Seeking a Universal Truth...

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but life - as it does - kept interrupting. In 2008, my friend Ida Becker set off on a journey around the world to seek a universal truth. I was in awe of her courage, her traveling bug, and her ability to document and capture something that is so elusive. I was lucky enough to be part of the project before she set off around the world while I was still in Charleston and just watched the video again this week. It reminded me that the truth I gave to Ida in March of 2008, the same day she shot my photo, is still true: "What I know now that I wish I knew when I was in my twenties: One, stop waiting for your life to begin — it’s happening right now. Two, your sense of humor can be a survival mechanism. And three, stop being so hard on yourself."

It took losing touch with my own truth last year to remind me how important it is to remember these things. And I thank Ida for putting together a beautiful video for her project. I printed out the photo and my truth and hung it up above my desk so I won't forget again.



Watch the video and see for yourself. And visit Ida's web site for more information and inspiration - it's worth it.

Milestones...

First dress my mother made for me: Age two. See left. It was the seventies. Don't judge.

First curse word: Age three. Goddamn. As in "goddamn dog," in reference to our monster English sheepdog, Taffy, for knocking my ass out of the way every time she moved.

First scary: Age four. I didn’t have an imaginary friend. I had an imaginary enemy. I didn’t know his name, but I called him “the bad man” and he followed me every f*cking place I went.

First crush: Age seven. His name was Sean. We lived on a military base and all the other boys had crewcuts, but Sean had long hair. When he first moved in, they teased him. Then he beat up four boys at once all by himself. I fell hard.

First kiss: I was eleven. No tongue. I kissed a boy named Troy and made up a song about it called "A Boy Named Troy." We used to sing it at the bus stop.

First disdain: Twelve. I had a brown puppy with white feet that I named "Fogfeet" (a line from a Carl Sandburg poem that I misheard when my mother read it to me, "the fog comes in on little cat feet"). When my mother sold him to a couple down the street, they renamed him "Brownie." I hated them for their lack of originality.