destination: NYC

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 06:04:00 GMT

It’s actually been quite difficult to gather my thoughts, perhaps because the entire city walks a bit faster, thinks a bit more sporadically and behaves a little more cautiously, or a bit less friendly.

I’ve been to fourteen countries, and major cities like London and Hong Kong, but the last time I felt this overwhelmed on vacation was at the Grand Canyon. Regardless of your vantage point, it’s simply too much to take in at once, and I’m the kind of person who likes to see it, contemplate it, smile about it and then move on to the next thing.

When I first received my Jet Blue itinerary for New York, all I could think of was that Jay-Z song, “now I’m down in Tribeca…” and the Alicia

Headlong...a poem

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 05:40:00 GMT

You’ve done it once before
And you can do it once again
like running headlong into the wind
believe you know, what you believe in

Mom's Wine Cellar...someday

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 16:28:00 GMT

If we didn’t Rochambeaux to avoid it every time someone needed to go down to the place that Mom called her “Wine Cellar…someday,” maybe I wouldn’t have been so afraid of it. But I can tell you, as I remember it, spiders the size of humans romp freely, and creepy reptiles crawl in the dark desolate corners. It might be worse than that, but most people who went under never came out alive. At least, that’s how the stories went between me and my brothers.

Unspoken Moments

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 18:42:00 GMT

I didn't get home from work until after 8pm, I was exhausted, more tired than I've been in weeks. Like the rest of the world I'd gotten the flu that's been going around, and it had done me in. As I started to change into something more comfortable I decided to leave on my bright orange tank and beige sweater but swap out my work slacks for a pair of flannel pjs. I slipped on my purple fuzzy Steve Madden slippers and scooted back towards the living room.

A picture is worth a thousand words

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 01:54:00 GMT

I believe sometimes we trip and fall, and as our hands reach out in front of us our heart stops beating for just one moment, in that one moment our world changes.

Everything we felt was certain in the past, seems uncertain. And sometimes, as the mud below us quickly approaches, our faith in gravity changes.

I experienced one of those falls not too long ago, where every reason that I gave for being, and every hope that I had for living seemed questionable. I woke up in the morning and attempted to put my arms around a pain that was greater than me, I attempted to attribute answers to a question that only God could answer, "why?"

Why me? Why now? Why did I give up that, for this? Why?

In the single instant when our heart lands off kilter, and the time where we skip that beat, sometimes we're blessed with an answer. And though we may find ourselves brushing off the mud, we seem to find a way to laugh, because in that fall we found something to lean on.

Hartsong was the WHY in my life during a very rough time. When I found the opportunity to participate in the Sony Pulitzer Project I didn't hesitate, if for no other reason than to share in a glimpse of what they provided me. I felt a strong desire to share their story with the world, and sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.

Those of you that follow my blog, have already read about Hartsong, and those of you who know me personally know the mud I'm speaking of. Those of you that are here for the first time, may find value at just the right time in this story.

I hope you enjoy .

I know it by heart

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 07:00:00 GMT

I could close my eyes and picture every blind corner, every tree, and every stop sign between here and my parent’s house. My grandmother died in her sleep when I was 18, and I can still picture her soft eyes, much like my Dad’s and the sturdy way she upheld her emotions when someone brought up my Papa, who’d passed on years before after a horrible battle with cancer. And before he passed on, I still remember the way he would holler “JoJo” at her, and she’d come bustling down the long hallway and dig around in the icebox for the rainbow sherbet on summer afternoons. And as I pick up my cell phone to dial, I realize I no longer have the number stored, but it doesn’t matter…

Inside is a girl, outside is a writer

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 05:02:00 GMT

Inside here there is a girl, and on the outside there is a writer. I absolutely, positively can not compare myself to other well known authors, because that would be considered egotistical, especially given the lack of international status.

Until my book appears on the shelf of an airport Hudson Newsstand, I’m simply “aspiring.”

Inside is a girl, who is living every day life, and has an ability to see every situation as if I were living life in the third person. And when I sit down to type what I’ve witnessed, the words spill from my brain faster than the keys can type them.

But on the outside is a woman, who is a writer, and struggles with what everyone else around her thinks.

The Hartsong Project: Woodrow

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 17:57:00 GMT

Excerpts from this blog are found on www.Hartsong.org, and are part of the volunteer work Michaela does at Hartsong.

Finding harmony in the blind

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 03:33:00 GMT

When I first pulled up the vast gravel driveway a feeling of peace immediately washed over me. I spotted the metal blue heron nailed to a pine tree and chuckled, happens to be one of my favorite birds, and also happens to be the name of the street that the ranch is tucked into.

The irrigation ditch flowed under the road, and the cows roamed openly, the place was nothing less than tranquil.

Once I pulled the car up to the barn, I hesitated. I had read a lot about HartSong on their website, and I’d anticipated the day with excitement, but I knew it would not be without some feelings of sadness.

I can’t write about self worth, but maybe you can.
I can’t tell you what I see, even though you peer in my eyes.
I can’t tell you what I feel, even though you hold me tight trying to figure it out.

I can wonder though, if what I think self worth is; is how you define it. Maybe the definition you’ve created is YOUR answer. Because I can call you on the phone and talk to you about it with great clarity; but when I stand in the face of it I crumble.

I guess that’s what you see, and that’s what you feel…

I love you, but...

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 18:04:00 GMT

I love you, and more than that I love the way you love me. The way you brush my hair back to see my eyes better. The way your eyes well up with tears when you reach the back of my mind.

I love the way you shed your coat in forty degree weather and wrap it around my shoulders because you saw me slightly shiver. I love the way you yell in a crowded airport “let me be the man” when I try to take control, and the way the embarrassment causes me to let go, let you have the reigns.

I love how you roll over half way through the night, patting around until you find it, my hip bone. And the way you run your fingers softly over the curve and then pull me close and squeeze tight, and even more the way you don’t let go until the sun starts rising over the dew speckled pines outside our window.

And that, is conflict

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 01:03:00 GMT

This is conflict.

Conflict is right or left, North or South, East or West, up and down. Some people say that’s Yin and Yang.

Conflict is being caught in the middle of two people, or two ways of life.

Conflict is being a mother and a wife, a sister and a friend.

Conflict is what you actually think, and what you actually say.

That's how I know

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 04:40:00 GMT

---------author’s note---------
This if for you, if you read this, you know that only you can finish it.

My sacrifice isn't your sacrifice...

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 03:11:00 GMT

I’ve been trying to write this piece since the day he called and said he was driving across California to get my stuff and bring me “home.” I thought about writing this the night I drunk dialed him and told him I’d buy a one way plane ticket from San Diego to Sacramento to fly up and drive back with him on the same day.

I contemplated writing this piece the afternoon he bit his tongue and worked side by side loading the truck with a guy I used to date who was still a good friend. And I wrote a whole paragraph the day I saw him pull out of the driveway with all my furniture headed for Northern California while I sadly stared down my final few days in San Diego.

&am<

In this I trust

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:34:00 GMT

My cat is the reason I know that everything happens for a reason. If you’ve read my memoir, you already know that Indy and Java both died at 6 years old, 6 weeks apart. It tore up my life and my heart in a way that was indescribable. I was at mile 18 of training for the 26.2 mile Rock N Roll Marathon. I was 4 weeks away from the race and after five months of training, I quit. I couldn’t face life. I couldn’t breathe, let alone run.

At that time I was living in the first home I ever purchased, a brand new condo in the heart of Mission Valley, San Diego. I’d bought the house before it was built, and designed it from the ground up. I love everything about that house, including that it was a stone’s throw from Qualcomm stadium where my San Diego Super Chargers played football.

I got the last word

michaela1123@yahoo.com — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 07:55:00 GMT

I don’t need the last word, but I got it. It took me a long time to realize that sometimes the last word isn’t spoken.

I’m not sure there’s much worse than opting to remain silent, when you would give anything to tell your side of the story. I’m not sure there’s anything more awful than knowing you’re right, and they’re wrong. I’m not entirely convinced that anyone ever gets closure by letting the other person have the last word. But what I know is, there’s peace in letting the last word go unspoken.

Someone whom I’ve never met, which believes they know me personally through friendship connections and Facebook opted to invade my privacy and send me a nasty email a few weeks ago. I opted to take the high road, which for me, was responding in kind and offering closure to her via an in person meeting, which would add dimension to the “me“ she believes she knows from my social networking site and our mutual friends.

Written Works

15 things the golf ball says just to taunt you...

The Love Fern

Life Lessons - Thanks Danielle