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

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.

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

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.

The Anatomy of 8 Million Dreamers

Every now and then a song speaks to us–and it speaks for us. It captures exactly what our hearts are feeling but are unable to say. It brings a tear to our eye, a smile to our face and a memory to our soul. It touches us, and we feel it with every ounce of our flesh that covers our body. And even though we know it wasn’t written for us, we know it doesn’t matter, that we can feel anything we want to feel when we hear it–as if it was written by our own hearts.

Every time I hear or listen to a song about New York City, my heart flutters. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t grow up here–or that I didn’t experience the trials and tribulations–the crime or the craziness–the soot or the sadness. All that matters is every time I hear a song about New York, I am reminded of the rush I feel each time I sit in Grand Central, or of the flood of excitement I have, each time I meet a new person, or of the disdain I have for the work day commutes (Ha), and, lastly, of course I am reminded of the passion and love I have for each nook and cranny in this city.

Each day that I was in Italy, I called New York City my home–and it’s no wonder–I have never felt more home than in the moments I have spent sitting in the subway trains; or in the moments that I have spent chatting over coffee at my favorite shop (Bourbon–14th street and 5th); or in the moments that I’ve spent on the Brooklyn Bridge; or in the seconds that I have spent in dodging tourists in Times Square. I have never felt more on top of the world than in the moments I stare out my 26th floor work window at the dazzling skyscrapers that reflect off of one one another in the night time glow. And I have never felt more relieved, relaxed, or comforted than in the moments I have spent with the friends that I have found, the talent that I have encountered, and the family that I have made here.

You know, they say if you let something go and it comes back–then you know it’s real love…well I left for a bit, three months…and I came back. In fact, it was nearly hours after I heard Empire State of Mind (II), by Alicia Keys, for the first time, that I made my decision to come home, months earlier than I had planned.

Like songs–I want this video to have captured what I feel each time I walk down an alley way–a street–or a set of subway stairs as well as what I feel each time I see or meet a stranger or watch a talented street performer. I wanted this video to play out like all the songs I hear that cause a tear to shed or a smile to cross my face each time I hear it, and think of this city. I wanted this video to speak what was on my heart while looking into the hearts of others–I wanted this video to dissect the anatomy of the dreamers that live in this city–that breathe this city–that love this city. Because really–if they can make it here–they can make it anywhere. I hope you enjoy:

Frolicking in Fields of Farewells

L-O-V-E…Four letters. Four simple letters. Two consonants. two vowels. Four letters. I’ve learned a lot about love these past 6 months. I’ve learned a lot about love for people, for words, for places, for things, for memories, for food, for coffee, for myself. I’ve learned that leaving means realizing how much love you carry for a person, a place, or things. And I’ve learned that leaving also means opening your heart to be filled with more love for places, people, and things, even when you have to say goodbye to people, places, and things—even when you have to start leaving people, places, and things behind.

I’ve learned from good friends, that we can’t hold everyone we meet in our hands—or in our lifestyle. We can just keep them in our hearts—bury them deep within the vessels and hope our constant breathing keeps them breathing too…keeps them alive in at least some part of us.

I’ve learned that we can’t expect everyone to stay—and we can’t expect ourselves to stay. I’ve learned that some people do truly come into our lives for a short period of time to leave a mark and then leave very quickly. Some places are meant to feel our weight, take us in, wrap their arms around us like a big teddy bear, and hold us until we are ready to move on. Some things are meant to just have one short conversation with us—one chance to forever impact us—making them a part of us forever—making us a part of them forever.

I’ve learned that goodbyes are never easy…that they come at times that are both unexpected and expected…that they drive us to tears and that they make us worry about the future…that they complicate things—that they mean letting go of one thing in order to be greeted by something new, something completely different, something wonderful. And then soon later, another goodbye will take place. And you’ll move on—just like you did the last time—with tears in your mind—and love in your heart.

You can say goodbye, or see you later, in Italian, in a number of ways…Ciao, Arrivederci, A Presto, A Dopo, Buon giornata…You can wave, kiss on the cheek two times, or give one giant hug. Saying “goodbye” is never easy, and as I boarded my plane home from Rome just two days ago, I said goodbye to a number of things…to a number of people…to a number of places…to a number of cobblestones traveled…to a number of cappuccino drank…to a three month period of time lived in pure joy—I said goodbye to Italy, in every way shape and form. I gave her two kisses on the cheek, said a presto (see you soon), and gave her one giant hug, before waving goodbye from the emergency exit seat 30,000 feet above.

And then with tears in my eyes… I thought, “Hello…--Hello memories, hello good times traveling around the north, hello new inspirations, hello old friends, hello new friends, hello New York City, hello bright lights, red carpets, big dreams, hello reminders of the past, hello opportunity, hello accepting goodbye…hello to the next one.

.Hello life.

Moo Moo's Guide to Compromise

A good friend of mine, Tony, pointed out a book to me, just a few weeks before I journeyed to Italy. The book was called, “All I ever really needed to know I learned in Kindergarten.”

After living with a four and five year old for nearly a month now, I have discovered how true that statement is. While we learn a lot of lessons: Like sharing, washing your hands, brushing your teeth, brushing your hair, the one that stands out to me most is the idea of compromise.

I have learned from these kids that we learn compromise VERY early, but we learn about a deeper kind of compromise…we learn about bargaining.

Kids are much more intelligent than we give them credit for. They know when you are trying to trick them, they know when their parents have left and who they can try and get away with things with, and they know where the chocolate is hidden in the kitchen. They know how to scream, how to fight, and how to hustle. Their compromise is bargaining—their compromise is hustling.

Walking through the door on the coldest day in December, I tell the kids that their snack will be yogurt and that their mom has chosen it. I go to the kitchen, I take out two yogurts, I put them on the table, and I say snack time!

The kids come running in, and the young boy says—"No not that one, I look in the fridge." He spots the one and only MooMoo vanilla and chocolate pudding—the equivalent to a Trix Yogurt that would have been sitting in my fridge when I was five. The young boy turns to me and says, “Can I have that one?” Untrained, I say, "Of course"…But as soon as the young boy puts it on the table, the young girl’s eyes light up. “I WANT” she yells. And then the gaping wallows of tears begin to stream as I take it away and say we must not eat it, if it is the only one left. Thankfully, within moments the mom has walked through the door and begins to take care of business.

Just a few days later, I am faced with the same challenge. Yogurt for snack time.

I sit the two yogurts on the table. The kids sit down. The young boy eats his diligently saying “It was good…chocolate now?” I say “Maybe.” The young girl sits defiantly at the other end of the table, shaking her head with her arms across her chest. “I WANT MOO MOO.” I tell her no. So she goes and sits in another chair, still arms crossed, and a smug look on her face.

I tell the boy that he can have ONE chocolate. He and I sit down and play Eenie Meeni Miny Moe to decide which chocolate it should be. The little girl says, “Moo Moo,” and “I don’t like this one.” I know it’s not true as I have seen her eat it with her mom. She knows I am easier to get away with things with, because I can’t tell her no—and because I can’t tell her why not in her native language. All I can do is pretend to cry when she cries too, and see if she gets the point. But this time, I try something new. I start opening the yogurt and say it’s either this or nothing. She still carries the smug face. She sees the chocolate again in the boy’s hands and her eyes are bright.

“If you eat this yogurt, you will get ONE chocolate.”

Smiling, she grabs the yogurt and asks me to help her open it. I help her and she starts taking big bites.

Hustler.

Bargainer.

This is not compromise. This is the most important lesson we learn when we grow up…How to bargain our way to get what we truly want. I am starting to think the show “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader” should be transformed into, “Have you been hustled by a 5 year old?”

"These tears are just a disguise for happiness"

His story lingers in my mind, his tears the dessert to our meal that had just ended. His words echo. His story is strong…his tears are stronger—they are for joy, not sadness. His tears are for the past, the future, and the present. And just a week ago he was a stranger to me, to all of us here in Italy. Just a week ago, I would have never known him, or this story, the one of the love he had for his grandfather, the one of the last record he played by his grandfather’s bedside, the one of strength and what it truly means.

Strength in tears.

As I sat and watched my new friend shed tears about the past, over a final glass of wine with six of us sitting at the table, I thought to myself, how strong of a person to let the tears just roll out, to just let us all the way in, to let us learn a bit more about him and his past—to let us know him.

I often cry, but most times the tears are hidden in embarrassment, because they tend to be tears for nothing, sadness, or emptiness. But I realized recently how much I actually enjoy crying, letting it all just flow out, letting the droplets just drip down my cheek.

My friend Hannah has pointed out the importance of gaping wallows in the past, and it is in this moment, at dinner, that I see the gaping wallow in progress. Though his stream of tears doesn’t fill the restaurant like a bathtub, it does offer a release, an escape. It is in these moments that I realize the importance of our tears and the importance of sharing those tears with or without stories. It is in this moment I realize the importance of letting people in—the importance of letting ourselves out.