the house into my car and promptly called 911.  I also called my son who was staying at our friends Terry and Susie’s that night.  Terry had kindly come with some friends and my son in tow to stay with me until the police arrived. 

It’s a surreal moment to be standing in front of your home but afraid to enter it.  Once the police arrived, they moved on my home in full gear with guns drawn, in the event the intruder was still there.  I became slightly emotional watching the events unfold.  Observing officers in my home with their guns drawn, announcing their presence to a potentially dangerous person is a scene I never anticipated witnessing.  The police carefully scope out each room as well as the yard.  After about 10 minutes they gave us the all clear to come inside.  They had shown us how the intruder tried to enter through several other windows but was unsuccessful due to them being locked.  For some reason the window in the kitchen was not fully locked, thus granting him access to our home.  I was filled with a myriad of emotions, the dominant one being fear.  After about two hours with the police, the photographer and forensics, I returned to my friend Susie’s to try and get some sleep.  Susie is one of my dearest and closest friends.  My female soulmate.  Her family is like family to us and her home is like a second home for my son, so it was fitting that we took refuge there.  I was riddled with anxiety and slept maybe an hour or so. 

The next morning, which came early for me, my mind was racing.  I had envisioned every safety measure possible that I wanted to implement.  I knew I needed to re-activate the alarm system, be more diligent about ensuring our windows are locked and keep a light on in the back of the house where we’re out to make it look like someone is home.  I drew the line at installing a moat with alligators, having vicious wolverines troll the property and hiring an armed guard to be onsite during our absence.  I think the lack of sleep prompted the latter.  I met with my friend Brian for breakfast.  He too is a close friend and like a brother.  He had suggested I spend another night at my friend Susie’s.  I had strongly considered doing so; however, I felt that if I was going to take my home back and move past the fear, I needed to do so sooner than later.  That evening, my son and I, committed to gaining power over this situation, battened down the hatches, whispered up prayers of protection and spent the night in our own home. 

Since the intrusion, I have walked through my home with sage and claimed each room back.  My friend Susie is a reiki master and has signed on to reiki the house as well.  It’s our way of proclaiming to the universe that we can be shaken but not broken. 

I was sharing with my son that had the intruder come into our home as a guest, we would have welcomed him.  We would have offered him food and drink, conversed and exuded compassion. We would have hugged him when he left and perhaps made a new friend.  But, that’s not how he entered. He entered as an intruder intent on doing harm.  I still have compassion for him and have prayed each night for him since.  Something has gone terribly awry in this man’s life to prompt him to make such disastrous choices; choices that will undoubtedly lead him to a prison cell or worse.

 

Webster’s defines a robbery as the crime of stealing from a person or place. The thief who entered our home committed to stealing its contents failed miserably in doing so.  He also failed to steal our spirit, failed to steal our determination, failed to steal our courage and failed to steal our freedom to feel safe our home.

When I was a little girl, my mom shared with me that each night she prayed that God would put angels at the four posts of the house to protect us all as we slept.  I’ve prayed that prayer many times over the years, not only for myself, but for my family and friends.  I truly believe there were angels watching over us that evening.  Not many homes get broken into and nothing stolen.  It’s as if this force field of protection drove him away.  My iPad and iPhone were right on the dining room table, in clear sight and were not taken.  My son had commented that we had the best case scenario.  We were broken into, yet nothing was stolen and no one was hurt. 

Thank you, Mom, for the prayers you prayed when I was a child and for teaching me the prayers to pray over my home.  Thank you Susie and Terry for your unwavering support and always opening your home and hearts to us.  Thank you to my friend Brian for checking in every day since to ensure we are safe.  Last, but certainly not least, thank you, God, for keeping us safe and having your angels watch over us.

Celebrating 22 Years In The Industry!

Twenty two years ago today I embarked on what would be the foundation of a long and rewarding career path in the HR and Recruitment industry. Knowing only how to spell the word recruiting, I was hired as a Data Entry Associate for Arthur Andersen and Andersen Consulting’s recruiting team in their Hartford office. I was responsible for tracking all candidate activity in the applicant tracking system, aptly named CRIS. To this date, I’m a stickler for 100% data integrity with any ATS I’m operating. At the time, I was unaware that public accounting would become my playground and that recruiting would be my passion.

As I worked with some of the best and brightest partners, hiring managers and team members, I began to learn the fundamentals of recruiting. When I was given the opportunity to start conducting my own interviews and owning a few requisitions I felt such a sense of fulfillment in my career. I found that I had a natural connection with my candidates. I enjoyed hearing about their work experiences and objectives. I got a thrill every time I made an offer and candidates accepted. I learned quickly that working in recruiting not only meant hiring people, but also gently letting go of those not qualified for a role. As tough of a task as this is, in the end, it’s always what’s best for the firm and ultimately the candidate.

I’ve seen recruiters young and old alike get caught up with the latest systems, buzzwords, Boolean searches, networking events and jockeying for the most LinkedIn recommendations and connections. Who’s in the President’s Club for the most hires and who’s writing articles for LI and other recruitment blogs. These components are not what makes a good recruiter. Most of these are simply the tools in your toolbox. You can learn to use them effectively, but they still don’t make you a good recruiter.

As the years progress and my experience deepened, I learned the most fundamental aspect of recruiting was not hiring people, but building strong business relationships with both my internal and external clients. In doing so, the candidates came and the hires were made. By building strong relationships with my hiring partners I was able to learn more about professional services from a business perspective. I’ve spent hours with my partners learning how they managed their teams, how to discern financial reports, what keeps them up at night, how our business is run, what pursuits they’re chasing and how I can add value in helping them achieve their goals. Each time I deliver the talent they need, I further build my credibility; which was beyond valuable. I can sit in their respective offices and tell them I can hire the candidates they’re looking for, but until that “butt is in the seat” (as we say in the recruiting industry), my words and promises mean nothing. I’ve also learned when to step up and let my partners know when a requisition is too difficult to fill. It takes a high level of trust and vulnerability to have this dialogue with your partners. In doing so, I’ve been surprisingly encouraged. This has often given opportunity to further brain storming with them, reviewing our processes, etc. When we finally do fill those roles, it’s that much sweeter for the victory.

I’ve also been deeply blessed to have worked with some of the most talented recruitment and HR professionals. There’s a kinship you develop with your natural work teams when you’re in the trenches day in and day out. You have this innate desire to watch them succeed and you’ll protect them fiercely if someone tries to undermine their efforts. You’re all sharing the same mission and cause. Hire and retain a world class workforce. I owe a lot to my early mentors who saw something in me and graciously gave of their time in teaching me the ins and outs of HR and recruiting and tolerated my inexperience. Many of their philosophies are what I use in my practices today.

I’ve often heard my colleagues say “We’re not saving lives here”. We’re technically not, but I know that I’m changing them. I could share many heartfelt stories of candidates whose lives were changed when I called and presented them with an offer. I made an offer to one candidate recently and he exclaimed, “You have no idea how much I needed this job. I was about to completely give up”. When I put my head on my pillow that night I was moved to know someone else was going to bed with a peace of mind about their future and that I had an integral hand in helping him get there. That’s beyond rewarding.

I’m not going to lie; my career has also had its many disappointments. No matter how hard I’ve tried, there will always be those team members or hiring managers I’m just not going to win over. I could give a kidney to save their kids lives and they’d still throw me under the bus. Despite the lack of reciprocal respect, I’ve made a personal vow to always remain professional, deliver and take the high road. The occasional thought of dabbling in voodoo dolls or running them down in the parking garage has brought momentary satisfaction, but in the end, I’ve thankfully resisted the urge.

I’ve had the opportunity to hire a few thousand people over my career. To this day, I still stay in touch with my very first hire. He’s the CEO of a thriving tech company. When I walk through the offices of my current firm, I see name plate after name plate of the people I’ve hired. It’s humbling and yet, so fulfilling to know this is the legacy I’m leaving on the workforce.

With that said, as I sit here near the close of my 22nd year, I lift my virtual glass in thanks to the years behind me and to many more wonderful years to ahead, hiring the best and brightest talent and working with some of the greatest leaders in my industry!

The Cyclist

There are moments in life that abruptly, and sometimes cruelly, stop us in our tracks and remind us once again how incredibly precious life is. Last night was one such moment for my son, Stephen, and me.

We were on our way to dinner and a movie. En route, we witnessed a cyclist who had been hit by a car, thrown across the street into another car, only to land crumpled on the sidewalk. My entire body froze as we saw this young cyclist lying lifeless, face down on the street, bloodied and mangled. A crowd of well-meaning people immediately ran to his rescue and called 911.

I parked my car ahead, grabbed my son’s arm and began to weep for the young man. I started whispering, almost like a mantra, “Please God, let him live. Please let him pull through this. God, please let him be alright.” Police and rescue vehicles descended on the scene, and we were motioned to vacate the area.

Where do you go when you’ve just witnessed such a horrific event? I was nauseated and shaken. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I couldn’t get the image of him lying so deeply wounded on the side of the street out of my head. Would he make it? Did he make it? How bad were his injuries?

I checked the internet repeatedly for any updates on his condition, but nothing was posted. Then, when I awoke this morning, I read an article that said, “Pasadena Cyclist Struck and Killed.”

I wept silently for him. A man I did not know, but one who had impacted my life dramatically in the span of 24 hours.

Who was this man? The paper said he was in his 30s and had been out cycling with a friend. Did he have a girlfriend or wife? Was he a father with a young family who has now been left fatherless? Did he have a dad who awoke on Father’s Day with the unimaginable pain of having lost his son? Did he have a mother whose heart is now shattered at the loss of her child? Who were his friends, and what pain must they be feeling at this unexpected, tragic loss?

Who was he?

He awoke yesterday morning and set out on his day, not knowing it would be his last.

It would be difficult to witness something like this and not stop, even for a moment, and feel profoundly thankful for the very breath you’re breathing. It’s in moments like these that we are reminded how incredibly precious life is. Tomorrow is never promised to us. The end of today is not promised either.

The petty issues that seemed so grand yesterday suddenly feel insignificant. I found myself going through my day with a profound sense of thankfulness. I desired peace in my relationships, no matter how fractured some might be. I wanted to hug my family members a little tighter and a little longer. I prayed for God’s continued love and absolute protection over my son, and that He grants him a wonderfully long life.

I do not know the name of the gentleman whose life I saw ebb from him last night. Until then, our paths had never crossed, yet cross they did.

Sometimes, even in death, a person can have a profound impact on a fellow human being. Clearly, this is such a case. As haunted and grieved as I feel by witnessing his death, I feel a sense of tribute to him as well. I know I’ll never drive down Del Mar Boulevard again without being reminded of how fleeting life is and how important it is to make every day, every moment, count.

We get so caught up in the day-to-day routines and responsibilities of our lives that we sometimes fail to realize that each day is a gift. I know I’ll awaken tomorrow and try not to take anything for granted. I’ll be more aware of my actions and how they may affect others. I’ll have a heart of deeper gratitude. I’ll start acting on the dreams and goals I’ve kept on the shelf for far too long. I’ll have a renewed desire to live every day I’m privileged to have as if it were my last.

My heart and prayers go out to this young man and his family. A man and a family I’ve never met and most likely never will.

I thank him for the invaluable lesson about life that he unknowingly gave me in the final moments of his own. May God’s peace and love comfort his family and friends, and may they too, in time and through their grief, find reason to embrace the preciousness of the life before them.

Deleting Your Junk Male

Yes, I’ve spelled male correctly!

These last few months, I’ve been evolving to this wonderful place in my life where I’m truly coming into my own. Hurts of the past are long in the healing stage. Questions that have haunted me for almost 30 years are sowing their answers firmly in my heart. Dreams that have been locked in my soul far too long are starting to take form. I’m no longer sitting on the sidelines of my life. I’ve been sprinting straight toward a renewed sense of self worth, confidence and tremendous accomplishments. The latter has opened my eyes to unhealthy relationships and behaviors in my life, specifically as it relates to men.

After my divorce, almost 10 years ago, I found myself catapulted to into the rabbit hole of the dating world. The last time I had dated was in 1989. The rules of the game had dramatically changed, as had I. In an effort to be accepted and loved, and probably in a subconscious way of hiding the pain of my divorce, I fell into a pattern of accepting highly unacceptable behavior from the men I became involved with. I found myself tolerating actions and indiscretions that were deeply inappropriate, yet I was enabling them by not putting my foot down. I dated or became friends with men who would essentially take advantage of my kindness, talents, vulnerability, time and heart.

My eyes have been forced wide open of late. I started taking stock of the many male relationships I have/had and came to the sobering reality that I needed to do some housekeeping. I’ve been in the process of hitting the delete button on men who:

• Worship at their own alter. Let’s face it; no one is as amazing as he is!
• Flaunt their wealth.  Sorry, baby, but you're rich in the things that don't matter to me.
• Are on the advisory board of the local narcissists chapter. 
• Ask for a date but have been in a long standing “complicated” relationship with someone else.
• Call solely for the purpose of a potential booty call. Immensely degrading and not going to happen!
• Do nothing but talk and lament about their ex.
• Think it's perfectly acceptable not to call for several days and then expect me to jump when they do.  Um... NO? 
• Pay more attention to their cell phone and emails when we’re together.
• Use my talents and energy for their own personal gain.
• Think it’s alright to cheat on their significant other and want me to comply. As if!
• Send dirty pics of themselves and expect me to be impressed.  GROSS!!!  If you want to impress me, show me a picture of your last 401K statement. 
• Don’t make me feel like the talented, loving, beautiful, accomplished woman that I am.
• Forget that I have a heart beating inside of me and that it hurts when you wound me; and, like any heart, it needs to feel loved and nurtured, not used!

It’s been deeply empowering to come to a place in my life where I can say no to several of the unhealthy relationships I’ve been holding on to. By saying no, I’m drawing a line in the sand that says I’m no longer going to enable you to treat me like this. You no longer have access to my talents and gifts. You no longer have the luxury and right to my kindness and compassion. You no longer have access to my mind, body or soul. If you want me, you need to earn me and I have to want you to earn me. It’s been a bold step to take and one met with resistance. In the end I’m finding healthier and happier relationships making their way into my life. Most importantly, my confidence and self worth have been restored. In essence, by hitting the delete button on my junk male, I’ve hit the enter button on a world of renewed possibilities as well as some new male!

You Know You're a Working Mom When...

• Before hitting the office, you have already filled the role of chef, chauffeur, wardrobe consultant, tiny terrorist negotiator and detective (finding backpacks, shoes, homework, sports equipment for after school practice, shoes... again, even though they put them on their feet and investigating the odd smell under your kids bed). 
• You stroke the side of your coffee mug and, like Gollum from Lord of the Rings, refer to is as "My Precious".
• Your breakfast consists of a handful of Goldfish crackers and a fruit roll-up.
• You sit through meetings with the theme songs from Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer looping in your head.
• One of your co-workers kindly removes dried oatmeal from your hair; from the day before.
• You frantically look at every call that comes in on your cell to see if it’s your kids calling; and pray to God it’s not the principal phoning… again.
• You jump at any chance to lunch with co-workers simply to have one meal out where you don't get crayons and a coloring book with your menu.
• You play referee on the phone while your kids are fighting over who gets the last Capri Sun.
• You plan out dinner and your grocery list during conference calls.
• You laugh at how silly you were to think you had time to pick up groceries or even make dinner.
• You wonder if feeding your kids Pop Tarts and root beer for dinner will warrant a visit from DCF or guarantee you a place in the Bad Mom Hall of Fame.
• You sometimes see the pictures of your kids on your desk and your heart smiles.
• You sometimes see the pictures of your kids on your desk and your heart hurts.
• You try to figure out how you and your kids can cleverly wear the same outfit tomorrow so you don’t have to do laundry when you get home.
• You refer to the ladies room as “The Potty”.
• You relish the uninterrupted time in the ladies room and call it “Me Time”.
• You sometimes cry on your way to and from work.
• Even though you know that once you get home the insanity will ensue, you still can’t wait to get there.
• You close a deal from the bleachers of your child’s soccer game.
• During homework you draw up a business plan to outlaw algebra.
• You know all of the Dr. Suess books by heart.
• You make 50 cupcakes at 9 p.m. because that’s when your child reminded you that they’re due tomorrow.
• You get water three times, scare away the monsters, and answer odd last minute questions like "Do worms yawn", before your little cherubs finally fall asleep.
• You hit your bed exhausted beyond words and feel you've either nailed the day or failed the day!
• You whisper prayers of love and protection over your kids as they sleep, count your blessings and know you’d do it all over again if you had the choice!

The Symphony

Yesterday, I had the privilege of attending my ex-husband’s first symphony, promptly titled Symphony No. 1. I also had the privilege of watching our son fulfill a vital role in the day’s events. My son is an avid filmmaker. He eats, sleeps and drinks all things cinematic. Name pretty much any film and he can tell you who directed it, who the cinematographer was, why they chose certain shots, lighting or scenery; as well as who the actors were, and what awards the film won. I’ve watched my son progress from filming amateur movies in our backyard to developing his craft to a level where his works are now being accepted at film festivals across the country. I’ve often said that Stephen didn’t choose filmmaking but rather, filmmaking chose him. Stephen will humbly tell you that he simply loves the art of telling stories to the world.

As I sat in the Ambassador Auditorium in Pasadena, CA I was filled with a myriad of emotions. Stephen’s father, Peter, asked him to film the performance. Peter poured over a year of his life into writing this symphony. He was also given the privilege of being asked to conduct it. Anyone in the musical world will know that for a resident conductor to surrender their podium and orchestra to a guest conductor is quite an honor. Peter knew all too well how momentous this occasion would be and wanted to capture every moment of it. For that, he not only turned to his son to do so, but had tremendous faith in his talents that he would deliver and not disappoint.

Stephen, on the other hand, knew all too well how painstakingly hard his father worked on each and every note. He watched his dad labor through bone crushing exhaustion, personal crisis, fevers and other illnesses, as well as having to meet his many day to day obligations. Yet, he persevered, keeping his eye on the finish line and delivered a masterpiece! In doing so, Peter provided to his son an unquestionable example of fortitude and resolve. For that, Stephen wanted nothing more than to make his father proud by ensuring a quality video product.

Stephen spent hours in his dad’s rehearsals taking notes on where and how to shoot the performance, all the while, being inconspicuous to the orchestra and audience. This was no small feat. He was holed up in a small alcove on the side of the auditorium, about 20 feet above the orchestra. He was dressed all in black, or as he would say, like a Ninja, and took his proper place at the camera. When Peter stepped out to center stage and onto the conductor’s podium, his son was standing close by ready to capture every moment. It was then that I was struck with such pride in watching father and son collectively bring their talents to the forefront.

The father, son dance is a delicate one. A good father strives to impart love, acceptance, principles, values and an honorable legacy to their offspring. The son on the other hand looks to make his father proud and wants nothing more than to know he will be there for him, no matter what. In a world where so many father, son relationships are fractured, broken or non-existent, I’ve come to count my blessings for the relationship my son has with his father. Despite his dad and I having been divorced for almost ten years, we are one of the fortunate in that we’ve maintained a harmonious relationship. This has been primarily due to having shared custody of our son and, because we wanted to maintain a pleasant equilibrium for all three of us to exist in. We’ve not been perfect and we’ve certainly had our moments, but we always know how to bring it back into focus. It takes a lot of maturity and letting go of silly issues to achieve this, but the rewards are so worth the efforts.

By the time Stephen was five, he had memorized every note of his father’s music. So much so that if he heard even a whiff of a melody that sounded like something his father wrote in another composers piece, he would immediately inform his dad that he needed to get his attorney because that composer had “copyright infringed” his works. Clearly they hadn’t done so, but it was sweet that he had his father’s back nonetheless. Stephen would sit through concert after concert hearing his dad’s compositions played by some of the best orchestras around. He would watch his father stand before crowds of thousands to take his well earned bow. Everything came full circle yesterday as I watched Peter now take pride in Stephen’s filming talents and as he entrusted him with this monumental occasion.

As I sat there yesterday, hearing each note beautiful come to life and my son capturing every frame of the experience I was not only filled with pride but also fulfillment. Watching my son and his dad collaborate their mutual talents, culminating in a perfect performance by both is more than any mother could hope for. Peter was highly thankful and dutiful in acknowledging his son’s filming efforts and Stephen was bursting with pride at his father’s symphonic premiere.

The word symphony is derived from the Greek word (symphonia), meaning "agreement or concord of sound", "concert of vocal or instrumental music", "harmonious”. How ironic to see Peter’s first symphonic work as the genesis to both working together. I’m sure this is the first of many father and son partnerships. I look forward to future endeavors whether it’s in the concert hall or collaborating together on a film. Either way, the bond, friendship and mutual collegial respect shared by both is heartwarming. To that I give a heartfelt standing ovation. Bravo to you both for a job well done!

Power Down to Power Up

I attend what I consider to be one of the most inspiring, amazing, and diverse churches on the planet. We have over 12,000 members who truly love being in church each Sunday. Yet despite how large a congregation we have, you still experience an authentic sense of community. This is largely due to the genuine warmth you feel from the moment you walk in. Either through the greeters, the many volunteers who support the children’s and outreach programs or, those you are seated next to during service. I’m always energized and pumped up when I’m at church and amongst my fellow brethren.

One of the things I’ve come to admire and look forward to while in church is the “unfettered reverence” one should embody while in the house of God. For one or two hours on a Sunday morning, we come to worship in song and praise, are fed and taught the Word of God, and drink in the His presence and absolute awe. There’s a song I love that says “When I walked through the doors, I sensed His presence and I knew this was the place where love abounds. This is a temple and Jehovah God abides here. We are standing in His presence on holy ground.” How powerful these words are and how amazing to have the privilege to come weekly to God’s house and “be in His presence”!

Unfortunately, of late, I’ve found that mobile technology has infiltrated our church services and is encroaching on the time where we should be completely disconnected from the world so we can completely connect with God. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of mobile technology; however, I do believe there’s a time and place for these fascinating, yet, ubiquitous devices. I do not believe the sanctuary of God is one of them. I’m finding myself increasingly distracted by cell phones ringing, people texting and emailing, and iPads being substituted for bringing your bible to church. Perhaps the latter is a personal preference and waxes me as old school, and I could accept using your iPad for biblical references, however, not when you’re holding them up distracting those around you, and checking your email and texting on them. We’re not allowed to have our mobile devices on in movie theatres or at stage performances, yet we bring them to church? We’ll respect the viewing experience of those watching Johnny Depp in his latest flick but we fall short of offering the same deference to those who come to worship the almighty God?

I purposely leave my cell phone in the car. I relish having occasion where I’m not fielding calls, texts and emails, and can completely focus on being in God’s house. The ring tone I have for my mother is the theme for the Price is Right (she's a major coupon queen) and that’s the last thing I’d want to have going off in church should she call. Of course, it might be apropo during offering time.

With technology taking it’s highly, un-rightful place in our worship services, we fail to bring the rightful respect to the one, holy God, who is beyond deserving of our reverence and adoration. We need to stop and rethink why we get up, don our Sunday causal best, and head to our houses of worship. Yes, fellowship is part of the equation; however, our main focus is to honor and worship God. We need to remember whose house we’re in and respect the rules of the house. I love the verse in Lev. 19:30 "Observe my Sabbaths and have reverence for my sanctuary. I am the LORD". It’s hard to abide by this command when someone’s Bugs Bunny themed ring tone is going off or they’re taking a call. Yes, I’ve sat near folks who actually take a call in church. Last Sunday during the alter call; the cell phone of the gentleman sitting next went off. The man was clearly embarrassed, but it was a distraction that need not have happened. We are given 168 hours in a one week period. We can certainly give 1 hour to be technology free and focus on the teaching of God’s word and give Him his rightful reverence and honor.

I’d like to challenge my follow church goers to make a conscious effort of remembering who and why we come to worship. To have not only respect for God and His presence, but for those around you who have come to worship. I remember countless times when I was hurting beyond words and being in the very house of God, praising Him, was what got me through to another day. Our focus needs to be put wholly on Him and not our emails, texts and to do lists. Church is not a mobile technology hot spot, but rather “the spot” where we come humbly before Him with an aspect of admiration and feel His almighty presence. We need to remind ourselves that we are truly standing in His presence on holy ground.

Let’s all hit the off the button this coming Sunday and saturate ourselves in the meaning and application of showing reverence for God. I guarantee that by powering down, HE will power you up.

Spreading Your Wings

This coming Friday, my son, Stephen, will graduate from the ranks of junior high and officially become a freshman. Just hearing those words brings pride at having reached a new milestone, and a twinge of heartache knowing, that once again, my young man is growing up. Too quickly, albeit, but growing up nonetheless.

About two weeks ago, Stephen informed me that he had been selected by the academic staff of his current school for a special honor. Each year the collective body of teachers at High Point Academy selects one student of the graduating class who exemplifies leadership, a positive attitude, strong academic achievements, and overall good moral character. For the High Point Academy’s graduating class of 2010, my son was the student selected who best exudes the above criteria. Both Stephen and I were pleasantly (and I emotionally) surprised by the honor. Having gone through an incredibly difficult year this past year, with having lost my job and coming within hours of almost losing our home and subsisting on very little, this was a most welcomed proclamation of good news.

Throughout the extenuating circumstances of last year our mantra was “Positive outlook equals positive outcome”. I’ll admit there were days when it was hard to utter or live those words, but overall, it was a driving force for us. I would never have known that one end result would be Stephen being recognized for his attitude of gratitude and overall optimism.

As a result of having this honor, Stephen was asked to write a 4-5 minute speech. He thought long and hard about what message he wanted to convey and how he could have one final positive impact on his classmates. He started writing his speech on a paper placement at our favorite Mexican restaurant. From there, the speech continued to evolve. Last night he put the final touches on his speech and I was blown away by what he wrote. I applaud you, Stephen!

Here it is.

First and foremost, I am honored and humbled to have the opportunity to address you today. As most of you know, I came to High Point Academy in 2008, entering the 7th grade. I had previously attended The Walden School, which offers a more alternative learning program. I was attracted to High Point because of its solid reputation and structured, disciplined, academic environment. I was also impressed by the genuine welcome of the existing student body. When you’re the new kid on the block it can be quite overwhelming. I had concerns about moving into a vastly different learning environment, but the students and teachers at High Point quickly put me at ease, made me feel welcomed, and instilled in me the belief that I could, indeed, be successful here. Within my first few weeks at High Point I realized that I was in a place that was far better than I had expected. I was being challenged academically, trained in new fundamental principles about life, forging new friendships, and being allowed to flourish creatively. Every morning at drop off, my mom would say “Stephen, make good choices today”. In looking back over these past two years, I can honestly say that I’m thankful that my parents were successful in making the good choice for me to attend High Point Academy.

Although I’ve only been at High Point for two years, my time here has been filled with great memories. A few of those highlights are

- The School Dances
- Premiering my films Twisted and The Giver.
- Going on the end of year camping trip to Leo Carrillo. We all really bonded on that trip.

As you all know, our school mascot is the eagle. The eagle is the American symbol of nobility, strength, freedom and pride. The eagle is immensely powerful, yet majestic to watch in flight. Before an eagle can even learn to take flight, it must go to the very edge of the safety and comforts of its nest and make the choice to jump. It’s said that one must fall before one can fly. This is no different for the most regal and honored of birds. Almost always, the baby eagle will fall to the ground. Once on the ground, it builds up its strength, masters its flying skills, and with unwavering discipline, determination and practice, the baby eagle becomes strong and confident enough to take flight and spread its wings in full extension into the boundless sky above.

As the High Point class of 2010 stands here on the precipice of the nest’s edge and heads off to our respective high schools and the adventures that await us, I’ll agree it can look intimidating. Yet, until each of us takes that daunting leap off the edge, we’ll never know the bliss of being able to soar to our full potential. Granted, we’ll tumble and fall, but in due time, we’ll build up our strengths, come into our own awareness of who we are, develop specialized skills, grow, master our potential, and eventually, like the eagle, spread our wings in full expansion into the boundless sky of life’s limitless possibilities.

To the class of 2010, today is the day to spread our wings. To the teachers of High Point Academy, thank you for being the strength and support in helping us take flight. To the parents of the High Point Academy graduating class, thank you for being the never-ending wind beneath our wings. You all have our eternal round of applause.

And now my friends, it is time for us to spread our wings, and fly into the limitless sky before us.

Getting Your Purple Heart

The Military Order of the Purple Heart was chartered by President, George Washington in 1782. Although protocol around recipients and variations of the medal have changed throughout the years; its purpose has always been to honor military men, and women, for wounds suffered in combat. The actual order includes the phrase "Let it be known that he who wears the military order of the Purple Heart has given of his blood in the defense of his homeland and shall forever be revered by his fellow countrymen."

There’s an irrefutable sense of respect we afford military personal who don a Purple Heart. Its very presence on a soldier’s uniform signals the bravery and sacrifice they’ve selflessly made. We bestow the utmost of reverence to veterans who exhibit their purple hearts, as they regale in the details that lead them to this declaration of personal sacrifice.

Several times throughout these past two years, I have unwillingly been recruited into personal battle. Although my battles weren’t government sponsored battles, but rather inspired by the reckless events of government, I’ve nonetheless found myself on the front line of combat. And, I know I’m not alone. I see my fellow soldiers in the unemployment line, food stamp offices, pleading with their banking institutions, in newspaper headlines, on television, writing blogs about their plight, and in extreme cases, homeless.

Each day, I’ve had to arise early and don my battle gear. Be it a new strategy to finding work, putting on the breastplate of determination to make it through the day, or simply yielding my sword of resilience. The enemy camp is always in full force and at the ready. They have launched their attacks through job loss, financial despair, bullying tactics via bill collectors, charlatan organizations claiming to help, foreclosures, bankruptcies, and all out intimidation and devastation. Unlike any battle, there have been casualties in this war and the wounds suffered have been depression, anxiety, personal loss, and bone crushing exhaustion from the never ceasing battle. Yet, like any good solider, when hit with enemy fire, I’ve had to find the strength within to get back on my feet and continue to charge against my opponent. I’ll admit there have been times throughout this battle when I’ve had to come inside for a time of retreat. Any first-rate solider needs time to recharge and renew themselves. The important thing is to get right back out on the front line and keep fighting with the utmost of fortitude. I don’t mind having holes in my armor as I return to the battle field. I’ve learned that without the holes, the light can’t shine through. Every time I step back into combat I feel stronger and more prepared. My weapons are my faith, determination, network of family and friends, and a well devised strategy. Despite wanting to just drop my sword and surrender, I know that I’m not just fighting this battle for me. My son, my family and my friends are all counting on me. There are no white flags in my survival kit.

When all is said and done, and the losses totaled; I guarantee that my soul, dignity, integrity, or lack of determination will not be part of the final sum.

I have and may continue to emerge with battle wounds. These are scars I’m beyond proud to display. They proclaim to the world that despite taking a hit, I remained constant, took a stand and fought valiantly for what I believed in. That despite how intense the heat of battle became, I never quit. That victory was my only option. In the end, I will receive a purple heart for the wounds incurred. It will be in the form of my business growing, celebrating another year in my home, building my savings account, imparting invaluable life lessons to my son, and waking up each new day celebrating much deserved peacetime.

"Let it be known that she who wears the Purple Heart of life has given of her all in defense of her home and what’s rightfully hers, and shall forever be respected by her peers and fellow soldiers."

Copyright 2010

Being a Soldier's Angel

Earlier this year, my son and I took part in a wonderful organization called Soldier’s Angels. We personally, don’t have a loved one in the armed services, but our hearts goes out to those who do and we wanted to do something to show our support. Soldiers Angels is an organization that pairs you with a soldier who is currently fighting in either Iraq or Afghanistan. The purpose of Soldiers Angels is to provide as much support and contact with our troops from the home front. Each month we write and send care packages to our soldier in an effort to bring a smile, encouragement, and some of the comforts of home to him. We always put a kiss on our care packages as a symbol of our gratitude and hope for God’s protection over our soldier. It can be months before you hear from your soldier because of the conditions they’re fighting under, being housed in a secret location, having worked 16 hours days for weeks on end, or, because they needed to communicate with family first. Either way, we understand and aren’t doing this for our own personal motives, but to support them.

On Veterans Day, as we stop to remember those who’ve selflessly and valiantly given their lives for our freedom, as well as those who are currently fighting, please whisper, or shout if you want to, the words Thank You! Despite the distance and amidst the chaos of war, in some small way, I’m sure our soldiers will hear you.

In closing, I’d like to express my heartfelt thanks to all the men and women who have served, and are serving, our country! Your sacrifice, bravery and dedication are what allow us the freedoms we have today. You are true heroes and have this country's eternal round of applause! Let's also not forget the families of those who've lost loved ones in battle or have loved ones currently serving and the sacrifices they make/have made in the name of freedom.

If you’d like to get involved in or make a donation to Soldiers Angeles, you can do so at http://www.soldiersangels.org/.

I Didn't Know My Own Strength!

I've recently gone through a series of very difficult circumstances, both personally and professionally. Serious life altering changes that on the onset rocked my world considerably! As with most adversities I’ve faced in life, I took a long, hard look at each situation, searched for answers, and a way to grow as a professional and as a human being. I’ll admit there have been moments when I would have preferred to stay curled up in bed in the fetal position crying my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself. In the long run that only yields a bad sinus headache and an even deeper sense of despair. I consider myself more of a Phoenix; always rising above the ashes (or at least out of bed) after some form of destruction has hit my life. These past few months have been no different.

This morning I downloaded Whitney Houston’s new single “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength”. The words spoke so deeply to my heart. The triumph and empowerment she sings of are things I can profoundly relate to. We all get beaten down and battered by the trials and tribulations of life; especially in these tough global and economic times. What keeps us on the path to victory is when we make that instinctive choice to persevere and pick up our proverbial swords and keep fighting. In doing so, we see unfold before us a strength so immensely powerful. A strength we didn't know was residing in us all the while. A strength that will sustain us through to the end allowing us to claim insurmountable triumph and victory.

Thank you Whitney for this song of incredible strength and for the demons you clearly had to overcome in order to sing these words with the amazing conviction and fortitude you did! Way to go!!

Achieving Your Optimal Potential

Watch this AMAZING video on motivations and reaching your optimal best.

The Week Before Christmas

Each year I write a poem for my recruitment team. Those of you in the staffing industry can appreciate the intensity this time of year brings as we near year end and our clients are dizzy with holiday joy and cheer. Last year I wrote a poem called "Working in Recruiting Wonderland". This year I decided to do a twist on "The Night Before Christmas". The names have been changed to protect... well... all of us.

The Week Before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house,
Recruitment was working like a busy little mouse.

Resumes were submitted to the client with care,
In hopes that offers soon would be there.

The Partners were frantic and had much to dread,
While visions of low profits danced in their heads.

With free cokes in the kitchen (but really wanting beer on tap),
The recruiters were exhausted and each needed a nap

When out in reception there arose such a clatter,
Recruiting sprang from their seats to see what was the matter.

They ran to the front quicker than a flash,
Fearing it was a candidate demanding more cash.

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But candidates pouring in from both far and near.

More rapid than eagles the resumes came,
As they applied from firms with a reputable name.

On E&Y, BDO, Deloitte and KPMG,
On Grant Thornton, Moss Adams and PwC.

They had all quit their jobs and heeded the call,
To work for McGladrey, each, one and all.

Jackie spoke not a work but went straight to her work,
Handing out applications and going over the perks.

Then Bill laid a finger aside of his nose,
Working on ways to get each candidate to close.

While Alan did interviews and then heard a grumble in his belly,
It was now 11:30 and he was off to the deli.

Jennifer was excited to know cold calls would stop,
As candidates were accepting and the pipeline did pop.

Managers, Supervisors, and Seniors had been hired,
It was exactly the outcome that the client had desired.

Jim was pleased with how the recruiters stepped up to the task,
Despite thinking they spend their days just drinking from a flask.

But they heard him exclaim as in his Porsche, he drove out of site,
Merry Christmas to all and keep sourcing tonight!

Happy Holidays!!!!!

Heartbeats

Today, my good friend Brian shared a touching and tender story with me that moved my soul in such a way, that I just had to pass it on. I have to preface this anecdote by saying that Brian is a single dad of an adorable two year-old baby girl, Alana. Over the past two years, I’ve watched Brian evolve into a wonderful father and wholly embrace his initiation into fatherhood. He often tells me how Alana is the love and light of his life. With Brian you know he’s speaking directly from his heart when addressing any topic regarding his daughter.

One of the activities he shares with his daughter is a weekly Kindermusik class. Kindermusik is a wonderful program designed to teach infants and toddlers preliminary musical skills all the while promoting parental bonding and interaction. During Brian's and Alana’s recent Kindermusik class the teacher instructed both parent and child to draw physically close to each other to feel and share each others’ heartbeats. What a brilliant concept and powerfully moving time of bonding!

Fast forward two days later. Brian is dressing and primping Alana for the day. Any of you who’ve been adventurous enough to meticulous groom a two year-old know all too well that such an activity could have rattled even Gandhi; however, thankfully, such was not the case this morning. Clearly Brian had some good karma coming to him. As Brian was brushing Alana’s hair there was a tender spirit about her. Brian pulled her close and encouraged her to share their heartbeats; to which she readily obliged. In doing so, she heard both hers and her fathers’ heartbeats as one. Being caught up in the moment she gave a gentle smile and cooed. It was such a moving moment for both that Brian had Alana do it again. No words, just bonding through the unified beating of their hearts. A heartbeat symbolizes life and love. Both of which were very present. If every child could have such deep, affectionate moments with their parents just think of the beautiful, peaceful generation of children we’d raise.

When Brian shared this story with me, I was touch by how incredibly blessed both he and Alana were to have had this priceless moment of bonding. I was also reminded that there is a heart beating inside every child and it needs to be heard and tended to. Too often as busy parents we get caught up in the demands of our day. We forget to take something as simple as grooming our children and making the moment special and building lasting memories. We let valued moments slip through our hands. All too soon our children will be off on their own and our homes will be agonizingly quiet. Instead of listening to the current deafening din around us, we need to make some quiet time with our children. Time so quiet we can hear the precious beating of their hearts and be reminded of the priceless gift they are to us. Then, when they’re grown up and eventually leave the nest, you can gently put your hand on your own heart, feel its tender beating and know they’re still close by.

The Merry Bells of Christmas

I know, I know. It's only September 4th and I'm already writing a blog about Christmas.

I'd be remiss if I didn't share with you the wonderful nostalgic experience I encountered this past weekend at the Pasadena Flea Market. As an experienced shopper, I know all too well the pre-shopping ritual that must take place. I was dubious to properly stretch, apply sunscreen, don my baseball cap and sunglasses, chant to the shopping gods for great bargains, and most importantly, grab my non-fat venti vanilla latte with whip. All by 7:30 a.m., mind you. That's right, 7:30 a.m. on a weekend. Bargain hunting requires exemplary skills and a strategy equal to that of a well executed military operation.

The temperature was a disgusting 99 degrees and climbing. It was an optimal environment for hatching baby chicks, not antique shopping. Being the ardent bargain hunter that I am, I was not going to let the sweltering heat deter me. I browsed through countless items with childlike glee. Silverware, paintings, furniture, toys, collectibles, apparel, and every conceivable chachkey you could imagine.

Before I go further, I need to interject here with a story from my youth. Hang with me. It will all make sense in a few minutes.

Every year, on the Friday after Thanksgiving my mother would don this lovely Christmas bell pin. She’d wear it on her wool coat and sweaters. Hearing the first sweet sounds of the tinkling bell would signify the start of the Christmas season. I can remember hearing my mother walking down the church aisle at Christmas all the while hearing her jingle until she properly took her seat. As the years passed, I would search jewelry store after jewelry store in an effort to procure the same pin my mother had. I liked the symbolism it held for me and wanted to one day impart the same to my child(ren). For almost 30 years I diligently searched, but to no avail.

Now here’s where we get back to my original story. See, I told you it would all make sense.

I happened upon a table with a display of antique jewelry. I normally don’t browse the jewelry tables because I know the one thing that catches my eye will undoubtedly be from some Royal family and have a price tag far beyond what my humble purse can afford. Thankfully, today was different. As I quickly surveyed the beautiful baubles, one piece of jewelry in particular caught my eye. It was an exact replica of the Christmas bell pin my mother wore. I gasped with excitement and the largest of smiles crossed my face. I quickly snatched up the pin and inquired as to its cost. The vendor replied “Uh, that one. It’s $7.00.” To which I immediately replied “I’ll take it”.

I made several other modest purchases throughout the morning, but nothing held greater value to me than having found my long sought after Christmas pin. It’s not because of the material value of the pin but rather the sentimental value; which to me is priceless. Hearing the gentle ringing of the pin’s bells has flooded my heart and mind with wonderful memories of my childhood Christmas’s.

In Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, the character of ZuZu Bailey is quoted as saying “When a bell rings an angel gets its wings”. For me, when I hear the sweet sounds of the bell ringing, I’m reminded of an angel of a mother who created this wonderful holiday memory and how on the wings of this tradition I can share the same with my child.

Oh, and for the record, there are only 109 shopping days until Christmas.

Avon Breast Cancer Walk

This coming September 15th & 16th I have committed myself to walk almost 40 miles, with thousands of other men and women to help find a cure for breast cancer. We will forge new friendships, get blisters on our feet, drink countless bottles of water, sleep in tents, and walk 26 miles one day and 13 miles the next; all the while raising money for breast cancer research. We have committed to the training and fundraising required to participate in this life changing event known as The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer . The net proceeds from this event (and others across America) will support non-profit breast health programs, as well as medical research to help find a cure for breast cancer.

I've been touched my so many stories from my friends and loved ones on how they were personally affected by breast cancer. Whether they themselves are a survivor, know someone battling breast cancer, or have lost a loved one to the disease. I've been humbled and challenged by your personal accounts and will walk in tribute to them.

My story is pretty simple, but at the time was quite a scare. I awoke one Saturday morning, over two years ago, and inadvertently found a lump in my right breast. By Monday morning I was in the doctors office. On Tuesday I had undergone a mammogram and breast sonogram. On Thursday I was in surgery having not one, but three lumps removed as well as several small masses. Two of the lumps removed hadn't shown on the mammogram. Within the span of one week my life had drastically stopped and I was confronted with the possibility of having breast cancer. The morning of my surgery there were several other women going in for breast related surgeries. When all was said and done, my lumps were benign, however, I've never forgotten the other women who went into surgery that same day and received the difficult diagnosis of breast cancer. From that day on, I promised myself that I would do my part to help those who despite optimism, prayers and the best of medical care, suffer from breast cancer. The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer is a great way for me to show my gratitude for my positive outcome as well as help those who suffer from this terrible disease. I'm asking for your help as well.

This year, over 180,000 women in the United States will be diagnosed with breast cancer.

Over 40,000 will die.

That's why we're walking.

To do something big.

To be a part of something special, and something very, very important.
We hope that you'll be a partner with us in this effort.

Each walker must commit to raising at least $2,000. Maybe we're crazy--but if this is what it takes to find a cure, and help our many friends and family who are breast cancer survivors--we'll be there.

I'm asking for your support. Would you commit to making a fully tax-deductible donation toward my efforts to help us meet our goal? I'd like to personally thank each one of you for joining us in this fight. You can make your donation on-line at: www.avonwalk.org. – click on Make a Donation – then click on Donate to a Participate, select Los Angeles and then type in my name (LoriAnn Boyer - for those of you who've already forgotten who sent this email). You can make a single donation or spread your contribution over several months. Any support will be most graciously appreciated.

In the time it has taken you to read this, another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer in the United States.

Please help us change that statistic.

Thank you ALL from the bottom of my heart.

Love,
LoriAnn

First Crush

For the past several months, my son has had a crush on a girl at school.

It wasn’t until recently that he finally opened up and shared his heart’s intent with me, but I’d had my suspicions.

There are certain unmistakable signs that a preteen boy is falling in love.

Improved hygiene, for one.

Suddenly, my son was showering more thoroughly and actually using the soap and shampoo. A huge feat when you’re parenting a preteen. He began getting ready for school a half hour earlier than usual, paying careful attention to his wardrobe and hair. Dressing out of the hamper and walking out the door with bed head was apparently SO yesterday.

Then came the request for a lesson on the proper application of deodorant, followed by an inquiry as to whether he should start wearing cologne.

But perhaps the most telling sign was his newfound affection for Mondays.

He would walk around on weekends forlorn, seemingly counting the hours until Monday morning arrived. With the possible exception of pastors and priests, I don’t know anyone who looks forward to Mondays.

Clearly, this was serious.

One afternoon, while driving home from Baskin-Robbins (please don’t tell my Weight Watchers instructor), my son turned to me and asked a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Mom, what does it feel like to be in love?”

There are questions your children ask that make you realize, without warning, that they’re growing up right beside you. One minute you’re reminding them to use shampoo. The next, they’re asking you to explain one of the great mysteries of the human experience.

What does it feel like to be in love?

Why… it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

It’s euphoric and beautiful. Silly and tender. Invigorating and heart-thumping. It makes ordinary things feel extraordinary. A glance can sustain you for an afternoon. A hallway can become the place where your entire future might be decided.

And apparently, Monday morning becomes something to look forward to.

Then he asked me about my first crush.

I love when my son asks about my childhood. It gives me the chance to introduce him to the person I was before I was Mom. And I think there’s something comforting for him in discovering that I’ve been where he is, that all of these strange and wonderful feelings are simply part of growing up.

My first great love arrived in fifth grade.

His name was Mr. Pontes.

My teacher.

I fell madly, deeply and unabashedly in love with him.

He was gorgeous, by a ten-year-old’s standards. I was giddy with excitement at the beginning of each school day and devastated when the final bell rang. That meant a long bus ride home and an entire night of counting the hours until I could be reunited with my beloved.

Apparently, love hasn’t changed much in a generation. My son had discovered shampoo.

I discovered perfect attendance.

In an effort to impress Mr. Pontes, I worked diligently on every assignment. This was important. If we were eventually going to build a life together, he needed to know he was marrying his intellectual equal.

Never mind that one of us had a college degree and the other was still mastering long division.

I had also read somewhere that men liked women with long, silky hair, so I kept mine long and perfectly combed. I could have been in a coma or traction and I would not have missed a day of school.

I watched Mr. Pontes with adoration as he glided through the classroom, dispensing his knowledge upon us. I found him absolutely dreamy.

I loved everything about being in love with him: the butterflies, the exhilaration, the anticipation, the sheer joy of being in the same room with the object of my affection.

And I was quite certain Mr. Pontes felt the same way.

Naturally, he couldn't reveal his feelings. He was my teacher, after all. There were professional standards to maintain.

In my ten-year-old mind, his professionalism was not evidence that he didn’t love me.

It was evidence of extraordinary restraint.

When he called in sick one day and left us with a substitute teacher, I was furious.

How dare he not consider my feelings?

There was, of course, the minor complication of our 20-year age difference.

And his wife.

And their two children.

Details.

I was convinced that Mr. Pontes was every bit as enraptured with me as I was with him and had simply decided to wait patiently until I turned 18. At that point, he would divorce his wife, profess his undying love for me, we would marry, have seven children and live happily ever after.

I had no idea, of course, that this plan technically positioned me as a homewrecker.

Great.

A homewrecker at ten.

Clearly, my moral development had not kept pace with my romantic ambitions.

Then, one Friday afternoon, it happened.

“Lori, may I speak with you in the hall?”

This was it.

After months of stolen glances, academic excellence and impeccably combed hair, the man could resist me no longer.

With heart-pounding anticipation and a sweet dizziness, I followed him into the hallway.

He asked me to sit down and crouched beside me.

Oh my heavens.

He’s going to propose.

Never mind that I was ten, he was thirty, and I still needed permission to go to the bathroom.

Love apparently recognizes no administrative boundaries.

“Lori…” Mr. Pontes began.

“Yes?” I said, ready to leap from my chair, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately.

Well, as passionately as a ten-year-old knows how to kiss.

“Ms. Almeda informed me that you were somewhat unruly in the lunchroom today and, despite repeated warnings, you chose not to modify your behavior. Is this true?”

My heart sank.

He was not going to propose.

Worse.

I was in trouble.

How utterly humiliating.

I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. This could not be happening. Mr. Pontes was the love of my life, and I was standing before him a convicted lunchroom anarchist.

I burst into tears.

I confessed to everything.

I apologized incessantly.

For my punishment, I had to write all 50 states and their capitals three times.

For days afterward, I had knots in my stomach and behaved sheepishly around him. The fantasy had been shattered. The future Mrs. Pontes had fallen from grace.

By day two, I realized I was experiencing something entirely new.

Heartbreak.

Sadly, it would not be my last encounter with that particular emotion.

I finished fifth grade still deeply admiring Mr. Pontes, but I was no longer in love with him.

I was much more mature now.

Mr. Pontes was SO yesterday.

Besides, I had moved on.

I was now crazily in love with Erik Estrada.

At least he wasn’t married with a family.

I find myself thinking about that little girl now as I watch my son experience his first crush.

I remember how enormous those feelings seemed. How one person could suddenly make school more exciting, weekends unbearably long and Monday morning something worth counting down to.

And I remember how real it all was.

That's perhaps the most important thing for me to remember as his mother. His first crush may someday become a funny childhood story, just as Mr. Pontes became one of mine. But right now, to him, these feelings aren't small simply because he's young.

They're enormous.

Sitting beside him that afternoon, I realized my son was taking his first few steps down a road I know well.

There will be butterflies and awkward conversations. There will probably be ridiculous decisions and, almost certainly, heartbreak. There may be people he loves for a season and, someday, perhaps someone he loves for a lifetime.

I can’t walk that road for him.

I wouldn’t want to.

But right now, he’s still willing to let me walk beside him.

And that may be one of the sweetest parts of watching him grow up.

Besides, any girl who can get my son to voluntarily use shampoo has already earned a special place in my heart.

The Pinewood Derby

Today was our Cub Scout pack’s Pinewood Derby.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Scouting, the Pinewood Derby is an annual tradition, pitting Scout against Scout in pulse-jumping, nail-biting races. About a month before the big event, each Scout is handed a 6" x 2" block of pine and given the challenge of transforming it into a racing machine that will shoot like a bullet down a 40-foot track.

Every year, I’m touched by watching grown men revert to their childhood as they reminisce about building Pinewood Derby cars with their dads. Some have even admitted to still proudly displaying their cars despite now being middle-aged themselves. I suspect it has far less to do with the glory of winning and much more to do with the memories attached to that little block of wood.

There’s something wonderful about watching the 10-year-old boy reappear in a grown man as he regales you with stories of his Derby days.

This year, due to my ex-husband’s busy schedule, I was tasked with overseeing the transformation of my son’s block of pine into a miniature NASCAR-ish creation.

I should probably interject here that I’m a bit of a perfectionist, particularly when it comes to aesthetics.

This could have been a problem.

But this wasn’t my Pinewood Derby car. It was my son’s. I had to step aside and allow him to take ownership of his creative process. My job was simply to purchase the paints, decals and weights, offer assistance when asked and then watch the metamorphosis from ordinary block of wood to championship-worthy race car unfold.

By relinquishing my ideas, and, OK, a little...um...control, over what I thought his car should look like, I was amazed by what he ultimately created.

Wow.

A life lesson for Mom hidden inside a Pinewood Derby? How novel.

My son was knocked out of the competition midway through. It certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. He placed second in most of his races before eventually making way for the remaining Scouts to vie for the top prize.

One might think that would bring some disappointment after weeks of hard work, anticipation and preparation.

But something quite different happened.

During the final heats, one of my son’s friends, whom we’ll call Tyler, emerged as the front-runner. Every time Tyler approached the track, the boys began chanting his name.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

With each heat Tyler won, the chants grew louder.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

What struck me was that these were the same boys whose own cars had already been eliminated. Their chance at the trophy was over. Yet there wasn’t a hint of resentment or disappointment as they watched their friend move closer to winning.

They were genuinely thrilled for him.

In that moment, Tyler’s wins became their wins.

When the final heat ended, the Cubmaster announced the third-place winner. Everyone applauded.

Then came second place. More applause.

Finally, the boys crowded around Tyler. Fingers were crossed. Anticipation was high. They waited.

“And the grand prize winner of the 2007 Pinewood Derby is...TYLER!”

The room erupted.

Tyler’s friends jumped up and down, screaming and cheering, hugging him so tightly he could barely break free to collect his trophy.

I stood there watching them and found myself deeply touched by the sincerity of their sportsmanship and, more importantly, their friendship.

This was Tyler’s day.

But it occurred to me that Tyler had won something far more valuable than a Pinewood Derby trophy. He had a group of friends who could celebrate his success as enthusiastically as if it were their own.

They say we can learn a great deal from children if we’re willing to look with the right eyes and an open heart. Today was no exception.

I learned that genuine love and support in friendship are gifts far greater than any trophy we could ever take home. I was also reminded that I won’t always take home the grand prize in every area of my own life. Sometimes it will be someone else’s turn to stand in the winner’s circle.

And when it is, I hope I’m standing nearby, cheering just as loudly.

My son and the other Scouts may not have taken home the top prize today, but as far as I’m concerned, they demonstrated something worth far more.

They showed what it looks like to be number one as friends.

Way to go, guys.

A New Beginning

There’s a symbolic nature about the dawn of a new year. It’s as if every January 1st, life graciously affords us a “do over”; the opportunity to start anew. For most, it’s a time to cleanse the previous years’ slate of failures, missed opportunities, broken resolutions, hurt, pain, drama, and mistakes and initiate or reignite our goals and purpose. It’s like the sweetness and sense of renewal you feel after a rain storm. Everything is fresh, beautiful and hopeful again. We thrust ourselves into the new year with great expectations. Not that we approach them in a quixotic nature, but rather with a genuine zeal. We have the best of intentions. For many, unfortunately, the fervor is lost within the first month. Whether it’s trying to lose weight, stop smoking or drinking, start that new career, or taking that long awaited trip, many simply give up all too quickly, only to face the same regret of another failure the following new year. For those that remain steadfast in passionately pursuing their resolutions and dreams, they have the pure satisfactin of knowing they stayed the course and can now partake in the sweet taste of accomplishment and victory.

As I look back at this past year there are countless accomplishments I’m proud of. I set numerous goals for myself, from learning to start a fire in my fireplace to taking my business to a higher level. I experienced the satisfaction of reaching one goal after another. On the flip side, there are also moments in which I wished I handled things differently, whether with more grace and compassion, better judgment, or had disciplined myself to stay wholly focused on the all of the objectives I had set for myself. All in all, I feel I emerged from 2006 a more grounded, compassionate, insightful, intellectually wealthy, and driven individual. I can’t undo the pain, hurt, failures or mistakes I encountered during 2006. I can only learn from them and center my thoughts on the future that is at hand, set new aspirations, and endeavor to reach them with the utmost of commitment. I feel with each passing year, I have come more and more into my own. I’ve finally learned who I am and love the course my life is taking. It’s not the easiest of courses by far, but one I’m eager to embark on as 2007 unfolds. I'm eager to see where life takes me this year and where I'll be this time come December 31st. I lift my cyberspace glass of champagne and enthusiastically toast 2007. A year I'm certain will be filled with elation, joy, successes, and of course, unexpected turns. All of which I passionately embrace. Here's to a wonderful New Year!

HELLO... Farewell...

This morning I had the sad and daunting task of putting one of my cats to sleep.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, or Wolfie, as we affectionately called him, was a birthday gift from my ex-husband before we were married more than 16 years ago. My ex and I often joked that Wolfie lasted longer than our marriage.

The passing of a beloved pet is never easy. After all, this furry creature, despite his non-human form, was as much a part of our family as any other member.

As I reflected on Wolfie’s 16 years with me, I found comfort in the many enchanting memories he left behind.

He was sweet and loving beyond my expectations. He lived in six homes and four states. He traveled cross-country with his late brother, Schubert, in 1995. He had a Woody Allen persona but could catch a mouse like a pro. His favorite cat food was Fancy Feast, and he adored tummy rubs. During his final year, he spent his days perched atop my desk, fascinated by the keyboard and the cursor moving across my computer screen.

But perhaps Wolfie’s most memorable characteristic was his nightly patrol of the hallway.

Every evening, without fail, he would skulk up and down the hall of our home, meowing a sound that came out remarkably like “Hello.”

This scared the daylights out of unsuspecting overnight guests, and I would have to explain that no, there wasn’t a mysterious stranger wandering the house. It was just Wolfie, making his nightly rounds.

Last night, Wolfie roamed the hallway one final time, conducting his last aria of “Hellos.”

I listened differently this time.

My heart broke as I realized that within a matter of hours, the two of us would be saying our own final farewell.

When morning came, my heart was heavy with what I knew lay ahead. At the vet’s office, I made the decision to stay with Wolfie until the end. It was the only choice that felt right. This was his deepest hour of need, and I couldn’t abandon him simply to spare myself the pain of witnessing his final moments.

Much to my surprise, and enormous comfort, he purred until the very end.

The moment he was gone, grief struck at the very core of me. But almost as quickly, I found comfort in knowing that Wolfie had lived a full, carefree and wonderful life. The pain he had endured during the past several months was gone.

He was finally at peace.

When I returned home carrying an empty cat carrier but a heart filled with 16 years of precious memories, I took a quiet moment to grieve.

As I sat there, my remaining pets, one dog and three cats, began to gather around me. One by one, they drew near. It was almost as though we were collectively mourning the loss of one of our own. There was an unspoken sadness among us, but also a quiet consoling.

It was incredibly touching.

So farewell, my furry friend.

Thank you for 16 years of friendship, silly moments, love, loyalty and undeniable sweetness. Thank you for traveling through six homes, four states and so many chapters of my life with me. Thank you for keeping watch over our hallways and for making us laugh with your nightly “Hellos.”

I imagine the house will feel a little too quiet tonight.

And somewhere in that quiet, I know I’ll be listening for you.

Goodnight, Wolfie.