Hot Tamale

Sometimes, after six days on the road (er...six days among the clouds), a girl just wants a hot meal.

If, however, this girl is attempting to save money due to the fact that she lives in the most expensive city in the US, she may opt for the perfectly fine--although far less appetizing-- dry goods in her suitcase.

This was my life last week.

Somewhere between Denver and San Diego, I removed a package of tortillas from my duffel bag. I set it on the galley counter and ripped open the seal.

"Unacceptable!" my coworker declared with a laugh, prying the package from my fingers. "I brought an extra tamale. You need to try this! It's got roasted veggies in it."

Despite my protests, she handed me a steaming tamale. After one bite, I was certain I'd discovered my new favorite food. Yes, it was my first time eating one of the delectable corn concoctions. And yes, it was heavenly.

My coworker didn't have to be so generous. She sensed my need and rushed to meet it.

This small incident made me think.

I often ask God for huge "lightning bolt" signs. I seek dazzling, overt miracles because these are the ones which make for great anecdotes/blog posts/novel storylines.

But, in the aviation industry, every day is an endless stream of miracles.

My fellow flight attendants and I travel hundreds of miles per hour. We zip across the nation at lightning speed, yet somehow manage to cultivate (and maintain) bonds with coworkers around the country/world. Our lives are ever-changing. But our hearts are steady.

Someone we meet on a Tuesday can transform into a lifelong friend by Thursday. Our jumpseat is only a few feet wide, so we are forced to get close to (and comfortable with) each other very quickly.

Which is a beautiful thing.

The Christmas season may be vastly approaching, but I still have a Thanksgiving frame of mind! I'm swimming in gratitude. These people are truly incredible; I'm one lucky girl, to call them my colleagues and friends.

The love & support they continually offer me is nothing short of miraculous.

To everyone kind enough to share warm words, warm wishes and warm tamales: keep doing what you're doing. You are true miracle-workers.

Love,

Lisa

Dream-Chaser

Remember the kid in elementary school who did everything right? The one who waited patiently, worked diligently and followed all the rules? That kid grew up to be a successful, stable adult.

I was never that kid.

Throughout the years, I listened to my heart even when my head screamed that it was pure foolishness. I selected the messy, colorful route time and time again...much to my parents' dismay.

Spoiler alert: I hosed myself. Repeatedly.

But I managed to brush off the dirt (and/or paint chips, muddy leaves, cupcake crumbs) each time. I just continued trekking along. Sure, some of my impulse decisions left deep scars. I don't regret them, though. Taking a year off college to serve in AmeriCorps, living abroad when I should've been establishing a career, waiting tables for years so I could focus on writing novels/song lyrics during the day...nope. I wouldn't change any of it.

This summer, I was faced with yet another "head vs. heart" decision. Unsurprisingly, my heart won; in September, I packed my bags and moved to San Francisco. A.k.a. the most unaffordable city in the US.

Brilliant move, huh?

Sometimes I walk home after a work trip and get lost amid the city lights. They're mesmerizing, inspiring, and totally blinding. Which sums up city life in general. Living in the heart of San Francisco means I'm surrounded by rich, raw talent and an endless array of artistic/philanthropic endeavors. Of course, this kind of brilliance comes at a high emotional and financial cost.

My bank account and sleep schedule can attest to that.

Then again, I took this risk knowing that failure was extremely likely. I left the simple comforts of Florida in pursuit of a wild, terrifying California dream.

And here I am.

Making it work...barely.

I don't know if I'll stay in California a year, a decade or a lifetime. I don't even know if I'll stay 'til spring.

Yet I stand behind my impractical, frivolous decision to chase after what I wanted. With reckless abandon (emphasis on the word "reckless").

Life is meant to be lived, right?

We get one long, bittersweet ride on this giant carousel of life. And I might fall off my pony but at least I know I chose the biggest, brightest, craziest one. Basically, the unicorn.

Love,

Lisa

(Never-) Mind the Gap

 

 

 

This is a cruel world for girls.

My friend and I have ongoing debates about this subject. He insists that life is equally difficult for men.

"Grasshopper," he says, using the nickname I've grown to love, "Men face just as much pressure as women. They are subject to just as many expectations and demands, although those demands may be slightly different."

I can't understand that.

Perhaps it's true, but I have seen the way women are objectified. I have succumbed to the insane pressure to be unrealistically (and destructively) thin. I've had to teach myself that it's ok to have imperfect hair or an imperfect nose. Or a ribcage that doesn't protrude the way it once did.

In my experience, women are supposed to be mysterious and reserved. They're expected to sit back instead of taking the reins. Many books claim that women should be passive, patient, and calm. Seriously...there's a whole genre of books dedicated to making us more "feminine" by teaching us to be demure. These aren't books from the 1950's, either. They are new and popular and readily available on your Kindle.

There are a ton of rules to being a girl, huh?

Overstep a boundary, gain five pounds, or speak out of turn and you're basically ejected from the game.

No pressure.

I'm 30 years old. Most my friends have spouses and kids, but I still haven't decided if I want children.

Some days, I wonder how it would feel to hold my own baby in my arms. Other days, I fly around the country in a state of pure bliss and reflect on how thankful I am to be uninhibited, unattached, utterly free.

If  I do have a child someday, and if that child is a girl, I can promise this much: I will love her so deeply that she won't be able to resist loving herself. I'll tell her she is gorgeous, and she undoubtedly will be. Whether her hair is brown or black or blond (which doesn't seem likely, considering my own dark shade), whether she is a size zero or a size fourteen, whether she has my big Italian sniffer or one of those cute button noses I've always admired...she will be simply perfect. In her own way.

And I will constantly remind her of that.

I will celebrate her personality and her life choices. If she's shy and prefers to work behind the scenes, fantastic. If she's incredibly outgoing and Type A, that's wonderful too.

I hope she never hears the term "mind-the-gap-Mondays." Better yet, I hope she hears the term and laughs at its sheer absurdity. Because there's absolutely NOTHING appropriate or admirable about judging a woman based on the space between her thighs. It's disgusting, in my opinion. It's truly sick. Then again, many aspects of this world are ill, broken, degrading.

Fortunately, hope is not lost. Sure, this world is a tough place for a girl. I'll always believe that. However, I also believe it's possible to defy the norm. Break the mold. Ignore the negativity. Love yourself in a healthy way...and teach others to do the same.

Love,
Lisa

Hard Questions

Our first glance was years ago,
When I was new
But it wasn't til Valentine's Day
I saw you, met you, loved you.
And life flew by, that much is true...
Seemed our lives were spinning too-  
But here's our chance to start anew:
To do it all, through & through.
To travel the world, just us two.


My mother often asks me if it’s hard to date with my “vagabond lifestyle.”

Friends ask if it’s difficult to stay in touch with old buddies from high school and college.

Passengers ask me if I ever get tired. With wide eyes, they inquire whether the constant traveling ever gets too intense.

These are some tough questions. The answers are equally tricky.

Sure, Mom, it’s hard to maintain a romantic relationship when I spend approximately half the month at 30,000 feet above sea level. But when I do give my heart away, which happens every now and then, I make sure it’s handed off to someone willing to accept my unconventional schedule. See, I get to weed out the half-interested folks and focus on those truly deserving of my time. Does this mean I never get my heart broken? Absolutely not.  I’ve had my fair share of disappointments. But I’ve picked up the pieces and continued along….typically with a 150mph tailwind propelling me forward.

And yes, friends, there are times when I lose touch with old pals. It’s impossible to keep up with them on a daily basis, due to the nature of my job. But I enjoy writing letters (the old-fashioned kind, which travel via airmail and usually have some kind of colorful design on the cover). I’m also pretty good at calling/texting whenever something notable occurs. I do my best and, fortunately, I’ve selected friends who are brilliant and loyal and just altogether inspiring people. So we maintain a connection, despite the miles or months separating us.

Yes, passengers, I get weary. Sometimes I wake up in a hotel room with the blackout curtains drawn, and for a moment I can’t recall whether it’s night or day, summertime or winter. This can be draining. It can also be lonely. But those bleak moments are far outnumbered by ones filled with mesmerizing, all-consuming wonder. This planet is massive and dazzling. I’m willing to sacrifice a few hours of sleep for the luxury of exploring this gorgeous green earth. In fact, that seems a very small price to pay.

I don’t mind these difficult questions.

I’m an optimist by nature, so I will answer each inquiry with an honest yet positive response. My life isn’t always sunshine and rainbows, but there's enough brilliance to last even when the rainclouds roll in. I have a job I adore. I have friends and coworkers more amazing than I could ever describe. I have an opportunity to fly to cities I've never even heard of and meet people with backgrounds far different from my own. That's something I refuse to take for granted.

So bring on the questions. I’ll gladly share my perspective or, even better, take you along for the ride. Buckle up.

Love,
Lisa

Sparkle On

Yesterday, someone told me there are no “good” or “bad” circumstances. According to my friend, things are simply neutral. We choose to deal with them in a number of ways, and our response defines each incident as either positive or negative.

I would argue that bad things do happen. Everyone I know has suffered through a painful breakup, or period of depression, or perhaps financial instability.

Sometimes life is freaking hard.

Yet our response is crucial. My friend was spot-on with that assertion.

So far, 2014 has been an interesting year. My time in Orlando is dwindling. In a few months, everything will change. I can’t say where I will be or, for that matter, who will be beside me. That's a little intimidating. Even for a self-proclaimed adventure junkie.

But what good will it do to worry? All I have is right now. Here. In this exact moment.

Which is actually true for all of us, if you really think about it.

This summer can go one of two ways. I can work like crazy and deliberately minimize my time in Florida. Or I can enjoy these balmy months in The Sunshine State. It can be as good or bad as I choose.

Well, that seems like an easy choice.

Here’s to us. To the optimists, the ones who see obstacles as opportunities.

Summer of 2014 is an explosive time for many of us...but let’s think of it as a firework. Or a shooting star. Or one of those sparklers you hold on the Fourth of July.

Sparkle on, my friends. Shine bright.

 

Love,

 

Lisa

Coming Home

Yeah, I know your home's far away
And it's hard to leave the life you've made
But I promise you more
Then what you've seen
And what you've had before...


-Dirty South, "Until the End"










Dear (scared) Lisa,


Remember that first red-eye flight? You thought you'd die.


Guess what? You survived.


In fact, you landed in San Francisco with energy to spare! Everyone was tired, so you ventured into the city alone. For the very first time. With shaky hands, a racing heart, and a smile big enough to convince strangers you actually knew what you were doing.


You trekked all over town and immediately fell in love with the entire Bay Area, remember? It was this intense, magnetic pull.


Yep, you were just a young thing back then. Twenty-six years old, with a head full of dreams and a heart that had never been broken.


Shhh...I hear those murmurs that escape your tired lips. I'm older now, you argue. Less agile. Less bold. More jaded.


Don't write yourself off like that.


You've done many brave things, things you never gave yourself credit for. Things that had overwhelmingly positive results.


Trinidad, AmeriCorps, Berlin. Quitting that lucrative job because you realized there was more to life than a paycheck and a nice car. Sending your novels to publishers despite the fact that you had been rejected before. Choosing to love even though you knew you might get burned.


You're a fierce one, my dear. A force to be reckoned with.


Now you're at a crossroads, hmm? Very soon, things will change drastically at work. You have a choice to make.


You can buy into the lie that California is unaffordable, overwhelming and downright impractical. You can take comfort in the familiar, instead of branching out.


Or you can carve a new path...one that is entirely your own.


You know what to do. You've known it all along, girlfriend.




Love,
(Brave-ish) Lisa

Loved You More

It’s November of 2011.

I’m sitting on the steps in front of Union Square, San Francisco’s thriving city center. Lights flash all around me. People hurry past, eager to enjoy Sunday night before it fades into the monotony of Monday morning.

My life statistics are currently bleak: I have three friends in this brand-new town, four hundred dollars in my bank account, a questionable apartment in the East Bay, and absolutely no idea that my buddy Alvin will be dead in a week.

But I’m oblivious to these facts. I’m too busy enjoying the moment. The sun is setting and the air is crisp. A sweet scent lingers around me.  Local musicians stand on street corners and strum their guitars, banjos, ukeleles.

The world feels whole.

From my perch in front of Union Square, I spot the 38 Bus. Within minutes, it will stop and Alvin will get off. Of course, Alvin’s disembarking will take a longer than usual. Due to his wheelchair.

The bus stops just before Powell Street, in front of a big painted heart. This is my favorite of all the heart statues scattered throughout San Francisco. It shows the Golden Gate Bridge, set against a hazy blue sky. The painting captures the intrigue of this West Coast city which became my home one week ago.

I approach the bus.

“They let me ride for half-price,” Alvin declares as he descends the special platform. “Because I’m disabled. Score!”

He’s laughing, which is typical.

Alvin’s two years younger than me. He hasn’t traveled much, yet he has this worldliness…the kind that doesn’t come from sipping wine in Italy or hiking through waterfalls in Trinidad. The kind that has a lot more to do with enduring pain, then choosing to push forward anyway.

We make our way to a café and order bubble tea. I hold Alvin’s cup while he drinks through a straw.

He tells me he wants to apply for a job at Costco.

“I could be a greeter,” he says. “It’ll get me out of the house and into the real world again. It’ll give me a chance to do something.”

“You’d be great,” I say, and I mean it.

Then I tell him a story about the time I knocked over a display case at Costco. Alvin chuckles at my stupid anecdote. We talk a little more, sip our drinks, and watch the dusky sky fill with stars.

That was 2011.

This is 2014.

March has been a rocky month for me. April can’t come quickly enough...seriously.

I lost someone I cared about this week.

Also, my niece was born Wednesday night. This is both exciting and terrifying. I don’t have much experience with children. I want so badly to love her, hold her, help her grow into a beautiful woman. But there are times when I don’t feel like a beautiful woman, so what advice could I possible give this impressionable little girl?

Last night, I heard the old cliché: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

My initial thought was, Yeah, right.

Loss is not fun. Loneliness is not desirable. Nobody looks forward to waking up in tears, or feeling as though their chest is collapsing because it’s filled with so much ache.

Alvin died in his mid-twenties. It doesn't make a lot of sense. I opened my heart, then he was gone. This is one example, but my resume is filled with similar stories. My life is an all-you-can-eat buffet of unfulfilled desires and endings with no closure.

My tendency is to love too much and too hard.

I loved, and in 2011 I lost.

This week I also lost. Big time.

There’s a possibility that I'll lose again, with my newest (and tiniest) relative.  I don’t know how to be a decent aunt. I’m afraid I will screw things up. There’s a good chance I already have.

But that won’t stop me from loving. In the end, there’s always someone who cared the most, right? Someone who can take a step back, once the dust has settled, and honestly say, “I loved you more.”

I’m willing to be the one.

 

Love,

Lisa

 

Light, God & Beauty

People say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. I do it anyway.

If a book has a weird title, neon colors or a cartoon zombie/monster/alien on the cover, I'm probably going to purchase it. Fact: I almost bought a book printed in German (which I don't speak) because the cover artwork was so mesmerizing.

Anyway, I recently purchased "Through Painted Deserts" at Goodwill because:
1) I loved the title
2) the cover photo was very vintage
3) it cost a dollar.

The book's subtitle is "Light, God and Beauty on the Open Road." As soon as my eyes scanned those words, I was hooked. It felt like a perfect description of my job as a flight attendant...except that I cruise clouds rather than highways. Which seemed like a minor detail.

I didn't read the book immediately.

At first, I was content to simply hold the novel in my hands, admiring its black-and-white photo and riveting title. 253 pages of raw emotion awaited me, I knew. But the mystery, the waiting period was so alluring.

Today, a passenger approached me in the galley. Tears streamed down her face and her lip quivered as she explained the series of tragic events she'd endured recently.

I sat down with her and listened while she poured out her heart. I'm a "stewardess," sure...but I'm also a human being, and when someone comes to me in a state of despair, I can't help empathizing with that person. Whether she's a stranger or an old friend.

Her sniffles eventually slowed, then ceased altogether.

The girl curled up against a window. Soon she was fast asleep, exhausted from the emotional purging she'd just done.

I returned to my jumpseat in the back of the plane, and "Through Painted Deserts" stared up at me from my duffel bag.

Today was just another day on another airplane bound for a big, Southern city. But there was surely "light, God, and beauty" here on this open road.

The colors of my life are vibrant and, at times, completely overwhelming. Often the panorama is so surreal that I can't find the proper words to describe it. But I will keep trying anyway.

I will keep listening to strangers' stories and admiring their offbeat cover artwork, because it's all part of a bigger tapestry that involves love, empathy and a deep appreciation for this multi-faceted world of ours.

Whatever it is that you're doing today, I promise you're marching through a dazzling "painted desert." I also promise there is light, God and beauty along the way. Just keep your eyes open. You'll see what I'm talking about.

Love,
Lisa

Don't Forget to be Awesome

To the little boy writing poetry in seat 17C:

I’m sorry your brothers made fun of you.

 I’m sorry your mom warned you to “stop that, it’s embarrassing.”

Adults aren’t supposed to say this, but it’s cool because I’m not actually an adult (I just look like one; I’m about 15 years old, on the inside): sometimes grown-ups invent stupid rules because they’re blinded by their own insecurities.

Yep. That’s a mouthful. But let me break it down.

Grown-ups don’t know everything.

So when your mother says that you’re doing something wrong or drawing negative attention to yourself, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.

Of course, there are times when she might be right. Now and then, your heart might lead you down a dangerous path. Foolish decisions can be so appealing; occasionally it’s tempting to do something that you know is going to hurt others.

But there are also times when your heart is going to speak so loudly and so eloquently that even you will be surprised.

Look, I’m just here to serve pretzels and make sure everyone arrives in Raleigh safely.

Nobody asked for my advice. In fact, nobody even batted an eye when I walked past (except for the guy in the exit row, but he’s been reading Maxim the whole flight and hasn’t turned the page once. He’s stuck on one particular “article,” if you know what I mean…).

So feel free to dismiss my dime-store psychology.

But, if you choose to hear the words I’m whispering into the universe, please remember this: you are allowed to express yourself in ways that others might not understand.

Poetry is not “girly.”

It’s not embarrassing, or pointless, or weird.

It doesn’t mean that you’re gay (although if you are, that’s perfectly fine).

It doesn’t mean you’re anything less than awesome.

In fact, I am inspired by your hand-written poem. I write poems too, although mine are often scribbled on paper towels and napkins. Yours looks so neat, inside that green notebook. You’ve got impressive handwriting, my friend.

Keep being you.

Keep doing your thing; you’re good at it.

And if people can’t handle your awesome quirks, it’s their loss.

 

Love,
Lisa
(a.k.a. the flight attendant wearing the huge zombie pin)

One Addict to Another

If you are a world-famous rockstar with millions of dollars to burn and a toxic love for heroin, then you can easily relate to the story I’m about to tell.   

Otherwise, you might be shocked. At first.

I’ve been reading “The Heroin Diaries,” which chronicles Nikki Sixx’s (the lead singer and bassist for Motley Crue) journey into the dark, twisted world of narcotics. He compares heroin to a mistress who captured his attention and then demanded everything from him. Music, friends, hygiene and sanity fell by the wayside.  Nikki’s life morphed into a quest for more drugs, stronger drugs. The high always wore off. His thirst for pleasure and fulfillment could never be quenched.

In the mid-80’s, Nikki’s heart stopped after a show in London. He died in a filthy alley. Alone and half-naked.

But he was revived.

You’d think this would set him straight, right? Give him a new appreciation for life…and maybe convince him to return to rehab?

Nope.

About a year later, Nikki died again. And was revived once more. The fact that Nikki died twice isn’t even the most baffling part; I’m more surprised that he lived to tell the tale. And that he managed to get sober, after committing so many years of his life to what is arguably the most addicting substance on earth.

“The Heroin Diaries” is, without a doubt, the toughest book I’ve ever read.

On several occasions, I had to pause and take a ten-minute break. Because it was too intense, too terrifying. Heroin caused acute paranoia for Nikki, so he often hid in his closet. He believed men in combat boots were hovering outside his front door, waiting to slice him to pieces. He also believed that his friends were spies, and his life would end prematurely. He was certain that it was his destiny to die young.

Every chapter describes an instance where Nikki lashed out at people. Usually, those people were simply trying to help him.

Every chapter also includes references to Nikki’s childhood. His main reason for using was to “numb the pain” from his past, but the drugs actually forced all those memories to resurface. Nikki’s greatest escape proved to be the most constricting force in his life. He sought freedom but wound up in chains.

Isn’t it funny how that works?

You don’t have to be an iconic singer to know that life’s biggest aches can’t be remedied by a bottle, pipe or syringe. You don’t have to be a famous rockstar to realize the things which promise relief often end up doing more harm than good.

A good friend of mine struggles with heroin addiction.

I’ve had my share of unhealthy vices, sure. My past includes plenty of shameful moments, moments I don't like to discuss. I’ve misused and abused many things, including (but certainly not limited to): my body, my mind, others’ bodies and others’ minds.  I’m a human being and therefore subject to certain disgusting habits/rituals.

But heroin has never been one of them, thank God.

No, literally…THANK GOD.

As I watched my friend fight his heroin addiction, I remember thinking: this is the hell I’ve read about, heard about, and imagined. This is misery, personified.

In fact, the reason I initially picked up “The Heroin Diaries” was to gain a better understanding of what my friend went through.

And here’s my general conclusion: none of us is “above” addiction. Nikki Sixx had a more *glamorous* life than the average person, but his struggle is no different from ours. Furthermore, his desire to banish deep-seated pain seems pretty standard.

We hate our sordid pasts. We are drawn to quick fixes and promises for a brighter future…or, at least, a brighter “right now.” We are constantly searching for utopia and a sense of importance/value/belonging. Even when that search leads us to destructive places, we linger there. We make ourselves at home. We hope that things will get better…someday.

Nikki’s former lover, an artist called “Vanity,” sobered up and found God. Nikki took a little longer to get clean, but eventually he did. Which is nothing short of a miracle.

The book reminded me how fragile we all are. Abandonment in childhood can lead us to habits so destructive they nearly kill us. Our biggest dream becomes our biggest enemy, but often we are so committed to it that taking a step back seems impossible. We just want to be loved, appreciated, respected. But we make fools of ourselves in an attempt to attain that admiration. We try to destroy the bad parts of our lives, but end up destroying the good parts too.

Grace is not to be taken lightly.

Hurt, loss, pain…it’s all real. But so are second chances.

And forgiveness.

And redemption.

Nikki Sixx was 29 years old when he wrote “The Heroin Diaries.” My age.

Though our lives are very different, there are some striking similarities. You want control, Nikki. You want the beauty but not the pain. You want love and admiration and to stay young without actually confronting your youth.

I hear ya. Trust me, I know what that’s like.

You chose to self-destruct because it was easier than actually facing your demons.

Been there. Done that. We’re on the same page, my friend.

But then something amazing happened. You found the strength to turn away from those dirty syringes. You admitted you needed help. You sought it, wholeheartedly. And shared your harrowing tale with millions of strangers.

Nikki, you turned it around. Your private hell is now public, which took a LOT of guts.

2014 is my year of being brave. Yours began the moment you decided to share your excruciating, nauseating, surprisingly relatable story with the world. There is no shame. Only acceptance and, more importantly, hope.

Love,

Lisa

LOVE FREELY

Life is meant to be this way-
One city to another

In the span of half a day
Twelve hundred miles to cover.

To the tune of morning rain

The passengers start boarding.
Island laughter fills the plane,
Illuminates the morning…

“To Montego Bay!” we cry-

“Island life awaits you!”
We pick up speed, then start to fly
With grayish clouds to soar through.

A yawn, a stretch, then time to work

I shimmy toward the last row
Inquiries escape the lips
Of strangers in the shadows

“Do you do always work this route?”

A woman blinks up at me.
“Does it wear ever wear you down?”
Her counterpart asks lightly.

I smile, shrug, and wave my hand

“It’s nothing but adventure.
I had a dream, I took a chance-
And, in the end, found treasure.”

The woman reaches for my arm

Her eyes are wide with wonder.
She tells me she’s afraid to fly
Afraid of diving under…

Afraid of living to the max

And staring straight at danger.
Afraid to look ahead or back
Or in the eyes of strangers.

I point out, that cannot be right:
She’s heading someplace foreign-

She booked a flight and held on tight
Then waved goodbye to boring.

She broke the barriers of fear,

And apathy, and panic.
She had the guts to make it here
Above the blue Atlantic.

She had the guts to talk to me

Which seems a bit courageous.
She’d shown a lot more bravery
Than I had seen in ages...

She seems to be so shocked by this,

Like I’ve made quite a statement.
And soon the plane begins to dip
Toward the island pavement.

Passengers get up to leave

Their smiles tell a story:
Vacation at their fingertips,
Freedom, beauty, glory.

That woman is the last to go.

Her actions then surprise me-
With tears about to overflow
She hugs me pretty tightly.

“I don’t know you,” she explains,

“But you have really changed me.
You had nothing here to gain,
Yet you loved me freely.”

I cannot find words to say,

Which doesn’t happen often…
I smile and watch her walk away-
Gone, but not forgotten.

Different Venue. Same Heart.

 

Last week, I traded my shiny gold wings for a pair of flip-flops.

My extra uniform, folded into a neat stack of blue polyester, was removed from my suitcase and replaced by tank tops/mesh shorts. I was finally about to set foot on Mexican soil. The anticipation was insane; I’d been practicing my Spanish for a month….and wondering how a “sky girl” would handle a week at sea.

It had been nearly a decade since I’d gone on a cruise.

Back then, in 2005, I was a college student with no inkling that someday I’d be a flight attendant. In fact, I didn’t even consider it as a career option. It seemed like some make-believe job, not a real career here on planet Earth.

To this day, it still blows my mind that I get paid to travel and turn strangers into friends. Is this actually my job? I often muse. Did someone crawl inside my brain and conjure the perfect way to satisfy my need for excitement AND variety?

When I was in third grade, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Sometime in middle school, I decided that teaching was a more suitable option. By my early teens, I was certain I’d become a lawyer. Then, in my twenties, I came to the conclusion that every line of work is mundane and I didn’t actually want to do anything…except read, volunteer, drink tea and take afternoon walks.

 Unfortunately, that isn’t very lucrative.

I stumbled across the aviation industry by mistake; after a trip to Vegas, I consoled a terrified 10-year-old girl and realized that maybe, just maybe, I could do that for a living.

Life takes some weird turns, huh? But that’s half the fun of it. The only thing I love more than a good adventure is a good mystery…

Anyway, cruising as a college student in 2005 seemed drastically different from cruising as a flight attendant in 2014. Plus, I was going with my parents this time (instead of people my age). Plus, I was nearly thirty now (even though maturity level puts me at roughly 14 years old). Plus, I was no longer a vegetarian (which meant I could eat EVERYTHING at the 24/7 buffet).

I had no idea what to expect, but I knew it would be crazy. Absolutely wild.

Within a few hours of being on the ship, I was in love.

With the sea, yes. With the rhythm of the waves and the constantly-playing dance music on deck, absolutely. With the setting sun as it disappeared into the navy blue horizon, yep.

But what I loved most of all was the enthusiasm of the employees.

These people were my kinfolk, it seemed.

Sure, we worked in different settings. But we had the same heart! We shared a thirst for adventure and a refusal to settle into typical, everyday life. We loved talking to strangers, being on stage, and traveling to exotic places.

Our brains were wired a little differently. “Weird” was our “normal.”

That first night onboard, the entertainers dazzled everyone. They danced and sang with enough energy to lift us from our seats. I found myself clapping along and even pulling my dad to his feet so he could join me.

What a rush.

I went back to my cabin that evening and journaled about how connected I felt to these employees. They were my nautical counterparts. I wanted to meet them and ask a billion questions.

Toward the end of the cruise, I got my chance.

While my father was relaxing in the whirlpool, I spotted the ship’s break-dancer on deck. I tapped his shoulder and proceeded to explain, in my typical frenzied way, that I was a flight attendant and therefore his “sister” in the skies. He didn’t laugh at me…at least, not externally! We discussed our gypsy lifestyles & all the reasons we love our jobs. It felt like I was talking to any one of my co-workers at the airline; the conversation was easy, natural and fascinating.

He introduced me to a few more dancers. I walked away feeling invincible.

To Grinzz, Sinitta and Troy: I miss you guys already. And I totally get you.

After all, we are made of the same key ingredients: curiosity, boldness and optimism. We have big smiles and bigger dreams. We want to hold the world in the palm of our hands. We want it all.

Eventually the cruise ended, and I returned to my sky life.

But I can’t help reminiscing about those five magical days at sea. When I go to sleep, I can almost feel the churning of the ocean beneath my bed. I can almost taste the saltwater in the air.

It’s a wonderful thing, really.

 

Love,

Lisa

   

These Rough Waters

Once upon a time, a girl told a boy she loved him.

She didn't do this with any expectations or hidden motives. She simply felt he deserved to know the truth. She wanted him to remember, especially during life's toughest moments, that he was truly loved.

Now, don't get the wrong idea...

This story may have opened with "once upon a time," but it's no fairy tale. It's real life, which means it's messy. Confusing. Beautiful and broken. There's no "happily ever after;" instead, there are a series of lessons. Love is often a tapestry of heartache and relief; different threads weave through each other, creating a baffling (yet breathtaking) image.

I've heard, and read, and believed that women are not supposed to say "I love you" first.

One book went so far as to claim that women ought to "shut up & be mysterious." Let the man pursue you, the authors of this book urged. Let the man chase after you. Let him fall hopelessly in love with your evasiveness.

And, most importantly, never EVER let him know how you really feel about him. That is, apparently, the kiss of death. Love must be kept quiet, until it's guaranteed to be returned. If you express your feelings first, you give away all your secrets. There's nothing left to be desired.

I suppose that's one way of looking at it.

But there's a flipside to that coin, right? Maybe?
Life is short. Too short to bite your tongue, in my opinion. None of us are promised to live 'til tomorrow.

If we really believed today might be our last, would it change our course of action? I think it would. My friend lost her husband in 2013. One morning, she woke up with him beside her. The next morning, he was gone.

And that is real life, folks. That's how the cookie crumbles sometimes.

So, in my opinion, if something needs to be said, say it. Today. This very minute. In fact, pick up the phone right now...

Ok, let's get back to our original NON-fairytale:

This girl told the boy that he had opened her eyes to a world she'd never imagined. He had taught her how to care about someone without expecting anything in return.

The boy had shown her how liberating it can be to put someone else's needs above her own.

He'd helped her become brave.

Call me crazy, but I can't see a downside to that.

If women aren't supposed to express their feelings first, then I'm a disgrace to my entire gender. Frankly, I'm ok with that. My job isn't to follow some dusty old roadmap or adhere to someone else's rules. My job is to navigate these rough waters in the best way I can, with the tools I've been given.

So let's set sail, shall we?

Love,
Lisa

An Open Letter to the Daughter I Don't Have

Dear Grace,

You were in my dream last night, baby girl.

I'm not going to tell you that you don't exist. I'm not going to point out the very real possibility that you might never exist. I refuse to dismiss you as a figment of my subconscious, over-active imagination.

The world has already done enough of that. I promise.

Instead, I am going to tell you that you're beautiful.

If you ever glance in the mirror or smile for a quick photo, your grin will be so bright I'll have to wear sunglasses to shield my eyes. Just kidding, I never wear sunglasses. But I will make you wear them. Because that's what parents do: protect their little ones from the dangers of this world. Including UV rays.

Oh, Grace...

There were years I dreaded your arrival.

I wanted to be free and unattached; children seemed like a handicap to that unbridled freedom. Anything that required even a modicum of responsibility was a chore, in my opinion. Not a blessing.

Then, there were years I eagerly anticipated your arrival. I wanted it so badly that I'd wake up crying. Everyone else was married; everyone had moved on to the next stage of life. I felt like I was watching a parade from my bedroom window. Or, perhaps more accurately, watching my own funeral.

Smile, baby girl. The story gets better.

See, I realized there are different paths in life. Not everyone travels in the same straight line, and that's ok. You entered my life via the beaten path, the trail with a Weeping Willow on one side and a briar patch on the other. I wouldn't have it any other way. I always loved a good adventure.

When you're older, you will see how special you are. For now, just remember that there is nothing accidental about you. I had plenty of time to evaluate whether or not I was ready for you. Trust me, I did a lot of soul-searching. Three decades' worth (...and counting).

People have children for many different reasons. A friend once told me that her kids were her legacy. They were her proof she had done something meaningful with her life, and her way of solidifying a place in eternity.

Grace, you are not my legacy.

You are my treasure, and you are loved more than you can imagine. But you were not born because I needed a guarantee that someone would take care of me when I got old. You were not born to ensure that my life would extend past the day I took my final breath.

You were born for so much more than my wants or my needs. Thank God.

Speaking of God, I promised Him that I would name you "Grace." Because you were an act of mercy; I never could've done anything to earn you. You were a gift.

I'm glad I saw you last night. It was a dream, so the background was fuzzy...but you were clear & sharp. Bright red cheeks, and a big Italian nose. Just like your mama.

If you ever read this, it will be proof of God's love.

Conversely, if you never read this, it will also prove God's love. The timing and outcome not for me to decide. We'll see, little one. We will see whether you exist someday or not.

Either way, it was great to meet you. Even just for a moment.

Love,

Lisa

Crossing the Line

Happy 2014! I initially dubbed this "the year of making good decisions," but I decided to rename it.

2014 is now officially The Year of Being Brave.

At church several weeks ago, someone mentioned a "chicken line" and the importance of crossing that line. If you stand by your beliefs, some people will get upset. Some people will be uncomfortable with the things you support, and some may even treat you differently because of your views.

But that's ok.

You see, 30 is on the horizon, folks. I've spent the past 29 years tip-toeing around issues that are even remotely controversial, because I was afraid to offend anyone.

But today I'm going to cross the chicken line.

Let's see...where to begin?

I did not grow up in the church. During my junior year of high school, a friend invited me to youth group and I reluctantly agreed. It was my first time hearing people talk about Jesus as though they knew him personally...and it rocked my world. I'm talking, turned my entire life upside-down. I started reading the Bible, to see what all the commotion was about.

Within a year, I became a Christian.

Since then, I've attended a few churches where homosexuality was blatantly condemned. Bible verses were used to explain why this behavior is inherently evil. Leviticus 18:22 is a popular one (fun fact: type 'Leviticus' into your search engine and see which verse pops up first). I accepted these interpretations as truth because it didn't really affect me...or so I thought. Being gay was unbiblical, and that was all I needed to know.

The funny thing about swallowing a pill is that its effects don't always hit you right away.

It took several years for me to investigate the matter more deeply. I began to realize that interpretations vary from one person to the next. Focusing on a verse in Leviticus might lead a person to one conclusion, while another person might find a different answer in Luke 6:37 ("Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned...").

I'm TIRED of this being such a big issue. Shouldn't we, whether Christians or not, start focusing on more important topics? Like treating other people with love, or standing up for those who have been bullied? I'm not saying a person should agree with things just to make others happy.

I am saying that maybe it's time to stop dwelling on little details and start paying attention to the bigger picture. Which probably definitely involves loving our neighbors.

That's all.

Below is a link to an article that really resonated with me. This woman says what I'm trying to express, and she does it with clarity & compassion.

http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/literalist-gluttony

Thanks, Ms. Evans, for crossing the chicken line...and helping me do so, as well.


Love,
Lisa