Libs on the Reel

Reaction on the Boston Marathon

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 11:42:00 +0000

There are supposed to be fireworks at the end of races like The Boston Marathon--not deadly explosions.

As my coworker read the breaking news to a group of us in the office, I put my head down and continued to write the treatment that I was working on. It wasn't that I didn't want to be informed--I wasn't ready to be sad.

Sadness, after tragedy, is often addictive. After Colorado; Newtown; Sandy; and other large events that have resulted in death, I often find myself refreshing the Twitter stream relentlessly, clicking from news organization to news organization, and texting friends about their thoughts. All I want to do is turn away--but I can't. So when I finally tuned into what was going on in Boston, an hour after it occurred, my obsession with the story quickly manifested. I wanted answers. I wanted to know who, what, when, where, why, HOW. I wanted to know everything.

And rather than feel sadness, I suddenly found myself feeling angry. This wasn't an attack on our country, no it couldn't be. There are over 90 other countries represented in a race like The Boston Marathon. This was senseless--terrifying--and reckless.

As someone who has run a lot of races, my anger too stemmed from the fact that this could have been any race in any city.

On Sunday morning, I ran my first race in nearly 9 months on the JFK runway--a 5k. I even got a few friends to come run it with me--one who hadn't ran a race before. As we approached the 5k, I told her how excited I was that it was her first--that the community feeling of running a 5k, or any race, is what keeps me coming back. People are supportive--People feel a sense of community.

And what I love most about running in races is that it's not a judgmental sport. People of all ages run--people of all run levels run--and people from all over the world run--without being judged. The spectators stand by--cheering, relentless--holding signs that make you laugh as you pass by, giving you high fives, motivating you until you cross the finish line. And unless it's the Olympics or unless you're a top runner battling it out for the top time, then no one is cheering against you either. It may not be a team sport but it brings on a team of people who want to see success. It brings people together--if even for a short bit of time. That's the fun of any sporting event--the community that is drawn in. To see that disrupted, to see our spectators hurt--our runners--our fellow Americans--and even those who travel from near and far to take part in a race that has such magnitude as the Boston Marathon gives me chills and is beyond disheartening.

As more and more information is released, my heart begins to sink more. As I see the photos of the carnage, I am reminded of photos I've seen of battle scenes. People are without legs--three lives have been lost--and hundreds are battling what could be life threatening injuries in multiple hospitals across the city of Boston.

An 8 year old boy lost his life by simply watching a race--a race that perhaps he one day wanted to participate in, or that his family may have been participating in yesterday.

As I try to suppress my anger, I think of what I can do--what we can do in order to support Boston at a time like this.

The answer is to continue loving. To continue loving with all our hearts--showing our neighbor who may not always seem to love us back--so much love that they can't avoid showing love too.

There is too much good in this world to let the bad rot it out.

To all those who took the start line yesterday--and who stood by, relentlessly cheering them on to the finish, my heart--my thoughts--and my prayers are with you.

In the next few weeks, I will be looking toward a marathon to run in either October or November. I recently told a friend that I would never think of doing a marathon--that it wasn't in my cards. But it is in my cards, because I have the means to do it. There are people who lost the ability to run another marathon--or even their first after the explosives went off yesterday--so I want to run in memory of / out of respect for them them. If anyone has any suggestions or who would like to join me, please reach out. Even if it means walking all 26 miles. This race is the answer to the anger--to the hate--to the sadness. This race is for them.

Libs on the Reel

Be the Change

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 22:02:00 +0000

I'm going to open up this post the way a lot of bloggers have : I didn't know if I wanted to write about the tragedy that took place in Connecticut, just one week ago today. But I felt compelled to, because it's important to confront the things that we are running from most.

The truth is-I didn't want to think about this tragedy. I DON'T want to think about this tragedy. I DON'T want to envision the faces of those children as the unthinkable happened. In fact, for the first day, I avoided Twitter and even Facebook. Most of the news was wrong in the early hours that it didn't seem to matter: However, the worst part of it had still happened and was very real and it wasn't something I was ready to face...It's something I still have trouble facing each and every day as the AM Magazine gets shoved in my face with photos of funerals for 6 year olds. I can't even read the word Sandy Hook without shivers going down my spine. I remember being bombarded with news about Columbine as a child--and then again Virginia Tech as a college student, but the in-your faceness of all of this seems much more unavoidable.

I'm normally all about the news--in fact, when Hurricane Sandy rolled through, my reaction to the in your face blasts was quite the opposite--it all felt necessary--I wanted to break information to people as often and as consistently as I could. At friends homes, we sat around predicting how bad it would be--what to do if there was a power loss--and how long the trains would be out of service for. The difference is that Sandy was predicted. We were all awaiting it--so when it hit--we were ready. We couldn't prepare for what happened last Friday. Unlike Hurricane Sandy, my friends and I haven't made mention in conversation about the tragedy--and one time when i tried to bring it up, we all changed the subject right away.

I desperately wish I could turn back the clocks and sweep up all those children in my own arms and fly them to safety. I desperately wish the front page of the news this past week was fiscal cliff related, and not human tragedy related. I desperately wish this had never happened.

But there is harm in looking in the past, and wishing things had played out differently--in longing. It's time to heal and to protect ourselves from other situations that might rise similar to this.

As someone disconnected from the Sandy Hook community- the questions , as for most, are how can I help NOW and for the future . There are several answers: I can get educated about gun laws and reform in this country--and then I can educate others. I can also get educated about mental health and how people can get help for it--and again, educate others. And then I can do the same thing every single one of us can do : I can look inside myself, and ask myself to be a good person, to keep my values and my morals, and to continue treating people with kindness and love--a message that takes only smiles and hugs to send.

To see change, we need to be the change. We can't change what happened last Friday, but we do have the ability to change what could happen in the future. So let's start.

The Resilient Ones

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 16:15:00 +0000

Darkness has flooded my room. I nervously try to avoid pressing power buttons on any of the number of electronics that surround me. Has the power gone out? Did we buy enough if it did? When will it come back on? I go to plug in my computer and to my dismay, the charge light comes on. Hurricane Sandy has completely spared my apartment building—and for the most part my neighborhood: Bushwick Brooklyn.

And I feel nothing but gratefulness for that—but sadness for all that I am seeing across the East River.

My friends on the Island are without power. Those in the lower east side, and most below 34^th street- my fellow New Yorkers are too. The subways have flooded, the tunnels are closed, and homes have been destroyed. Cars are floating down the streets—the Brooklyn Bridge Park Carousel is now a submarin-o-sel, and a hospital was evacuated late in the night.

I am in Bushwick Brooklyn, but from the lack of devastation outside, I could be anywhere—watching the news and following the Twitter updates just the way everyone else is. Though the island is just 5 miles from me, I feel a world apart—even if my heart feels closer than ever.

Last night, I updated my Twitter feed, obsessively. And each time I read the word “Safety,” I felt chills run through every part of me. Around 8pm, as the storm surge peaked, and pictures followed. Tears flooded my face. “Manhattan is in trouble,” I whispered. “What will happen?” “How will we recover?” “What can I do to help—while I’ve still got electricity?”

The answer at that moment was nothing.

And as I learned this morning, it could be days til people have power again—til the subways run, til people are back in their homes. But I realize, now, that even though I physically can’t help—the same attitude that continuously helps me push forward through the crowded streets of ambitious actors, actresses, lawyers, engineers, business people, accountants, stage hands, producers, directors, law enforcers, health and medical officials, and more—that NEW YORK ATTITUDE—the NEW YORK LOVE—can be helpful..

The truth is New Yorkers are resilient. They’ve seen the lights go out on Broadway. They’ve experienced bombs rumble under ground. They’ve watched their iconic buildings collapsed. And each time they’ve risen to the occasion to come back—to reassemble—to regain their composure—to help a neighbor—or a friend—or the elderly—or a child. New York is filled with people who fight battles every day to survive metaphorical storms. And today, with this very real aftermath of a devastating storm—New York is still filled with those people—those same resilient people. And I know we’ll all get through this, together. New York City is our home--and it's not going anywhere--and neither are we.

Warm Wishes to my fellow New Yorkers—and those who felt Sandy’s wrath all up the east coast.

Love,

Libs on the Reel

We are all Remembering

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 15:06:00 +0000

Written on 9/11/2012: Posted on 9/12/2012

I live in a city that has been built off of decadent dreams and determination; a city that has seen dim days and darkness; and a city that has dug deeply. I live in the greatest city in the world. I wasn’t here when the lights went down on Broadway, or when a bomb rustled underground—or when the towers fell—But I am here now—and I can tell you—There’s NO place quite like New York City.

_________________________________________________________________________________

It’s a quiet morning in the Big Apple—a somber one. I walk out of the subway station at Union Square. I walk south. En route to an early morning coffee date, I spot the Freedom Tower proudly standing over downtown New York. I close my eyes. I smile. I inhale. I hold my breath. I exhale. I open my eyes. It’s still there. And so is New York City’s heartbeat.

Eleven years ago, today, the heart of this city went into arrest—and the big apple—the state—and the country mourned the loss of thousands of people as two of the tallest buildings in the United States came crumbling to the ground after two planes crashed directly into them during morning rush hour.

I look to my left, and I see three young girls, books in tow, heading to class. These young girls, who can be no older than sophomores in college, were in elementary school when the 9/11 attacks took place. They could have had parents in the buildings—they could have lived across the country—they could have been banned from watching the tele in school (I was). But they are here now.

I look at my phone. 7:50am. I was heading into school. I was getting ready for a Code of Conduct Meeting. I’d been to New York City less than a handful of times. But I am here now.

I check my Facebook—friends who lost friends—friends who lost family members post. A former co-worker reposts his video of the tragedy—and people across the world are Instagramming memorial photos. Followers and those I follow are Tweeting their tributes. I note emails from friends who have moved away from this city—friends that spent many years here before moving away. Friends that experienced the terror of the time—that watched the buildings come down. Their souls are all here even if they are physically far away.

I watch as people walk their dogs past me. They are older. I see a man in his fifties—a woman in her forties—another man—and a woman staring at 1 World Trade from her seat outside a coffee shop. These people could have been here – these people could have worked in one of the buildings– they could have seen the completion in the 1970’s—they could have bragged about living in the city with the tallest towers in the world. These people are breathing. They are living. They are remembering. We are all remembering.

It’s now night and I watch as two children dance under the Washington Square Park arch. They weren’t alive when the towers came down, when the future idea of war for our soldiers suddenly became the present; when people cried and mourned. These children may not have been thoughts, even, but they are here now—in a community that strives to live on despite the past.

No matter where we were—what age we were---or are now—what connection we had—being here—in this city today—connects us all. This beautiful, brilliant city that 8 million call home…this beautiful, brilliant city that breathes despite the dust—

This city that’s heart beats despite that dreary morning.

To those who lost their families—their friends—their colleagues—their loved ones—in any of the 9/11 attacks or post 9/11 attacks--my heart is with you. Forever and Always. We Remember.

Stay awhile--watch the sun go down...

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 14:28:00 +0000

The sky reflects pink and the city's stunning skyline echos brightly below.

The wooden planks rattle as bikes roll across. The wind blows my hair into my face.

I look up at the arches of the bridge and imagine that if there is a heaven, these must be what the gates look like.

As the sunset on summer approaches, I take a breath and begin to reminisce on the times that have resonated these last few months. What a beautiful--delightful summer it has been.

I've had a lot of favorite moments this summer--from stunt jumping, to taking on a new job, to my acting classes, to buying my new bicycle--but none stands out more than one particular night that reminded me to stop rushing--actually--one particular night that reminded me to just stop at all.

______________________________________________________________________________

On July 5th, even time began to stand still. Walking through Brooklyn Bridge Park, I felt at home. I always feel at home in New York City--but this time felt different. Much of this had to do with the epic view of the most beautiful bridge in the city, but a lot of it also had to do with the company I was in--someone who knows a lot about enjoying and living in the present moment.

As we continued along our walk, we stumbled upon a free screening of E.T. We stood wondering if we should stay--or we should go. Many times--in this world--people to leave, to say "I'll do that one day--but not today." However, on this night we opted to stop--we opted to stay.

That night, following the film, my friend sent me a note about the "stopping" experience--the lesson learned:

"Because we know that we have grown accustomed to moving too fast--when we want to leave something because we think we don't have time--just wait a little longer...Even if you need to lay down and take a couple deep breaths." - Rachael C. Smith

_____________________________________________________________________________

The rattle of wooden planks brings me back to the current moment--here, and now, where I am sitting on a steel beam that separates the pedestrian area from the traffic below.

I watch the clouds turn back to white from their pink, and the sky glows a mix of purple and blue.

Stay awhile-watch the sun go down-even a big city has the warmth of your favorite small town.

I opt to stay and take a few deep breaths. I am present. I am home.

In Transit

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 12:31:00 +0000

The wheels churn. I feel my body begin to vibrate. I hear a cry for money from the same unshaven man--who tries to sell newspapers, each night to support his family.

I hum along and nod my head to someone's iPod that is on just a little bit too loud. One of my favorites is playing. I smile.

I smell a mix of cologne, perfumes, and morning cups of Joe.

I lick my lips and pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

And I watch.

I watch the women with strollers. I watch the hipsters who swear they aren’t hipsters. I watch as people laugh. I watch as people read. I watch as people watch—people.

My favorite place in New York City, I imagine, differs from many other people’s favorite places. I love the New York City subway: the energy of the subway stations on a day where the train schedules run just right (which as rare as it is—is always a treat); the upbeat drummer on the L train platform at 14^th and 6^th Avenue; the break-dancers on the upper platform of the Union Square Station; the guitarists trying to make it; the smiling mariachi band; and of course the ride—one that’s always unique and it’s own.

I love the people—the performers—the beggars—the readers—the conductors—the families—the diversity.

I love the way the wheels rattle and seem to synchronize with the beat of my heart—and that bassy hum that accompanies.

I love the opportunities for shared moments—glances—eye contact—giggles—the chances for true, pure human interaction with complete strangers.

I love watching people—and writing stories—creating alternate worlds where I know the families and lives of each of these straphangers.

And I love the alone time.

I love sitting with myself; I love disappearing into my music or a book or my writing; I love the morning meditation—the evening energy escaping my limbs as I lean my head back; I love feeling so private yet in such a public space. I love this shot at being a fly on the wall—at taking it all in—at observing—at breathing.

I often miss my stops. It’s okay, I am the earliest person you will ever meet, on most occasions—and I know the subway like a doctor knows the veins that run through a body. This is part of my home.

The doors open—the doors shut. I don’t actually notice. I am enthralled in my thoughts—my ideas—the people that I am seeing. I feel myself breathe. I love this. I am in transit.

I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in us.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 11:55:00 +0000

"I got off the train and the only person I wanted to see was you."

I thought about sending this to a good friend one day, but somehow I am sure that person already knew. Because it's that one person that we all have but may not have found just yet.

A soulmate.

I believe in love. I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in you and I. I believe in soul mates.

I believe that a soulmate comes in all shapes, in all sizes, in all genders, in all ages--that a soulmate is not necessarily the person you feel so deeply connected in and routed to in a sexual way--though it could be--but most definitely in a way in which you feel a deeper connection spiritually. A connection that helps one to see the true size--the true spirit that resides within.

I believe that TV and magazines sell us false images of a soulmate as the person we marry--or fall deeply in love with. And while it may be true--I'll never be convinced it is, because often this attraction we have--becomes a de-attraction after days, weeks, months, years of dating--or even marriage--and then we are off soul searching again.

I know. I am 24--what the F do I know about soul searching and soul mates and life. I'd like to say a lot. I am living this life, so I hope I know something.

I believe that we all have magic powers--a sixth sense--that is ignited when that one person--that soulmate--finds their way to us--or we find our way to them.

I believe that what we can tap into with human interaction--at all--soulmate or not--is of such magnitude that we have yet to see the results--and that if every person found their true living soulmate--that the power of this world and of our existence would only intensify at speeds greater than we could even imagine.

I owe Marina Abramovic a lot for my deeper thinking here--I guess. While not my soulmate, she has captured a bit of my soul. She's an extraordinary woman and artist--who created an exhibit that called for interaction at the deepest level possible. (The Artist is Present)

No--not sex.

No--not speaking

Yes--sitting idle, face to face--eye to eye without words.

It is in the moments of silence--the moments of looking into a person's eyes--the moments of taking all attention off yourself and putting it on another person--that I believe we can truly find that soulmate--that one person that just by existing--no matter the the proximity or distance--makes us a better person.

And above all, I believe the force between these two souls that have somehow managed to find one another in this beautiful chaos comprised of billions of people--can forever change the world.

I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in us.

And that's a lot to believe in.

yearSelf

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 16:49:00 +0000

“Who knows where life will take you, the road is long, and in the end... the journey is the destination.” – One Tree Hill

My sunglasses are down, the roof of the car is open and all there is ahead of me are two lanes divided by a double yellow line. This is a sort of freedom that I've come to know really well this year...

I look to my left- I look to my right. I check my mirrors and I smile. An Usher song is blasting but because of the wind, I can barely hear more than a bassy beat echoing through the car. I love it: the disorientation, my hair blowing from side to side. I feel my hamstrings begin to sweat from the humidity that is inescapable. I check myself out again (hehe), and I think about how I got here-to Houston- in August- in this mustang convertible.

This is pretty amazing.

I decide that I got here by focusing on what I call “yearSelf”-- yes “yearSelf”. Many people have often said to, "focus on yourself more Libs" so I made "yourself" into a yearlong quest. A yearlong open road with, a yearlong road trip—where I am always in the driver’s seat, only envisioning one lane—the one that goes forward, rather than back.

A lot’s happened this year—but to look back on it—to be nostalgic about it—would be a bit hypocritical of that last line. But sometimes, in writing, it’s okay to be a bit hypocritical—and why? Because in writing, we can make our own rules (and why? Because I said so). So here goes:

I started taking acting classes in January and made an incredible group of friends that I now consider family.

I took up a yearlong challenge to try one new thing a week—starting in February, that I pre-conceived in January.

I’ve dated—and had a break up.

I’ve called home more.

I've worn bright colors (and yes this makes a huge difference in life)

I’ve ran my second half-marathon—this time with a good friend.

I’ve meditated.

I’ve written more.

I’ve taken time for me.

I’ve had dizzying discoveries, and beaming break-throughs.

I quit my job in July.

I took a freelance job in August.

And it’s ONLY August.

That’s how I got here. To this moment. In this white mustang convertible, that we’ve rented for work. That’s how I got here—to this open road ahead, both literally and metaphorically. And I’m not so worried about any forks, because I’ve made some tough decisions this year too. Ones that I have yet to regret—and don’t for-see regretting anytime soon or ever--cause *Life is too short to have regrets.*

But the only decision that’s mattered—truly mattered, is the one where I decided to take the year—to focus on myself. To make 2012, my open road—my metaphorical road trip—my journey--my “yearSelf.”

I challenge you to take one of these yourself—without any destination in mind—because really—the only destination—is the journey.

Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Smiles

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 13:29:00 +0000

It feels great to be up in the air again, to watch the clouds, for a short period of time from above--rather than below; to see the world--the most beautiful canvas that there is just full of opportunity for growth and life.

A lot of people don't like to fly in planes. I love it. It's the one time I can disappear and enjoy a brand new outlook--a new view--a new perspective. It's one of the few times I can disconnect from all outside wires of communication--and access only myself.

Solsbury Hill comes on my iPod, and I smile. I love this--this freedom--this beautiful-eye-opening freedom.

I close my eyes, "my heart going boom, boom, boom." I've been to this place before, THIS place, way up high. Not just when I am literally in a plane, but every-time I close my eyes and get lost in my favorite place.

I've always had an obsession with the sky. When I was young, the trim to my room was the blue sky and clouds. I didn't want it any other way. I was stubborn. In 7th grade sewing class, when we were asked to buy patterns for the pillows we'd later be making, I chose the fabric at the store that had a sky print. When people ask me if I could have any power in the world--that's easy--flying.

I close my eyes, and I am on a cloud. It's simple and soft. I use it like Aladdin's magic carpet, until I want a new view--Then I just pop on over to another cloud. I float over New York City, and then somehow teleport myself to my hometown--and time travel to when I was in high school. I watch my mother out in the yard-and see my friends and me playing sports at the high school.

I breathe it in. I breathe it all in.

I feel myself smile, and then I let out a little laugh. I feel my eyes twitch. I am present, but yet so far gone. This is what it means to go to my favorite place in the entire world--to feel present--and away...to know that this place, this amazing ride through the sky is simply one ME moment away-that I can take off any time I want.

I come back to myself and where I am. This time I am lucky enough that when I open my eyes--I am still up in the sky--still up above the clouds--still smiling.

Going Home

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 14:21:00 +0000

Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out...

And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns

-Carrie Underwood

-July 2009

Disregard our TEXT typos here: "we're" and "too" (Darn iPhones :) )

I'm a New Yorker. Both my parents were born and raised in New York. Both my brother and my sister attended colleges in New York State. And now here I am living and working in New York City. It was clearly meant to be my home--one day. But for so many years leading up to now, home was somewhere else--it was a little town in Pennsylvania called Bethlehem--It was where I played baseball on the little league field, struck out boys from the pitcher's mound, and scored runs by sliding into home plate.

It where I bought and ate penny candy with my best friend on the pavement playground--which I later scraped my knees on (why are there pavement playgrounds by the way?). It was where I wore my heart on my sleeve for nearly hundreds to thousands of sporting events over 10 years.

It was where I learned to swim.

It was where I had my first sleepover.

It was where I experienced my first bully--and overcame that bully.

It was where I got my first detention (Hehe).

It was where I went trick-or-treating.

It was where I experienced the loss of a loved one for the first time.

It was where I learned to ride my bike and to drive a car.

It was where I ate apple turnovers with my mom and drank giant glasses of milk over quiet conversation. It was where I tubed down the creek and laughed all day long.

It was where I went on my first date, snuck out past a curfew, and shared my first kiss.

It was where I played man hunt, capture the flag, and hide-and-go-seek.

It was where I learned to ice skate and rollerblade--where I learned to fall down--and get back up.

It was where I met my four best friends who taught me about life and love and happiness. It was where I grew up--even if I grew out. It was where I learned to live. It was--and forever will be my hometown.

Often, with the hustle and bustle of NYC, it's easy to lose touch with "home" to forget to call a grandparent--to forget to text your best friend back, to mindlessly lose sense of time in all possible ways. New York City is, of course, the city that never sleeps--so each day begins to blend into the next, AND before you know it, it's been two months--three months--six months--a year since you've reached out--even to one of your best friends in the entire world.

This past weekend, I was reminded why my friends are so amazing--why my HOMETOWN is so amazing. Without fail, I can return to to Bethlehem, PA and be welcomed back in as if I never left. Without fail, my best friends and I can pick up where we left off--and never look back. Without fail, I can sit poolside with a best friend who I haven't seen in nearly six months, or who had a real conversation with in a year or two--and cry and laugh and smile and feel more connected than ever.

Without fail--my hometown can always serve as home. Even if I've made a home somewhere else.

"I always find another piece of me
Walking down these old familiar streets /

Thank God for hometowns
And all the love that makes them go round
Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out
Thank God for Church pews
And all the faces that won’t forget you
And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns
Thank God for hometowns"

-Carrie Underwood

On Loving Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 19:18:00 +0000

"Find your capacity to love yourself and then one another" - David Tierney Lerner

I met my good friend David on the side of the road last year while I was walking around Manhattan. We struck up a 45 minute conversation and parted ways. Now, over a year later, he and I spend a significant amount of time with one another--laughing, talking, smiling, living and loving life. The quote featured above was taken directly from the end of one of his brilliant Facebook status updates this past week. And I couldn't thank him any more for it.

While David was responding to Anderson Cooper's coming out statement, in a beautiful way, in regards to himself--I believe that "finding the capacity to love yourself--and then one another" is such a good lesson that we could all try and participate in learning--no matter what that means for each person and their own insecurities. I know it's a lesson I've been working on for a long time:

My morning is pretty standard.

Wake up. Stretch. Move. Get up. Walk to the bathroom. Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

(Had to make sure that all reflected the way I wanted it to).

If you live alone--or are single--this is likely the first person you see each day.

You are likely the first person you see each day.

Why start off the day looking at someone you don't like?--Someone you don't love?

Too often, we stare in the mirror and pick out all of our "problems." I went through a period of my life where I refused to look in any mirrors-afraid of all the flaws I might find. It wasn't just mirrors though--it was store front windows (because who wants to look into their large reflection with a slim mannequin standing by and critiquing in that mannequin silence). It was car fenders. Heck--it was even shadows. Anything that offered me a return vision of my self was off limits. I went a year, essentially, without seeing ME.

I knew myself too well to know that looking in the mirror would have yielded a self-conscious sadness and eventual self-destruction. I didn't love myself. I didn't love who I was or who I felt people were seeing. It wasn't just my hair--my body--and my face that I didn't love. Somehow the mirrors seemed to reflect a lot of internal conflict that I wasn't ready to understand-- a lot of internal feelings and self-discoveries that I am only NOW starting to explore, discover, and love.

We are only offered a short period of time on this earth and if we spend a lot of that time disliking ourselves, it will be very difficult to find someone who can learn to love us.

And sometimes we'll find--as my acting teachers would say--that what we really think isn't working about ourselves--is the number one thing that is.

Now.

Go look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Love the person you see.

Love you.

Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well--"Your art Matters--It's what got me here": Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 22 Jun 2012 00:36:00 +0000

***Disclaimer: The title is a mash-up of the Eve 6 Song and a quote from One Tree Hill***

It's been nearly two years since I wrote an open thank you note to all the people that have inspired me. Two years. I should be saying thank you every day.

Because truly, "Your art matters"--yes you--"It's what got me here." (One Tree Hill)

I am a go getter--a strong-brave--courageous-lively individual. But I am also grateful. I didn't get here on my own. I got here through all of you--through all of you in my past--through all of you who are in my present--through all of you that I've only met for moments--seconds in my life. I got here through my past--I got here through looking towards the future--and I got here through your constant pushes, your endless support, your brilliant love and passion for life and whatever it may bring. I got here through you. Yes--you.

I didn't always wear my heart on my sleeve when it came to what I truly wanted. The truth is--I've always wanted to be a performer--an artist--a creative soul giving her most intimate thoughts and gifts through words and writing on the side of the street. I always wanted to be in the school plays, take voice lessons so I could be on Broadway, and make art. Growing up, the only reality TV show I wanted to be on was Say What Karaoke. But up until my senior year of college, I never acted on it. I am not sure if I was scared of what people would think of me--or if I just didn't have the confidence in myself. Whatever wall was stopping me seemed unbreakable. But I don't regret waiting so long to find my inner arteest (hehe)--because along the way, I formed friendships and long-lasting relationships with people who taught me to love myself and push myself in ways that have propelled me to become the artist --and person that I am.

I was an athlete. In everyone's minds that's where my life was going--athletics. When I was in eighth grade, I engraved it in my head that I needed to be good enough to get a scholarship for college--at softball. In sophomore year, I sat down with a recruiter and discussed how to reach college coaches. And by junior year, I was no longer focused on softball--but rather field hockey--another sport. I hadn't given myself a chance to TRY anything else. Being an athlete was all I knew. My life revolved around the emotion of the final game of a season--statistics--and morning runs. I knew nothing else--and my heart yearned for me to be trying EVERYTHING. I got a glimpse of what my heart was truly yearning for when I auditioned for class speaker, and won a vote to speak at my high school graduation. I compared high school to coffee--my inner art was screaming to get out, but again the wall built itself up. But my heart was yearning to be on a stage--somewhere--talking to people--laughing with people--performing. My head won this game. But I don't regret it.

What better way to get comfortable speaking and performing in front of people than playing sports--where you are put on display for people during every practice and during every game--choreographing just like a dancer how you'll dodge, move, and drive toward the goal. What better way to learn about performing in front of people than when you don't have time to worry about what people on the outside are thinking of you. It's just you and your teammates. It's because of those teammates--those coaches--those support systems--that I can perform. Here's to you.

Additionally I was always one to quote underdog movies: and prove that I should be on that field through my drive and my passion for wanting to be there for my teammates--for wanting to be a pillar to the foundation of a group of girls who meant the world to me. Through my teammates--through my coaches--through those support systems--through wanting to be there for people--who were always there for me--I found passion. Here's to you. My team.

When I moved to New York City, life changed. I met hundreds of people who were all part of team-dream (haha). I met hundreds of people who were following their passions. I met hundreds of people who made me realize that I could do the same. I met people who invited me to their shows--who asked me to watch them do their art--who showed me WHO THEY WERE. I met comics--and actors--and singers--and aspiring novelists. I met my acting class--I met my new mentors. I met people who were okay with being THEM--I met people who showed me that it's okay to be ME. These people are part of my team--these people are part of me. Here's to you--my team.

That's what life is about to me--the passion to perform--and the inherit pleasure in being part of a team--an endless team of people that are constantly making moves that in turn allow me to make my own. A team that often is off on their own, performing on stage, singing, dancing, playing and dreaming--a team that is inspiring me. I consider the world my team: My friends--my old teammates--my family--my new acquaintances--the faces of people who don't look back--the faces of people who worry, but push through--the faces of friends who pursue their dreams. You are all my team---Whoever you are--wherever you are--whether I met you in passing--or I spend time with you on a consistent basis--whether I read your blog--or followed your Twitter--I admire you--and I am inspired by you. I am me because of my team--This team. I am me because of you.

"Your art truly matters. It's what got me here."

How I Geeked Out with James Franco

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 02:26:00 +0000

Disclaimer: I started this blog over a year ago with an intention of following the "reel" in New York City. My blog often features posts about real-life struggles, inspiring moments, and comical outbursts. This post is a return to the root of the blog, as I returned to the "reel" world tonight with a visit to the Tribeca Film Festival.

I am a filmmaker. (and by filmmaker--I mean media maker)

For a while, I've been going back and forth on what a filmmaker is. In my opinion, a filmmaker is someone who challenges the norms. It is someone develops an idea or message they'd like to clearly and concisely get across, and then relays that message through a medium--in any which way they can. A filmmaker is someone who doesn't rely on mimicking the past, but rather taking bits and pieces from past filmmakers to produce their own picture. A filmmaker is someone who embraces new technology trends and throws people for a loop with them. A filmmaker is an artist. I am a filmmaker.

And James Franco is a filmmaker. Tonight, I had the wonderful pleasure of attending the North American premiere of Franco and Ian Olds new movie: Francophrenia. Following the film, I had the opportunity to sit through a q and a with both directors, and like a ten year old waiting in line for an ice cream cone, I jumped at the opportunity to ask a question:

"First I want to say that I absolutely loved this film; I think it's brilliant; and the long takes and close-ups were just fantastic. My question is: How did the vision of your film change from the beginning of the process to the end product?" Franco took the mic and explained how the process changed quite a bit. He admitted to first planning on editing it himself--and then feeling better about it if he let someone else manipulate the footage.

What does he mean by this? Well let's look at the film: Francophrenia is truly an experimental documentary that combines a fictional story--about General Hospital--with an ongoing commentary that we have on celebrities--in this case James Franco himself. Throughout the film, we are treated to long takes of Franco on and off set; close-ups on Franco's face like those we'd have in soap operas; dark endearing music to captivate Franco as a crazy man; voice over whispers of the thoughts going through Franco's head during these fictional takes; shots of fans obsessed with Franco as a celebrity; and of course the fictional General Hospital story. Because Franco had become the center of this film, as he said, he unselfishly gave himself up to director Olds. And in that, the film changed completely from his hands to someone else's. For Franco, this meant removing his ego from the manipulation of the footage. Bonus points.

The Q & A finished immediately after my question and en route out, I took a risk and approached Franco.

"Excuse me, James...I just wanted to say that the film is brilliant." Slowly I reached out my hand hoping he'd take it. He did.

"Thanks, really thank you," Franco graciously said.

And then the word vomit began. Star struck, I told him how I believed I was an experimental filmmaker. And as I stumbled through all my words to make clear to him how much experimental film and filmmaking meant to me, he sat there and listened to me intently, and he conversed back, despite a line of people behind me awaiting their few seconds with him. His willingness and his excitement over our conversation about film made clear just how passionate this artist is about his craft. We often put celebrities on this pedestal--Francophrenia displays that pedestal brilliantly-and we forget that they too are just working on their art--their messages. They too are just doing what they love to do. And for a moment it didn't matter that my words were coming out backwards, we were just two industry people having an industry conversation...and it felt quite lovely:

I mentioned that I lectured at URI and it reminded me of him because he's a teacher, and I asked him if he's still New York teaching. he responded kindly and said "Do you teach, you said you lectured at your university?" This led to the last bit of our conversation in which we discussed iPhone apps, what my favorites are for filmmaking, how he'll check it out, and how he goes to school at RISD now. I then made a quick joke with him about his film, and he laughed (yay).

After telling him once more how much I enjoyed the film and how it was very nice to meet him, I left the theatre thinking about how much I love this art, how much I love the ability to express myself through my medium of choice, how much I love being able to geek out with filmmakers over latest gadgets, and how much I LOVE this REEL world. And how I am not planning to leave it anytime soon.

I am a filmmaker--or in 2012 terms: a media maker.

"Do you ever wonder if we make the moments in our lives or if the moments in our lives make us?"

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 20:59:00 +0000

Moments are fleeting. They are memorable. They are relentlessly persistent on our minds. They are easy to forget. They are saddening. They are disheartening. They are enlightening. They are brilliant. They are wonderful. They are calm. They are chaotic. They are everywhere and nowhere at once. They are an illusion. They are there.

They are in the past. They are in the future.

They are in the present

Moments are undeniably truthful, vulnerable, and life-changing.

"How many moments in life can you point to and say, ‘That's when it all changed'?" - One Tree Hill

I can name two.

1. The URI field hockey team getting eliminated in April of 2008.

2. The moment I made the decision to move to New York City-and DID.

It's easy for a lot of people to look back and say everything happens for a reason. But I think these "everything happens for a reason" moments are a load of bull shit to be blunt. Moments happen---and these moments force us to make choices--choices for ourselves. The honest truth is that nothing has to to come from a bad moment--or a good moment. Our lives can be completely and devastatingly stale afterwards--or we can get up and fight like hell to create our own present from our own past, so that our own future is worth while.

WE make that choice to make something happen.

We make the choice to have

brilliant-wonderful-vulnerable-life-changing moments.

Be the Green Thumb To Your Own Success & Watch It Grow

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:08:00 +0000

Sometimes I wish I could stand in a garden of four leaf clovers, but that would take a genie and a lot of fortune, and no one should be THAT lucky.

Cause life shouldn't be built on false hopes and deception.

Dreams shouldn't be engineered to run without a little blood--a little sweat.

Life shouldn't be mechanical and predictable.

SUCCESS ISN'T SIMPLE

You are the green thumb of that garden--the green thumb of making that patch of weeds into a garden of daisies. Life works off of transformation--not luck--not genies--not 4 leaf clovers.

Life and success works off you.

And there you go--building skyscrapers in your head: Don't let all that beautiful chaos gone unsaid

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:33:00 +0000

Beautiful chaos.

I have been an architect for far too long--laying foundation with insecurity and building cement walls with no windows to trap inside anger, to trap inside sadness, to trap inside pain, to trap inside suffering. And when people try to scale the sides, build a peep hole and look in, I add another layer and I build my skyscraper a bit taller, what I believe to be a bit stronger.

.Walls to weather my worries. Cement to cover my cries. Layers to lie low.

But the more heavy the feelings become--the more durable the walls attempt to be. The more built to withstand the sorrow--the painful pasts--the painful presents--the painful predictions of the future--the more likely the indestructible me is destined to detonate.

You cannot build something that is able to withstand anything.

It didn't work in history with the Titanic or the Towers, so I am not sure why us as people--me as me--believes that I can be invincible. We cannot be. I cannot be.

Skyscrapers are beautiful--but they are vulnerable.

It is human to just be--it is human to feel. And I am so tired. I am so tired of sealing up. I am so tired of constructing foundations for fears, towers to treat my tears, skyscrapers to silence my screams, and walls to wallow within. So tired of hiding--of running away--of tensing up--of withholding. Of not being.

Skyscrapers are beautiful--but they are vulnerable.

And sometimes even that vulnerability is bound to collapse us. To release enough to light up entire city blocks with our fragile feelings and extraordinary emotions. A world of safe and sincere souls-a world of shattered windows and delicate debris, a world of...

True. Real. Beautiful. Chaos.

A world of beautiful vulnerable chaos.

"Still I believe, wondering what if, is the worst thing there is"

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 01:29:00 +0000

Vulnerability.

It's the elephant at the circus asked to perform for hundreds of people.

It's the mouse singing for the wolves.

It's in every moment that we stand up and expose ourselves to possible embarrassment, failure, or critique. It's in the moments we feel as though we could be eaten alive--or wish we could be eaten alive to avoid humility. It's in the moments we can say NO to do something that we feel as though may cause us sadness or grief. It is in the moments we will later look back on and say "what if?" It's in the moments we feel scared--yet safe--all at once. It's in the moments we discover our emotions, our feelings, our deepest fears. It's in the moments that we find our deepest strengths. It is in the moments where we find ourselves.

I'll go out on a limb to say that vulnerability is quite beautiful.

Candide: A simple lesson in optimism.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 18:43:00 +0000

Look ahead-Face forward on the train-See the glass half full-Find sunlight during stormy showers-Smile when it's difficult-Cry when you need to-Sob for joy-Try something new-Find something you love to do-And do it once a day, every day-Write down your dreams, your passions your goals-Envision a positive glow radiating off your face-Stumble and then stand-Fall and get back up-Laugh at things that don't seem funny, but that deserve a giggle-Think about it later-Laugh again-Look in the mirror and compliment yourself-Do it again-Note each positive word you hear during the day-Make a collage of the words later- Turn off the light and still imagine a brightness-Imagine distant success-Go with your heart-Cheer someone up-Reconnect-Learn a new quote, a new word, a new poem-Discover a unique and novel talent-Practice it-Practice it again-Show it off-Brag a little-Have an ego-But don't let it blow up-Get excited-Feel wonder and awe for others-Believe in you-Believe in others-Believe in the unbelievable-Do the impossible-Stray from the path-Get lost-Find yourself-Place your feet forward-Don't look back-Stay optimistic-Candide.

Who is that woman I see...staring back at me?

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 17:27:00 +0000

A puddle, a mirror, and glass windows at night all have one thing in common: When you look into them, you see

yourself…your physical self at least. When you look into a cappuccino, you see foam. But not this morning. This morning when I looked into my final cappuccino of 2011, I saw a reflection of memories and moments of 365 days of laughter, of tears, of smiles, of joys, of sadness—365 days of life—365 days of Me.

Many people will say that you are a man or a woman when you hit 18—that you have suddenly gone from being a teenager to a well-mannered adult who should be treated like one. Girls and boys are now used as terms to describe children, and man and woman are words that now describe you or your friend.

But I don’t think I really considered myself grown up—I don’t think I really considered the reflection I saw to be a woman—as opposed to a girl—until this year—until I really felt as though I grew up.

Over the course of the year, I made a grown-up decision to return to the states as my wallet grew thinner and my ambition expanded. I beat bouts of anxiety and downward excitement with conversation and coffee. I defeated dismal days of dread with an optimistic outlook. And I challenged myself beyond belief.

I made family a priority.

I kept my best friends--the best friends in the entire world.

I made new friends.

I found a family of comradery in a world full of comedy.

I discovered that the city is lonely til you reach out and make it not so lonely.

I learned that people here will support you as you unconditionally support them, and that giving a lot, means receiving a lot more.

I forged a friendship with several inspirational mentors who I never struggled to let criticize and push me towards my goals and my dreams.

I released those from my life that were creating a negative film over my perspectives and I made my own decisions.

I reconnected with those that I had lost touch with days, months, years ago; who once were a large part of my life, but had since been lost due to distance and time.

I kept in touch with those that I left just over a year ago to tackle my trembling fear that I would never return to Italy.

I let people in.

And I let me…know me. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I joked. I stumbled. I stood.

And in the foam of this beautiful and delightful fragile cappuccino…I reflect. And I think “Looking pretty good Libs…Looking pretty great.”

Here’s to 2011…and Here’s to 2012—a year of excitement.

"Let your heart be light; From now on, our troubles will be out of sight"

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 18:36:00 +0000

A reindeer stares a young girl in the face, and snow falls all around, as she shakes the globe with glee.

A relative jumps up and down in celebration.

She giggles. And then she claps "More. More. More"

The sound of a child on Christmas morning may be the ultimate sound to wake up to after Santa has eaten his cookies and drank his milk; after all the stockings have been hung; the presents left beneath the tree. It is certainly the most precious gift to have when you open your eyes and realize the magic still exists, that not all cheer has been lost--that tradition has carried on, and that it will be a merry little (or big family) Christmas after all--a merry little--or big life after all.

I don't have a child. But I have a beautiful, wonderful, brilliant, adorable young niece who calls me Bibby. She rips the paper on each gift, just a little, that isn't hers, and then smiles and giggles again. We all begin to laugh, proclaim cuteness, and then we go on to repeat the process as she finds another bow to take off another gift.

There are a lot of people who might argue with me that this is not what Christmas is about.

But it is...It 100 percent is. It's about being with someone, or someones who make you truly happy--who bring a smile to your face with the smallest gesture--who find your flaws and love you regardless--who wake up in the same place as you--and get just as excited to see you as you get to see them. Today that's my niece...but another day it could be a friend--or a family member. It could be that special someone, or it could be a pet...who knows. That's what celebrating, not only Christmas, but life in general is about...Getting excited for each-other--Getting excited to be with each-other. And getting excited for whatever your day may bring...every day. It's about reaching out to those you've lost touch with--and those you haven't lost touch with. It's about saying hello--love yah--hope to see ya soon. It's about loving, and living, and celebrating.

Plane flights may be too expensive--snow mounds may be too deep--but good cheer doesn't have to just be once a year.

So giggle really loud, like a little girl with a snow-globe. Jump up and down. Feel excitement. And wherever you are--whoever you are with--today--and every day--have a very Merry Wonderful Life now.

To all my friends, my family, and strangers who pop on over.

Happy Holidays to you !

I am so excited---and I just can't fight it!

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 17:49:00 +0000

We are just nineteen days away from a new year--a new year of wonder, a new year of hope, a new year of surprises. And a new year to celebrate. I cannot contain myself--I am so excited--(and I just can't fight it) for the good things I can see this coming year--I was so excited that I had to just post now--instead of 19 days from now.

Do you remember the first time you ever felt excitement? No, not THAT type of excitement (though, I am sure you remember it). I mean the first time you jumped in the air for joy with your best friend and engraved a memory in your mind forever? I do.

It was my seventh grade year of middle school. Spring. And one of my best friends and I at the time were sitting in my parents office space-staring at the telephone waiting for it to ring. My friend hadn't yet signed my 6th grade year book, which had now been sitting in my room for nearly 9 months, so she began to pen a long living message.

Then the phone rang.

"I am calling for Libby Segal"

A voice on the other end came in clearly.

"This is she, " I said while I motioned to my friend that this was the call....

"I wanted to congratulate you on...." before the voice on the other end could finish his sentence I was jumping up and down with my best friend screaming.

I confirmed that I heard correctly and I hung up the phone.

I had officially made the middle school softball team after a week long tryout of running, throwing, catching, fielding, and hitting- I had made the first team that I had ever had to try out for - and it set my expectations for life- not only in working extremely hard but in honoring that payoff with excitement-- and pride.

After receiving a phone call that I had been given the internship at NYC Media just over two years ago, my excitement also elevated--significantly. I was moving somewhere new, somewhere amazing, somewhere perfect. I was moving to the big city. And every time I get a new project, a new assignment a new challenge, here at the office, I react the same way. Many people will tell you that this is how I often get after even the most tiny significant thing in life. "I tried a new cappuccino today." "I met a great friend today...I think we'll be friends for a super long time!!!" "My boss told me I did great today!!!" (Seriously--I just get excited about so much that laughter and excitement are tied for my two favorite emotions).

Because that's how we have to treat life. With every moment that compliments our efforts and our hardships and our commitments with a smile on our face and a gut feeling of anxiousness and heart full of joy. With that feeling that baseball players get after hitting a walk off home-run- or that children get after receiving an ice cream cone after a perfect score on a math test. We need to celebrate our accomplishments and share that celebration with others. We need to jump in the air as if we can touch the clouds- and we need to keep working toward that next moment, that next excitement: that next chance to dance on top of a bed with our best friend.

"I'm not stopping for you-No matter what you do-I'll just keep on dreaming"

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 21:21:00 +0000

“Weren’t you the one that said I would be nothing

And now I am about to prove you wrong”

-Rebecca Black

In one of my middle school yearbooks, there's a message scrawled out making fun of my bright red face that never seems to fade. There’s another message noted about my hair and another about something dismal. In middle school, these words hurt—and they are forever engraved in a yearbook that I look back on.

The truth is—middle school is tough. Kids are mean. As 12 and 13-year olds we endure some of the hardest times of our lives. We aren’t even really beginning to figure out who we are yet and suddenly we are answering to classrooms of kids who think they know exactly what our life is going to look like—and what we are going to look like and what our lives will be for the rest of it.

If we are too tom-boyish as a girl, we may be the last invited out for a girl’s night. And if a person is too girly as a boy—they get ridiculed and picked last in kickball. Kids use words like gay and fat and ugly and corny and loser and suck-up to harm others. They tell peers they would be prettier if they just ______. They make "jokes." They make internal bruises.

If we put ourselves out there—and let people define us, we are often harassed to the point of exhaustion. It’s sad, and hurtful, and terrible—and PAINFUL.

On Monday, I will be acting on set as a suicidal figure for a PSA that my station will be releasing next year. To get into the role, I will focus on sad thoughts and sad feelings. I will channel middle school—I will channel moments where I felt little—where many people feel little.

About seven months ago, I heard the song “Friday” for the first time by Rebecca Black. Until now, I didn’t know how young she was—I just knew that I envied how viral her video went in just days. Katy Perry then asked her to be a guest in her own video and Jimmy Fallon parodied it with Taylor Hicks and Colbert. I thought it was awesome. And now that I know she’s just a young teen…I think it’s even more awesome.

Rebecca Black was 13 when the video dropped. And immediately thousands and thousands of people began hating and ridiculing her for “nasalness” and “cornyness.” She received hundreds of thousands of comments telling her how horrible she was. And up until recently I didn’t realize just how drastic the insults and words were. She received messages that she was fat--and that she'd just be so much prettier if she became anorexic. She received DEATH THREATS. People are fragile—we tend to forget this…we break.

If anything, Rebecca Black, now stands out as a role model as she has handled the bullying with grace. After having to leave school she told her story to ABC –You can see her interview here:

Just a few months ago, Jamey Rodemeyer was bullied, literally to his own death.

When we are younger, our parents teach us that sticks and stones will break our bones but that words will never hurt us—but they do—and they can cause a whole lot more pain than a scratch or break or a bruise…They can change us for life.

We need to stand up in the face of bullying—no matter what the circumstance and remind ourselves—our 13-year-old-selves—and our 23-year-old selves—and our 50-year-old selves that the only person who can define who we are—is us.

“Your life is in your hands

So take it just as

Far as you can

But trusting in yourself.

Forget everyone else”

-Rebecca Black

I am NOT the Little Mermaid...I wouldn't trade my voice for anything

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 16:49:00 +0000

"I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid

To take a stand, to take a stand

Everybody, everybody

Come take my hand, come take my hand

We'll walk this world together through the storm

Whatever weather, cold or warm

Just lettin' you know that you're not alone."

-Eminem

Standing in a league of veterans I was a minority newbie at the Occupy Wall Street protest, last evening. I made sure I was one of the first into Zuccotti Park, after going through months of keeping myself removed, watching from afar. I sat restlessly on the end of my chair for most of the day at work, waiting for the second I could go down the elevator and walk over to the park. Up until yesterday, I sidelined myself.

Often times, during my sports career, I was told that by watching our teammates, and our leaders, that we can pick up a lot, that we can learn, and that we can become competitive when we, or our coach, chooses our time to make moves and have an important impact in the game. Like sports, this tactic seemed to work for me in regards to the current movement of the 99%. Hassled on numerous occasions for what people perceived as me being "apathetic" toward the cause, I remained calm and diligent about my research, my reading, and my questioning and concerns. I didn't want to march or protest until I knew exactly why I was marching or protesting. I wanted to be educated, and I wanted to feel prepared when I finally stood up for my beliefs and for the betterment of others.

Early on, the media was not down at Zuccotti. The camps seemed like they could soon die down. People on the outside of the movement weren't yet taking it seriously, making jokes on Twitter, Facebook, and in blogs. And then something happened. The movement got bigger...and bigger...and bigger. And then it started taking over not just parks and bridges, but cities, states, and countries all around the world. People from California started linking metaphorical arms with people in NYC. People in Italy marched in Rome, a bit more violently, but nonetheless--they marched. And then at once, the media began to obsess over the realities of the demands, the realities of the struggling class, the realities of police brutality on sites, and the reality of the movement. Suddenly--more people took notice, and more people understood--and more people cared.

Following the arrest on the Brooklyn Bridge, early on in the protest, I remained vigilantly on the outside of it all, still, convinced that there were details missing, that something was being displayed improperly, that the arrest of all the protesters somehow was blown out of proportion. But then I kept reading, kept learning, kept pushing forward on my own movement to educate myself. And I slowly began to understand the wants and the needs--the way the bail out truly worked out and how we were all sold out on the side. I began to understand that students were never going to see the end of loans, that our children would never have the money to afford an education--and that we may not have the money to raise them in a healthy home. I can barely feed myself nutritiously--and affordable, how could any of us begin to afford the life of another human being. We were being sold out on the cheating ways of those above us--we were being sold out by the 1 percent.

BUT again, even with more understanding, I remained on the sidelines. However, like a field hockey player, I'd turn to my teammates or co-workers and nudge to ask what could be done...what they felt would make the game more playable, how the players could truly shine. I was starting to care a bit more, but was still unsure I was ready to hit the park.

That is until Tuesday morning when I woke up and my Twitter feed had exploded with updates about a violent and illegal raid of the park at 1:15am. That is until I read that the entire encampment had nearly been destroyed, that people's tents were ripped to shreds, and that the community library had been tossed in the garbage. That is until I read that nearly 200 people had been arrested....That is until I read that there was a media blackout.

As a woman who studied to become a media elitist one day, a documentarian, a seeker of the truth, I was outraged by the fact that journalists were not permitted to cover the event on site, that press persons were not allowed to show the whole world what was happening in the late hours of the night when protesters were peacefully sleeping. I was outraged that people lost everything they owned--and that no news stations could show the terror. I was outraged that press persons including a camera person that I have worked with was arrested for doing what they are trained to do: give people the news. I was outraged that the voice of the people was taken away by people who had traded theirs for money and guns (....to protect?). I was outraged that people's things were stolen--and destroyed--and that 2 am became a legalized hunting period for the occupier encampment-in military fashion-a fashion that had been practiced behind closed doors earlier the same day. I was outraged enough--that i became passionate--passionate for the movement, and passionate for my voice. Because no matter how hard anyone tries, you can not steal someone's voice--you cannot steal someone's First Amendment.

And while the enforcing officers and city officials declared that it was for the safety of the journalists, I became even more outraged...and passionate toward this cause.

We send our journalists to wars--they ride in tanks--they take slaps and punches in the face--and they are held in foreign prisons and tortured--but suddenly we are worried about their well-being at a public park that is being raided at 2am?

I became so passionate that at 5:00pm, following a long day at the office, I made my way to Zuccotti Park, and I chanted with the protesters: "Let us in," and I listened to stories, and I thanked media people for putting their efforts in to be there--to show people what was happening. I watched as the medical team tried to restructure their center area--after losing all the cold medicine that they had been using to help those who had become sick. I observed as police officers stood illegally on walls that they told protesters, "No one could stand on due to safety issues." I spoke with people who had been there before and they asked questions and then made statements and then helped people understand the movement better. And I watched as this community developed much like our early settlers did--through strife and movement. Slowly--but surely. Apart--but together.

And I spoke up during stacks and told the park full of people, how they had inspired people each and every day, and how I was happy that they had inspired me--how change would come--how it was working. And then I looked around at the sea of veterans...and suddenly knew that veteran vs newbie didn't matter. We all were fighting for the same thing--our voices to be heard--the voices of the majority of the world to matter. The voice.

And I wouldn't trade my voice for anything.

Note: If you haven't joined the movement yet, I suggest asking as many questions as possible, researching, reading, finding out what you can be passionate about, finding out what matters to you and then throwing yourself in there.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end...

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 14:44:00 +0000

Standing on the sidelines of a field hockey match up between my summer field hockey coach's college team, and my high school team-mate's team, I watched and realized how bitter-sweet any end to this match would actually be. For one of my friends, the season would be over with a loss; but, in addition, for one of my friends, her career would be over with a loss. Neither one was ready to lose. The game took double over time to cater a winner...and that winner was the one who would be fortunate enough to have her team next year--to have her sport--My summer field hockey coach.

My friend, and my high school teammate, who played her heart out, along with the rest of her teammates, knew exactly what this loss meant: it meant the end to something that started as just a fun after-school activity, something that grew into the daily routine of life--something that became part of her...something that truly owned a huge chunk of her heart.

I watched as girls walked off the field, with pride in their hearts but tears in their eyes. I watched as parents hugged their girls who were baffled at how field hockey could be such a huge part of their life one moment--and gone in an instant the next. And I watched as hearts broke over something that had become closer to them than anything else over the last 10 years of their lives. And I was suddenly reminded of all those feelings--all over again.

And I was reminded, again today, when I read that the University of Maryland may be cutting their swimming teams after this season. After the field hockey team was eliminated at URI, my mother and I wrote a joint article for Inside Higher Ed. entitled: Foul Play which uncovered the emotion behind losing your sport-ending your sport-giving your life to sport.

As athletes, we spend our entire careers devoting time, energy, and body parts to a sport that welcomes us with open arms--to a life that promises us pay-off with the pay-in. We work hard so that we can attend Division 1 colleges--though no one tells us how difficult it will be once we get there. We give up going out on Friday nights for a curfew that is bestowed upon us so that we perform better the next morning. We form bonds with teammates and coaches. We lose ourselves and find ourselves. We discover our strengths--and our weaknesses. We learn what it means to lose--and what it means to win. We gain pride--and passion. And we fall in love--with sport. So when we lose that--it only makes sense that our hearts break--that the pieces are left on every field or in every pool or on every course that we ever played on, swam in, or ran on. That we feel like an out of tune piano--or an unsharpened knife in the drawer. When our team is taken away from us--or when our careers end due to it being time for it to end--it is unexplainable the emotions that go through us. There will always be some void...but we have to remember that there will always be the memories to fill that void:

As my mother wrote in that article: "To use words like death and grief--is not to exaggerate."

When I lost field hockey at a sophomore in college, I compared it to losing a friend--to losing a relative--to losing someone that I loved. It still feels that way. But like losing friends--and losing family members and losing people we love...we learn to find ways to look back on these things--these events in our lives, these huge parts of our lives and smile at what we were lucky enough to have. And suddenly the void of that person or thing is filled with smiles of memories...moments in our lives that we know we can't ever return to, but that we were fortunate enough to have.

Disclaimer: In regards to the cuts at UMD--I do not support UMD's decision and intend to write a letter to the university. I understand that universities are undergoing hard times right now--just as are all businesses, but cutting academics and sports are entirely too heartbreaking for students and athletes that we tell to dream big their whole lives.

In plane flights, in paychecks, in good times, in cappuccino...how do you measure a year?

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 03:05:00 +0000

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes…

How do you measure, measure a year?

In plane flights, in paychecks, in good times

In cappuccino?

In choices, in smiles, in laughter, in love…

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty five thousand

Journeys to have…

It's hard to say how quickly a year goes by. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. Fast. Slow. On repeat.

365 days to make an impact. 365 days to experience change. 365 days to make a difference. 365 days to live from one memorable moment to the next. I often find that I can't measure my moments by my years in my age, because I find the truest and most wonderful moments to be those I don't expect, and don't plan. I find the spectacle of life in being most truly beautiful in the spontaneity of living it without knowing--without seeing what's next--without having an eight ball to say it will all be okay.

I may appear differently to people, always planning, always scheming my future, but it is in the decisions I make on whim that have made most of my life it's own spectacle. It has been in the decisions that I have made to take chances and risks that have made me incredibly grateful for the years behind me, and the years that I can see ahead.

It has been 12 months/52 weeks/365 days since I packed my bags, boarded a plane, woke up in a different time zone, and stumbled across cobblestone with a backdrop of the Tuscan landscape. It has been one year since I moved to Italy...since I took a leap, made a jump, and landed on my own two feet with no regrets.

It has been a year of meeting people, a year of leaving negativity behind, a year of saying goodbye, a year of fresh starts, humble endings, and letting go; it has been a year of traveling, a year of exploring far off destinations, a year of believing in myself and every choice; it has been a year of beginnings, a year of risk taking, a year of fine-tuning; it has been a year of pushing others, a year of reaching out; a year of living. it has been a year of forging ahead, a year of discovering what I truly want--a year of finding who I truly am.

It has been a year of seeing that even if our initial plans don't follow through, there's always something else standing by, ready to take us in it's arms, accept us, and warm us back up to our positive glow.

On November 5, 2010, I believed that on November 5, 2011 I would still be standing on the cobblestone, sipping on cappuccino, and living with a beautiful Italian man in a castle (okay maybe a bit of an exaggeration)...but I did believe I would still be in Italy making a life of my own there. But I was wrong. I am not in Italy...I am not in Europe. I am back in New York City, where I first moved to on a whim, nearly two years ago. I have been home for three times as long as I spent in Italy. For those of you that don't want to do the math--that means I have been home for 9 months. And what I have found is that while Italy made me happy, New York has made me feel home. I should have known this in the arguments over the greatest city in the world, while I lived in Rome. I should have known this after I heard Alicia Keys second version of Empire State of Mind--and cried. I should have known this from the start. But it is in the decisions we make--and the experiences that we have--that we can have those moments of clarity--those moments of beauty when our minds and our hearts meet in the middle and finally match--and those moments of certainty of what we want and where we want to be.

I know what I want--and where I want to be. I know who I am--and what I want to do. Most of all I know that this last year isn't the last good year...No. It's just the start.

But this year I am not going to measure...I am just going to live (of course--one cappuccino at a time).