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.

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.