Take a Chance (or at the very least think about it)

by Tracey Flower

November was a weird month (and the first half of December too). An off month. A lost month. I didn’t write, not here and not enough, at least not for my own self. I did plenty of writing for the Vail Symposium’s winter brochure, which I absolutely loved doing, and to be honest I can’t go blaming my lack of posting on that. There’s really not much to blame it on, it was just a weird month and I just didn’t write.

But I’m back now and that’s what counts, right?

As I write this and look back at November, while safely tucked away into December, I shake my head at that month, and at myself in that month. I worried a lot in November. I worried about work and not having enough of it. I scraped the bottom of the barrel financially and ran on fumes. I worried about that. I fretted over my weight and over my complexion. I worried about finding a place to live as the December 1st expiration date on my summer residence approached. Once my roommate and I found a fabulous new place to live (that makes numbers 10 and 11 if you’re keeping track) I worried about how I was ever going to afford it.

Whew. That’s a lot of worry.

I don’t think I really realized how much of it I was carrying around, however, until I got a phone call the other day regarding a part time job prospect. See I’ve realized the only way I’m going to pull myself up from my financial rock bottom, the only way I’m going to afford my fabulous new place is by obtaining extra employment. But I’ve been worried extra employment won’t leave me enough time to balance all the things I love in my life.

Lately, worry has been showing up everywhere.

In that phone call I was presented with an opportunity for part time work that I can do in my own time, something I can balance with everything else I care about. I hung up the phone and felt unbelievably light. I felt dizzy with relief and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized just how much of a burden I had put on myself with all that worry.

As I was reveling in my relief, and shaking my head at myself for being so so silly, the guy came to clean the beer lines—I should mention here that I was at work, at my full time job bartending on Vail Mountain. Now, I should know this guy’s name by now, I’ve known him for years and he comes several times a season to clean and rinse the beer lines, but I’m terrible with names and that’s that.

We chatted about summer, about how it was and wasn’t, and how it’s always too short around here. He asked where I worked this summer, which prompted what has become a regular monologue on how discouraged I have become with the employment opportunities in the Valley, how I need something consistent for summers, or better yet, a year-round job. How I’ve thought about moving to Boulder in a year or two, but that I love living up here and if I did make that move, at least in the next couple years, it would likely be career-oriented. I babbled on and on, stopping when I realized I had gone from sharing to complaining.

The Beer Line Guy then told me that 10 years ago he had been in my shoes, bartending in Steamboat Springs, moaning about the exact same things. Feeling stuck. So he decided to take a chance and make a change. He started his beer line cleaning business (and whatever else it is his business does, I’m not totally clear on the details) and it turned out to be a smashing success. His advice to me, take a chance.  Make a move. You know what you want so do it.

Hmmmmmm. Beer Line Guy has a point.

Then I went to a yoga class in which the instructor told me the exact same thing, take a chance. You have the power inside you. Just take. A. Chance.

I’m not quite sure what to do with this advice yet, what chance to take or where to go with my dreams. But I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about it a lot.

So that’s where I am after all that worry and at the end of 2011. Ready to bid adieu to the sweet year that was and welcome in a new one warmly. Ready to see what comes up and what chances are mine for the taking in 2012.

Southern Colorado Spectacular

by Tracey Flower

There is so much I want to share with you, my lovely readers, about a five-day road trip through Southwestern Colorado with four fantastic friends I took a couple weeks ago. And, over time, I'm sure I'll write it all. In the meantime, here's a few of my favorite shots. While it was a great time with good friends, the sights alone could have made the trip.

Below: Fairplay/Historic South Park City, Downtown Salida, San Luis Valley at sunset, Great Sand Dunes National Park, Hesperus Mountain (sacred to the Navajo)

         

      

DemoCATS, Peace Signs and UFOs

by Tracey Flower


We had just passed through Fairplay and were making our way through the windy mountain roads leading to Alamosa and the San Luis Valley when my friend Dave, who had been immersed in a Colorado atlas for a spell, said, “we should turn left up ahead and check out Guffey.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure the mayor is a cat.”

It was a good enough reason for the rest of us.

We didn’t regret the decision. The photos alone were worth the stop.

Greetings from Guffey, CO

Guffey was just one of the many mountain towns we (myself and four fantastic friends) toured on a five-day road trip throughout Southwestern Colorado a couple weeks ago. Guffey was the only one (to our knowledge) to boast a feline government official (for real, guys, check it out) but many of those tucked away communities had a similar look and feel; that of being ancient and un-touched, fossilized in the rock of the mountains that surround and protect them from progress and modernization, and I mean that in the best possible way. They’re charming and historical, and each one left us marveling (and, on occasion, in stitches giggling) at the quirks that make each of these towns oh so unique, and curious about the folks who call them home. 

We stumbled on one of these little towns and ended up camping there for a couple nights. Crestone, CO. Ever heard of it? Neither had we. 

Dave spied it on his trusty atlas while searching for a campsite near the Great Sand Dunes National Park. It’s in the San Luis Valley, which lies between the Sangre de Christo and San Juan mountain ranges.

Crestone sort of appears out of nowhere. The San Luis Valley covers nearly 8,000 square miles, and is therefore the most expansive stretch of flat land in that part of Colorado, and, after living in the Vail Valley where everything is straight up up up (or down down down depending on the sport), the most flat land any of us had seen in awhile. We drove and drove along those never-ending roads, past agricultural fields, signs for Colorado Gators Reptile Park and the 10 foot tall UFO look-out stand (because, you know, you can spy those things SO much better from 10 feet off the ground). We were starting to doubt Dave’s navigation skills, and the existence of Crestone altogether, when we took a turn and suddenly, nestled at the foot of the Sangre de Christos was Crestone, Colorado.

According to Wikipedia:

Crestone is a statutory town in Saguache County in Southwestern Colorado, United States. The population was 73 at the 2000 census. It is a small village at the foot of the western slope of the Sangre de Cristo Range, in the northern part of the San Luis Valley. Crestone was a small mining town, but little paying ore was discovered. In the 1970s, a large land development, the Baca Grande, was established to the south and west and several hundred homes have been built.
The Crestone area, which includes the Baca Grande and Moffat, Colorado, is a spiritual and new age center with several world religions represented, including: a Hindu temple, a Zen center, a co-ed Carmelite monastery, several Tibetan centers, and miscellaneous New Age happenings.

As we drove through the town, making our way to the National Forest Service campground which lies about ¾ of a mile north of the town center (and is lush, private and tidy), my friend Claire noted to her husband Marshall that a pedestrian had just given her the finger. Marshall corrected her, “I think that was a peace sign.”

Indeed it was.

Crestone has an uncanny wacky old hippie vibe. Unlike some of the other small mountain towns we happened upon on our journey it felt purposely hidden, as if only those who really want and need it will find it.

On our second day there, Dave fell into a conversation with a man wearing a tie-dyed shirt with wild white hair and a beard to match who told him the first time he came to Crestone he had a spiritual experience and, as a result, decided to never leave. He didn’t elaborate on the details of that experience, but did add that if we ever found ourselves back in that obscure little town, we, too, would stay forever.

Now, I don’t believe crystals hold any magical power, nor do I understand the how’s and why’s behind New Agey-mysticism. But there was a definite palpable feeling of spirituality in that place, of the presence of something BIGGER, of God, in the vast beauty surrounding that place, in the majesty of the Sangre de Christos looking down on it. It was a feeling that touched each of us and permeated the trip, creating a definite communal vibe among us that lasted for the duration of our holiday, and held on even after we returned home to Vail.

It was the most refreshing, cleansing and unifying trip I’ve been a part of in a long time. Was that solely the influence of Crestone? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was just us; five friends who count one another as family coming together on the eve of a big change (another story for another time, my friends), determined to savor a few precious, fleeting moments, and take in the views along the way.


This post is dedicated to my friend Dave. 

Golden Gloriousness

by Tracey Flower

A little September bonus post to celebrate my favorite season. I hiked to Deluge Lake in East Vail a few days ago. The lake is pristine and nestled into the Gore Range; it's only 4 miles from the trailhead to the lake, with a 3,400 ft. elevation gain from bottom to top. My leg strength was tested but I was rewarded generously for my efforts along the way with sweeping vistas of Golden Gore Range Gloriousness. Marvel with me.

                              

            

A New Season

by Tracey Flower

It’s that time of year again. Fall. The Vail Valley is glowing with it. It’s a new season, and my favorite one at that.

A new season means time for fresh starts. I love this time of year for that. Life in Vail is lived season to season, and for many of us here the end of a summer or winter season means the end of one job and the start of a new one. This can be, at times, a very frustrating way of life; no one makes much money here and there’s always a pause when one job ends and another begins, a few weeks with no work, no income.

There’s also beauty in that pause. There’s always a moment to travel, to relax, to slow down and, especially in fall, time to squeeze in all your favorite summer activities just one last time before the snow settles in for the next eight months.

There’s also time to reflect and refresh before the next major season (that would be summer or winter around here) starts. Time to prepare for the fresh start that a new season brings. I relish this time and always appreciate the opportunity to start anew.

Fall also marks a new year in my life. I celebrated my last twenty-something birthday (gulp) a week ago. 

I don’t get overly anxious about aging; there’s nothing I can do about it and the alternative to aging is, well, death, so I’ll just go ahead and get older thank you very much. BUT there is something intimidating about 30, and something daunting about coming into the last year of my twenties.

It’s that 30 sounds grown-up. Not old. Just adult. Bonafide grown-up. Like maybe I should have my life together somehow by then.

I doubt I will.

And I’m sure a year from now I’ll find a way to be OK with that.

In the meantime, however, I’d like to take this moment to share some goals I have for myself for the next year, things to work toward in this new season (and things to achieve before the big 3-0).

1. I want to go to Africa a year from now. There are a billion places I want to travel to. Africa is at the top of that list. It’s been awhile since I planned and ventured out into the world on an epic trip. So there you have it. I’m saving my pennies. Countries and dates to come.
2. I want to expand my professional skills and knowledge by taking some professional development courses at Colorado Mountain College. Specifically those pertaining to social media and Internet marketing. As much as I love new seasons and fresh starts, it would be kind of great to have the same job year-round (and kind of great, too, if that job didn’t involve serving beverages). Taking some classes can’t hurt my chances of finding such a position, right?
3. I want to (learn) to cook more. I heaved a big sigh as I wrote that. This has been a goal of mine for the last several years and, to be honest, seems slightly un-attainable. I love food. I don’t love cooking or spending time in the kitchen. But I’d at least really like to gain some more skills in that area, to have some level of competence in the kitchen and maybe, just maybe, develop an appreciation for the art of it. Encouragement and/or advice on how to go about this is appreciated. 

There they are, just a few humble goals. There’s a handful of others I’m tossing around and considering at the moment as well, but these three are my favorites. I’ll enjoy seeing where they take me and what else comes up along the way.


Cheers, my lovely readers, here’s to a new season!

Life on a Post-it

by Tracey Flower


There’s an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie gets broken up with on a Post-it.

“I’m sorry, I can’t, don’t hate me,” wrote Jack Berger on that infamous square sticky note.

Poor Carrie. As she points out to one of Berger’s friends later in the Post-it episode, “there is a good way to break up with someone and it does not involve a Post-it.”

I can’t say that’s happened to me but after recently watching a re-run of that episode I got to thinking about the significance Post-its have played in my life.

There’s a small drawer at one end of the kitchen table in my parent’s house. It is full of used Post-its. The notes scrawled on them recall the when's and where's of the Flower family past: “gone to the store,” “walking the dog,” or “running far.” The handwriting dictates message ownership rather than a signature. The messages are short, to the point, and not totally significant in retrospect; the sort of messages Post-its were created for. Yet at some point some family member (Mom?) started saving them and the rest of the family followed suit. I’ve even seen them reused from time to time when a note from the past applies to a current situation or destination.

It seems silly, I suppose, to save Post-its, or even to note in a blog post that they’ve been saved. But if you sit down and open that drawer and start reading, you sort of end up getting a snapshot of the Flower family over the years, of a life lived, and remembered, on Post-its; of where we were and where we went, of what was important to us at that moment.

The notes in that drawer are only a small fraction of the many Post-its that have been shared between Flower family members over the years; reminders, questions, labels, and more have been documented on those convenient little pieces of paper. The habit has stuck with me over the years and I often leave myself, and occasionally my roommate, reminders on Post-its. And, in a 2011-take on my Post-it habit, my MacBook's desktop is wallpapered with Stickies.

My favorite Post-its to receive growing up were the birthday notes from my dad. He was always gone to work by the time I woke up on my birthday. And there was always a Post-it on my placemat (yep, my placemat, we had assigned seats) with a birthday message from Dad. So simple. So meaningful. And you know what? I’m pretty sure I have a good handful of them saved in a box somewhere in my parent’s basement.

This is my 50th post here on Flower Blog. If I could have I would have written it on a Post-it. 

Had a Bad Day?

by Tracey Flower


I recently had a terrible horrible no good very bad day.

(That right there is a shout-out to the children’s book “Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day” by Judith Viorst, still LOVE IT).

It was a bad evening that sank into a bad night and catapulted me into a really bad day the next morning.

It went like this: Friday evening the boy I like rejected me (boo). I sulked on the couch all evening while it rained and stormed outside (for real, it was like a freaking Hemingway novel). I woke up Saturday morning and resolved to not focus on boys at all at the moment and instead focus on my fabulous new job as a receptionist and marketing assistant at a busy local salon. Then I got to work and by noon, following the most bizarre sequence of events I’ve ever witnessed in a workplace (another story for another time my friends), my fabulous new job came to a screeching slamming-on-the-breaks end. After only two weeks.

In the wake of the shocking end of my fabulous new job came the tidal wave of realization that my finances are a mess, that I am, in fact, broke and the thing I was counting on to revive my bank account was now nonexistent. Whew.

You know the "Friend’s" theme song (it’s by The Rembrandt’s)? The part that goes, Your job’s a joke/You’re broke/Your love life’s DOA? It was like that.

I felt blue.

But I don’t want to discuss the details of that lousy day as much as I want to talk about how I deal when things are crap.

First things first, I let myself feel really badly. I even go ahead and feel sorry for myself. I think there is something very healing in taking the time to notice and just sit with how I feel. The way I see it, even if I ignore my bad feelings, they’re still going to be there and it’s going to be uncomfortable either way, so I minus well acknowledge them and sit out the worst of it on my couch watching reruns of “Keeping up with the Kardashian’s” until that becomes more painful than whatever’s bugging me.

In the yoga classes I attend the instructors often encourage this method of sitting with it when we find ourselves holding a particularly challenging pose for longer than feels comfortable.

You’re probably feeling something in your legs right now, but that’s OK. That’s just discomfort, it’s just a little pain, just breathe and stay with it. 

The point is it’s only one moment. It’s temporary. And there is always something to be gained by staying; it could be it stronger muscles, looser hips or relieving back pain.

I think the same is true when it comes to emotional pain. There is always something to be gained by staying with it even though it hurts.

And what’s the alternative to feeling that pain? Numbness? Paralysis? Death? Feeling pain is part of being healthy and alive, and I for one am thrilled to be alive, and thrilled to experience everything that goes along with that, even if it hurts sometimes.

I also seek out friends and family members and talk about what happened and how it’s making me feel. Talking about what’s bothering me helps me. Period. And I am forever grateful to all the listening ears in my life. I would be lost without you.

And during it all I eat a bunch of junk (like a bag of the most offensive flavored Doritos you can imagine and lots of chocolate ice cream), listen to some sad songs and hide under a blanket (and watch “Teen Mom” reruns when I’ve exhausted all my Kardashian options) until I feel prepared to face the world again.

Eventually I shake off the blanket, go outside and move on.

That doesn’t always mean I feel totally better; whatever has made me feel sad, angry or disappointed will usually stick with me for a little bit, but after all that feeling sorry for myself I find a little perspective and realize the best way to banish those leftover emotions is to charge forward and check out new job listings, pick up extra shifts at the golf course, make a new budget plan, and, just maybe, meet Someone New.

As I move on I write. I go to yoga. I drink wine and spend time with my girlfriends.

I find my way back to Happy.


Life is crazy, wonderful, heartbreaking, challenging and beautiful. Throughout the journey we take chances and sometimes find the result isn’t what we hoped it would be. Hearts get broken. Pride gets wounded. Self esteem falls. My terrible horrible no good very bad day wasn’t the worst one I’ve ever had, and there will be better and worse days to come and that’s OK with me.

How do you cope when life leaves you feeling a bit blue?

Scent-Triggered Memories

by Tracey Flower

I have always been intrigued by the power of smell. Not the sense just on its own, but the connection of scent and memory, the power scent has to evoke emotions or to recover a feeling from long ago, to send me back to a moment like no other sense can. 

This happened just the other day.

The smell was of warm earth and fresh water. You know the way soil and foliage smell when it’s a little bit damp and been warmed by the sun? It’s rich and powerful, organic and sometimes maybe a little too strong and you taste it in the back of your throat. It was that smell. It was that smell woven into the smell of fresh flowing water. It’s the way lakes or rivers smell in the summer and it reminded me of so many sun-soaked and sparkling long summer days. 

It reminded me of walks with my mom down by the marina in South Haven, Michigan; of the way the air smells when we walk on the pier at dusk. It reminded me of the stillness of the lake and the sky at that time of day.

It also reminded me of the wonderful chaos of the previous weekend’s rafting trip in Utah, of camping, swimming and laughing with dear friends. And I replayed the weekend to be sure I had all the best details saved for future reference—the muddy drive to the campsite in an evening thunderstorm, the views of the surrounding canyons the next morning, and, yes, even the time the raft flipped and spilled us out into the churning Colorado River. 

I know I will think about this weekend less and less as the days and weeks pass and new experiences are had and memories made, but I also know I will be reminded of it the next time that rich smell floats my way again and I look forward to that moment. 

What smells trigger memories for you?

My Word

by Tracey Flower

There’s a scene in the movie Eat Pray Love (it’s in the book too and, while I always prefer the book to the movie, I particularly like the way this moment is portrayed in the film) where Liz Gilbert, the author, is enjoying a fabulous dinner in Italy with some friends and they are discussing and debating what one word best represents certain cities and people. They conclude Rome’s word is SEX and New York’s word is ACHEIEVE. Liz says her word is WRITER and her friends immediately disagree, telling her that’s what she does not who she is. She agrees and spends the rest of the book, and the film, trying to figure it out. 

I’ve spent some time searching for my own word since I first read that passage and I think I’ve got it, in fact I think I knew it all along.

Liz Gilbert’s word might not be WRITER, but mine sure is.

Writing is not just something I do. I certainly hope to make a career of it, and I do, on occasion, get paid to do it professionally, but writing is much more to me than simply a degree or a paycheck.

I’ve been a writer my entire life. It’s always felt natural to me, always come easily to me. I wrote and illustrated my own stories as a child, loved writing essays for English class in high school and kicked butt in college creative writing. But for me writing is even more than just the fun creative stuff (which, I must say, can be fulfilling enough in its own rite). 

I feel most comfortable communicating through writing. As a kid if there was something I wanted to ask my parents, something I wanted to do, somewhere I wanted to go, especially something I thought there was even a chance they could say no to—basically anything I felt a little uncomfortable asking—I wrote the question down, folded the piece of paper up into an airplane and sailed it into whichever room they were in at the moment. It just felt safer, easier, that way. 

This is a habit I have held onto, except the older I get, the more complicated the messages tend to be. Throughout my teenage years and on into adulthood anytime there’s something that needs to be said, anything that seems impossibly difficult to ask or express, I write it down and send it off. Sometimes I say too much. Sometimes I hit send on emails that are hurtful, angry or just plain dramatic. I once wrote a letter expressing some really raw heat-of-the-moment emotions that I’m pretty sure ruined an entire relationship. Thing is, I’m horrible with expressing myself out loud, whether it’s saying “I love you” or “I hate you,” and I’m even worse when it comes to any kind of confrontation; I get all tripped-up and tongue-tied, but when I write it down, well, it all just comes out. Sometimes this is good. Sometimes this is bad. For better or worse it’s who I am.

There’s nothing I can’t say in writing, which is why it’s also therapeutic for me to write. This is something I’ve talked about here in the past. I’ve been keeping journals since childhood, not to chronicle events per se, but to work through emotions. Those pages carry some heavy things, and for that I am thankful because having those thoughts on those pages makes me lighter. I hope when I die those books will all self-combust in order to respect our doctor-patient confidentiality. 

While my journal pages may hold all my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings, I also have no problem being very honest in the writing I share (as you’ve all read here). I have no fear in writing. In fact I’m much more confident in my writing than I am in real life. I’m also the most proud of myself when I share what I create with others. And writing—reading my writing back to myself—teaches me all kinds of crazy good stuff about myself. 

And, finally, I just feel the most alive when I write. Period. 

WRITER is my word. And I could go on and on about more reasons why, but knowing when to stop is one of the hallmarks (at least in my opinion) of a good writer (and a lesson I’m still practicing to perfect). Also one of the very best things about writing is having written so I will stop now so I can bask in the rush of doing just that.

And you? What is your word?

Exploring Pure Michigan

by Tracey Flower

A few weeks ago I posted the following on my Facebook wall:

I wrote it after spending a few days in Grand Rapids, Michigan with my sister Susan. They were possibly the most fulfilling days I’ve had on a trip back to Michigan since I moved to Colorado six years ago. In fact the entire three weeks I spent in Michigan this past May were the most fulfilling weeks I’ve spent in Michigan since I moved to Colorado.

It’s because I made the decision when I stepped off the plane in Grand Rapids to treat the trip as if I were somewhere brand new. To explore, relax and re-discover in that very familiar place.

Here’s what I found:

Grand Rapids’ East Town community, where Susan and her husband live, is as totally rad as all the hipsters who call that area home. Susan and I spent two days walking around the leafy tree-lined streets, stopping into shops like Art of the Table  where locals can pick up everything from peanut butter made in Grand Rapids to tabletop accessories to chocolate and artisan cheeses. They also carry a selection of local-made beers and wines. We shopped for Indian cooking spices and browsed their unique selection of cookbooks. I left wishing there was a shop like it around the corner from my own apartment in Vail.

We browsed through a couple of Susan’s favorite consignment clothing stores to see what gems we could find, and though our search yielded nothing that day, Susan assured me that’s not always the case.

One afternoon we grabbed a bottle of Layer Cake Cabernet and a wheel of brie for a snack from Martha’s Vineyard, East Town’s friendly neighborhood wine and spirits shop. Then we picked up a take-out sampler plate from GoJo’s, an Ethiopian restaurant, and feasted on spiced chicken and lentils, sopping up our watt (Ethiopian-style stew) with lots of injerra (a pancake-like flatbread). It’s a meal I’m still lusting over.

It was a thoroughly satisfying couple of days and, if nothing else, just nice to be out of the mountains and in a city for a moment (not that I’d trade my mountains for Grand Rapids, but it is enjoyable to crawl out of them every now and again and see what the rest of the country is seeing, eating and doing). I expressed my satisfaction to Susan and she shrugged off my compliments to her city, saying it seems quite small to her now, after living there for a couple years. I guess I can see her point (Although I’ve always been a small town girl and any place with more than two different coffee shops is a city to me), but, really, big city or not I was charmed by Grand Rapids on this trip.

I was also charmed by South Haven.

With its beaches and lakeside condos it’s easy to be charmed by my hometown. That is, if you didn’t grow up there.

It’s taken me a little more time than some (twenty-something years) to get here because I had to figure out how to separate the issues I have regarding my hometown, like hating high school and other issues relating to awkward teenage dramatics, from the charm of the town—I had to learn how to not hold those things against it. I worked especially hard on this during this last visit, and discovered a lot of cool stuff along the way. But scraping away high school angst is a tedious and time-consuming job, so that, my friends, is another story for another time.

Don't miss Holland

by Tracey Flower

A friend of a friend once shared this story:

A couple was in a plane on their way to Italy for their honeymoon. Due to some sort of random technical difficulties they were forced to land in The Netherlands, and for whatever reason, ended up stuck there for the duration of their trip (no I don’t know why they didn’t then just scrap the plane and hop on a train). They were less than thrilled with the situation and, while they spent their time sightseeing in Holland, they complained about everything and fretted over what they were missing in Italy. Thing is Holland isn’t so bad; in fact it’s pretty cool in its own right, but these guys were so worried about missing Italy that they didn’t get to soak any of it in. Catching on to the moral here? Don’t miss Holland, folks.

The South Pier Lighthouse, South Haven, MI

(From the Flower family photo archives)

I love to travel. I want to go everywhere and I want to see everything. So far my travels have only made a teeny tiny pine beetle-sized dent in that dream so I recently made a promise, no, scratch that, a commitment, to myself to simply travel more. To take and make every opportunity I can to go somewhere I’ve never been before, whether it’s Texas or somewhere slightly less foreign like, say, Morocco. (My apologies to the handful of Texans I know and love, I did have to go there).

This commitment won’t be difficult to stick to. I live in a place where it’s almost expected, if not encouraged, to take a month or so off each spring and fall (in seasonal job speak we call this the off-season). I’m not afraid of a little credit card debt and I love going on vacation. My head’s already spinning with all the options of where to go next. Hawaii? Italy? Costa Rica? Holland?

Ah, yes, Holland. Here we are again. And I’m not talking The Netherlands this time.

I’m currently on vacation in, wait for it, Michigan. Not exactly an exotic spring getaway. Not even somewhere I’ve never been before. This is where I’m from. It’s my (first) home and it’s where my family lives. This holiday was born out of a two-parted necessity, to catch up with friends and family I haven’t seen in a year and to celebrate the marriage of two dear friends. I’m thrilled to do both of these things. But, man, no offense to anyone (expect, maybe, the aforementioned Texans) but there are about a billion other places I’d rather have gone and spent my precious pennies (and, er, Capital One credit) this off-season.

Thing is Holland isn’t just a country in Europe. No siree. In fact it’s also a city in West Michigan. My grandparents live there. I was born there. And it comes complete with wooden shoes, windmills and a tulip festival.

And here I am smack dab in the middle of three weeks here. And, while I’m having a fabulous time catching up with friends and family (who I miss too much when I’m away and always leave wishing we lived closer) and that is probably enough to make this trip worthwhile, I also made a decision when I stepped off the plane at Gerald R. Ford International airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan to treat this trip, at least parts of it, as if I'm somewhere totally new; to explore, relax and re-discover this oh so familiar place. Those Pure Michigan commercials make this place look pretty damn inviting, right?

There are a billion amazing places to visit in this world. And I intend to make my way around the globe discovering them, even if every now and then I end up somewhere I’ve already been. Cities change. So do people. And because of that there’s always something new to discover. Even in Holland.


Stay tuned next time to read about what exactly I discovered, and re-discovered, on this trip.

Just a Haircut?

by Tracey Flower

I got a haircut a few days ago.

It was possibly the most significant haircut I’ve ever gotten. Not because of the style—mid-length, long layers and Heidi Klum bangs—but because of what I saw when I looked in the mirror as I studied my stylist’s handiwork when I got home. The thought I had then materialized spontaneously and was unexpected but so wonderfully and warmly welcomed that I haven’t stopped smiling since I heard it.

I look like myself again.

What? How is that possible? When did I stop looking like myself?

Allow me to explain.

Me sans makeup but loving my new (old) 'do. 

I wrote in a post a little over a year ago that I didn’t recognize myself at that moment.

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 wrote.

I wasn’t in a great place then. And I’ve come a long, long way since that moment. Happiness and I had a big beautiful reunion six months ago and we’ve been strong and steady since. Finding peace had nothing to do with my appearance—something I’ve mostly just maintained, rather than remark at, under layers of beanies, thermals and snowboard pants during the past six months of the snowiest winter in Vail’s history (524 inches!). And I’ve pretty much accepted happiness as a part of my life at this point (oh what a sweet life it is) so it surprised me that there was still another bright shiny ray of it to bask in.

A year ago right now my hair was long with shaggy overgrown bangs, all of it a bit too heavy. The color was my natural blonde. When, well, we all know what happened, I chopped it off (as you do when a relationship ends). Months later, after I reunited with Happy, I dyed it red because I felt like a dramatic change to mark the occasion. It’s been some hue of red, or at least dark strawberry blonde, all winter under all those beanies. About a month ago I took it back to my roots and headed toward a golden sunshiny blonde again. It had gotten longer over the winter, and a bit unruly. And since beanie season is pretty much over (no more hiding) I decided it was time to head to the salon.

Now here I am with those freshly chopped layers and Heidi Klum bangs, a style I rocked for awhile back before it got too long and I got sad and chopped it all off. And, well, there isn’t much more to say than I look like myself again. It might not seem like a big whooping deal, possibly not even significant enough to blog about, but it’s a pretty damn remarkable thing to me, a girl who just a year ago felt she didn’t recognize herself.

Practice Makes Perfect

by Tracey Flower

I have to admit something.

I don’t post on Flower Blog as much as I’d like to, or even as much as I know I should.

But I’m trying to do better.

(Ahhhh balance. Photo Credit)

My goal when I started Flower Blog was to post bi-weekly; two posts a month. Some months have sprouted more, some less and I’ve rarely, if at all, hit a stride with the bi-weekly thing. After two years I’m still very green in the world of blogging. I’ve still got a lot to learn and have a lot of growing to do. And I’m well aware that in order to achieve great success in the blogosphere I should most certainly post more frequently and more consistently.

Sometimes I procrastinate. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I’m just too lazy. And, sometimes, just when I think I’m getting close to hitting that stride, life happens and I miss a step. Like, for example, this past winter when I got an internship with the Vail Symposium. Yep, I’ve spent the past six months as a 28-year-old unpaid intern, a venture that has left me working six-day weeks—and sacrificing some of my evenings too—to write press releases, website copy, articles, and volunteering at programs. It’s been a crazy busy blur but paid off with my first by-lines in the Vail Daily (six of them in fact) and the satisfying knowledge that I’m working toward becoming more than just a bartender. I know Flower Blog fits in there somewhere, somehow, between working for money and working for passion, I’m just still trying to find my balance with all of it.

I’m going to keep working on finding my stride in this, my third year of blogging, with this posting thing. After all, third time’s the charm, right? And if I’ve learned anything from my Yoga practice it’s that the operative word is just that; practice. I’m not perfect but I’ll keep trying and keep doing the prep for each pose along the way and, eventually, I’ll conquer blogging (and maybe even a headstand).

In the meantime I need your help on a couple things.

I love and appreciate your comments so much and because of that I’d like to ask a couple favors. First if you’re a fellow writer or blogger and you have any advice that might help me find my blogging stride give me a holler and share the wealth of your experience. 


Second what should I write about next? I’d like to write some posts on topics you want to read about. Is there an old post on a subject you’d like to read more about? Is there an idea you’d like to hear me wrap my writing brain around? I’d like to know. So throw out some suggestions.

Flower Blog Turns Two

by Tracey Flower

Two years ago this month I started Flower Blog.

I did it to give myself a reason to write.

I always write in my journal and often jot down ideas. My computer is full of half-started attempts at stories, both fiction and non, but two years ago I was starting to feel as though none of it had a purpose, and without a purpose nothing was ever finished; no documents completed, no ideas fanned out. I was just plain slacking as a writer. I needed something to hold me accountable. Over the last two years Flower Blog has done just that.

As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see how I’ve changed and grown since April 2009. In the first year I posted only finished, polished versions of essays I’d started since I’d moved to Vail. Fanning out all those half-started attempts was my original intention with Flower Blog, and not a bad one; that first year produced some of my all-time favorite posts such as Romanian Mami and Jump.

But as I learned more about the wonderful world of blogging (and as I ran out of pre-polished essays to refine) I started to re-think my approach and starting pushing myself to write more candidly about what I was thinking and feeling and to just talk to my readers about my life instead of focusing on trying to create magnificent written masterpieces. In One Sunset at a Time, posted a year ago this month, I think I started to hit my stride.

And then something really remarkable happened in the last year. I found my voice. It came to me out of anguish, out of heartache. It came to me as I scrawled frantically in my journal in the middle of the afternoon when I was too tired and too heavy to cry anymore but still had more emotions to expel. It came to me in my darkest moment and was, to my surprise, still there when I was ready to let the sun shine in again.

As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see where I’ve been and where I’m at now, I can relive stories and recall emotions. I find comfort in these memories (oddly even in the awkward ones). Reading through these posts is like looking at a great big photo album. And, while, having a reason to write has made this blog a worthwhile venture, having my life documented in this way, and sharing it with my readers, is pretty damn priceless.

My top five faves from the last year:

A Little Thanks (December 2010)
Home is where the Moon Sets (May 2010)
On Goals, Forgiveness, and Turning 28 (September 2010)
My Book Café (May 2010)
On Soul Mates and Being Broken (November 2010)


What is your favorite Flower Blog post from the last year?

Of All the Places I've Lived (in Vail)

by Tracey Flower

In the spirit of apartment hunting, taking stock of my life and my pending six-year anniversary with Vail, I’d like to share a list of all the places I’ve lived since I’ve been here. A list that, in writing it, I realized tells the story of my time here, of where I’ve been, who I was and how I’ve grown.

All the place I have lived (in Vail):

• May 2005-May 2006: My first home in Vail was Timber Ridge Unit N5. (NOTE: Timber Ridge is Vail Resorts employee housing and dirt-cheap because it’s dirty, old and likely to crumble at any moment. Also fondly known by nicknames such as The Ghetto and Timber Ritz, I’ve mostly bopped around units in this complex as the location and the price fit my needs to a T. Yes I get made fun of for it. Yes I’m slightly embarrassed to get off at the bus stop here. But at least the rent doesn’t break me.) This is still the address listed on my Colorado driver’s license and I was once refused a Town of Vail Library card because I had since moved from that address but never changed my license. I lived in that unit with three guys and it was quite the experience for someone who had up until that point lived with mostly women.
• May 2006-November 2006: I moved into a two-bedroom condo in Simba Run, just down the road from Timber Ridge, with three of my girlfriends. It had a washer/dryer (jackpot!) in the unit and a pool and gym on the premise. We may have been twenty-something’s sharing bedrooms but we felt like we were living the highlife.
• November 2006-November 2008: Timber Ridge Unit I8. The longest I’ve lived in one place since living in my parent’s house and I’m quite sure the longest anyone’s ever lived in the same Timber Ridge unit. Almost all of my closest girlfriends in Vail lived with me in that unit at one time or another, and our second winter in I8 marks the only six months when we were all single at the same time. Some of my favorite adventures in Vail housing moments happened in that unit.
• November 2008-February 2009: Timber Ridge Unit K3. I lived here with two guys, one of whom was my boyfriend. He broke up with me. I moved out. End of story.
• February 2009-April 2009: Timber Ridge Unit C5. This was the unit my friends were forced to move into when the house they were renting in West Vail caught fire one night. The fire destroyed the home and most of their belongings. I moved in, devastated, a few months later when my boyfriend and I broke up. We weren’t thrilled to be living in that place, it was crowded and the reasons we were there were lousy, but I must say at least we all had a place to go. 
• April 2009-November 2009: My girlfriends and I moved out of C5 and into a townhome in the Telemark Condos. By far the biggest and nicest place I’ve lived since my parent’s house, it was a relief and a treat to be there after the winter we had all had. It had three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a washer/dryer. It had something like four floors and there was a pool on the premise. This was the only time in my life that I have had my own bathroom.  Alas, it was only a six-month lease and at 2,400 buckaroos a month (800 of those my responsibility) not really affordable. It was also the reason for the great landlord security deposit debacle of 2009, but that’s another story for another time.
• November 2009-April 2010: Timber Ridge Unit K14. With all my former roomies either shacked up with their significant others or moved away, I was left to fend for myself so I sucked it up and went for the cheapest option for a room. I ran into a friend I knew through work when signing my lease and he moved in to the unit’s second bedroom. I’ve had better and worse roommates than this one but it was, in all, a pleasant living experience (and a huge weight off my wallet after that pricy condo). 
• May 2010: Month of my botched move to Australia. I packed up my life and squeezed it into the world’s tiniest storage unit and whatever didn’t fit I gave away. I loaded up my oversized bags and headed home to Michigan, where I had planned to spend two weeks with friends and family before departing for Australia, where I was going to live for at least the next year. As we all know it turns out life had absolutely no regard for those plans and after a confusing, frustrating, upside down, life-changing month I was back in Vail.
• June 2010-present: Timber Ridge Unit K14. And home again? My roommate was still in this unit when I returned, and still had all the stuff I had given him that wouldn’t fit in my storage unit, so I moved back in and reclaimed my stuff and my space (and, eventually, my life). He moved out about a month later and I enjoyed a summer of living alone before the housing office gave me two brand new roommates. It hasn’t been the most pleasant living arrangement ever but I’ve made it work and now I’m looking forward to what’s next, both in the world of apartments and for my life in general. 

What stories do the places you've lived have to tell?

Six Months at a Time

by Tracey Flower

As another season comes to an end here in Vail, it’s time to take stock of my life and solidify my plans for work and housing for the next six months. In May I will have lived in Vail for six years. In that time I’ve moved from one apartment to another nine times, and I’m getting ready to do it again.

Such is the life when you live in a place where rent costs a small fortune. I remember a conversation a few years ago with a friend who lives in Michigan about rent. She was shocked when she realized my room in a small condo was more than the monthly price tag on the house she and her husband were renting, 200 bucks more in fact. I envied her for a fleeting moment, and then I looked out my window at the Gore Range and remembered that steep rent is a small price to pay to live in paradise. As I tell bar patrons who regularly ask me how one affords to live here, you have to really love the lifestyle and not mind being a little bit poor.

Home sweet home with the Gore Range in view

While I’ve managed to consistently, if only barely sometimes, make ends meet in my six years here in Vail I must admit that re-configuring my life every six months becomes a pain sometimes, especially the moving part. But even as I daydream about finding that sweet spot in the world of high country housing, where long-term leases exist in harmony with reasonable rent and wonderful roommates (because, let’s be honest, few folks make enough to afford their own places around these parts), I wonder if I’m ready for such a commitment.

I’ve realized (happily) that Vail’s my home and I have no intention of leaving anytime in the near future. But I must admit I experience a small panic at the end of each winter and summer here, when seasonal jobs end and decisions about where to live need to be made, when everything’s flying up in the air around me, waiting for me to pull it all into place. But when it all comes together (and it always comes together) I feel such sweet relief that I have a plan, even if it is only for another six months. I almost feel incapable of planning my life out any farther than that. Perhaps that’s immature for a 28-year-old. Perhaps some of it comes from my botched plans to move to Australia. Whatever it is I don’t see it changing anytime soon. I’ve realized, however immature it seems or stressful it may be at times, that taking life six months at a time works for me, at least at this point in my life.


Check out my next post for a list of all the apartments I've lived in since I moved to Vail.

Just a Small Town Girl

by Tracey Flower

I really am a small town girl, although it’s a label I’ve only recently learned to embrace (or even accept). When I was in college (hell until just a few months ago) I was convinced that I would have to move to a city at some point. To grow up. To move on. To make something of myself. I mean, Carrie Bradshaw’s “Sex and the City” column would have most definitely not made sense in, say, a little resort town somewhere. I felt especially compelled to make a big move this past summer when my life was all twisted around and turned upside down. After my plans to move to Australia fell through my plan was to come back to Vail just to get my head together, to get my life together, and then move on to something bigger and better. But a funny thing happened as I worked through my grief and found happiness again, I found contentment in this place I call home and instead of resisting it, instead of telling myself I should want something else or something more, I gave into it.

Vail: A small town with big views

Giving into small town contentment has relieved an anxiety I didn’t even know existed in me until it was gone. I love living in this small town, I really really do. I like day-tripping to Denver and visiting cool quirky cities like San Francisco and Melbourne. And whenever I have a rant about tourists (or, ahem, guests as Vail Resorts prefers us to say) my dad oh so gently reminds me that I grew up in a resort town and well, what did I expect moving to another resort town. Why did I move from one small resort town to another? I suppose, simply, because it fits. Because somehow I think in my deepest gut I’ve always known when I visit a city that it doesn’t fit in the same way, because if I’m being really honest (and I finally am) cities are great places to visit but I don’t want to live in Denver or even Melbourne.

Perhaps part of why I can embrace my small-town contentment is because Vail has little bits and pieces that fulfill the bits and pieces of me that crave city life. There’s music, art and culture to be found here and what this town lacks in diversity, alright well there’s actually no redemption there, this town could use a little diversity. I was recently in Crested Butte and I found myself enamored with that town’s rustic charm, there’s something about it that just feels more authentically Colorado than Vail. There’s no hint of Disneyland in Crested Butte, no plastic-y fancy resort feel. As I wandered around a used book store/coffee shop in the Butte I found myself, just for a moment, wishing Vail had a little more quirk to it. But then I returned home and joined my girlfriends for a fancy cocktail at the new hotspot in town, Frost. This posh lounge feels modern and fresh, like something one might find in, yep you guessed it, a city (a locale that wouldn’t be caught dead in a town like Crested Butte). I realized then that perhaps my small-town contentment might just be contentment with making Vail my home. In one day here I can go for a hike in the middle of nowhere, see a concert with my favorite people, and drink cosmos in a swanky new bar just like the one and only Carrie Bradshaw. Vail has bits and pieces of small-town mountain charm but also has tastes of city life that, frankly, towns like Crested Butte (and my hometown of South Haven, Michigan) don’t.

I think, though, more than anything else my contentment with my small town status comes from realizing that I have, in fact, done a lot of growing up in the last year. And a lot of moving on. And when it comes to making something of myself, well, I had my first article (and byline!) in the Vail Daily this week, not to shabby at all.

This One's for the Girls

by Tracey Flower

“Don’t laugh at me but maybe we could be each other’s soul mates. And then we could let men be just these great nice guys to have fun with.” ~Sex and the City’s Charlotte on soul mates

I’ve been thinking again lately about the phrase “soul mates”. I saw a re-run of Grey’s Anatomy the other day where Meredith (Grey, the Grey in Grey’s) called Christina (her best girlfriend) her “soul mate” and Derrick (aka McDreamy, Meredith’s husband) “the love of my life”. This makes sense to me and is right along my line of thinking when it comes to that weighty phrase.

Girls just wanna have fun: myself and a few of my ladies

It’s no secret that friendships between women are unique. Any of that catty crap and mean girl-ness aside, when women form a bond it sticks and it holds across miles, hours, and oceans. Friendships shared between women are unlike any other relationship. There is a level of understanding, of comfort, of intimacy in these relationships that we don’t share with our boyfriends or even our mothers. We share everything from clothes to mascara (even though most women’s magazines say you shouldn’t, due to germs and stuff I guess) to deep dark secrets. We fight. We say things that are very honest and sometimes very awful. We yell and then we don’t talk for days. When we do talk again we know that what we’ve got here is one very solid, very genuine friend. We pop bottles of champagne at the premier of Sex and the City: The Movie and understand that that show was always as much, or perhaps even more so, about the relationship between those four women as it was about their relationships with men.

When I got that fateful message back in May that would change the course my life was on at that moment (yep the one from The Guy) the first person I called was my friend Claire. Now, it wasn’t long before I was racking up phone minutes to each and every one of my lovely ladies, my soul mates if you will, and sobbing in my parent’s kitchen to my dad, but first I had to call Claire. I needed someone who would understand both the emotional sucker punch I felt and my desperate desire to still hold that relationship and myself together in that moment. I needed to talk to someone who had been with me every single uneven cobble stone step of the way during that relationship. I needed someone who would listen and be levelheaded, someone who would support me but not hesitate to question me if she thought I was making a mistake, and who would never say I told you so because chances are she never even thought it because she trusts my judgment and supports me to a fault. I needed to call that person who is nearly impossible to track down on the phone, who often doesn’t respond to a text for days, but who called back the second she got my voicemail because, I’m quite sure, she knew exactly what I needed from her without me saying so. If that’s not a soul mate, I don’t know what is. (And I called her again, sad and lonely and desperate, a couple weeks later from Melbourne as I fell apart and wrestled with the decision to stay there or go home).

I’ve had two serious relationships and at one point during each of them I thought it would last forever. Neither of them did. In the wake of the end of my last relationship I did a lot of kicking and screaming and feeling sorry for myself as one by one more and more of my girlfriends got paired off and married.

And then I got over it. For me life got a whole hell of a lot easier when I admitted that I don’t believe in the idea of “The One”, that I hadn’t missed my fate with either of those failed relationships, and that I had better take the time to find and invest in all the other wonderful bits and pieces of life that fulfill me because, well, frankly that’s the only way I’m ever going to feel complete. That, and I realized that in my girlfriends I already have several very near and dear soul mates nailed down (you know who you are).


And you? Who are your soul mates?

And a Little Giving

by Tracey Flower
Dear Lovely Loyal Reader: I intended to write and share this post weeks ago but due to a hectic holiday schedule and lack of Internet access I wasn’t able to get around to it until now. My apologies.


No more lives torn apart, that wars would never start, and time would heal our hearts. And everyone would have a friend, and right would always win, and love would never end. This is my grown-up Christmas list. 
~ from the Christmas song My Grown-up Christmas List

I recently read the book A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon. The book is about the author’s fundraising efforts to support women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and her subsequent travels there. Congo is a place she feels compelled to learn more about and lend aid to after she learns about the war and devastation happening there on an episode of Oprah. The book’s subtitle is My Journey into the Worst Place on Earth to be a Woman and her account is just that. The book chronicles tale after heartbreaking tale about the women living in this violence-ridden chunk of the world. In one village it was reported that at least 90 percent of the women living there had been raped. 90 percent. While most of the stories Shannon shares are heartbreaking (and difficult to read at times because they are so incredibly cruel and inhuman) this statistic has stuck with me, and it is because of this statistic that I feel compelled to do something.

(Photo Credit)

I have a lot of really great memories surrounding the holiday season, particularly Christmas (yep many of them of the warm giggly variety that contributed to my blissfully happy childhood). I loved the house all decorated, all warm and glowy. I loved making cookies with Mom and listening to Amy Grant’s Home for Christmas album. I loved a snowy white Christmas day and going to Grandma’s house. And, of course, I loved the presents—the anticipation, the unveiling, the thrill of getting exactly what I wanted. But even with a mother who loves gift giving (and often went overboard when it came to buying for her four wonderful children) it was stressed to me at a young age that there was something more to the season than the material stuff.

My siblings and I stopped giving gifts to each other (because what the heck do you get for your little brother?) and our parents years ago and instead donate to a charity of our choice for Christmas. My mom who, as I mentioned, loves gift giving has continued to spoil us over the years. She asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year (in addition to my stocking stuffers, you can’t not have stocking stuffers!) and, since I can’t help but want to balance out my happiness (and my thankfulness) with a little giving, and because that statistic (90 percent) keeps haunting me—anytime I walk home in the dark or forget to lock my door at night or am alone in a dodgy public restroom I’m reminded of the fact that in Congo women can’t even walk to get food or clean water for their children without being raped, and that I can do all those perhaps risky things without ever experiencing such a horror—I asked for money to help me adopt a Congolese sister.

Women for Women International is the organization that is going to make this possible, and the organization Lisa Shannon works with to aid women in Congo. Their mission (as stated on their website) is to provide women survivors of war, civil strife and other conflicts with the tools and resources to move from crisis and poverty to stability and self-sufficiency, thereby promoting viable civil societies. We're changing the world one woman at a time.

Women for Women offers the opportunity to enroll in a year-long program, through which my financial contributions will aid a woman in my country of choice (Congo). I have yet to enroll so I’m not totally clear on the details yet but it’s a little like adopting a starving bloated belly baby in Africa, a program through which I’ll receive photos of and exchange letters with this woman, my “sister.”

I don’t think this act will change the world. I don’t even know to what extent it will change this woman’s life, if at all. I’m not Mother Theresa and I have no intention of being like her (or desire to be like her for that matter). I’m no saint and I certainly like having nice things and pampering myself. I just think it’s important to balance all that stuff out with a little giving, that and stories about such violence and devastation break my heart and I can’t read about it and not do something.

This world is a big beautiful place and it is full of people, and whether we live here or there, we are all united by the fact that we are human. I’m pretty sure we’re never going to survive unless we can rely on each other to extend a helping hand and a little compassion from time to time. And, while Christmas (or Hanukkah or your birthday or any other gift-giving occasion) is a good time to do so because it’s likely you’re already putting away, or receiving, a little extra spare change, I want to encourage you to do what it is you can to lend some help next time a story breaks, or touches, your heart any time of the year. I encourage you to do what you can with what you have and, just maybe, all us humans can make this world an even more beautiful place together.


Stay tuned for updates on my Congolese sister and please let me know what stories, what charities, are near and dear to your heart.