Thank You

If you joined me in voting on behalf of To Write Love on Her Arms, PostSecret.com and The Kristin Brooks Hope Center to fund IMAlive, thank you.


If you told a friend, or two, or twenty, thank you. It helped IMAlive win $100,000 in valuable funding.


And if you just read my post and took just a moment to care about people who may have forgotten, or never knew, how to take care of themselves but so desperately know that there is a light, somewhere, if they could only find it — then thank you for that. 


Thank you for caring.

I'm Alive

click. vote. spread the word. soon.

One hello says a million words, and can scare a million hearts for a million different reasons. That's why millions of people in crisis may never — no, will never — pick up a phone, too scared, too pained, too absolutely unable to even speak. Too afraid of the voice on the other end. Will it be judgmental? Dismissive? Perky and dripping with misguided "but-you've-got-so-much-to-live-for"? Or worse yet, bored?

Now imagine just one of those same scared, pained, speechless hearts, online, seeking out someone, anyone who might begin to understand what they're feeling. Through the powerful social media presence of To Write Love on Her Arms, PostSecret.com and The Kristin Brooks Hope Center, they find IMAlive.


And they find the strength and the courage to respond to a blinking cursor typing:
"I AM HERE FOR YOU NOW."
"I HAVE BEEN WHERE YOU ARE. I SURVIVED. I CAN HELP YOU."

What difference might that make in just one life? What difference might that make in hundreds, thousands, millions of lives? Lives that might otherwise be lost forever to suicide?

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center — founder of 1-800-SUICIDE — has partnered with To Write Love on Her Arms and PostSecret.com to develop IMAlive, the first live online crisis network with 100 percent of its staff certified and trained in crisis prevention. If The Kristin Brooks Hope Center wins the $250,000 prize, 100 percent of the proceeds will go directly toward IMAlive. 

Please vote — and soon — by clicking any of the links in this post, and you can help someone be able to say "I'm alive," because they sought and found help, and didn't follow the dark shadows in their hearts.

I know. Because even though I once followed my dark shadows, thankfully they didn't win. 

I'm alive.

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center is a non-profit organization founded in 1988 after the tragic death of the founder's wife, Kristen, by suicide. From the beginning, Reese Butler and the Hope Center have been dedicated to suicide prevention by providing easy access to a large network of crisis line workers, while helping to break down the stigma and other barriers to accessing help and hope. For more information, visit hopeline.com. 

Because All-Awesome, All-The-Time Wears A Girl Out

"if i'm not huggin ya don't stand close enough for me to hug ya" 

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee 

(whom i am so loving lately)

Flashback Fireworks

Hey, hey, hey — happy, happy, y'all!


I love the Fourth of July, and can always find a reason to celebrate. A reason, that is, beyond the Army-brat-infused overwhelming pride of all things red, white and blue. Reasons as simple as a bright sun in the sky, a cool drink in my hand and the promise of a firecracker night.


Or reasons as simple as last year's: That Samuel L. Chemo was on the job, some chick named Neulasta was joining in, and Tilly was pulling LIVESTRONG duty right beside us.


Wow. This year's reasons to celebrate are that I'm feeling all kinds of awesome being back on the job, Mr. J is continuing to kick cancer's ass all over the damn place, and Tilly is still wonderfully Tilly. And just like last year, we're still celebrating simply being able to celebrate. Which is reason enough, in my not-so-humble-opinion.


And — because it's still a damn good story (check back next year; you'll probably see it then, too), from July 5, 2009:


Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth Of July.

I love the Fourth of July. This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress:

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking, "Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)

The finale! 

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer!

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.)and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know).

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why.

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn.

I'd tell them: "Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

Happy, happy, y'all.

Wordless I'm-Living-Sassy-For-You-Kim Wednesday

in honor of kimberly a. hansen 1971-2009

Thumbs? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Thumbs.

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Hullo all. 


Tilly here, liveblogging from CCW's summer annex. Otherwise known as the kitchen, which is approximately 15 feet farther away from the sun than the winter quarters. Otherwise known as the room above the garage, which is approximately 1.5˚ warmer at any given moment.

It is a most comfortable change of pace. We are turning dreams into ideas in cool comfort. Dad is but a glance away, we're watching the Gamecocks in Omaha on the big TV, sipping on ice-cold tea and generally delighting in our consummate cleverness.

This migration of CCWHQ to the first floor also marks the fulfillment of a particular dream of mine. I've longed for a cozy perch from which to observe the magical feats of food on these kitchen counters. A spot that would allow me to be ready to jump in and assist at a moment's notice. (I've always thought I'd make a fine sous chef, given the chance.) Et voila! — Not only do I have a cushioned chair on which to keep vigilant watch over the foodstuffs, but also one with wheels to spirit me from table to counter to refrigerator (ah! do I dare?)!

Upon further inspection, however, it seems the bounty that has Mom so excited holds absolutely no thrill for me:

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

[AHEM]

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Excuse me. I have to go plan my Keep-The-Chair-In-The-Kitchen-'Til-Christmas campaign.

Tilly out.

I Think That Means Heaven

"where diet coke comes from" (c)2002-2010 natalie dee (whom i am so loving lately)

Wordless Morning-Beach-Musing Wednesday

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Because I Believe In You Even When You Don't

"You gain 

strength, courage and confidence 

by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. 

You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. 

I can take the next thing that comes along.'

You must do the thing 

you think you cannot do."

- Eleanor Roosevelt, 1884-1962

Of Daddies and Daughters

I am one of three daughters. 

The middle one, to be precise. Which yes, since you asked (You did. I know you did.), does also mean the obnoxious, look-at-me-here-I-am, emotional and dramatic one.

(Really? Really with the surprise on that? I should think the pieces would be falling into place.)

Growing up, my sisters and I would ask my dad if he ever wanted sons. He'd reply, "No. I always wanted girls. Boys grow up and leave you. Girls always come home." Satisfied, we stopped asking.

When we got older and suspected that his answer, while clever and sweet, might have been a simple way to deflect an unanswerable question, we asked again.

Same answer. And we were clever enough to discern he meant what he said. Satisfied, we stopped asking.

And, we didn't need to ask. We never did. 

My father never gave us any reason to think there was anything wanting in his life. He taught us to love what he loved. To love how he loved.

My love of words and knowledge and adventure all come from my father. I don't remember a day when I couldn't read, didn't have a question forming in my mind or didn't want to explore whatever it was I saw around me. I don't remember a time when I wasn't surrounded by books, didn't have a desire to wander through a museum or didn't want to see for myself the things that other people only saw in pictures.

My father taught me how to read by reading to me. My father taught me how to learn by learning with me. My father taught me how to appreciate everything around me by not hiding his wonder in everything around him. My father took me to libraries, museums, zoos, parks and landmarks large and small throughout America and Europe, and I seek them out for myself now. Because I want to. I have to. It's in my blood. It's in every breath I take.

My father taught me how to love by loving. Unconditionally. And I can't elaborate on that, because there are no qualifiers. It simply is what it is.

I could, however, elaborate endlessly on everything else my father taught me — and perhaps I already do. Everyday. Right here.

But not now.

Right now, I'm going home.