Praying to the garden G-ds obviously didn't work. The temperature finally dropped this week and my tomato plants where still full of fruit. I couldn't bare the thought of all those wonderful emerald green tomatoes going to waste so I looked around for something to do with them and found several relish receipts. I opted to kitsch the receipts by looking around the kitchen and seeing what I had - this is what I came up with.
The jalapeno peppers, donated from Maysaloon's garden, should add enough of a bite to warm you up on those cold winter nights but not so much that it burns more than comforts. I can't wait to see how it will taste with tuna, rice or as a dip. I also think the jars will make wonderful gifts for Thanksgiving.
Green Tomato Relish
Ginormous Pot
green tomatoes, chopped
2 white onions, chopped
sweet peppers, red and yellow, chopped (for color)
apples, red and green, chopped (for color)
garlic cloves, chopped
1 to 2 cups of apple cider vinegar
1 cup water
kosher or sea salt to taste
6 or more jalapeno peppers (or something close), chopped (send, optional, your fingers might tingle a little)
a bushel of chopped cilantro
ground cumin, cinnamon, paprika, and cayenne to taste (optional)
Combine the tomatoes, onions, peppers, apples, garlic, vinegar, and salt in the ginormous pot and bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour and stir occasionally
Stir in the jalapenos, cilantro, and cumin, simmer another five or ten minutes.
Puree relish using a hand blender before scooping it into jars and gift wrapping. Mine filled 10 pint mason jars.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Dining in the Dark
The dark is good for all kinds of nocturnal endeavors - espionage, amore, murder - but have you ever considered dining in the dark?
A blind clergyman did, and opened the first dark dining restaurant, The Blind Crow, in 1999 in Zurich, Switzerland. Since then, restaurants where patrons dine in absolute darkness have opened all over Europe and the United States.
Menus are useless without light to read by, so diners order before going in, and in some cases, food is served by a wait staff that is either visually handicapped or completely blind.
This isn't such a foreign concept for anyone who grew up in suburban America. We all remember visiting those neighborhood haunted houses - set up in someone's garage to occupy the kiddies.
We'd feel our way through the darkness screaming as our tiny hands plunged into bowls of what we thought were brains, eyeballs and guts.
In reality, they were the products of our parents' imaginations and what was readily available in their kitchens - cold spaghetti for brains, frozen peeled grapes for eyes and warm pudding for guts.
To give an adult twist to the food that terrified us in our youth we've made edible versions for today's nocturnal diners - eyeballs, scarabs and mummy fingers.
Some believe that eating in the dark will heighten your senses, making the mundane new again. In the dark, the tongue's 10,000 taste buds start to see and feel the food, as well as taste it. Blind to its color, a cucumber is not only cool and crisp, but diners may experience an explosion of green hues as they chew in the dark. Feed them cucumbers with yogurt and cayenne, and their mind will be awash in a cacophony of colors — reds, greens, and whites. Depending on what food you choose, your meal could be the Pollock of dining.
I'm more of a Munch girl myself. Happy Halloween.
Here are some of my creations. For tasty food that looks spooky, try these recipes.
Googly Eyeballs
12 hard-cooked eggs, peeled and halved lengthwise
1 jar of pimiento spread
24 small pimiento-stuffed green olives
Remove egg yokes from egg halves; reserve yolks for another use.
Fill each egg center with about 1 tablespoon of pimiento spread.
Place olive (pimiento straight up) in the center of each egg. Press slightly.
Hairy Scary Scarabs
1 bag shredded coconut
1 can chocolate-covered almonds
Place almonds in a pan and place in oven on low heat until chocolate is tacky.
Heat a medium-sized, nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until hot. Add coconut and cook until coconut begins to turn golden, stir constantly.
Add browned coconut to warmed almonds. Turn the almonds until coated with coconut.
Mummy's Head, Fingers
1 bag of mini marshmallows
1 stick of unsalted butter
6 cups of crisp rice cereal
1 packet of medical gauze
1 package of dried cranberries
1 package of stick pretzels
pumpkin pie spice, cinnamon and cumin
1 cup of coffee
Take gauze and mix with coffee. Let sit.
Melt butter. Add marshmallows slowly until completely melted.
Add melted marshmallows, cereal and spices (to taste) together in small amounts until completely mixed.
Coat hands in olive oil or butter. Shape mixture into head shapes. For fingers, roll mixture between hands then push a pretzel stick into center. (Re-oil hands as needed.)
Take gauze, wring out coffee and cut it into strips. Starting at one end, wrap around oval to cover it entirely, leaving gap for "eyes." When oval is completely wrapped, unfold the end of the gauze slightly and press down. (Gauze will stick to surface.)
Place two dried cranberries in gap for "eyes" and press slightly to adhere. Repeat with remaining ovals. Can use larger cranberries for bloody nails.
A blind clergyman did, and opened the first dark dining restaurant, The Blind Crow, in 1999 in Zurich, Switzerland. Since then, restaurants where patrons dine in absolute darkness have opened all over Europe and the United States.
Menus are useless without light to read by, so diners order before going in, and in some cases, food is served by a wait staff that is either visually handicapped or completely blind.
This isn't such a foreign concept for anyone who grew up in suburban America. We all remember visiting those neighborhood haunted houses - set up in someone's garage to occupy the kiddies.
We'd feel our way through the darkness screaming as our tiny hands plunged into bowls of what we thought were brains, eyeballs and guts.
In reality, they were the products of our parents' imaginations and what was readily available in their kitchens - cold spaghetti for brains, frozen peeled grapes for eyes and warm pudding for guts.
To give an adult twist to the food that terrified us in our youth we've made edible versions for today's nocturnal diners - eyeballs, scarabs and mummy fingers.
Some believe that eating in the dark will heighten your senses, making the mundane new again. In the dark, the tongue's 10,000 taste buds start to see and feel the food, as well as taste it. Blind to its color, a cucumber is not only cool and crisp, but diners may experience an explosion of green hues as they chew in the dark. Feed them cucumbers with yogurt and cayenne, and their mind will be awash in a cacophony of colors — reds, greens, and whites. Depending on what food you choose, your meal could be the Pollock of dining.
I'm more of a Munch girl myself. Happy Halloween.
Here are some of my creations. For tasty food that looks spooky, try these recipes.
Googly Eyeballs
12 hard-cooked eggs, peeled and halved lengthwise
1 jar of pimiento spread
24 small pimiento-stuffed green olives
Remove egg yokes from egg halves; reserve yolks for another use.
Fill each egg center with about 1 tablespoon of pimiento spread.
Place olive (pimiento straight up) in the center of each egg. Press slightly.
Hairy Scary Scarabs
1 bag shredded coconut
1 can chocolate-covered almonds
Place almonds in a pan and place in oven on low heat until chocolate is tacky.
Heat a medium-sized, nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until hot. Add coconut and cook until coconut begins to turn golden, stir constantly.
Add browned coconut to warmed almonds. Turn the almonds until coated with coconut.
Mummy's Head, Fingers
1 bag of mini marshmallows
1 stick of unsalted butter
6 cups of crisp rice cereal
1 packet of medical gauze
1 package of dried cranberries
1 package of stick pretzels
pumpkin pie spice, cinnamon and cumin
1 cup of coffee
Take gauze and mix with coffee. Let sit.
Melt butter. Add marshmallows slowly until completely melted.
Add melted marshmallows, cereal and spices (to taste) together in small amounts until completely mixed.
Coat hands in olive oil or butter. Shape mixture into head shapes. For fingers, roll mixture between hands then push a pretzel stick into center. (Re-oil hands as needed.)
Take gauze, wring out coffee and cut it into strips. Starting at one end, wrap around oval to cover it entirely, leaving gap for "eyes." When oval is completely wrapped, unfold the end of the gauze slightly and press down. (Gauze will stick to surface.)
Place two dried cranberries in gap for "eyes" and press slightly to adhere. Repeat with remaining ovals. Can use larger cranberries for bloody nails.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Sometimes you've just got to jump
Sometimes you've just got to jump.
Each summer it would taunt me - in all its greatness and height - it was for the longest time the thing I feared the most.
I would stare up at it until resolve and the taunts of my peers finally forced me to face it.
Sucking in what felt like my last breathe, I would take hold of the rails and start to climb.
Each foot step would put more space between me and the ground. Something I was very physically aware of.
To distract myself, I would count each stair trying to hold back the terror that was ripping through my little body like a tsunami.
Finally at the top I would exhale. Trembling I would slide one foot in front of the other, tears streaming down my checks, until I reached the edge of the diving board.
Looking down, the terror would overwhelm me and I would stand there.
Sometimes, sobbing, sometimes just stricken like Lots wife, staring.
Inside my head, my voice would be saying, "It'll be ok, everything will be ok."
There was only one way down.
"Jump. Just jump," I would plead with myself.
Finally, I would.
After the first jump I could scanter up the stairs, without a care in the world, like every other child at the pool. I guess after being so close to the ground all winter long I would loss my "jump" legs and have to re-earn them each summer.
Life is like that ... when you wait too long, the fear starts to creep in; it plays havoc on your self confidence, your self esteem, your self worth.
Sometimes you've just got to jump.
For years now I've built up a wall of rules and regulations governing my behavior.
Let's face it: There was an appropriate way to act and an inappropriate way to act.
And I wouldn't be caught dead doing the latter. Not because I thought I was better than anyone but because I was afraid they wouldn't like me if I behaved badly.
But honestly it's been hard to get to know people when I've been so worried about being judged.
My fear segregated me and naively I thought ... I'm not sure what I thought other people would do ... .
While waiting, I filling my days with activities: knitting, crocheting, crafting, creating, volunteering, books and movies ... trying to fill the emptiness.
I tried to convince myself I was ok, that this fear was normal, that everything would be ok.
Standing in a girlfriend's bathroom, trying to justify it, I heard myself tell her simply, "I just don't trust myself."
I did have a propensity for dating men who didn't actually like me, so this made sense.
But it still didn't quell my desire -- to connect.
I have wanted, longed, in silence, until one day I find myself staring over the edge of the diving board again.
I realized that I had forgotten what human contact felt like. It was enough to drive a person mad. And mad I was ... the longing, the fear was overwhelming ... I longed for something that made me, frankly, nauseous.
I tried to explain it to my friends ... but it didn't make sense ... the uncontrollable terror. In social situations I would be fine until there was even a hint of interest and then I'd forget how to talk, stuttering like an imbecile I'd excuse myself, run, and hide. It was terrifying, it was embarrassing.
The voice in my head screaming the entire time, "What if I forgot how? What would they think of me? What if ... what if ... what if ... ?"
Sometimes you've just got to jump.
And hope that the universe catches you or at least a really cute life guard.
If not, you push yourself upwards, swim to the edge of the pool, climb out, and do it again.
Just don't wait three years until you do.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Me as a Simpson
I like the simpsonizeme.com from Burger King better than the movie site. The picture looks so much more like me than the other one.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Me as a Simpson
I think I look pretty hot as a Simpson. Maybe I could find a husband in Springfield? Who knows - how many times as Selma been married now?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
She's only six-months
Ras (Ethiopian for Boss) She's the purrfect little one-eyed cat. She's a handful but she and Chleo are getting on - so that's good.
Funk
You're sailing along, just fine and than there's a call, or an email, or you run in to them at a gas station just north of Timbuktu - those shadows from the past.
Which ever it is, it leaves you in a funk. Instead of dreaming of endless possibilities, you stop sleeping, you're listless, you lay on the couch and OD on bad television.
It's has if you start mourning the loss of those possibilities all over again. Or perhaps it's the fear that you will start hoping, maybe, one day to dream of endless possibilities again. Regardless it is best to fill your days with appointments, keeping your body in endless movement until your mind can settle on an answer - and move on.
Which ever it is, it leaves you in a funk. Instead of dreaming of endless possibilities, you stop sleeping, you're listless, you lay on the couch and OD on bad television.
It's has if you start mourning the loss of those possibilities all over again. Or perhaps it's the fear that you will start hoping, maybe, one day to dream of endless possibilities again. Regardless it is best to fill your days with appointments, keeping your body in endless movement until your mind can settle on an answer - and move on.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Trading Tulips for Petunias
This is the second in a series of essays I'm writing on life and moving. You can read the first essay on choice at the Poynter website.
My life in 10 moves - essay #2: Failure
Hokhmah, or revelation translated from the Hebrew, is known to Kabbalists as the "lightning flash" because of its sudden, illuminatory power and its capacity to transform darkness into light by brilliant insight.
Simply, sometimes the lesson we think we have come to learn is often not the lesson we end up learning.
While a student at the Defense Information School at Fort Meade, Maryland I failed a test: One test.
One of our instructors, Marcia Hart-Wise pulled me into an empty classroom and comforted me.
You might not think it's a big deal but for me it was devastating. Tears filled my downcast eyes as I repeated, "I don't fail things. I don't fail."
But the truth is I do fail. I fail everyday. Everyone does.
I was not upset because I failed - that was not at the core of my distress.
For me failure comes with a heavy personal burden - it defines me in the most negative sense, it labels me with adjectives like homeless, whore, useless, stupid.
It announces loudly to the world that I am not lovable.
For me: Success equals love.
And I will twist myself into the most uncomfortable positions trying to obtain that love. I have stayed awake for days studying, worked six jobs at the same time and collected pieces of paper that say I'm worthy - trying to covet that love. I've exhausted myself, made myself sick and shed an ocean of tears - trying to earn that love.
Where this has played out most is in my personal relationships.
Each time a relationship failed it reflected negatively on my net worth as an individual - or at least that is how I interpreted it.
For this reason, I have stayed in relationship far past the expiration date - convinced that I could cut off the moldy parts, bread and fry what was left to create a petite delicacy and all would be well with the world. But sometimes you can't fix things.
Move 102
"I moved here for a boy," I say when people asked me how I ended up in Holland, Michigan. Their shock is not surprising. I, a mousy-haired, mix-raced Jewish girl, am the antithesis of the West Michigan small conservative Christian Dutch Reform town.
But for love I was willing to risk everything - for love I traded Palestine for Tulip Time.
And I can say honestly I loved this boy. But sometimes love isn't enough.
His inability to stand up to the racism in his own family made that apparent. It might be legal for us to marry in the state of Michigan but his individual family is still centuries behind the legal system.
The overt and in advert racist statements, the weekly, daily, hourly calls from his father prodding him to dump me like yesterday's news, and the un-invitations took their toll on our relationship.
I bit my tongue until it bled and swallowed the blood until I was full.
He dealt with his family's animosity by cheating on me. I dealt with it by joining the Army. Neither were particularly good ideas.
The final nail in a coffin already half-buried was when he told me he couldn't support me emotionally as I struggled with the idea of being deployed to Iraq for a year.
This was the last lesson in a sequence of lessons. The idea that if I tried hard enough; was good enough; worked hard enough; that if I was simply enough that I would be loved.
But sometimes love isn't enough.
Move 23
When I moved to Eugene, Oregon the school put me in the first-grade reading group. School officials said I was frustrated by the second-grade reading group. I believe them. Sometimes it's still embarrassing for me to read out loud. I sound like a child. I hesitate. I stumble over, mispronounce, words that my contemporaries read with confidence. My inadequacy was only amplified by my mother.
Her would affectionately call me "stupid." She would affectionately equate my intelligence to that of a stone. I was her "little pet rock."
Maybe, she was right.
But I have spent my life trying to prove her wrong, trying to win her love. However, my successes did not win me her love - even as she lied dying she still could not love me. For her, each insurmountable hurtle I conquered simply reaffirmed her belief that she was not a bad mother. For her, it justified the beating, the abandonment, and the lies. And each month as I chip away at $60,000 in student loan debt, the cost of my wanting, I have to ask who the more intelligent one was? Her or I?
At 8 years and 8 months old they tested me. They being: The DeBusk Memorial Center in Eugene, Oregon, my school and my parents. It was an 18-day test that included my reading words individually and as part of a passage. I even read made up words to test my ability to decipher phonetics.
The fact that I'd spent my first year at a school in Guam, with a teacher that did not have a full grasp of the English language herself, made everyone nervous. And I was having trouble reading. During the exam I substituted the words "closen" for clean, "string" for strong, "and" for on, "saw" for was, "they" for there. And I mispronounced phonetically irregular words like were, through, yesterday, and deal.
However, according to the centers report when I read silently I answered questions at a 4.5 grade reading level. The evaluator suggested I sound the word out to myself, decide on the correct pronunciation, and then read the words quickly out loud. I still use that advice today. The child that they thought would never read now owns more than a 1,500 books and reads at least one a week.
Move number 89
Two years after that test another test would diagnose me with dyslexia, a learning disability that affects ones ability to interpret words, to read.
This became the second area of my life where the idea of success manifest as love would play itself out.
If I could just ... enough ... I would be loved, right?
I persuade words like a bad lover - each beating, each failure, just made me want more.
Just learning to read wasn't enough. And I began a journey that on bad days made me feel I couldn't continue one more minute and on good days that I could do anything including save the world.
One might think these two things ---a learning disability that affects ones ability to see and understand words and a profession that depends on words - are mutually exclusive.
And honestly, I often joke with people that I made myself an oxy-moron the day I decided to become a journalist.
However, in truth it was just another way for me to prove my mother wrong and covet her love.
Slowly, I have learned to work with "my gift." I have learned tricks. I have become an expert at wrangling words and forcing them to submit to my will. I have the bruises and scars to prove it.
While interviewing a source I'll write they're name in my notebook, show the source the notebook and ask, "Is this correct?" I read back quotes and than paraphrase asking, "Is this, what you meant?"
Some sources think I am dim-witted, I can hear it in their voices - that condescending chirp - like an angry bird protecting its territory.
And I am slower, or more meticulous, than most reporters. I have to stop, read each letter out loud, and match it up to the words in my notebook. Numbers are always a concern.
But most sources appreciate my effort and passion if not my technique.
It has become my passion and my nemesis. Don't get me wrong. I don't regret the tenacity with which I have pursued my career. But it has come at a high price.
Move 102
When I started at The Holland Sentinel I was forth coming about my learning disability.
"You should be aware that I am dyslexic. My copy is sometimes rough," I told each editor as they interviewed me. But either they did not realize what dyslexia was or they thought I was exaggerating because after they hired me there seemed to be no understand and little desire to understand how my mind worked. And as uncomfortable as it became I, perhaps misguided, refused to give up.
That was more than two years ago, I have watched my peers and colleagues flee an increasingly unhealthy work environment.
And since my mother had died six-months after I started at The Sentinel, I had to ask myself whose love was I trying to win by staying?
Whose love was I trying to win by staying in an unfulfilled relationship? Whose love was I trying to win by … any number of things I do each day trying so hard to be worthy?
And like the lightening bolt that illuminates the night it came to me. I truly need no ones love but my own.
I didn't need my editor's praise. I know what I do changes peoples lives. I didn't need my boyfriend's family's approval. I know I am a good person and I can stand in the integrity of that knowledge. And most importantly I didn't need my mother's love. I know that I am worth, so much, much, much more then I was ever willing to admit.
Move 103
This I will take with me as I move to Dixon, Illinois and start my new life.
My life in 10 moves - essay #2: Failure
Hokhmah, or revelation translated from the Hebrew, is known to Kabbalists as the "lightning flash" because of its sudden, illuminatory power and its capacity to transform darkness into light by brilliant insight.
Simply, sometimes the lesson we think we have come to learn is often not the lesson we end up learning.
While a student at the Defense Information School at Fort Meade, Maryland I failed a test: One test.
One of our instructors, Marcia Hart-Wise pulled me into an empty classroom and comforted me.
You might not think it's a big deal but for me it was devastating. Tears filled my downcast eyes as I repeated, "I don't fail things. I don't fail."
But the truth is I do fail. I fail everyday. Everyone does.
I was not upset because I failed - that was not at the core of my distress.
For me failure comes with a heavy personal burden - it defines me in the most negative sense, it labels me with adjectives like homeless, whore, useless, stupid.
It announces loudly to the world that I am not lovable.
For me: Success equals love.
And I will twist myself into the most uncomfortable positions trying to obtain that love. I have stayed awake for days studying, worked six jobs at the same time and collected pieces of paper that say I'm worthy - trying to covet that love. I've exhausted myself, made myself sick and shed an ocean of tears - trying to earn that love.
Where this has played out most is in my personal relationships.
Each time a relationship failed it reflected negatively on my net worth as an individual - or at least that is how I interpreted it.
For this reason, I have stayed in relationship far past the expiration date - convinced that I could cut off the moldy parts, bread and fry what was left to create a petite delicacy and all would be well with the world. But sometimes you can't fix things.
Move 102
"I moved here for a boy," I say when people asked me how I ended up in Holland, Michigan. Their shock is not surprising. I, a mousy-haired, mix-raced Jewish girl, am the antithesis of the West Michigan small conservative Christian Dutch Reform town.
But for love I was willing to risk everything - for love I traded Palestine for Tulip Time.
And I can say honestly I loved this boy. But sometimes love isn't enough.
His inability to stand up to the racism in his own family made that apparent. It might be legal for us to marry in the state of Michigan but his individual family is still centuries behind the legal system.
The overt and in advert racist statements, the weekly, daily, hourly calls from his father prodding him to dump me like yesterday's news, and the un-invitations took their toll on our relationship.
I bit my tongue until it bled and swallowed the blood until I was full.
He dealt with his family's animosity by cheating on me. I dealt with it by joining the Army. Neither were particularly good ideas.
The final nail in a coffin already half-buried was when he told me he couldn't support me emotionally as I struggled with the idea of being deployed to Iraq for a year.
This was the last lesson in a sequence of lessons. The idea that if I tried hard enough; was good enough; worked hard enough; that if I was simply enough that I would be loved.
But sometimes love isn't enough.
Move 23
When I moved to Eugene, Oregon the school put me in the first-grade reading group. School officials said I was frustrated by the second-grade reading group. I believe them. Sometimes it's still embarrassing for me to read out loud. I sound like a child. I hesitate. I stumble over, mispronounce, words that my contemporaries read with confidence. My inadequacy was only amplified by my mother.
Her would affectionately call me "stupid." She would affectionately equate my intelligence to that of a stone. I was her "little pet rock."
Maybe, she was right.
But I have spent my life trying to prove her wrong, trying to win her love. However, my successes did not win me her love - even as she lied dying she still could not love me. For her, each insurmountable hurtle I conquered simply reaffirmed her belief that she was not a bad mother. For her, it justified the beating, the abandonment, and the lies. And each month as I chip away at $60,000 in student loan debt, the cost of my wanting, I have to ask who the more intelligent one was? Her or I?
At 8 years and 8 months old they tested me. They being: The DeBusk Memorial Center in Eugene, Oregon, my school and my parents. It was an 18-day test that included my reading words individually and as part of a passage. I even read made up words to test my ability to decipher phonetics.
The fact that I'd spent my first year at a school in Guam, with a teacher that did not have a full grasp of the English language herself, made everyone nervous. And I was having trouble reading. During the exam I substituted the words "closen" for clean, "string" for strong, "and" for on, "saw" for was, "they" for there. And I mispronounced phonetically irregular words like were, through, yesterday, and deal.
However, according to the centers report when I read silently I answered questions at a 4.5 grade reading level. The evaluator suggested I sound the word out to myself, decide on the correct pronunciation, and then read the words quickly out loud. I still use that advice today. The child that they thought would never read now owns more than a 1,500 books and reads at least one a week.
Move number 89
Two years after that test another test would diagnose me with dyslexia, a learning disability that affects ones ability to interpret words, to read.
This became the second area of my life where the idea of success manifest as love would play itself out.
If I could just ... enough ... I would be loved, right?
I persuade words like a bad lover - each beating, each failure, just made me want more.
Just learning to read wasn't enough. And I began a journey that on bad days made me feel I couldn't continue one more minute and on good days that I could do anything including save the world.
One might think these two things ---a learning disability that affects ones ability to see and understand words and a profession that depends on words - are mutually exclusive.
And honestly, I often joke with people that I made myself an oxy-moron the day I decided to become a journalist.
However, in truth it was just another way for me to prove my mother wrong and covet her love.
Slowly, I have learned to work with "my gift." I have learned tricks. I have become an expert at wrangling words and forcing them to submit to my will. I have the bruises and scars to prove it.
While interviewing a source I'll write they're name in my notebook, show the source the notebook and ask, "Is this correct?" I read back quotes and than paraphrase asking, "Is this, what you meant?"
Some sources think I am dim-witted, I can hear it in their voices - that condescending chirp - like an angry bird protecting its territory.
And I am slower, or more meticulous, than most reporters. I have to stop, read each letter out loud, and match it up to the words in my notebook. Numbers are always a concern.
But most sources appreciate my effort and passion if not my technique.
It has become my passion and my nemesis. Don't get me wrong. I don't regret the tenacity with which I have pursued my career. But it has come at a high price.
Move 102
When I started at The Holland Sentinel I was forth coming about my learning disability.
"You should be aware that I am dyslexic. My copy is sometimes rough," I told each editor as they interviewed me. But either they did not realize what dyslexia was or they thought I was exaggerating because after they hired me there seemed to be no understand and little desire to understand how my mind worked. And as uncomfortable as it became I, perhaps misguided, refused to give up.
That was more than two years ago, I have watched my peers and colleagues flee an increasingly unhealthy work environment.
And since my mother had died six-months after I started at The Sentinel, I had to ask myself whose love was I trying to win by staying?
Whose love was I trying to win by staying in an unfulfilled relationship? Whose love was I trying to win by … any number of things I do each day trying so hard to be worthy?
And like the lightening bolt that illuminates the night it came to me. I truly need no ones love but my own.
I didn't need my editor's praise. I know what I do changes peoples lives. I didn't need my boyfriend's family's approval. I know I am a good person and I can stand in the integrity of that knowledge. And most importantly I didn't need my mother's love. I know that I am worth, so much, much, much more then I was ever willing to admit.
Move 103
This I will take with me as I move to Dixon, Illinois and start my new life.
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