MICROSKIRTS
T.U.E.S.D.A.Y. Yoda Ha Ha Helen
M.O.N.D.A.Y.
W.E.D.N.E.S.D.A.Y.
T.H.U.R.S.D.A.Y.
Washington, My Home
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viewsLucky You! Writing Challenge Winners
By Skirt.com, Friday, March 5, 2010Congrats to ClubGirl007 and Kim Sisto Robinson our TWO Lucky You! Writing Challenge Winners!
Yes, that's right it was a tie! We couldn't decide between these two stories. One, incredibly heroic and the other incredibly intriguing. So Avindy generously offered to give earrings to BOTH these writers!
We asked the skirt! nation to submit stories about Luck. 
They wrote in with stories of serendipity, the wings of fortune, good luck and bad luck, big breaks, karma, a run of luck, a fluke, a windfall, bad fortune and lady luck.
ClubGirl007and Kim will receive these Pearl Tassels with Topaz earrings from Avindy Jewelry (who have been featured in O Magazine, InStyle, Lucky, Seventeen, Cosmo and Good Housekeeping.)
Here are the two winning entries:
I'd never really considered myself to be "lucky."
Luck was something that happened to other people. Things may have seemed to work out for me--at times--if all the stars, planets and powers that be lined up. Which meant that more often than not, I wasn't a ready recipient of visitations from the "luck fairy" who seemed to hang out on a regular basis with everyone else.
But I feel extremely lucky to be alive.
I was at home in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina struck. One minute I was talking to my father-in-law on the phone and seven minutes later the water in my house was chest high and we were scrambling to shove 5 dogs and a cat into the attic along with anything else we could salvage--which amounted to a weekend travel bag containing a change of clothes and our desktop computer that contained all of the plans and records for our newly-launched consulting business.
As we sat in attic with our feet dangling over the edge of the opening, we watched as the water kept rising towards us. With nowhere else to go we listened helplessly as the wind raged outside and heard our neighbors' screams as they were awakened out of a sound sleep by rushing water pouring into their beds.
We watched in disbelief as the water rose beneath our feet and the corners of the roof lifted ever so slightly each time a new gust of wind bore down on the house. Despite the fact that I weighed all of 135 pounds soaking wet—I nonetheless positioned myself to hold onto the rafters, pulling down with all of my might, in the hopes that I could somehow keep the entire roof from ripping off of the house and exposing us to the elements.
I definitely did not feel lucky at the time.
After the storm passed, we used a hammer to try and chisel and chip an opening out of the attic so we could crawl out onto the roof. As I cursed the contractors who'd added layer upon layer of wood, pressed particle board and covered it all with an aluminum sheet--I definitely did not feel lucky.
After hours of chiseling, hammering, pulling, prying and cursing, when I was finally able to squeeze through the small opening that I'd managed to create and ended up with a 6-inch scratch down my arm as I pulled myself up and out--I did not feel lucky.
As I surveyed the devastation all around us and saw nothing but water everywhere. The cars covered. The streets gone. And heard the endless noise of countless helicopters hovering in the air--some of them plucking people off of roofs, others filled with media who were seemingly too busy taking pictures and filming the devastation to drop anyone a lifeline to safety. I did not feel lucky.
As we endured three days of sweltering heat and tried to find ways of quenching our insatiable thirst and keeping our dogs from fighting in the small, cramped space of the attic--I did not feel lucky.
When on the third night when we heard the roar of helicopters, shouts and noise that appeared to come from everywhere at once and awoke the next morning to an eerie silence because everyone else around us was gone. I did not feel lucky.
When the guy from our neighborhood pulled up in a fishing boat that had washed up on his roof and offered to take us to the school two blocks away to be rescued, I began to feel hopeful.
When we arrived at the school and ended up spending another four days trying to survive in a "community" that was reminiscent of something out of The Lord of the Flies because the rescue workers who'd come in to change shifts forgot to report that we were there--I did not feel lucky. After we were accidentally discovered by a group of rescue workers who were en route to another location, I started to feel a glimmer of hope.
When the National Guard helicopter showed up a couple of hours later and dropped us food and water, I started to feel a little more hope that we might make it out alive.
When the Coast Guard helicopter arrived at 5am the next morning, I was loaded into one of those little baskets and airlifted out of the school--and saw for the first time the enormity of the devastation--I broke down in tears.
When I was safely inside of the helicopter and my husband joined me shortly thereafter and the copilot asked if he could take our picture because we were the first people they'd found alive.
I felt lucky. -ClubGirl007
His rings glittered gold against the green of the black jack table. The pit boss informed me he was from Saudi Arabia, that he had flown into Nassau on his private jet, and that he had a harem with him.
They called me into work early because I happened to be the quickest dealer and they wanted his money fast and furious. This sort of guy made the casino management a bit jittery.
They placed Mr. Saudi in the back room with his harem. This room was built exclusively for the high rollers, the big kahunas, the rich son-of-a-guns. This was a room where your meals were served to you while the dealer dealt your cards and the pit bosses breathed their nicotine -coffee breath down the back of your neck like a bad furnace. This was a room where, if you desired, you could be fed grapes off the vine like Tiberius.
He played all seven hands while his harem, all resembling Play Boy Bunnies, intensely watched on. He played ten thousand dollars a hand. You heard that right, ten thousand dollars. One sweep of the hand could have purchased a small flat on the island.
It was exuberating, stimulating, and terrifying all at the same time, and my fingers were sticky and sweaty against the cards. My brain was calculating the numbers, patterns, splits and double downs. I was so preoccupied, that I second guessed myself, Now what does a ten thousand dollar black jack pay out again?
Mr. Saudi did not talk. He just tapped his gold-ringed finger when he wanted a hit. Tap, tap, tap. His bunnies swarmed around him as if he were a big fat Buddha. Actually, he and Hugh Hefner had a lot in common‚ minus the turban. I remember thinking how money could buy you almost anything, but it couldn’t buy you a winning hand.
He was losing. Still, he did not utter a single vowel or reveal any emotion.
After three or four hours, Mr. Saudi had lost almost half a million dollars. He whispered something to one of the bunnies and she exited the room swiftly. I heard later that he had told her to call the airport to get the jet ready.
He glanced up at me and grinned. It was the first time he had made any eye contact whatsoever during our encounter together. He threw several black and red chips in the middle of the table, gathered up his belongings, and his harem followed him out of the building like little obedient ducklings.
He left the Cable Beach Casino girls a ten thousand dollar tip that afternoon. We jumped up and down as if we‚ won the lottery.
I find it absolutely astonishing how one person’s bad fortune became another person’s good fortune, how a stranger from Saudi Arabia financed my very first car, and how luck had nothing to do with it. –Kim Sisto Robinson
Here are more of our favorite entries from our Lucky You! Writing Challenge. Enjoy!
You Gotta Have Balls: Sour and Gum
When I was seven, while performing a Kung Fu fighting gymnastics move, I choked on a lemon sour ball. My airway became completely clogged with the yellow orb. I flailed about, turning blue. My mom picked me up by me feet and shook me upside down until the sour ball flew from my throat and into the wall in our den. She promptly terminated my relationship with sour balls. She emptied out the glass dish that was a staple fixture housing the candy buffet in our family room. I concluded that sour balls were extinct for everyone.
Imagine my surprise when just a few short weeks later, I discovered a brand new, freshly opened bag of sour balls in the kitchen cabinet behind the chocolate chips. “What the?” I wondered. When I confronted my mom she told me that sour balls weren’t off limits to everyone, just to me. "What the?" She said I was the one who choked so I couldn’t have them anymore, but my brothers and sister could. There was no reason to punish everyone for my inability to sit still and eat like a normal person. I pleaded my case. She vetoed. Case closed.
Recently through a typo, I realized with an inadvertent key stroke, that without the “F” the word life becomes the word lie. Maybe that is more than just a typo. Perhaps it is symbolic that it takes failing and getting what we deserve to realize that we must be responsible for our actions. Maybe it also takes the subsequent recovery from the “F” to know that the beat goes on. Without the “F” and the rising above it, life is a boring drive between the lines.
Around the same time that I lost my sourball privileges, I put a nickel in the Piggly Wiggly gumball machine and had the entire contents empty into the fabric basket that I quickly fashioned out of the bottom of my tee shirt. I ran over to my mom and told her I had hit the jackpot. She was unimpressed and instructed me to return the gum to the manager. That manager took a look at my little blonde headed self, my shirt full of gum, and told me to keep it. Sometimes you deserve to hit the jackpot, he said smiling. I decided at that moment that I must be especially lucky, offsetting my tragic breakup with my sour lover.
On the great balance beam of life, you lose the sourballs and win the gumballs. Sometimes you deserve what you get. Sometimes you get a lucky break. Somewhere is the delicate straddling of being the great, confident, powerful, light-sourced being that we are designed to be and declining the self-centered, self-interested, self-seeking, inflated-self-worth, all-about-me terrorist that pulls at us with magnetic tilt force. As my friend Leslie once summed it up, Every day I have to tell ego to get in the back seat so that spirit can drive.
Whether you are climbing the hills or coasting the valleys, nothing is permanent. I have come to realize moments for what they are: some wonderful, some terrible, most teaching in some way, all temporary and fleeting. We are at our best when we put the load of ego in the backseat, and let spirit ease on down, ease on down the road. -Emily Howard
This morning, while my oatmeal cooked, I approached my bed to make it pretty for the day.
Upon my cream flannel sheet, something dark and the diameter of a lipstick tube caught my attention.
"That's a pretty big clumb of fuzz. I wasn't wearing anything fuzzy...?"
True. Not fuzz.
A mushed spider with bent and curled up legs sat where my body had been all night.
Shivers and cringes. But not a bite on me. – Heather LaRee
Oh, please--luck? Spare me from this silly notion. My luck ran out when I was ten, when my mother died from a treatable but misdiagnosed condition. She left four other children besides me, and my baffled father as well, the six of us holding on as long as we could manage it, but then letting go of the lifeboat and sliding silently into the ocean of stifled emotions. That's putting it mildly. The family exploded into glass shards of isolation, each of us choosing our personal hell--escape to the West, escape into drugs, escape into preposterous religiosity or marriage to unsuitable partners. Anything but closeness, anything but mutual support. Damn the luck.
My second husband told me that the family dog of his childhood was named Lucky. I snorted when he said it, but another part of my brain acknowledged a tender response. A dog named Lucky. Dogs eat from garbage heaps and wait to be admitted into the house by their people. What sort of family is so together, so much at peace with the notion of luck, so brimming with love and so removed from cynicism that they could name their dog Lucky without irony?
The marriage didn't last, of course, but occasionally I reflected on the dog. A symbol of fidelity, the dog, and even dogs who aren't named Lucky. The point: there is a degree of naivety and trust that allows us to banish reserve and simply revel in the love of a dog. The more brilliant revelation: this condition of letting go and simply loving is transferable to children.
My second child was born just before I turned 40. I raised her by myself, working at whatever jobs didn't make me feel dread, attending university to complete a degree, cycling in and out of love relationships that failed not just a little but a lot, living hundreds of miles from the remnants of family upon whom I had long since given up.
What I like about my second daughter is that she has clear eyes and a fine mind. She doesn't wash dishes but she makes me laugh. Our tiny home is populated by dogs, cats, and friends who drop by to lounge on our battered couch and talk things over. At seventeen, my daughter is completing her second year of college and is a gifted singer and stage performer. We write together, read items from the internet to one another that make us double over with hilarity, make plans for gourmet vegetarian meals, and praise our dogs for doing things like eating dog food or coming into the house when invited. My life with India is pure bliss. At some point--I don't know how it happened--I became the luckiest person in the world. I accept this. - Terry Allen
LUCKY: 10 year high school reunion.
My high school sweetie and I hook up.
Fall in love again.
NOT LUCKY:
He lived across country outside of Nashville.
I lived in Southern California.
I decide to transplant and move out there.
LUCKY: Even though things weren't perfect, I decided to ask for a "sign".
Do I stay or Do I go back "home"?
I take a country walk down a rural road on a simmering sunny afternoon appreciating the grazing cows.
I feel gratitude for the peaceful serenity of the nature surrounding me.
I think, "maybe this CAN work."
UNLUCKY:
Two rednecks pull up beside me in their beater car.
Stick a gun in my face and order me to get in the car.
LUCKY: Some part of me remembers a police officer's lecture five years earlier, "Never get in the car. Even if they pull a gun on you."
In shock but standing, I calmly walk away knowing I could be shot in the back.
I wasn't.
LUCKY: The local sheriff arrives, takes my story and says, "You're lucky you didn't get in that car."
UNLUCKY:
I decide that was the "sign" for me to go back home.
I fly away.
LUCKY: My Tennessee guy follows me to California and transplants himself and waits for me to come to my senses.
One year later, we marry.
Thirty years later, we are still... happily married. –Heather LaRee (second entry)
Scores of people utilize the word “luck” or “lucky” without reflecting on its connotation. My mother once exclaimed, “You found a lucky penny, how wonderful!” Why is it so wonderful? How did she know the penny was lucky? If it really were lucky, what do I get? In addition, what exactly do you eat at a “pot luck” dinner? I don’t believe anyone really knows since you would be eating “the luck of the draw”. So what does the word mean? I discovered my answer one serendipitous afternoon.
Shopping in a local boutique, I couldn’t help overhear two women babbling back and forth, as one held up a pair of jeans, constricted and elongated, clearly demonstrating that they were only meant for a six foot high stick figure. The other woman flaunted a crimson silk blouse with wildly puffy sleeves, ruffles at the neck and garishly decorated with silver octagonal buttons. She bellowed, swollen with pride, “I was so lucky I found a new job, even though my commute is over an hour long. Do you think this blouse will look good on my first day? I was so lucky to find it!”
Keen on writing this essay, my ears must have been sensitive to the word “lucky”, twice no less. I slowly meandered closer to the pair. I eavesdropped. Yes, you heard me, I eavesdropped. The lady at the long overstuffed rack with the jeans wildly rummaged through the garments. The hangars screeched, like a wild animals fighting for a meal, as she shoved them to one side in a fury. “I’ll be lucky (there’s that word again) if I can find a pair of jeans that fit. I don’t have a good figure. I’m not lucky like you.” She said to her friend.
I asked myself, was finding a tasteless pink blouse, a new pair of jeans, a job with an hour’s commute or a slim figure, luck? Rushing home, impatient to put my thoughts to paper, I wrote, “I’m lucky to have eaves dropped on two ladies in the boutique. Luck is whatever you desire and you’re lucky if you figure that out! –Sandy Ruyack
An Unlucky Day
It was that perfect kind of day in June, when the sun is shining and the day is long. I was out in a little village in France doing some shopping, and my children were behaving themselves, for once. They had had ice creams and merry-go-round rides, and I had a bag full of stuff that fit perfectly. Ahhhh.
All perfect afternoons must end sometime. I returned to the parking lot and pulled out my ticket for validation at the machine. My children looked up at me with sticky, tired faces as I waited in line. Resigned, I was tapping my foot a little when out of nowhere, a gypsy surged from behind the machine - "Bonjour, Madame."
A gypsy? It sounds odd, but I can't think of a better word to describe her. I'll stop short of saying she was homeless; she probably wasn't. She was undoubtedly part of the group that the French call the "gitans" who travel around the country, staying in RVs, and in the warm months, searching for small jobs to do from local merchants. Or alternatively, reading fortunes in parking lots.
"Can I read your hand?" she asked. I shook my head no.
"Please," she said, more quietly. "I have children, too."
I usually make a direct beeline for the parking machine. I look at no one. I keep my purse close to my body. I do not linger. But today had been such a good day, the afternoon seeming endless and unhurried. I looked at her full in the face and couldn't help but respond. I saw a woman about my own age, painfully thin under her brightly colored clothes. She might have been pretty if her eyes hadn't looked so sunken and haunted.
It had been a good day. I could do this for someone else. "OK," I said. "How much?"
"Anything you can give."
Anything seemed like maybe two euros (about a buck, fifty) to me. She snatched it eagerly, the coin disappearing down the front of her shirt.
She took my hand, to the great interest of my gaping children, and predicted the usual--luck in career, days for love and days to be careful. All appeared generally sunny. I only half listened, anxious to have my hand back.
"Now," she said. "You place some money in my palm for luck." I scrambled for a small coin and fished out twenty centimes, about fifteen cents.
"Not enough," she said.
I cleared my throat a little. "Excuse me?"
"It's not enough. If you want big luck, you need big money."
"How about that two euros I just gave you? Isn't that big enough?"
She shook her head, now visibly annoyed with me. "That doesn't count."
The blue sky clouded over, and the fuzzy, new summer colors of the day snapped quickly back into focus. "NO," I said firmly. "I think we're done here."
I turned my back, gathered my children closer to me, and continued on to validate my parking ticket.
She followed me. "But now, you will have BAD LUCK."
Oh, geez.
I turned quickly on my heel. "I DO NOT CARE. I already gave you money. Stop asking me for more. I'm leaving."
"You don't care if you have BAD LUCK?"
"I do not. Now get out of my way."
She backed away, and I begin searching my pockets for my parking ticket, which I was sure that I had been holding in my hand a few moments ago. It was not in my pockets. I began searching my purse. There's nothing more embarassing, and nothing that makes you seem more vulnerable that searching a big purse for a lost item.
My heart started to beat a little faster. I needed the ticket to get out of the parking lot. I knew the lost ticket fee was steep, though I had forgotten how much. I turned around. Of course, she was watching me.
I had at least the good fortune to be parked next to the ticket office, so I herded the children back to the car and back into their car seats. "Hurry, hurry," I muttered, pushing them a little. Once they were installed, I sat in the driver's seat and emptied the contents of my purse into the passenger seat. Gum wrappers and lip gloss flying, I weeded and sorted. It was not there.
"SHIT!" I shouted.
My daughter, in the back seat, whispered, "Mommy said shit...."
I returned back to the machine and searched the ground.
She was smirking at me. "I told you you would have bad luck."
"IT WAS YOU!" I shouted, conscious that I was shifting into freak out mode. "You TOOK it when you were reading my palm!"
She shrugged and said, again, "Bad luck."
My blood pressure was threatening to blow. I stomped over to the ticket attendant and explained that I had lost my ticket. "Lost ticket, fifteen euros," he said. About twenty bucks for about a dollar of parking time.
"IT WAS THAT WOMAN!" I shrieked, knowing I sounded like an escapee from a mental institution and not caring. "SHE TOOK MY TICKET! SHE TOOK MY TICKET! SHE'S TAKING EVERYONE'S TICKETS!"
When I looked behind me, she was nowhere to be found.
The attendant repeated patiently, "Lost ticket, fifteen euros."
I paid, not having a choice, and trudged back to the car. As I opened the door, I heard a faint voice behind me, "I told you - bad luck."
Defeated, I didn't look back. I felt as if the fifteen euros had been stolen directly from my pocket, even though the swindle had been indirect at best. After all, the money had gone to the parking lot, not to the gypsy woman. I briefly pondered a grand conspiracy between gypsy and parking attendant and wondered if they were splitting the profits, before deciding that it didn't matter.
I had lost, and it had indeed been a most unlucky day. - Amanda Callendrier
Lucky, the unlucky state of mind
Sure, everyone has one or two lucky charms they turn to when something important comes up. But don't consider these impostors the cavalry the next time you have a big meeting. Feeling lucky can be an unlucky state of mind when it re-directs your focus away from your strengths and sidelines confidence.
The voice of experience here speaking, I have at least one rabbits foot, a rhinestone horseshoe necklace and a pair of pink flamingo underwear I all considered very "lucky" until recently. Why the change of heart? Unfortunately, feeling lucky is no guarantee for success. In fact, it leaves just enough elbowroom for that pesky feeling of doubt to sneak in and get good and comfortable.
I came to this conclusion recently while applying to graduate school. I felt very "lucky" after snagging two part time jobs after graduation in the worst economy in decades. One was even in my preferred field of study. Graduate school was in the bag, right? But, as soon as I saw the official looking email pop into my inbox I felt Doubt needling Lucky right out of the drivers seat. If I was so fortunate why did I suddenly feel nervous?
The truth is, luck had nothing to do with it. By telling myself I was practically accepted because of my string of good luck meant subconsciously doubting I could get in on my credentials alone. (Not the best mind set with two more applications in the works). Lucky is an unlucky state of mind when you are putting yourself on the line for something important, like going to your boss about a raise, because it minimizes the importance of feeling self-confident. Instead of putting all of my eggs in one basket and tossing it to chance I should have reminded myself that my final application was strong and that I was a competitive candidate regardless of my good fortune.
Of course, luck does exist. The squirrel you dodged on the way to work this morning would certainly agree. Just don't expect luck alone to carry you through important crossroads. Save feeling lucky for lottery tickets or getting upgraded to first class from economy on your next flight. When it is time to call in the special forces cast a vote of confidence in yourself instead of your good luck. If anything can get you through a tough interview or a difficult tennis match it is confidence. So, throw away those four leaf clovers you have been saving and kick Doubt to the curb. Figure out what makes you feel confident and leave being lucky to the squirrels. –Sarah Taylor
“Can you explain these gaps in your resume?” My answer to that question is just never quite what they want to hear. That’s why I’m holding The Everything Job Interview Book in my lap – to maybe answer the question the way they want, give them the corporate speak that makes me seem to be the team player they so desperately need to “push the envelope” and “think outside of the box” and “grow my business”, all those fancy little phrases that I am sooooo not!
I’ve been downsized for the second time in two years because I’ve been hanging onto a sales career in an industry that is rapidly wasting away. It is an easy profession for me. Presenting features and benefits of the product du jour to my customers is the only real skill I have developed in the 25+ years since college, except for those other skills that explain the gaps in my resume. It is the numerous gaps in my career history for which I am super lucky but also what makes my professional resume look a little sketchy to the average manager.
After preemie number two arrived 15 months after preemie number one, I learned that my generous paycheck and company car were no match for the extra mommy- time my girls required of me to meet their special needs, so Gap #1 occurred when I watched my manager drive off with my company car and a trunkload of product samples.
That was only the beginning of an avalanche of gaps that covered up my resume over the next 20 years, at times snowballing when we moved for my husband’s career or when one of my youngest child’s many surgeries required extended recovery time, all of which necessitated my undivided attention since we have never lived close to extended family for assistance. Financially, the gaps often created a challenge for us since two incomes are so often better than one and special needs children are expensive, even with top notch health insurance. But those gaps brought me a different kind of wealth. Without them I could not have picked up my girls from school and listened while they decompressed; telling me about the joys and challenges of their day. It also reflects time I was able to bus my youngest to physical therapy and appointments with more specialists than you can imagine and sit up with her night after night after surgeries and chest strangling bouts of bronchitis.
So, yes Mr. Man, I’ve got some gaps but guess what, yesterday my 19-year-old invited me to go to the movies with her and her best friend and my 20-year old asked me to do the Pussycat Doll exercise video with her and that – sir - trumps growing my market share any day! - Rebecca Barbera
My luck involves a tall, handsome man who brings me my morning coffee to me in bed each morning.
We've been married forever, and he knows I'm not a morning person. I can be downright grumpy before the sun is up. At least, I was. But how can a girl be grumpy when she opens her eyes to see her guy holding a huge, steaming mug of hot coffee, its heady aroma heralding a new day?
Sometimes he leans forward, head bowed and arms extended, as though he's offering a humble gift to Cleopatra herself. But behind the gentle teasing, his eyes give him away: he loves me. To start each day like that makes me the luckiest person this side of the Nile. -Carol Pavlik
Serendipity : noun
the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way : a fortunate stroke of serendipity
Happy events indeed. Let me set this stage for you. I am in New York City on strict orders to go there with no agenda whatsoever other than to just let whatever happens, happen. Tough challenge for someone like me who feels the need to A) Plan every trip down to where she will spend her “free time” and B) the fact that I have a handful of great people I love and depend on there who I normally would have fill up my schedule if there for any amount of time. So off I went, no agenda, no plans set. At all. This was not going to be easy.
However upon arrival there set into motion by a certain amount of freedom I had never allowed a feeling of I can do ANYTHING I want. Anything. So that is exactly what I did.
What happens when you allow life to unfold naturally is life pays you back in big return in the best way it can.
I had just gone to breakfast at my special little place in the city. Where you can stare out into Central Park and watch life, and people and horse drawn carriages pass you by. Now one of my favorite places is the park so off I went to go wander, take pictures, to just be.
As I stood on this busy street corner waiting to cross over into what feels like a piece of solitude in a frantic place this is when serendipity stood beside me and reminded me life is all about the chances that we take. Let me say, I didn’t realize this at first. I saw this man, very boy next door, standing next to me. Coffee in hand and thought...cute. But the light turned green, I started to cross and this is where serendipity took over.
See, I had planned (there’s this word again!) on being lost in my own world, and when I stopped to take a picture I looked up and noticed my coffee wielding boy next door had stopped as well. So as I picked up my pace again into my private paradise. Let me stop now and explain. I don’t think I ever go “looking” to meet someone. Especially on a trip where I was instructed to do almost just the opposite. This is what made what happened next so wonderful.
As I started walking I ended up right next to this gentleman again who looked over and smiled so genuinely and asked me, ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ for the first time in my very well thought out and planned life I responded so spontaneously with a smile and a ‘Yes, yes it is’ that my heart swelled. We talked, he asked if he could walk with me and what happened was two people who before 8:30 that morning had no idea the other existed. But at that moment it was kismet.
We continued through the park with an ease of a pair who had known each other for far longer than 10 minutes. We talked about where we lived, he California, me Florida and the irony of the 2 warm places we lived coming to meet in this chilly city that day. We talked about our day, what we were doing, or as in my case what we “weren’t” doing. When we exchanged numbers and off he walked I thought, ‘That, that was the coolest things that’s happened in a long time.' But that was it. In today’s world, with how quickly I’ve heard people throw out, ‘Yeah, I’ll call you. We should get together’ it just was never a thought in my head I would actually hear from him again.
But I did and what I heard was utterly the most thoughtful thing done for me in quite sometime. See, in the park earlier he, in conversation,had asked if I was to see a show while there? While I go to the city quite bit seeing a show I haven’t done in years. So I just said, no, but if I were to there is this one show I wanted to see of which I couldn’t even remember the name but said, I only tell you about wanting to see a show about 80’s glam rock because I don’t know you and smiled.
Hours later as I spent some time (yes, yes, I caved) meeting a friend for coffee in came a message on my phone from my chance encounter. He wrote, the show you want to see is....if I get 2 tickets will you go with me tonight? Now when presented with something as spontaneous as this if it should have ever occurred to me to say no to this random stranger I will readily admit it did not. I was thrilled.
For a few reasons. I had been dateless much to my own doing, for well, a long time. This is because I usually don’t trust the world around me and blissfully get caught up in my family and my friends basically living safely in a bubble. So the sheer fact that I had actually spoken to someone new was a good walls down experience for me. The biggest thing though was that when he wrote and asked, my typical response would’ve been to come up with any excuse I could find to get out of going. Not only did I not do this, it didn’t even cross my mind. I was excited to see this person again.
We did meet later, him putting himself out there again, just as much as he had done earlier with picking me up at a bar where I waited with friends. All of whom eagerly awaited meeting this monumental person who it seems hadn’t charmed just me in our Central Park encounter. The play outstanding, the company though just as good, if not better. What happened as that play wound down and we ended up at restaurant next door was a reminder you really never ever know who you might meet.
We sat and laughed and talked and if you had been an outsider you would’ve never thought this was the first day we met. No, this was a meeting that would resonate for awhile. As he walked me to my hotel, as this evening ended I was left with this, this might have been a chance encounter. This might have fit the definition of Serendipity to a ‘T’. However, what made this encounter so special was that the magic that, that word stands for was recognized, enjoyed and completely experienced.
Now, I don’t know how this story will unfold. Have we talked again? Yes we have. The ease that was there that first meeting is still very much there. Have we talked about a next time or a what if? No not really and I don’t mind that at all. See, if you have a Serendipitous encounter, it’s really only serendipitous if you allow yourself to completely let this chance encounter make you happy, without inhibition, without trying to control and alter it to fit you. Without plans, life sent me an unplanned fate changing moment and I wouldn’t change, or try to plan a thing. -Amy Leon
The Miracle of Luck
They say “write what you know,” but that depends. If I was a good Christian (or any Christian at all) I might write about Miracles. And I really do believe in miracles, but that’s not what I know happened to me.
Although I’m basically agnostic for lack of a better word, I spent many years contentedly working for a large piece of the Episcopal Church in my home town. I guess they weren’t all that picky or maybe my skills—at the ripe, enthusiastic age of 24 -- were just what they could afford. Nevertheless, I was the extremely motivated mother of a three-year-old and I had stayed at home with her since the day she was born. I could afford to do that back in those days! No miracle there; just the good fortune to have married an honest to goodness workaholic. Luck was on my side, and we bonded beautifully for those three years: The baby and I that is.
Again as luck would have it, the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania was ramping up a five million dollar fund raising campaign just as I was going ape-shit bananas from boredom. The glow had gone from staying home with the Little One-- napping, cleaning, watching soaps and strolling the wide streets of our Philadelphia neighborhood. I yearned for the nitty gritty downtown City of Brotherly Love, and all the soot, noise, traffic and street-corner buffets the City had to offer. I missed lunch-hour shopping, reading the newspaper on the train to work, and my head pressing against the cold window glass as I dozed on the ride home. My seat mate would slug me when I snored or began to drool. We had a brief affair years later… But I digress!
I had worked with those fine, Episcopalian folks before I got knocked up, I mean pregnant. I was maybe 19 when they first hired me, 20 when I met the “love of my life” (now known as Number One), and 21 when the Bishop’s secretary looked at me one morning and said, “You know you’re pregnant, right?” Damn she was good! I stayed a few months longer until the heat of Philadelphia summers was too much to bear; the baby came in August which is when my three-year “vacation” began.
Flash forward exactly three years to nutso-boredom time! My dear friend and former work buddy had a birthday right around the time my daughter was born, and (even though she’s a shit and never ever calls me or writes, not even e-mail!) I called to wish her a Happy Birthday. But I was the one who received a “gift” when she told me about the fund raising campaign and said, “If you’re ready to return to work, we’ve got a job for you!”
So late in August 1978 (oh stop it, surely you know SOME people older than me!) I traded bare feet for modest heels and dropped my gorgeous only child up the street at day care. We were both ready for a change!
So there I was, working for The Church. And it was so cool: The Bishop of a huge, big-city diocese called me by my nickname, had parties at his summer home, and I prayed with the staff every day at Noon. My new friends were black and white, women and men, straight and gay, devout and even (one or two) bona fide criminals! Repentant and Forgiven of course, but still! There was this one guy... oh never mind! Where was I?
I was working for the Church, happy in my role as “token Jew,” Administrative Assistant. It was an exciting and history-making time, and I reveled in knowing and being known, working with and working for, some of the finest people-- lay and ordained--I would ever come to know. And then there were the doozies!
In every organization of that size (with hundreds of leaders and millions of members) you are going to have some Doozies. Of course nobody calls them that—and I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t long ago moved far away—but Doozies they were. You know who I mean: They answer the telephone with [breathy voice] “Hello! God Loves you and so do I!” and sign letters with “In Him.” WHAT??
But some of those Doozy people are VERY nice. And so when Christmas time came and I wanted to go to church with my (Roman Catholic) husband and beautiful child, I discovered an Episcopal Church just up the road from our house, the Rector of which was a real Doozy! I say this with great respect and fondness, and will even mention him by name: Father Stan. He and his wife Ruth were beautiful and loving people, exactly my parents’ age, and they were Born Again Christians. Their little church in Bensalem, Pa., was comfortable for our mixed-up family, so that is where we went maybe half a dozen times over the next couple of years. Did I mention how close it was to home? So when there was inch-thick ICE on the road and our truck needed tires, the Lord said, “Go there, dummies! That thou might live to see New Year’s Eve!” And so we did.
Stan and Ruth became our good friends. He had been on the board of a tiny Episcopal school right there on the Delaware River, where we enrolled our daughter without hesitation. She attended Pen Ryn for seven years until we moved away. In that time we met more and more of our friends’ friends, some of whom were really, really Doozies.
Once I went to a ‘healing service’ with some of them. It was in a plain church with ordinary looking people-- that is until the action got underway. Then some very normal-looking folks danced down the aisle, hands in the air, sort of wiggling but not like any dance I had ever seen. Some were singing but not in unison. Some were talking but not to each other: They were speaking in Tongues. Doozies, each and every one. There’s a reason I mention this.
Every summer, Bishop O. had a large festive party for the entire staff and their families at his summer home on the Bay. Out of the city and to the beach we went! We skipped rocks with local Church celebs—priests whose pictures had been in the papers for good deeds and bad. We swam and hiked and drank lots of wine, enjoying the hospitality of this man of God, skinny as a bean pole with a grey crew cut he had worn since the Navy, so I heard. We ventured inside only to change clothes, replenish food and ice, and use the rest rooms. It was an outside day, sweaty and hot, warm from wine and companionship. We returned home dirty and happy.
The next morning I went blind. Well, not completely blind. But I couldn’t see out of one eye and the other one looked at my nose in the strangest way. It was disconcerting to say the least, frightening as hell and made me feel dizzy and disoriented. I FREAKED. The workaholic had no choice but to deliver me to the doctor.
I don’t exactly remember the checkups or the days that followed, except for being in bed a lot. The eye doctor—who I had known for years and who saw me regularly for extreme nearsightedness—used lots of drops and lights and breath mints. As I left he gave me a black eye patch, exactly as a pirate would wear if we had pirates in 1980! I distinctly remember that when the eye patch went ON, I no longer felt the urge to heave or to kill myself from the sensation of spinning. My parents came to babysit and tend to me, until hubby came home each evening.
After some days of misery and countless cups of tea, one of the Doozies called. She had heard of my plight, most likely from office gossip- but fondly known as Prayer Circle or Prayer Chain. They wanted to visit me. What could I do, tell them NOT to come over? I tried my best to wash up and put on fresh clothes, or maybe I just changed my robe. I distinctly remember the trip from the upstairs bedroom, navigating down the 13 carpeted steps carefully so as not to RETCH, and settling onto the living room sofa in preparation to receive my visitors. I removed the eye patch which embarrassed me, but put it right back on when two blurry workaholics passed to answer the door!
I think he offered them Cokes, at least I hope so. I wasn’t moving from that couch or playing hostess, although I do recall mumbling a “thanks for coming” to each one who bent to hug me. I remember feeling old and worrying about my breath.
The Doozies made small talk for a few minutes. They asked me “what the doctor said,” and “did I need anything” and said “they really miss you at work.” I think somebody brought some cookies because I heard crunching behind the chatter.
After about 10 minutes Father Stan stood from his chair, and then the Doozies stood up too. My heart leapt as I thought, “Whoopee! They’re leaving!” but not so fast. Father Stan came over to the couch, took my hand and asked me to stand up and pray with them, as they joined hands in a circle in the middle of my living room. I might have rolled my eyes at that request, but my strange malady prevented it. So I wiped my sweaty hands on my robe and joined them. I honestly don’t remember what was said, how long it took, or even how the evening ended. I just remember ‘humoring them,’ being grateful that I had wonderful friends who cared and whose actions spoke loudly of their faith, although not of mine. I’m sure they appealed to God for healing—not just for me but for all the afflicted, but with specific requests to “make me well” and other stuff In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
One or more of them hugged me, and Stan gently laid his hands on my head before he left. It wasn’t weird. It was like a mother would pat her child on the head after fixing her hair before school.
Back to bed. Workaholic locked up for the night, probably leaving the dishes for my mother to deal with the next day. I listened to his bedtime noises from under the covers where blackness was my refuge and nausea was at bay. The eye patch sat on the night stand. I just wanted to sleep.
Hours later, I turned over and cursed myself for drinking Coke before bed. You know that feeling when you’re half asleep and could probably be asleep again, if it wasn’t for the pressure of your full bladder? You THINK you can ignore it but the mere THINKING about it, makes it worse until you KNOW you will NOT sleep until you pee. It was either very late or very early, because I needed to switch on the light. In normal times I wouldn’t bother, but the Pirate in me was unsure of myself, and I didn’t want to get lost or hurt on the way to the toilet. I flicked on the lamp and reached for my patch, then stopped dead with my hand in the air.
Above me on the ceiling where it had always been, was a single round, frosted light fixture which I had meant to replace months ago. Tacky, a little dusty, and absolutely gorgeous, it stood out in all its one-ness like the harvest moon on a clear night. I screamed and woke up Number One.
“Look at my eyes! Look at my eyes!” The poor guy wasn’t even conscious and he looked scared. He must have thought, “Now what? Are they popping out of your head or bleeding grape juice or what?” He looked at my eyes. He got up, turned on the main light switch to flood the room with wakefulness, and bent to peer closer. He smelled of cigarettes which he always did, but then smiled which he almost NEVER did. “Your eyes look normal. How do you feel?”
How DID I feel? I was staring straight up at the ceiling light like it was a beam from heaven above. I found the clock and squinted at it—nearsighted as always but without double vision, without seeing my own nose in the picture! It was just before 5:00 AM and I still had to pee.
I returned to bed wondering if it was too early to call Father Stan. I dialed his number while Number One headed to the shower.
I said I wanted to thank him for bringing the Doozies to visit me, and for their thoughtful prayers. I told him I slept really well after they had gone, and I asked who brought the cookies. I told him I woke up seeing normally and how amazing it was, what a coincidence, right after receiving their prayers. He indulged me and he didn’t sound surprised, just truly happy that I was well again.
It took years for me to learn what had been wrong with my eyes. I had been in good health yet the ailment was real. It was not the last time I was suddenly stricken, but it was the last time I was so suddenly ‘healed.’ There are a number of explanations for that particular, wonderful return of my eyesight. Only one of them is “luck.” - Joy Schwab Johnson
Lady Luck As A Lifeline
The August day was so warm and inviting and with my husband and stepchildren bobbing ahead of me in the distance, the call of the river was impossible to ignore. So, not wanting to be left behind I set out.
I was not expecting the boat to pass close enough to ensnare me in its wake. Instead of gliding through the calm waters of the great St. Lawrence River, I was suddenly caught in a turbulence that threatened to pull me under. With my forward progress halted, I was forced to wrestle with the waves in order to tread water.
Every time I called out for help, my head would sink below the waterline and I would have to force the water from my lungs. Again and again I was tossed and dipped, my family having made the journey between the two islands in the river was forced to watch me struggle.
Though my husband was tired he launched himself back into the river, calling out to me to hold on and to keep treading water. As he quickly closed the distance between us, I was heartened and thought I was saved.
The worst thing to do is panic when someone is trying to pull you from deep water, but that is what I did. When he reached me I grabbed onto him, nearly drowning him twice before he had to break from me and swim to the shore to catch his breath. He knew he needed another plan. He motioned to some driftwood that he planned to use to help float me to shore, and that is the moment when I realized he would not make it back to me on time.
I was tired; it was becoming more difficult to keep my head up. I kept slipping under wishing the water wasn't murky so I could see where it was I would be going.
I thought I would drown. Only married three years and my poor husband would blame himself because he could not save me. It is true that you see your life flash before you, but I saw more the things that I hadn't experienced than the things that I had actually done. I fought to the surface one last time to see a boat heading in my direction. The woman motioned to me, and as I slipped under for what I feared to be the last time, I caught my lifeline.
She towed me to the surface and dragged me onto the boat. A wonderful French Canadian woman, whose name I have forgotten, saved my life. She praised my husband in his mighty effort to rescue me and told me how lucky I was to have him, who must love me so much.
I am lucky she pulled me from the river for two reasons. My life was not cut short, and my life with my family was allowed to continue. I have been very lucky. - Metaxa Cunningham
Lucky me. Here I sit, it is March 4, 2010, 10:58pm according to the clock on the microwave; 10:59 if you ask the stove. I've just finished watching a DVD I checked out at the library called, "Off the Map," a Sundance Film Festival flick - originally written as a play, apparently. I get a kick out of those festival films. Lucky me, the library lets me borrow anything they've got. After my DVD finished, my laptop made its guitar string pickin' sound to alert me that my battery was about dead; 20 minutes left to be exact. And I thought, what luck, I just cleared the approximate 110 minutes of that film before I had to get my limp body off the recliner. I'm tired today because I cleaned a ladies house, all 3000 sq. ft of it in only six hours. Her garage door had broken while it was left open and I couldn't get a hold of her. I couldn't leave her fancy house in the fancy crowded subdivision exposed like that, so I kept trying to reach her by cell. I had to get home because my daughter was due to arrive in twenty minutes. I called my house and as luck would have it,my son got off work early today. So I asked him to get her off the bus. That was a pretty big stroke of luck for him to get home early because my good friend's mother just died yesterday and I told her I'd clean her house because she had company coming over and she was two hours away. He watched my daughter so I could do that for her. When I finally made it home, I was bone-tired. I didn't feel like cooking. When I opened the fridge, there was the tupperware half-full of potato soup I had made a couple of nights ago. Geez, what a potluck - I don't have to cook tonight. And it was good soup, even better than the first night. Because I have to go to my friend's mother's funeral on Saturday I realized needed to get an impromptu babysitter. My mother-in-law couldn't watch our daughter till 10am, but we needed to leave by 8am because we needed the two hours to get there. Lucky for us, my husband's best friend just happened to not be working that on Saturday. Unbelievable. I'm looking at the two digital clocks, racing for correct time, and I'm thinking, I've got to get an umbrella for all this luck raining down on me. I ran across the bookmark when while scrolling through my writing bookmarks. There it was - "Skirt," and I wondered why I had saved it. Staring right at me was the "Lucky You" writing contest. The fates had delivered it to me just in time. Not only has it been my lucky day, but my copious amount of luck poured itself out on my son. When my husband got home, he took my son out to see the movie "Avatar". I had a rare quiet night home without the menfolk underfoot; and that is luck indeed. Surely to goodness all this nonfictional luck I've been served up today is worth a pair of gorgeous earrings. - Stacey Langheim
WITH LUCK COMES RISK
I believe we create our own happiness and make our own luck. Whether good or bad, all luck has an element of risk to it. By nature, I’m not a huge risk taker, so the fact that I’ve ended up where I have is something of a surprise. But it tells me I finally learned when to risk and how much.
Three days before my wedding, I sat on the edge of my bed in our new apartment and sobbed. I was barely eighteen. I knew I was making an enormous mistake but thought it was too late to change my mind.
After my divorce, I avoided dating for years. When I met Bruce he was in the first stages of his own divorce. I felt sorry for him, but wanted nothing to do with the situation. I’d settled into a new career and was soon working seventy to eighty hour weeks. Finally I was earning more than just rent money. That schedule did more than raise my income. It also eliminated any chance of a social life, giving me the protection from emotional risk I found so desirable at that point. Other than sleep, pretty much the only thing I did outside of work was laundry.
When I ran into him again at the home of a friend nearly a year later, Bruce was trying to adjust to lonely evenings and weekends when his wife had the kids. He suggested a group of us get together for dinner once a month. I’d already gone through the phase of ‘divorce group’ get-togethers. I didn’t want to get dragged backward into that mire of self-pity. I had moved on. He didn’t give up and worked through a mutual friend to set something up.
I caved and went to a few of the dinners. Our friendship grew slowly. He still wasn’t divorced and he wasn’t in any rush to start a new relationship; but he was desperate for someone to talk to. He asked if he could call me once in awhile.
Late at night when he was too exhausted to sleep, he did call. Portable telephones didn’t yet exist, so he’d lie on the kitchen floor and tell me about his day and his kids and his hopes for their future. I enjoyed his subtle sense of humor and admired his intelligence and drive. Trying to find daycare for a three year old wasn’t always compatible with setting up a new business, but he approached both with dedication and determination. Depleted of energy, cooking was his biggest hurdle. More than once I talked him through recipes on the telephone while three hungry kids squabbled in the background.
By the time he was divorced, we’d grown comfortable together. When we were married a year later, we hadn’t worked through all the rough spots in our relationship, but we’d at least developed a method of communicating with one another so we could work through them.
A friend once asked if I thought Bruce was my ‘soul mate’. I always thought that idea silly and contrived. What I do know is that we share the same values. We also share the belief that we have the power to make things better for ourselves. Neither of us sat around after our divorces whining, “Why me?” We both realized we’d played a part in our own bad luck, even if it was simply because we’d chosen the wrong person. We tried to figure out where we’d made our mistakes and moved on.
When we were ready, we took another risk, this time with one another. Twenty-five years later, I believe I’m the luckiest person in the world. - Barbara Burris
My Life as a AA Battery.
Like a battery, life has a positive and a negative side. I did some much needed cleaning yesterday and then spent some time with great friends and neighbors doing a progressive dinner. It was very positive! It was great having the house look at least a little better. It was good to spend time with neighbors we haven't seen for awhile. They are always fun and we haven't gotten together as often lately. They are wonderful people and my life would benefit from seeing them more!
The negative side is fibromyalgia. It makes me pay for that house that is a little less messy and the time spent with friends. Luckily my pain and fatigue levels were low during these activities. I was able to enjoy the sense of accomplishment of getting something done and a break from the feelings of guilt and uselessness for all the things left undone, done half-assed, or completely forgotten to get done because I didn't write it with a colorful Sharpie on my hand.
Yesterday I was lucky, the pain was kind and waited until after I got back home before showing it's true colors...black and blue. No one sees the colors upon my skin. My pain is internal. It is physical. It is mental. Fibro is not content to wreak havoc on my body alone. It messes with my emotions, my relationships, my finances, and my self-worth.
If you pay attention you may catch a grimace, a funny walk, difficulty getting out of a chair, or me rubbing a body part. Sometimes I let you know it is there, sometimes I don't, but it is always lurking. If it is a really bad day you won’t see me at all; this is when I cancel our plans or don’t call you back. Fibro hides inside and sucker punches me. I never know where (on my body) or when, but it WILL sucker punch me.
Don't get me wrong; don't let me lead you to believe this is something I keep to myself, that I am some martyr who internalizes it all and lets the world go on peacefully without my input. I cry. I whine. I complain. I downright bitch. Sometimes I think that I don't make a big fuss about my fibro because I haven't told many people that this is even part of my life. Then I realize that it is those closest to me, my husband, my kids, my best friend, and my sister that take the brunt of it. They are the ones who love me and want to help me but on some level have to be tired of hearing about it. It is these people I appreciate the most. I also appreciate the strangers on Internet support groups who have become friends. There is great comfort in the advice, caring and genuine understanding I get from someone who has truly walked in my shoes.
The reason I am a AA battery is because I have only so much energy before I run out. I need my own personal voltmeter so I know what I have left for the day. Personal voltmeter! I may have just hit upon the new trend in fibromyalgia jewelry! We all want more time and energy to do all the things we want or need to do. For Fibromites, as some people call us, it goes beyond that. It takes more energy to do simple everyday things. Like pain and fatigue, our energy levels vary by intensity, by person, by day, by hour. It's unpredictable. Some people say a predictable life is boring, that may be true, but I wouldn't mind being able to plan just a little.
Oh goodness, this isn't supposed to read like a pity party. In no way am I saying we corner the market on pain, on fatigue, or any of the multitudes of symptoms that can accompany fibromyalgia. I'm just trying to open a window and let you glimpse inside. I am well aware that SO many people have SO many other illnesses that are worse than mine. I am aware that many people have fibro more severely than I do. At the same time I don’t want to trivialize fibromyalgia either. It is a devastating life change for you and for your family.
So where does balance come in? How do I get the positive and negative sides working together to make a functional battery? They say exercise helps. They say changing your diet can help. They say this or that pill or vitamin will help. "They" say a lot of things. Easier said than done. What they don’t say are the side effects these pills have that can make you feel even worse. But I have to try.
Some people liken their fibro symptoms to a bad flu to get people to understand fibromyalgia better. You know, when your body really aches and your muscles feel weak and you're exhausted and it is hard to muster the energy to do anything and when you are able to do something you get even more exhausted. How many people do you know who exercise when they have the flu? Some people melt into a puddle and want their mommies, but who doesn't want to be taken care of when they are sick? Most rest until they get better. When you have the flu you eventually feel better. You get back to "normal”. For many people with fibro, those flu- like symptoms ARE their normal. For some of us those would be good days because the bad days are so much worse. For me it feels more like I have been beaten with a bag of rocks.
So where do I go from here? I will do all I can to be all I can. I'll enjoy my family no matter what kind of day I' m having. I’ll try to spend more time with my friends. I'll try to make peace with what I can or cannot do on any given day. I will do what I am capable of and be comfortable with that being enough. I'll take the good with the bad, the positive with the negative. Easier said than done, but not impossible. Will I fail sometimes? Absolutely. Will I lose faith in myself and those around me? Sometimes. Will I quit trying to enjoy the life I have and trying to feel better? Never. AA batteries are useful for many things, even when they’re not fully charged. -Kelly Kvenlog Wichlacz
Ray of color.
I’d like you to picture a coal mine. Close your eyes and imagine it. As you walk up to the front of it you’re greeted by darkness. It is damp, dreary and feels like death upon entering. There is a slight chill when you enter, your breath speeds up at the rate of your heart which is suffocating in this black cave. You are surrounded by nothing but yet everything at the same time. You can see your breath by a simple blow. You’re probably expecting a big “Light at the end of the tunnel” reference here. However, that would be just too cliché. Now picture a girl standing there with a striking white smile. She has long blonde hair that has not yet been soiled by soot. She is slender, tall and her feet are adorned with Red Christian Louboutin heels. She is holding a yellow canary. It’s probably the most electrifying shade of yellow on a Canary that anyone has ever laid there peepers on. So one might ask… Why is she hidden in the darkness of a coal mine? How can she not be covered in soot? The striking whiteness of her smile contrasts with the chill in the air. The yellow canary seems full of life, but yet doesn’t sing? Her red Louboutins have her standing tall but yet she’s naked?
Have I supplied enough color to paint you a picture on a canvas yet? What is her secret? Her dad was just diagnosed with Stage 4 Glioblastoma Cancer; the same Cancer a man by the name of Ted Kennedy suffered from. The coal mine represents everything that Cancer is: darkness, suffocation, goose bumps and silence. The girl is me. The word Luck does not seem to be anywhere within reach. The news has stripped me of my clothing but has not knocked me down. The shade of red adorned on my feet is the heart and soul of this darkness. There is an old saying “these boots are made for walking” well mine is: “these Louboutins were made for conquering and that’s just what we’ll do.” The canary symbolizes my father. His spirits are bright and he is filled with all the hope, love and support that one who has been doomed can be. His radiant yellow hue fills my smile and that is why I am not showered in soot. He will sing again. I just know so. Just picture it; the odds of a coal miner finding a tall, slender, blonde girl, naked and holding a yellow canary are pretty slim, but perhaps it had something to do with luck? - Molly Gallaspy
When I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, a black cat crossed my path.
I thought nothing of the instance at first. I was only halfway paying attention because I was on the phone with Delta Airlines, trying to arrange my July 4th trip to Washington, D.C. The lady on the phone did not speak English very well, so I had to spell my name for her three times. I looked around nervously as I read my credit card number over the phone, as my biggest fear about my trip was that I would get mugged while I was there.
I did have something stolen from me while I was on the trip, but not one of my belongings in Puerto Rico.
The trip was a two-week creative writing course. It gave me time to work on my poetry and my fantasy novel. I also had plenty of time to spend on the beach and the European-style section of Old San Juan. Up to that point, I had been lucky with travel. I was fortunate enough to have liberal, educated parents who valued travel and who were willing to take my sister Patty and me on adventures when we were young. Also, both of my wonderful grandmothers were kind enough to share some of their inheritance along the way, so I could afford to take the extravagant vacations that only my business major friends could sprout, while I was on my summers off from teaching.
The trip itself was no exception. I was walking distance from th e Starbucks, the beach, and many delicious "hole in the wall" restaurants. Our dorm was full of cockroaches, but I was also surrounded by several laid back writer types who I enjoyed getting to know. I got good feedback on my work and got to spend some late mornings and afternoons surrounded by white sand and the scent of sea water.
When I got back to Atlanta, I began to realize that my luck was changing.
My Mom picked me up from the airport, and we ended my trip to the Spanish- speaking city by eating dinner at a local South American restaurant. As we pulled into my apartment complex afterwards, I looked in the parking lot to find Carolina, my car that I had missed driving those past two weeks.
Carolina was nowhere to be seen.
At first, my Mom and I did not panic. We thought my car had just been towed to another parking lot for a painting project, as that had happened the summer before while I was working in Texas. When I first returned from that trip, I thought my car had been stolen, only to find it the next morning in a lot in front of the apartment complex office. I thought this had happened again, but this time, the worst proved to be true.
My Mom and I drove through the whole complex searching for Carolina. As a silver Corolla with a UNC-CH bumper sticker and a NanoWrimo sign, she was hard to miss. Then, we knocked on a neighbor's door to ask if the complex had any maintenance work going on that would involve the complex moving my car.
The man looked at me like I was insane at first. Then, he slowly and sadly shook his head.
"If your car is missing, then you need to call the cops," he said.
That was when the reality set in.
We did call the police, and the next day, the car was officially classified as stolen. My Mom took me to the grocery store and bought me some food, as I could not get a rental car until the next day. I was living by myself at the time, so I couldn't help wondering if the thief would come back for more. My former roommate, who had recently moved out, was very supportive and offered to have her boyfriend (now husband) and Dad help me move if I didn't feel comfortable at that apartment. She also told me she would pray that the police would find my car. I'm embarrassed to admit this now, but at the time, I thought to myself, "that's not going to help."
I had a few sleepless nights afterwards, but I decided that I didn't want to be one of those people who is always afraid. I would stay in my apartment for the time being.
Three days after my car was classified as stolen, I got a call from the Atlanta police. "We found your car," the woman said in a proud and hopeful voice. I could tell by her tone of voice that she'd just experienced the kind of day when she found her job rewarding. To my relief, both thieves had been apprehended.
Two days later, I got Carolina back. She was banged up and would need repair, but she had survived two weeks in one of the worst neighborhoods in Atlanta, and she was once again mine. I felt that my luck was beginning to change.
Then, I thought to myself: what kind of faith place am I in when a friend offers to pray for me, and I think to myself "that's not going to help"?
The year before, I had survived a tumultuous break-up, a cross city move, and a job change. But since then, my life had been going better. I had an apartment I liked in a better part of town, and I had a job that I enjoyed and that I did relatively well. I was beginning to discover my callings of creative writing and working with gifted and talented students. But in the meantime, I had grown complacent in my faith. I only went to church once a month at the most, and I had not been reading the Bible. Also, I thought to myself, I love my cat TJ and my car Carolina, but my roommate has moved out, and I would like some more people with whom I can share my "outside of work" life.
About a month after I found my car, I once again found my faith. My friend Melissa told me about her adult Sunday School class at Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Buckhead, and I started going with her. I fell in love with the people and the sermons, and I quickly rediscovered my faith that had gone somewhat astray in the past year.
I realized that in spite of the mishap, I had not lost my love of travel or the self-discovery it always brings me. I might have lost my car, but I had found Carolina and my faith once again. –Margaret Robbins
I am one of those people you hate because I have been pretty lucky in my life. From finding gold jewelry on the ground when I was five, to winning trips and shwag on the radio. But I think my most serendipitous moment came in September 2008. My friends told me it was karma paying me back.
In 2006, just five weeks before my wedding, I lost my mother to a 15 month battle to lung cancer. As a result I turned my grief into gold and created a nonprofit in her honor and got very involved with the cancer community. When Stand Up To Cancer aired their three network simultaneous one hour telethon to raise money for cancer research, I thought it was the best idea ever and wanted to be a part of it.
I went to their website and joined the Stand Up To Cancer community. Within the community I stumbled upon a contest they were having. All you had to do was interact on their website and earn points that would gain you an entry into the contest. They had three things you could do to earn points: launch a virtual star online in honor of someone affected by cancer, start a Stand Up To Cancer team and raise funds, or make a donation. I did all three, which I would have done anyway, and earned enough points to earn one entry into the random drawing.
As luck, or karma would have it, I won the Grand Prize of getting to sit in the celebrity phone booth at the telethon which took place at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood. I also had the opportunity to sit in the green room and mingle with all of the celebrities. From the likes of Keanu Reeves to Halle Berry to Forrest Whitaker I talked to them all, got their autographs to raise more money for cancer research on eBay and had one of the best experiences of my life. I guess its true that you really do get out of life what you put into it. - Tracy Sestili
One bright summer life
One bright summer life,
with a bounce in her stride
Joyful she skipped, day by day,
In her bright summer life.
Smiled and Danced on her way did she,
Innocent, Ignorant
Of how cold and dark, it could be,
Unaware but Happy, as she could be
In her bright summer life.
With a flash did he come,
Her soft love he had won
In his arms, she felt at ease
Little she knew, Destiny started her tease
Some magical dreams on her he spawned
With a sudden wave of his wavering wand
Bright, colorful and magical
It lit the starlit skies, so very mystical
Remained in love, dreamy eyed,
This one dreamy young bright life.
He showed her a thorny way to her dreams of love
She did tread ahead, looking at the floaty love.
A path she had to tread with care,
Loving the piercing pain, she did dare
Though it would break her in pieces or more,
she did it all for the one she did adore
Hiding all soreness, and her pain
she smiled, so his eye do never rain.
Things happened to the worst of her fears,
Hurt he got, on his own delusions,
He fleed blaming her innocence.
Very lonely was she,
The girl under the leafless lonely tree.
Dark clouds, shadowed the young lass
A big bad world with thirsty sorcerers it was
Near to her, they wiped her tears and to her dismay
They revealed, on a long long lonely day
No magician was he, just a cute face with honeysome tweet
On his back he carried a bag full of deceit.
Painfully she cried,
The poor shattered lonely life.
Broken Life, a sudden puzzle with missing pieces everywhere
Searching pieces of the dark, turning stones here and there
Started the quest of her life,
Missing pieces that may remain missing for a lifetime.
In search, she moved, she did tread,
Learning hard ways to earn her own bread.
She moved towards brightness and greener ground,
And another helping hand she found,
Strong, steady and feet on ground firmly.
She held his hand may be a bit reluctantly.
Her illusions all, he did clear
Hazy fog was now no where near.
A blessed friend she had now found.
Though secretly in her heart, she did yearn,
Missing pieces, few stones that went unturned
And the night oil burnt and burnt.
One day, bright and bright as can be,
More realized, more thoughtful was she,
Turning stones, only worms do yield,
With worms nothing ever healed.
The purpose of those pieces, a design of its kind,
beyond grasp, boundaries of human mind.
Purpose none one other than her own fate
Her own bright life, with her loving mate.
Her feet on ground and she let the pieces pass,
No illusions now, appreciation of what she has,
she soars now high, comprehending the love she found
Strong helping hands, A friend, the bestest on ground
The real hard life with pure love, sunshine all around
Being a strong woman, mother and a devoted wife
Lies her happiest brightest summer life. -Rashmi Sheel
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