A Little Thanks

by Tracey Flower

I had—wait for it—an Oprah moment the other day. Well at least that’s what my friend Mel called it but I’m pretty sure the talk show host would have deemed it worthy of a hug and a round of applause (and maybe an all expenses paid trip to somewhere balmy and exotic) had I been sitting with her on that infamous couch. It was a Sunday and my first day off since the (Vail) Mountain had opened for skiing this season. We had been snowboarding all morning and enjoying the better than average early season conditions. We had just gotten off a chairlift and were sitting at the top of a run marveling at the deliciously good snow and breathtaking views (note to self: remember to look up and have your breath taken away on a regular basis) and it hit me. I’m happy. I’M HAPPY. Like really contently freely happy. I shared this revelation with Mel and she declared it an Oprah moment. 

(Photo Credit)

This happiness is so new and so fresh to me that, in the days since that moment, I have found myself repeating it over and over to myself, I’m happy; slipping it on a few times a day like it’s a sparkly new party dress, twirling around in it and checking myself out from all angles. I keep opening the closet door to sneak a peek and touch it and make sure it’s real and still there. 

I’m proud of this happiness; it’s something I worked for, something I fought for, and something I achieved on my own (and with a little help from my friends). It’s something more solid and more palpable than any similar feelings I’ve had in a long time (I’m talking years here people). It’s peace. It’s contentment. And I’m loving every second of it. 

I wanted to share this with you, my lovely loyal readers, and thank you. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, especially in the last six months. Thank you for sitting with me while I kicked, screamed, cried, and muddled through my heartache. Thank you for listening as I exposed every feeling, emotion, and part of my pain, as I allowed them to reveal themselves to me, as I took the time to get to know them so I could eventually release (banish) them. It’s because I took the time to do that, and because you took the time to listen, that I know this happiness is something deep, genuine, and most certainly not fleeting.

There's an image I’ve been holding in my head a lot recently, it’s of myself about six months ago wandering around Melbourne in the rain and I’m too thin, sleep deprived, and incredibly sad and raw (I must note here that since I’ve been hanging out with this happiness I can see that there is something incredibly gothically romantic about wandering around a foreign city heartbroken in the rain). In this daydream myself now—my happy, peaceful, balanced, stronger, wiser self—reaches out to myself then and draws her in, comforts her, and asks her to join me here in this solid oh so happy place.

There’s a passage in the book Eat, Pray, Love (by Elizabeth Gilbert) where the author recalls a similar moment in her own life, where she realizes her current stronger self was always there waiting for her younger broken self to join her. She then uses her favorite Italian word to close the book, and that chapter of her life, attraversiamo. It means let’s cross over. And, so, my friends I invite you to join me as I do just that. 

Stay tuned next time for a little giving.

On Soul Mates and Being Broken

by Tracey Flower

“Well, I like the word soul. I like the word mate. Other than that you got me.” ~Sex and the City’s Mr. Big on soul mates

I’ve been thinking a lot about the phrase “soul mates” lately. In fact this post has been in the drafting stages for several months now, revised over and over while I try to figure out what this term means to me. It’s been swirling and tumbling around in my head with other equally weighty and abstract concepts like fate and destiny. I’m not totally sure why it’s so important to me to define this phrase (blame it on trying to make sense of my heartache) but I think I’m slowly starting to figure it out (blame it on the six months of distance I now have from the day my heart was broken).

(Photo Credit)

I have to start by telling you I don’t believe there is one and only one person out there for everyone; I don’t believe in the idea of The One. I always sort of suspected I felt this way but it’s such a happy little idea and I’ve certainly found myself swept up in the romance of it from time to time but after having friend after well-meaning friend tell me The Guy (who broke my heart) just wasn’t The One I got fed up.

I believe in love. I believe in great love. I believe in marriage and that it can and does last forever (thank you to my grandparents and parents for providing me with excellent examples of this). I also believe in timing and other crazy twisted upside down circumstances that sometimes lead to the end of great love, love that in a different time or place, under different circumstances, would have most certainly lasted forever. I believe that you just don’t get to spend forever with everyone you love and that you can truly madly deeply love someone forever and not spend forever with that person (and still have oodles of love left for the someone you are spending forever with).

And as far as soul mates go, I do think they exist, just not in the traditional sense (as The One).

I think The Guy was my soul mate. Yes I did think I was going to marry him (in fact I was sure of it until the moment he told me, once and for all, that I wasn’t), but that’s not why he was my soul mate. I believe I was meant (ok, destined) to meet him, I believe he was always supposed to come into my life and that, all along, I was going to fall in love with him. And I believe it was always going to, one way or another, end tragically.

There’s a passage in the book Eat, Pray, Love (by Elizabeth Gilbert) that helped me come to this conclusion. It goes like this:

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave.

BINGO.

When The Guy ended our relationship forever (just hours before I was supposed to get on a plane bound for Sydney to live with him) it crushed me and turned my world upside down. It brought me to my knees, hell it sucked the wind out of me and had me curled up breathless on the floor. I’ve never been so broken in my life.

Once I caught my breath I realized that the thing I thought had certainly killed me, in fact, hadn’t. I slowly lifted myself off the floor and started moving forward again. Since then I have tripped, stumbled and fallen down again. But six months have gone by and I’m still alive. I hate the pain this has brought to my life, I hate how exhausting it is and that it’s not quite gone yet. But I can’t deny that I’ve grown. I can’t deny that I’ve changed or that I’m quite sure I’m becoming someone, that I have become someone, I never would be had I not met, fallen in love with and been so very broken by The Guy.

And that’s the point. Just as muscle has to be broken down by strength training in order to grow stronger, sometimes we must be torn and cracked open emotionally and mentally so we can strengthen those parts of ourselves.  We better ourselves during life's rough patches, we need these tough times to survive and thrive just as our muscles need exercise to do the same.

Some people come into our lives, shake us up, break us down and then, as my friend Neil would say, disappear into the night like a winter wind. I believe these people are our soul mates.

I also believe there are more dimensions and definitions to this weighty phrase and I’ll most certainly continue to muddle through and explore them here. In the meantime what do you think about soul mates?

Sunday Afternoon Adventures

by Tracey Flower

I had a blissfully happy childhood. My memories of growing up are full of giggles and warmth and every now and then something will trigger one of these memories and I find myself daydreaming and smiling like a fool (usually in random public places) as I watch the moment replay in my mind. Recently it was the smell of fall and the way the dry golden leaves crunched when I stepped on them. That day was cool and sunny and it didn’t take long before I was eight years old again leaf kickin’ with my dad, sister and brother on a Sunday Afternoon Adventure.

The Flower children in fall: Aaron, Lauren, Susan, Me

I’m pretty sure Sunday Afternoon Adventures started as a way to get my siblings (mostly my sister Susan and brother Aaron, our youngest sister, Lauren, was a tad too young to tag along then) and myself out of my mom’s hair for little while. Mom stayed home with us full-time back in those days and ran a day care out of our house (bless her). Whatever the reason for their existence, they were a treat for us.

If I remember correctly it was mostly a fall thing, they weren’t as necessary in the summer and winters in South Haven, Michigan bring frigid temperatures and lots of snow and wind, weather that encourages families to bond indoors rather than venture outside. We would set out walking in whatever direction Dad chose, the three of us following him, excited and curious. He led us all over, to places we didn’t know existed in our little town. We walked on the beach, down by the docks and to neighborhoods where the streets were lined with giant old maples and other trees that were on fire with fall colors, the ground littered with the trees’ red, yellow and orange outcasts. Dad showed us how to shuffle our feet for maximum crunch and scatter factor through the piles of leaves that lined those sidewalks, leaf kickin’ we called it (my apologies to the hardworking folks who had likely just raked those leaves out of their yards).

And there was always the mid-adventure candy stop at the SuperAmerica gas station. We were each allowed to pick one treat. I usually opted for something long lasting like Jawbreakers or Jolly Ranchers and I’m pretty sure Aaron always picked something basic but classic like M&Ms, both of us always making our selection without much debate. Susan, however, was another story. Susan took the choosing process very seriously, hemming and hawing over the choice between a Butterfinger and Red Hots or Lemon Heads and a Baby Ruth. I’m pretty sure she could have used that time more efficiently; say to write a novel or cure cancer (she was a very bright child). We at least could have had an additional half-hour to forty-five minutes of exploration time added to our adventures had Susan been able to make a more hasty decision.

Eventually we got too old for the adventures; there was homework to do, sports to practice, and, well, a level of coolness to maintain (that was all me, a middle schooler does not need to be caught traipsing through leaves with her dad, kid brother and sister on a Sunday afternoon). It is such a sweet memory, though, and one of many which built the foundation that has supported turning a blissfully happily childhood into an adulthood that is daily made more pleasant, manageable and at times even a little blissful because of it and memories like it (and because of the people with whom I share these memories).

Even if you didn't have a blissfully happy childhood (although I hope you did) what memories from being a kid make you smile like a fool?

In Defense of my Inner Girly Girl

by Tracey Flower

A male friend of mine recently saw my stack of fashion and beauty magazines on my coffee table. He gave me a disapproving look and a short lecture about reading such useless fluff. I laughed him off and told him to let it go, it’s my thing. I have to admit, though, his comments kind of bugged me. I’ve been reading fashion and beauty magazines since I was a preteen. I used to buy Seventeen and clearance makeup from MacDonald’s Drug Store and spend Saturday afternoons studying the magazine for tips on how to apply the makeup. And it makes my day every month when I find a new issue of Glamour in my post office box. I’ve never really thought twice about these little guilty pleasures but after my friend’s comments I can’t help but wonder; is this something I’m supposed to be ashamed about?

I’ve always been a girly girl. My dad likes to tell a story about me on my first day of Kindergarten. I stood in front of my dresser with all the drawers open, threw my hands up in the air and declared, “I have nothing to wear.” Not much has changed since then.

I like to shop and get all dolled up. I like to get cozy with a cup of tea and read about boots and handbags (and the real life stories in those magazines too, it’s not all fluff, you know). And I like to give myself facials and pedicures. It just plain feels good and, more than that, it’s part of who I am and I’m not going to apologize for just being myself.

Why, then, do I feel the need to defend my guiltless enjoyment of my guilty pleasures?

Perhaps it was the conversation my fluff-hating friend and I were having before he saw my magazine stash. I had been going on and on about all the things I want to do with my life, mainly travel, write and change the world. I gave this grand speech about how I want to make something good of my recent heartache and use this as an opportunity to grow and really better myself. And more than that I want to help other people because there are so many people who have it even worse than me (I told him this as if I had stumbled on some grand original light-shedding idea). I think he believed me until he saw my magazines.

I really do want all those things for my life. And I really do want to put some good out into the world. Stories of violence and poverty absolutely break my heart and I feel compelled to do something somehow someday to help ease the pain of others.

BUT I think it’s equally important to take care of myself, of my pain and my happiness.

I was in a yoga class a few months and the instructor shared a quote that is very relevant to my argument here but unfortunately I have forgotten the exact wording (and the quoted’s name but I’m pretty sure it was either Ghandi or the Dalai Lama). The message, however, was along the lines of this; you should go out into the world and take care of others but you first must take care of yourself because you’ll never be able to help others if you don’t first help yourself.

Embracing my inner girly girl is part of taking care of myself. I must also exercise, go to work, sleep, meditate, and write (and, yes, maintain a balance of those things and more). The magazines I read might be full of fluff and it might seem frivolous to paint my toenails or shallow that I get so very excited about finding the perfect boots on sale but it’s part of who I am and taking the time to nurture that part of me supports my mental health (and helps me hang on to at least a little bit of sanity), which in turn ensures that I can better focus on putting some good out into the world.


What about you? What guilty pleasures do you feel guiltless about? What silly things keep you sane, ensuring that you can better focus on putting some good out there?

On Goals, Forgiveness, and Turning 28

by Tracey Flower

“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate. Without them what would shape our lives? Perhaps if we never veered off course we wouldn’t fall in love or have babies or be who we are. After all seasons change. So do cities. People come into you life and people go. But it’s comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart and, if you’re very lucky, a plane ride away.” ~The ever-wise, albeit fictional, Carrie Bradshaw (“Sex and the City”)


Many folks take the start of a new calendar year as an opportunity for fresh starts and change. Personally I think it’s more appropriate to make resolutions on my birthday. It feels more natural to take stock of my life that time of year, to review lessons learned in the past year, and to make a few goals for the year ahead.

A year ago last week (my birthday was Tuesday) I turned 27 and decided I was going to make the year all about me (The Year of Flower I called it in my journal and aloud to a select group of friends). I don’t have any dependents, not even a dog or a goldfish, to rely on me; my life in general is already pretty much all about Tracey, but for most of my adult life (aka my life since college) I have been in some form of a relationship. I moved to Colorado for a boyfriend and shortly after we broke up I started another serious relationship and, as my 27th birthday approached, I started to get the feeling I wasn’t totally making decisions for my life based on what I wanted and needed.

My birthday last year came just days after the guy I was in love with left Vail to move home to Australia. Our relationship over the past few months had been complicated and tumultuous and because I was so invested in, so wrapped up in, him emotionally I found my day-to-day actions and decisions were heavily influenced by him. It seemed like the perfect time, then, when he left and my birthday arrived for me to take charge. 

I made myself a list of goals. First and foremost I was going to get my head straight about that relationship. The first goal I wrote in my journal then was to be “happily single.” We had left things very casual and, although he was on my mind when I wrote that, I was fed up with myself for letting another person inadvertently control my thoughts and decisions to the extent that he had. I also wrote that I wanted to learn to cook, to get fit, to get paid to write, and to travel somewhere new. The Year of Flower was going to be a good one.

The first half of the year, the first third really, went exactly how I had hoped it would (OK except for the cooking part, I’m still working on that one). I will even say it was the happiest, the most content, and the most confident I have been in a long time. The last four months of the year, however, were a complete disaster. Quite honestly they were the worst four months of my life (if you read Flower Blog on a regular basis you know this. If you don’t now’s probably a good time to catch up. Start here). As I approached my 28th birthday last week and mentally reviewed the last year, and checked back in with last year’s goals, I realized I was right smack dab back where I had been a year ago. And that pissed me off.

I got my heart broken. No shattered. No ripped out, stomped on, and shoved back into my chest all achy and torn apart. And for that I was pissed. My anger wasn’t directed at The Guy though; or rather my anger was no longer directed at him (don’t you worry three months ago I was oozing anger toward him). I was pissed off with myself. I was pissed that I let myself, in the year where I was supposed to be taking control, find myself in a position (with a guy who had broken my heart once before) where I could get as hurt as I did. I was pissed that even while I thought I was finding this great balance in my life, while I thought I was being unapologetically selfish and, dare I say it, finding myself, I let my love for this one stupid guy ruin everything. 

My dad told me a few months ago, when I was at my very worst, that even as I struggled to figure out how to forgive The Guy (not because he deserves or even needs my forgiveness but simply because it’s very tiresome to carry around that much anger toward someone for any length of time) that I was also going to have to forgive myself. At the time I had no idea what he meant (the situation wasn’t my fault, I had done nothing wrong). I think I get it now, though.

There’s a line in the book Eat, Pray, Love that goes like this; “To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life.” The author tells herself this when she realizes she has fallen in love with a man after a year spent traveling solo, doing some serious soul-searching, and finding her balance. I agree with that, but I would take it a step further and say sometimes you have to become unbalanced for love even if it means risking your heart. Because apparently, OK admittedly, you'll learn some serious lessons about life and yourself. I don’t know if acknowledging that counts as forgiving myself, because to be honest I’m still a little pissed, but I think maybe it’s a start. And with that shaky start I begin a new year.

NEO for Customers Part Three: Give Respect Get Respect

by Tracey Flower

Thank you for joining me back this week for my last post in my New Employee Orientation for Customers series. Last week I discussed three basic rules to abide by when visiting, say, your local coffee shop. This week I’d like to offer three basic suggestions for more even more peace and harmony when frequenting said coffee shop.

Listen. Think. And then respond. Allow me to describe a scenario that happens on a daily basis in Starbucks. Customer A orders, pays for, and steps aside to wait for his grande nonfat latte. Customer B orders, pays for, and steps aside to wait for her iced venti unsweetened green tea. After making Customer A’s drink, the barista places the beverage on the counter and says “grande nonfat latte” but Customer A is in the restroom so he doesn’t pick up the drink right away. The barista moves on to make the next drink in line, assuming Customer A will retrieve his drink when he exits the bathroom. However Customer B, who is standing next to the counter, picks up the latte, takes a sip, makes a face, and says to the barista “this isn’t what I ordered.” By this time Customer A has returned from the restroom and is looking for his coffee. The barista says, “no ma’am it isn’t, it’s what he ordered.” This sort of scene happens ALL THE TIME. ‘Nuff said.

(Oh and I’m sorry but yes I do think that half-caf triple venti two pump sugar free vanilla nonfat with whip caramel macchiato does make you less of a man).

Please stop complaining about the price. Please. I’ve spent some time filling in as a cashier at various dining venues on Vail Mountain. It’s a tedious job to begin with but nothing drains the moral of a cashier faster than customers complaining about the price of their meal. I’ve been yelled at, cursed at, and laughed at for telling folks the grand total of their lunch. It’s expensive to eat on Vail Mountain. Period. A cheeseburger will cost you eight to ten dollars and that doesn’t even include fries. And, yes, the Starbucks in Vail Village is pricier than the one in your hometown (it will even run you a dollar or so more than another Starbucks just ten miles down the road from here). I acknowledge and agree with you that Vail’s frickin’ expensive. Believe me it’s no cheaper to live here than it is to visit, I feel your pain people. But I live here because I love it here. It doesn’t get much better aesthetically and the lifestyle can’t be beat so I’m OK with paying a little extra for things. Don’t you agree? If you can’t see my point of view on that, at least consider this: the cashier is most likely just a cashier and therefore didn’t set the price of that five-dollar Gatorade. In fact she probably has absolutely no control over the price and doesn’t see any of the profit made off it. And she certainly has no authority to change it. So please consider that before you rip into her about it. And by the way if she, by chance, does have the authority to offer you a discount, you stand a way better chance of receiving that discount if you resist the urge to complain.

Which brings me to my final point.

Give respect get respect. Have you seen the movie Waiting? There’s a scene where the wait staff and the kitchen staff join forces to seek revenge on an unpleasant customer by doing ungodly things to her meal. The moral of the story is don’t screw with the people who have control over your food. While I’ve never taken things to that extreme (nor have I ever witnessed anything on that level) it’s a good idea to keep this story in the back of your mind. I realize sometimes we mess up and something isn’t how you expected it to be. My message isn’t that you don’t say something it’s that you speak up in a manner that is considerate and respectful. Chances are you’ll get the same attitude in return.

NEO for Customers Part Two: The Basics

by Tracey Flower

Hello and welcome back to New Employee Orientation for Customers. In my last post I discussed the notion that some of the folks I have come in contact with over my years of serving coffee have forgotten (or perhaps never learned) how to behave in public places. So I decided after a New Employee Orientation class I recently attended for my current job that perhaps the general public could benefit from hearing the some of the same tips and reminders I was given in that course. Let’s get started.

Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. While bartending at a restaurant on top of the mountain last winter a woman asked me if we served lattes. Before I had a chance to respond, she said something along the lines of “lattes are, you know, the ones with all the milk.” Her tone of voice suggested she thought she was talking to a toddler. Now of course this woman had no idea that I’ve worked in coffee shops since college and have made (and drank) about a bazillion lattes in that time. I didn’t expect her to know that. But the presumption in her tone that I was either an infant or an idiot offended me.

The woman running the orientation class spent a good portion of it discussing how we should talk to guests, she even gave us a list of everyday lingo we should avoid using (words and phrases such as “hello” and “how’s it going”). Apparently we are to assume our guests are well-educated and we must talk up to their level. Similarly I would like to ask our guests to assume that I too have half a brain and would appreciate it if you spoke to me accordingly.

Your mother (or maid or husband or wife or personal servant) doesn’t work here so please clean up after yourself. It was stressed in orientation that as employees of Vail Resorts and the Arrabelle we’re expected to dress and present ourselves a certain way; neat and tidy uniform, no visible piercings or tattoos, no unnatural hair color, and we must always appear clean and smell freshly scrubbed. It seems like a no-brainer that one should not come to work un-showered but I suppose there is some idiot out there who made a habit of it and out of fear of encountering more such idiots, they decided to take action.

The same goes for cleaning up after yourself in public places; it should be a no-brainer. Yes it is part of my job to keep my workspace clean, to buss tables and sweep the floor but it’s just rude and sloppy to create a mess and make no effort to clean it up. If you drop a napkin or a straw wrapper on the floor (right next to a trash bin) please pick it up. If your kid spills an entire hot chocolate on the floor please apologize and let me know and I’ll clean it up (see, there’s that symbiotic relationship respect thing). And for the love of God people I don’t know what is happening in public restrooms across America but after a summer spent cleaning up you-don’t-even-want-to-know off the toilets in Starbucks I am baffled. The only two conclusions I can draw here are that either your bathroom at home is disgusting or there is someone waiting outside to clean it after every time you use it. Whatever the case, please have a little respect, if not for me who has to clean up after you, then at least for the person who enters the stall next.

No cell phones while ordering. In orientation it was made clear that the use of cell phones by employees is strictly forbidden in guest areas. I get this. It’s common manners and easy enough to abide by (just because you can talk to anyone anywhere doesn’t mean you should). So I ask you, dear customer, to please please pretty please extend the same courtesy when you’re ordering your coffee.

While this list is certainly not exhaustive I consider these three points to be at the very top of the list and I think if we all took the time to consider them in restaurants, coffee shops, or even the supermarket we would all be on our way to more pleasant customer service experiences. Check back next week for my third and final post in this series.


Do you have a funny/horrible/heartwarming customer service (as either the one serving or the one being waited on) story to share? Is there anything you would add to this list?

New Employee Orientation for Customers Part One

by Tracey Flower

There was a very impatient woman in Starbucks the other day. It was a slow Sunday and there was only one customer ahead of her, I was busy listening to the requests of customer number one when Impatient Woman interrupted to suggest I make her drink first. I told her that here at Starbucks we try to operate on a first-come first-served basis and since there was no denying that customer one was, indeed, first, I was going to make her drink first. She retaliated with something along the lines of, “ok but I’ve got a cranky two-year-old outside.”

This is coffee not brain surgery, no need for impatience. (Photo credit).

That wasn’t the first time Impatient Woman had been in Starbucks in the last few weeks. The first time she marched up to the cashier stand to order, oblivious to the line of people waiting who were there before her. She used her two-year-old as an excuse that time too. Personally I’ve never seen the kid and I’m not totally convinced he exists, if he does I’m not sure why she’s parking him outside alone (which is what I assume she’d done given her frantic state). Either way I, quite frankly, don’t care. If Starbucks was an emergency room and her two-year-old was bleeding or dying her behavior would be appropriate. But it’s not. Starbucks is a coffee shop and there’s just no need for that kind of urgency there, especially when it involves a phantom child. This woman is just one example of what us Starbucks employees deal with on a daily basis. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately and I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps some people just haven’t been taught how to behave in public places.

I recently attended New Employee Orientation for the Arrabelle resort. (There are two Starbucks in Vail; both require you to be an employee of the Arrabelle, which is owned by Rock Resorts, which is owned by Vail Resorts). The seminar included a tour of the extravagant Arrabelle hotel and residences, a catered lunch, and a laundry list of dos and, mostly, don’ts for Arrabelle employees. I left feeling like I had left a little of my soul under the table in that conference room and wondering why such presentations aren’t given to those who don’t work in the service industry but enjoy visiting such establishments. You know, a sort of New Employee Orientation for guests.

In orientation we were asked to share stories about ourselves as guests and give specific examples of both good and bad customer service we’ve experienced. I would like to ask the guests out there to do the same, except consider how the customer treated the employee in those situations. Respect, patience, and common courtesy go both ways and, just as everyone has experienced poor customer service, I think everyone has also witnessed the reverse. The relationship between barista and coffee-drinker, front desk agent and guest, lift operator and skier is a symbiotic one, we need one another and we couldn’t exist without one another in these situations. And just as sometimes I need to remind myself of that fact and shape up my attitude when I’m at work, I think folks on the other side of the counter should do the same from time to time.

It’s my personal belief, and one widely shared among those in service and hospitality jobs, that everyone should have to work a customer service job at least once. Since I really don’t see that happening, I’d like to take it upon myself to offer a few suggestions for making folks’ experience as a customer a more pleasant experience for all of us. I’m going to make this a three-part series so stay tuned as I intend to share my little nuggets of wisdom with you in my next two posts. In the meantime, read about two eccentric yet well-behaved customers I waited on in the past in One-way Ticket to Denver and Romanian Mami.

From Ending to Beginning

by Tracey Flower

There’s something in the air around here at the moment (and, no, I’m not talking about all the recent engagements of certain Vail couples I know, I think that must be something in the water). There’s something in the air that just arrived in the last week or so. Can you smell it? Can you feel it? Somewhere in the last couple weeks the seasons clicked and we moved from summer into fall. We had summer, it was really hot, sunny and wonderful and I’m quite sure there are some oh so sweet Indian Summer days in store for us in the months to come but there’s something in the breeze now that is whispering the end of summer.

Fall in Vail: I'm looking forward to days like this one

It’s been rainy and notably cooler in Vail recently and, while afternoon storms are a trademark of late-July early-August weather around here, the way the clouds have been lingering in and around the peaks and valleys before and after the rain just looks like fall and seems to promise snow. A friend of mine said he even saw a dusting on the Gore last week. The nights and early mornings are cold and even though I still felt hot sitting in the sun outside my apartment today, the breeze rattling the soon-to-be yellow leaves on the aspens around me was marked with a chill that wasn’t there a week ago.

I have to admit that I love this time of year, I love that slight chill and those cool rainy days, but man I love summer even more and this weather’s got me really thinking about just how fleeting summer is here and just how sad I am to see it go this year.

A few weeks ago I spent my days off floating down the Colorado River and hiking up Vail Mountain. By my Sunday night I was covered in mosquito bites, a little sunburned and exhausted. Now I know there are all sorts of warnings out there about both mosquitoes (West Nile!) and sunburns (Melanoma!) and I generally try to heed the advice of medical professionals but, as I relaxed with a glass of iced tea in my third floor (meaning very hot) apartment, I realized I felt so warm, summery and happy in that moment almost because of those dangerous ailments. Ok maybe all the sunshine, heat and river water contributed to my summery feeling, but my bites and burns reminded me of being a kid in summer.

Summer is such a carefree time when we’re children, when there’s no school or job to worry about and the months of June, July and August are practically endless; when we fall into bed at the end of the day, bites, burns and all, exhausted after a sun-soaked day of running through sprinklers and chasing ice cream trucks. As an adult I think summer is one of the only times (next to Christmas) when I feel like I can truly channel some of that pure childhood bliss.

I love summer. I crave summer. And this year especially I needed summer. I needed some childlike simplicity, even a tiny bit, in my life. The last month of sleepy hot summer days has confirmed I made the right decision by not staying in Melbourne. I might still have some more healing to do but summer in Vail has been so helpful and healing for me so far that the last couple days have scared me a little. I keep thinking I need more time with summer this year.

I went to a yoga class this morning (for the second time ever, the last time being years ago, this time with the intent of making it a routine) and the instructor talked about cycles. She mentioned how we often don’t notice beginnings; they’re often hidden in the wake of an ending and we don’t know we’ve started another cycle until we’re already in it. This thought has stuck with me all day and I can’t help but think about how it relates to the seasons at the moment. It’s technically still summer and will be for another month and a half but I have a feeling that hidden in there somewhere is the beginning of fall and, as I desperately cling to summer and as I continue to muddle my way through a definite ending, I’m also going to try to find some footing and assurance in the idea that it's very possible I’m also working my way through a beginning.


Do you think there's a beginning hidden in your life right now? 

All About Family

by Tracey Flower

In my last post I talked about how my friends and I are all growing up and I mentioned some of the events of the last couple years that helped lead me to that conclusion. After I wrote that I got to thinking about those events and more, and I realized I don’t want to mention tough times without also talking about the people who have helped me through them. I’m talking about family here, both the people who I am tied to because of birth and blood and the people I am tied to because of friendships that have weathered time and, well, growing up.

I love being alone but I hate being lonely. This has been true for most of my life but I’ve only realized it in probably the last five years. I’m still trying to figure out how to maintain a balance between being alone and being lonely. I’ve always been content to entertain myself, whether spending time alone was something I elected to do or something that found me. The older I get the more I seek it out. The older I get I also realize more and more that for all the time I spend alone I need to give myself an almost equal amount of time with other people. I’ve also realized I gain more from my time alone when it’s balanced by time with others, it’s more purposeful and I appreciate it more. I think, perhaps, had I known that secret during my teen years I might have spent at least a little less time being so very depressed in high school.

Thing is I didn’t have the family structure in high school that I have now to be the un-lonely weight on the scale. Yes I had my mom, dad, and siblings and one or two good friends but even those relationships weren’t as strong then as they are now. Truth is it’s very difficult to have the kind of relationships we have as adults in high school, the kind of relationships that form when we decide to care less about appearance or background and more about who a person is and how we both benefit from what one has to offer the other and the world; the kind of relationships that keep you from sinking or floating away during the darkest of dark moments.

I have that now. I wrote a few months ago, after I left Vail for Australia and before everything fell apart, about how I realized that Vail is home for me. With that came the realization that my friends in Vail are family to me. We celebrate holidays together, take vacations together, live together, and work together. We’re all different kinds of people from different places and, like the people who share my DNA, we’re sometimes very different, we sometimes annoy one another, and we don’t always get along but somehow there’s an inexplicable love that binds us. In retrospect that realization couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ve never needed home or family more than I have in the last few months.

In the wake of my heartbreak came messages, phone calls, and support from all the people in my life I consider family, even from friends here and there I didn’t even know cared so much (second or third cousins when talking in terms of family). Everyone from my little brother to my college roommate to my international clan of girlfriends in Vail was there for me. And they still are. And knowing that, being able to lean on all that un-loneliness, has kept me anchored enough to avoid floating away. I had a thought the other day that somehow the knowledge that there are so many people who love me takes my focus off, and almost makes up for, the one person who doesn’t.


What about you? Who is your family? How and when have they kept you anchored?

Growing up in Neverland

by Tracey Flower

Peter Pan: “Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.” 
Wendy: “Never is an awfully long time.”

Anyone who has lived in Vail for even one ski season will agree that this place is Neverland. Time and age seem to not exist here in this happy valley in the middle of the Rockies. People are youthful despite the fact that many suddenly wake up one day and realize five or even ten years have gone by since they moved here for one ski season. One friend of mine attributes the youthful appearance of valley residents to both the high altitude and the fact that folks around here enjoy a drink or two; “they pickle themselves with alcohol,” he says. Whatever it is youth does seem to flow like a fountain here and it’s easy to feel like we’re living in a bubble where we’re impervious to the stresses of the real world.

The other night I met a small group of friends for drinks to celebrate the marriage of two dear friends. The sun was setting over distant peaks and as we chatted and laughed over appetizers and big glasses of wine I realized something shocking; we’re all growing up.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, a look back at my life and the lives of my friends in the past couple years hints that real world adult stuff has been seeping through the protective shield of our bubble for awhile now; there was a devastating house fire, the death of a sibling, and some gut-wrenching break-ups. I had no idea the bubble was so weak (it must be the altitude).

The realization that we’re all growing up has stuck with, or rather haunted, me all week. And, to be honest, it’s made me feel a bit sorry for myself. Everyone is moving on. People are getting married, moving away, moving up in careers, and more and more just doing their own thing. And here I am, stuck. Back where I was a year ago, penniless and heartbroken.

My job at Starbucks has agitated this feeling. I’m back working at the same place I worked when I moved here five years ago. And, regardless of the fact that the events that have put me in this place at this time were out of my control, it seems like every part of my life has gone backwards at the moment and it’s depressing and humiliating.

I was walking home from work yesterday in the mid-July heat, sweaty, sticky and smelling of coffee, battling with all these thoughts and more when a strange quiet voice spoke up in the midst of them all. The voice encouraged me to compare my life now to my life last time I worked at that very same Starbucks (and I try not to make a habit of listening to all the voices in my head but this one seemed friendly so I obliged). And it occurred to me that despite of the events of the past couple months, I’m more content with my life and myself now than I was then. So, as it turns out, I too am growing up in Neverland.


Want to read about my life during that first summer five years ago? Check out Jump, Lions and Tigers and Bears, and Life With Boys.

Two Months

by Tracey Flower

“When grief is fresh, every attempt to divert only irritates. You must wait till it be digested, and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it.”  ~Samuel Johnson

I realized yesterday that I have been home for exactly one month. I also realized that it has been two months since everything fell apart. Two months. Every second of those months felt like an eternity but now when I stand looking back at them I’m shocked that it has already been two months.

Hello again Vail. The Gore Range from my balcony.

A friend of mine said to me the other day that she’s glad I’m back and it feels like I never left. I feel the opposite. To my friends I was only gone for a little over a month, which I understand is an insignificant amount of time when life is carrying on as it has been with few glitches or bumps; at the end of which they were all pretty much the same as they were at the start. For me, on the other hand, that month changed everything and my first thought in response to my friend’s comment was along the lines of I feel like I’ve been gone for a lifetime because every day I feel the weight of the events of that month and every day they affect me.

Two months, two seconds even, can change everything and, as I pick myself up off the floor and start moving forward again I take comfort in that fact because I have a glimmer of hope that sometimes the change that comes is good. My life is still turned upside down and still changing but I have lived through the last two months and I will live through the next two.

And just as I will keep living I will keep writing. Flower Blog will continue to grow and change the more I live and learn and I hope you will continue to read as that happens. Please feel free to share your comments and suggestions to me along the way.

Like this post? You might also enjoy One Sunset at a Time.

And Home Again (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

My time in Melbourne has come to an end. I was there just over two weeks but it felt like months. I was going to live and work in Australia initially because someone I loved asked me to go there and because I wanted to be with him. Now that I no longer have that person in my life I know that living and working in Australia is not something I want to do. I also know that I had to go to Australia despite my loss, if only for a short time, so that my loss could become real to me. It was like going to the funeral of the relationship that has just died. I had to go to say good-bye.

Farewell Melbourne. The city from St. Kilda Pier.

When I left Michigan for Melbourne I was in shock. I had been dumped and rejected quite coldly and it was devastating. Everything I had believed to be true was false and everything I had been looking forward to for the past few months was gone. This was, and still is, a lot to take and it makes me feel light and dizzy and wonder if I’m dreaming. And so, I believe my mind went into shock to keep me moving forward, to protect me from pain that might have been too intense to handle right away.

The shock wore off quickly when I got to Melbourne. What I have lost became real to me there and grief set in. I sat in the bedroom I was renting while Melbourne’s winter gloom loomed outside and let my grief make itself known. And I cried. I sobbed and sobbed and I let the grief become part of me. I wandered and explored the city by myself and let all the aspects of my grief appear, the heartache, the loneliness, and the anger. I made the decision to return home almost immediately but I let it twist and turn in my mind for a while to give it time to separate from the grief (because let’s be honest, grief itself doesn’t always make the best decisions). I went to Australia with a sick feeling in my gut and while I have returned with my grief in tow, that sick feeling is gone and I at least feel calm and content that my purpose for being there was fulfilled and home is where I should be right now.

I keep thinking about the insect exhibit in the Melbourne Museum. There is an area dedicated to all the large, ugly, and slightly terrifying spiders that call Australia home. Next to the live tarantulas is a display of one of the largest of these beasts’ old skins. It seems tarantulas have the same habit of shedding their exoskeleton as they grow as snakes. It made me wonder if these creatures are aware of this shedding as it is taking place, if they know how hideous they look when it’s happening and if it hurts at all. I wonder if they know that they are growing and that when they finally lose that old skin they will be changed, they will be larger and stronger.

I feel like a tarantula right now. I have returned home in poor shape. I’ve lost weight and sleep and I have a bad cold. Every time I look in the mirror at the moment I’m shocked to see the person looking back at me. I don’t recognize her, she looks drained, this person, she looks pale and weary and it’s hard to believe this person is me. I look back at photos of myself taken in Moab just weeks ago when I started this blog and I also have a hard time believing the person in those photos is me. I don't feel like her anymore and the truth is I will never be her again. I’m in transition right now and I’m growing, which isn’t always a particularly pretty process and is usually quite painful, but when it’s finished the shell of who I used to be will remain and I will crawl out of it still me but changed and, hopefully, stronger.



This will be my last post on this blog. My time in Australia is done and it’s time to move on to new adventures. I have plenty more stories to tell and thoughts to share, though, so stay tuned.

NOTE: To read about what I learned last time I visited Australia read Breathe.

My Book Café (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

I think, perhaps, I know why I’m in Melbourne. It has nothing to do with finding myself, love, or any other great cosmic purpose; oh no, it’s about the coffee. This city is renowned for producing a good cup of joe and she hasn’t disappointed me. Every latte I’ve had has been blissful; each one made with espresso that has been roasted, ground, and prepared with care and accuracy and milk that has been frothed to perfection. The best of the best, I’m told, can be found at Seven Seeds and while the coffee I had there was quite possibly one of the best I’ve ever had, it’s a different café I’ve decided to frequent for the duration of my stay.

Books? Good. Coffee? Good. I think I'm in love.

I walked past it the first day I was here and I immediately knew it was something special. It’s on Swan Street, just a short walk from my house, and called Book Talk Café. The storefront windows are filled with examples of the “new and pre-loved books” advertised on the sign and the BLT sandwich and two lattes I enjoyed at the café inside didn’t disappoint. Plus coming from a world where most local bookstores have been replaced with big shiny chain stores and the local Starbucks is usually a safer bet for a good latte than the independent place on the corner, it’s just so darn cool (yup there’s that word again) to find a place like this.

The inside of the shop is cozy and welcoming. Tables and shelves of books occupy the front of the store, with a café table or two in between. A sign explains how the store works; i.e. you can buy books, trade books, or sell books. The books are organized by section and, while the space isn’t large enough to house a selection equivalent to that of Barnes and Noble, there seems to be a little of everything. There’s even a good selection of coffee table and other good gift-giving books as well as a new release section. I’m so impressed and excited to find a real live bookstore in my neighborhood, in fact, that I’ve decided to swear off Amazon (do they even have Amazon in Australia?) for the duration of my stay and only shop for books at my little book café.

The café area is in the back half of the store and has a decent amount of seating. There’s even a cozy little area in the very back with a couch, armchairs, and a coffee table. The latte I had there the other day was so delicious I had to have two and, with a café menu that includes both hot and cold options for breakfast or lunch, I can’t think of a reason to go anywhere else. I feel comfortable in that store, I feel at home there drinking lattes among all those books, all those thoughts and words and stories. So even if the coffee was crap (which is most certainly isn’t), I’d return because after a week that felt like a month, in a city where I feel awkward and not at all like myself, a city that is so very far away from home, it’s nice to have a place to go to that feels so comfortable.

Why Melbourne? Why Now? (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

Total time it took to get from South Haven, Michigan to Melbourne, Australia (including time spent in airports): approximately 33 hours.

Total extra money spent to get me and my very heavy bags from South Haven, Michigan to Melbourne, Australia (including fees for changing my original flight, booking a flight from Sydney to Melbourne, and excess baggage fees): approximately 600 dollars. (Apparently you can bring your baggage with you to Australia but it will cost you).

Seeing the Sydney Opera House and Harbor Bridge at dawn from the plane: well, not quite priceless, given the hours, dollars, and heartache it took to get me here, but pretty spectacular nonetheless.

Sydney Opera House and Harbor Bridge

It was that moment, in fact, when it first hit me where I was and what I was doing. It was that moment, when the plane turned a little to the left and I strained to see the view out of the tiny airplane window, that this adventure I’m living became real and was no longer just a foggy dream. It was after hours and hours of sitting on a plane in the very back row; after hours of fitful sleep spent still wrestling with the decision I’d made to come to Australia despite my change in plans, I realized I had arrived and, even if it was a decision I was still unsure about, I had no choice but to go through with it. As I followed the masses through customs and the baggage claim, though, the only thought my sleep-deprived brain could manage was, what the hell am I doing here?

I have been here a little over three days now. I’m settled into a cute townhouse in a really cool neighborhood called Richmond. And, yes, I realize describing it as “really cool” sounds a little lame but when I was walking around the other day trying to get a feel for the place, all I could think is how cool it is. There are shops and trains and cafes all within a short walking distance from my house, and for a gal who grew up in a small resort town, went to college in a corn field, and then moved to another small resort town, this kind of neighborhood is, well, just plain cool. I’m excited to be here, I’m excited to be somewhere so new, so cool. Still, though, that thought keeps surfacing, keeps plaguing me; what the hell am I doing here?

I can never decide if I believe in the concepts of fate or destiny. Sometimes I think they’re just ideas dreamed up by the romantics out there and they’re happy little thoughts but not totally realistic. But there are some times, like right now, when I find myself clinging to the hope that they must exist. I still feel like my life isn’t my own at the moment, like the real me is floating over this strange life and the only place I can find footing is in the idea that there must be some reason why I have found myself in this place at this time.

So I’m wondering what do you, my lovely readers, think about the concepts of fate or destiny? Do things really happen for a reason? When your life is turned upside down and sideways and spits you out in a direction you had no intention of going in, is there a reason for it? Or is that just something we tell ourselves to cope with change?

When Plans Change (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

I’m a planner. I’m obsessive about organization and insist on writing everything down. I panic a little when I don’t have a plan. One of the hardest things about being this way is realizing, over and over again, that sometimes the powers that be have no regard for my plans. Really lousy things can happen; you lose your job, someone close to you dies, you love someone and he confesses he no longer loves you. It’s life and it’s not fair and there’s really no way to plan for these things. To do so would be very strange.

My Australia plans have changed before the trip even began. I was supposed to be in Sydney right now, I was supposed to leave early this week and I didn’t. I’m now leaving early next week for Melbourne. If you’re close to me or know someone close to me you know how and why this change happened. Perhaps I’ll share the very personal details of this moment with a wider audience one day. If I did that now the result would be a ranting hurtful tell-all of the very painful events that led me to this point and I don’t want to do that. So if you’re not someone close to me or someone close to someone close to me then, at the moment, these events are none of your business. I will, however, share with you the thoughts I’ve been left with in the wake of everything.

There are certain truths we accept as fact in our lives. Things we plan, things that just are. Then seemingly overnight, sometimes in an instant, they’re gone. We wake up one morning and find the truths we accepted yesterday have vanished and have been replaced with a whole new set. Suddenly life feels strange, not like your own and you don’t really know how to handle it.

I think that’s one of the most difficult aspects of grief. Of course the loss itself hurts. The spot in you that was filled by someone or something is now empty and that is a hollow aching feeling. And even if you find things to temporarily fill that hole, even if you find little ways to cope with that pain through the day, the fact remains that your life is now changed and will never be the same as it was before. Realizing this feels like the wind being knocked out of you and it makes you feel dizzy and wonder if you will ever recognize this strange new life as your own.

I don’t know yet if or when this life I’m suddenly living will feel like my own. All that is pushing me forward at the moment, all that I know to be true about my life right now is that I am, in fact, still alive. I have no choice but to keep moving forward so I don’t miss out on a single moment of this precious, often fleeting, life. I know I must wake up every morning and continue to invest myself into getting to know these new truths so I can eventually make my peace with them.


NOTE: For more of my thoughts on dealing with heartache, read One Sunset at a Time.

Home is Where the Moon Sets (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

Had someone told me five years ago that after living in Vail for awhile I would think the best way to celebrate the end of a winter season is to spend a few days camping and playing in Moab, Utah, I would have been skeptical. When I moved to Vail sleeping in a tent and not showering for a few days did not excite me (click here to read about my first camping trip in Colorado on Flower Blog). Five years later and I found myself squeezing in a 4-day trip to Moab between finishing work, packing my life into a very small storage unit, and tying knots in all the ends that needed to be tied before I leave Vail for Australia. And it was worth it.

The view from my tent in Moab, Utah

There’s something exhilarating and cleansing about that annual pilgrimage of Vail residents to the high desert. It’s the moment when everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief that the chaos of winter has ended. People let their hair down. They whoop and laugh loudly on the river and continue to eat, drink, and be merry into the night while gathered around big campfires. It’s a big familial celebration and always a good time.

I was sitting around the campfire on the last night of the trip this year watching my friends, many of whom have become family to me over the years, laugh and talk and I realized that I was home. Not home in Moab but home with these people and home in moments like that. This epiphany shocked me at first. I’ve called Vail home over the years but I’ve also called Michigan home, although somewhere during the past year or so I believe I stopped calling Michigan home. I never expected Vail to become home, never knew when I moved there that it would become home. But that’s what it is, and not just because all of my stuff’s there or because I have a 970 area code or a Colorado driver’s license; because those aren’t really the things that make a place home. It’s the people you love and the experiences you share with them that make a place home, that shape who you are and tie your heart to a place.

Vail has a very transient population and I realized early in my time there that as long as I live there I would always be saying good-bye to people. I hate that. Good-byes are exhausting. I learned quickly that these farewells had to be quick and, sometimes, even a little impersonal. A hug and a “see you later” and that’s all that’s needed, especially because I’ve also realized that many of the people who leave come back. Vail has that kind of pull on folks.

With the end of this year’s Moab trip came my turn to say good-bye. This time I was on the opposite end of quick hugs and “see you laters.” It was harder for me than I thought it would be to be the one leaving and I almost wanted everyone to be sadder to see me go.

The morning I left Vail was cold and clear. It was 4:30 in the morning and I went outside to take the trash out before my 5:00 am airport shuttle arrived. It was still dark, right before the first hints of daylight arrive, and the moon was incredible. It was setting in the west over the mountains and it was glowing and huge. It felt like a little “see you later” from Vail. And it struck me that there was no need for myself or anyone else to be sadder to see me go because the best thing about knowing where home is, is that you can and will always find yourself there again. And, if home really is with the people you love, and the people you love are scattered around the globe, then you’re really never that far away from home.

First Anniversary Bonus Post

I wrote the following article for Vail PM about a month ago but it hasn’t run on their site yet and I’m not sure if it ever will. I put some work into it, though, and I had fun writing it so I thought I’d share it here.


Spring Forward into Spring Fashion

Spring is here. We’ve seen plenty of sunshine in the last few weeks accompanied by temps in the 40’s and 50’s (anywhere else that’s still cold, here that’s flip flop weather). Daylight Savings made its debut last month and Easter is right around the corner. And while this winter has been a bit mild compared to the last few it has been winter nonetheless. It’s always bittersweet to bid adieu to ski season, but the pain of saying good-bye can be eased with the promise of longer days, Hot Summer Nights, and summer sports. And, of course, the thrill of shedding a layer or two or five and stepping into some spring style.

A friend of mine who used to live in Vail returned this winter for an extended holiday from her native Melbourne, Australia. Before she arrived she expressed to me her anxiety over what to pack. After two years in Melbourne, often regarded as Australia’s fashion capital, she wasn’t sure how or if her trendy wardrobe would fit in here. She packed some skinny jeans and bought a couple new hoodies and some sneakers and hoped for the best. After being in Vail for a few weeks, however, she said she was pleasantly surprised to find that folks in the Valley seemed to be dressing trendier than the last time she was here and that she felt comfortable wearing the majority of her Melbourne duds in Vail.

Yes, it’s true, fashion is alive and well in Vail. You can see it in the chic boutiques in the villages or at events such as the fashion show fundraiser for the Susan G. Komen Foundation last month at Samana. We have to be creative about the way we apply trends in fashion to life in the Rockies, though; we have to adapt them to the climate and lifestyle we enjoy in the mountains. And, while there’s something to be appreciated about living in a place where it’s perfectly appropriate to show up to happy hour in bike shoes or snow pants, it’s just as nice to peel off layer after layer (of dirt or ski gear, depending on the season) and step into something a tad nicer.

With a hint of spring in the air, this is the perfect time of year to update your wardrobe with a few new items to take your look into spring/summer 2010 (even in a place where spring is called mud season and it can snow in July). Consider the following trends when stocking up your closet this season.

The Boyfriend Blazer: Perfect for layering on cool mud season days or for a Hot Summer Nights concert this trend, featured in spring fashion issues of magazines like Lucky and Glamour, is an essential staple for the mountain girl’s wardrobe this spring/summer. The blazer should be a little too big as if you borrowed it from your boyfriend’s closet. It should fit long in the torso and should be worn with the sleeves rolled up. Try throwing one over a flirty flowy cami to make the look more feminine or layered over a cute hoodie with a scarf for brisk spring days. Shop Billabong in Vail Village, Quicksilver, or Arriesgado, both in Lionshead, for camis, hoodies, and other perfect tops to wear with your blazer.

Tights and Leggings: Are a mountain girl’s best friend, and still very much on-trend this spring. What better way to wear a sweet floral skirt this spring, before things heat up, than paired with tights, flats, and that boyfriend blazer? From standard black to a striking yellow, tights and leggings give you an opportunity to wear summer prints and cuts before it’s warm enough to do so. Also stay warm and show off your legs (c’mon you’ve been skiing all winter, you know you want to) by wearing shorts over tights. This look, seen on celebs such as Nicole Richie and Sienna Miller, and sported by my fashion-forward friend from Melbourne, is another great way to wear your warm-weather clothes now. Arriesgado Clothing Company in Lionshead has tights and leggings for sale as well as a selection of sweet and sexy summer dresses.

Sportswear as Streetwear: Hallelujah ladies, it really is trendy to après in ski gear. Well, almost. From ballerina chic to tomboy tumbled this trend is perfect for life in the valley. This look is more sophisticated than your favorite hiking clothes but just as comfortable and effortless. Fashion networking site fashionising.com breaks down the details on how to pull it off. For cute sportswear that’s also functional check out Roxy Athletix, the surf-wear brand’s latest line of ladies athletic clothing available at Quicksilver in Lionshead.

Accessories, Accessories, Accessories: Even as the economy creeps toward recovery, finding ways to spruce up your wardrobe without breaking the bank is key this season and accessories are the perfect way to do it. Accessories are also a good way to experiment with trends in pattern and color without going all-out. Hot colors this season are bright but not neon, bold but not over-powering, think turquoise or coral. Try a lightweight scarf in one of these colors paired with a more neutral top. Or, give the new warrior trend a try with a studded leather belt or a piece of jewelry inspired by ancient cultures. Knee-high socks are also big this season and another way to stay current while staying warm this spring. Knee-highs can be sporty or dressy, worn alone or layered over tights.

One Sunset at a Time

Writing is therapeutic for me. It calms me and heals me. I’ve kept journals for as long as I can remember. The things I write in these diaries are intensely private. Sometimes these things, these rants, fears, and confessions, are hard for me to read in retrospect as the words are, many times, born from pain and reading them easily reminds me of the pain I felt when I wrote them. Other times re-reading old entries shows me how I’ve grown and I feel relieved that whatever I was going through then is over. There are often big gaps between entries in these books because I tend to write in them less when I’m happy. Writing, especially when I’m upset, helps me see things clearly; it takes a burden off me having my worries, fears, heartaches, and frustrations written down.

I went through a time early last year of intense heartache. There were not even enough pages in my journal to help ease my burden. I existed for months in a state of persistent melancholy and I cried a lot. I cried a lot because I woke up every day and my chest felt heavy and as the day went on the sadness that weighed in my heart grew more intense as it was pumped and pumped through my body. And it was just too much to keep inside me. So I cried. I cried big heavy sobs that shook my body and hurt my stomach and made my eyes swell. I cried in an attempt to dispel the sadness, to purge myself of it.

And then spring came. Spring came and I knew it was time to pick myself up, if only slowly, and find a way to keep on living. It was time to stop crying. I recently read through my journal entries from those months and found one very short entry I wrote at the start of spring. I remember the day I wrote it and I know that was the moment I realized it was time to keep on living, the moment I first knew I was going to be OK.


Journal entry written 03/06/09:
Yesterday was full of wind, like 60 mph winds, and it didn’t die down until around sunset. It was a beautiful sunset and so quiet after such a windy day; and it gave me the smallest bit of peace. I texted Dad about it and he said sometimes you just have to take life one sunset at a time.


It was around then that the idea for Flower Blog first came to mind. I decided it was time to take my life back from my grief. There were certainly more tear laden days to come in the months that followed that journal entry but starting this blog was one of the first steps in rebuilding myself. I wanted to do more with my writing than just rant in a journal, and, besides, that didn’t seem to be curing me; this was bigger pain than I’d had in the past and it required bigger writing. It was about remembering who I am and what I want for myself, something I’d forgotten to do while I was grieving, something I’d forgotten to do a long time before the relationship I was grieving had ended, something that had probably, in part, led to its demise. 

Writing for Flower Blog reminded me how much writing makes me feel alive. And, while I can’t say writing alone brought me back to life, it was the first piece of many that drew me out of my sadness. Investing time and effort into my writing reminded me how important it is to nurture all the little pieces of me I discovered that spring and in the months that followed. Before, I had invested everything into my relationship and I had let many other things, including other relationships, fall away in order to do so. When the relationship ended I invested everything into mourning it. I know I will feel heartache again one day and I know I might even completely fall apart again, but I also know I will survive again. I know the winds will calm and the sun will set and I will keep on living.

Where There are no Cornfields

There were times during my trip to Australia when I was struck by how much it felt like home, times when it felt so un-foreign, so normal; times when I felt like we could easily just be on a road trip somewhere in the States. There were subtle differences, of course, the driving on the wrong side of the road, the large stretches of undeveloped land that were just land and not cornfields, that it was November and Christmas and summer were approaching simultaneously. But often it all felt very familiar. Because of this I tried extra hard to take note of the things that were very unfamiliar.

There were things I wrote down, things I took photos of, and then there were the things that I didn’t record because there was no way to capture them, things that I could only savor in the moment and hope they would come back to me one day. I attended a liquor tasting recently and the smell of a certain rum triggered one of these memories.

Our first stop in Australia was Cairns, Queensland, from there we quickly headed north to The Daintree Rainforest. We drove north until we couldn’t go any farther and then we drove in. We drove into the thick of the Daintree with all the trees, frogs, birds, and bugs. And then it rained. It rained hard and often. It rained so much it felt like a Hemingway novel.

We eventually made our way out of the rainforest because we were sick of being damp and because it was just time to move on. And it was there, somewhere between tropical rainforest and tropical beaches, that I first smelled the scent of sugar cane mixed with the wet heavy air from the Daintree. It was there where you have to watch out for the cane trains, there where you can still see the steam rising from where the rainforest meets the ocean.

The smell of sugar cane, especially burning sugar cane, is sweet, deep, and earthy. It’s complex and layered and too much to take in at once. It hits you first as a dense wall and is a little startling especially when it’s something you’ve never smelled before. It burns a little and you can taste it in the back of your throat. But then you recover and you breathe it in deeply. It moves through you slowly, like molasses, and you hope you will never forget this smell and the feeling it brings; this smell that is so foreign, that smells like a place that is a world away from home.

Grandpa Flower

I’m 27 years old and all four of my grandparents are alive and well. This is, I believe, rare. It’s a treat, a privilege, bestowed on few. I’ve been able to get to know my grandparents, to hear their life’s stories and adventures in their own words. They are amazing multi-faceted people and their lives intrigue me. And while they have all led extraordinary lives, I can see each of my grandparents as just plain human beings in a very real, very palpable way I don’t think would be possible if I hadn’t been able to spend my life so far getting to know them.

Here are a few of my favorite memories, my favorite stories, about my Grandpa Flower.

Grandpa Flower used to call my sister, Susan, and myself Penelope and Maryann. This is something I hadn’t thought about in years but recently remembered during a trip home for Christmas. I believe Susan was Penelope and I was Maryann and I can’t remember when he stopped calling us that. Oh, and to be clear, he called us those names as a joke, not as a result of a fading memory or out of old-person confusion. That was Grandpa when we were kids, always teasing us, always joking around with us.

Whenever it was time to leave Grandpa and Grandma’s house we would hug Grandma good-bye, then giggle in anticipation of Grandpa’s bear hug and big sloppy noisy kiss on the cheek. The last few times I’ve been home a much older, slightly more serious, Grandpa has hugged me in a way he never used to, in a way you hug someone when you realize you will not always be able to hug him.

In middle school and high school, studies about World War 2 always made me think of him and always made me realize how little I know about the large man with a crew cut who likes to sit in his big arm chair and watch the game. I know his family background is complicated with divorce and alcoholism, I know he used to teach chemistry and coach basketball, I know he was shot once in the war, and I know he won’t talk about most of that stuff.

Possibly my favorite memory of my Grandpa Flower was at his and my Grandma’s 50th wedding anniversary party. There were photos everywhere of their younger selves. Grandma was an absolute knockout when she was younger, stunning in a classic way, in a creamy white skin and cherry lipstick kind of way. A party guest approached Grandpa at one point and said to him Nell was beautiful when she was younger. Without missing a beat, without a smirk or a silly smile, Grandpa said, “still is.” His response gave me goose bumps and I knew then that I want what they have someday.