The XXIII Winter Olympiad LIVE

16 days.  Sixteen days of competition with drama confined (mostly) to snow and ice. Where being frozen out wasn’t a political snub, where losing wasn’t shamed and lamented because a silver or bronze medal was still a monumental win. Where achievement thrived in finishing last as much as in besting the field.

16 days of glory. Of “I’ll get it next year.” Of saying and waving goodbye to aged and wounded favorites and hello to fresh, nubile Cinderella-esque players with unlimited potential for the future.

16 days. Triumph, loss, success, failure, regret, and surprise, all jumbled together with teamwork, determination, patriotism, and purpose.

16 days where, if only for a little while, and if only in theory, being united in purpose was true for a select group of hopeful adults, sharing a common purpose despite the sport.

For these sixteen days, I stopped writing and reading, I stopped watching regular TV, I didn’t go out to eat or to the movies. Instead, for 16 incredible days, I immersed myself in the LIVE events of the Olympic winter games. Wholehearted and enthusiastic.

I’m exhausted. And I feel ridiculous writing those words now. For 16 days I watched almost every live event, forgiving myself for neglecting my “normal” life in order to have the vicarious experiences of thrills and spills from athletes around the world. For a time, I felt every loss, cheered every win, be it my team or another. And *I’m* exhausted? That’s funny compared to the physical expenditure I’ve witnessed over 16 days. But then, my focus is skewed.

After all, I am a writer. And for the first time in my 63 years I had the opportunity to witness live moments as I never could before these games. With husband retired, we could sleep as needed, steal naps when necessary, all to achieve the joyful nirvana that comes with being in the moment. Why? Because tape delays are after-the-fact. Delays give you artificial experiences. There is nothing like feeling your stomach clinch because you want someone to win, you hope they don’t fall, you want them to break a record and you have no idea what the outcome will be. Nothing like gasping when a snowboarder tumbles and praying all is well. Nothing like seeing a skater do six – SIX – quadruple jumps. Live. Real. In the moment. Next to being there, this was being there. I was a part of it all. LIVE.

To experience the joys and sorrows as they played out. To FEEL and KNOW as the athletes did.

 (Courtesy Tampa Bay Times)

No, I won’t understand it all but I listened to stories for 16 days. I watched struggles play out in the slopes, on the ice, in the bobsled, on skates and in the faces of families. I worried and hoped along with mothers and sisters, and I cheered and jumped up and down (literaly) when goofy good air times happened in the half pipe. I leaned to the left during the bobsledding. I sat up straight during ice skating jumps. I held my breath during ski jumping and screamed when the girls’ hockey team won gold just as I did when the men won their first curling gold medal. I also clapped for the second place teams who shed tears for their loss. I understood because I saw it as it happened.

(Courtesy of ABC News)

I cheered for bobsled teams who were never going to win against the giants. Yet I applauded because they came, they TRIED, and everyone cheered them for trying. I did too. I held my breath during accidents and followed athletes I didn’t know and might never see again. I was with them. I was on their team. I was a cheerleader and a believer. I hurt for losses and I danced for gold and I cried when my flag raised high and the National Anthem played. I sang along, too.

16 days. In the end, as the lights are go out and the programming end, I experienced something magical that only happens every four years. And I forgave myself for ignoring my normal life in order to know more about incredible people achieving incredible feats.

Courtesy of the NY DAILY NEWS

Including the Mexican skier (above) who finished last in the cross country race. He didn’t win. He didn’t help his country. We don’t usually remember last place, right? But wait, that’s not true. I watched the first place gold medal winner come to the finish line (on the left) to greet the last man. You see, the Mexican athlete did win. He finished the race. His achievement was completing a grueling race and he never quit. He earned respect and he was carried like a winner because HE WAS ONE, most especially to the gold medalist.

And for 16 days that was the point of the whole thing. Personal best. Personal achievement. 

Finishing what you start. No medals required. After 16 days I understood the point of it all.

As a writer, these 16 days were a present in emotions and experience. The faces and events filled me as nothing else possibly could. Next to being there in person, watching live was fulfilling and enriching. The athletes’ stories are the future of my own tales and I experienced a plethora of emotions live that you just can’t get from the news or the day after on Facebook.

Nearly 3000 athletes, 92 nations, 23 medals. An Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius, in other words, Faster, Higher, Stronger. To be more, to go beyond, to breach limits. From Greece to Korea and all nations in between, we gathered united in one purpose under five rings:

to be our personal best.

16 days. I wouldn’t have missed a moment for anything. I am better because of those incredible days both as a writer and as a person.

Finally the night exploded with fireworks, alighting a stadium filled with Olympians. The light put sparks in the eye and ignited fresh fires in the hearts. The future beckoned and athletes promised to return.

So do I.

Yours Between the Lines,
Sherry

Today is the venerable President’s Day. And yes, it’s with an apostrophe “s” and not an “s” apostrophe. It is not a multiple presidents’ day, though many believe that it is and truthfully, it sometimes is. Confused? President’s Day is actually President Washington’s Birthday remembered. Today we celebrate our founding father’s birth with cherry pie (or any cherry desserts) because supposedly George said, “I cannot tell a lie; I chopped down the cherry tree.” That statement is much debated but given February 20 is National Cherry Pie day, why not serve some?

Anyway, back to President’s Day. It isn’t actually Washngton’s birthday. That’s on the 22nd. But we needed to celebrate him so we made his birth a federal holiday (that Monday holiday law which I will not debate here). No, we don’t celebrate Lincoln’s Birthday because that was the 12th. Though, we do often lump both presidents together because it’s convenient and saves our making a second holiday. People often believe that Washington’s friend and future president Andrew Jackson was included in this President’s Day and that’s incorrect. Jackson’s birthday isn’t until March 15.

So what are we really celebrating? Besides celebrating our first President and one of the founding fathers, we are also celebrating the successors to the office of the Presidency, right? At least that is what Nixon wanted but that would be a falsehood if you believe that. Neither Congress, nor Nixon, changed the official name of the holiday.  No, we are only celebrating Washington’s Birthday.

Yes, a lot of finagling has gone on over the holidays and moving them to Mondays, and what date was original (Julian vs Gregorian calendars). But what matters right now is the day is called Washington’s Birthday and is meant to recognize one man. Just to be sure there’s no doubt about what day the government celebrates, Washington’s Farewell Address is read aloud in the Senate, a tradition that began in 1862. 

So what else is important? We give tribute to Washington because he was the general who created the first military badge of merit for the common soldier; in fact, there were three.

The Badge of Distinction for veterans non commissioned officers and soldiers who served more than three years and a second badge for non commissioned officers who served honorably more than six years. The last, and probably the most notable and historic, is the Badge of Merit. Described as: “whenever any singularly meritorious action is performed, the author of it shall be permitted to wear on his facings over the left breast, the figure of a heart in purple cloth, or silk, edged with narrow lace or binding.” 

This Badge of Merit was given only three times during the American Revolution. But it became the reason behind General MacArthur’s behest for the Purple Heart in 1932.  Thus, George Washington’s face became the stamp on the front of the Purple Heart Medal. 

For this reason we can remember and honor our Founding President with pride. Sure, he was human and had slaves and was flawed in major ways. But I’m a retired, non-combat veteran and I am proud that this founding president thought so much of his soldiers that he wanted to reward them for sacrifice and service. He was the first and I am grateful.

We have 44 presidents since General Washington. Some we will never forget, some we will never remember. But of all who stood beside our flag, this first president was a man who cherished his servicemen, stood and fought beside them, worried over them, cried for them and cheered with them. He believed that honor was in how you served, how you behaved, and how you lived. Those beliefs made him a strong President on which to build a government.

He was the first. Happy Birthday General and President Washington. I salute you.

Thanks for stopping in.
I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry

Today is February 12. This is the week of Valentine’s Day. This is the week when everyone speaks about love. People reach for cards, chocolates, flowers, rings, poetry, romance novels, special dinners – everything geared toward Love and the romantic incarnations. Even certain “shades of colorless color” in books and movies, speak of and pretend to be about love and happily ever after. This is the week to find the sweet, saccharine, romance that speaks of the heart’s depth. This is when some part of everyone wants to be told they are liked or loved. Me, too.

I’m not talking about that kind of love.

I want to help you look beyond the sappy stuff and into the dark. Let me be clear first: I am NOT speaking about abuse and violence when I say “dark.” Sexual abuse (mental, emotional or physical) in ANY form is NOT love and I am not going to argue that it might be, could be, should be, may be, or any being of love ever. Ever. 

No, I want to speak about the other sides of love that may not be twisty, but is real and dark and exists beside the hope and light. This is love without hope, love without return, love no one knows about, love without like, loving without being “in love.” This is love with greed, love with jealousy, love with expectations, love with exceptions, love with silence. Love with options to be different.

Writing romance is popular. Harlequin novels have a new imprint and are shining again. Indie authors are drawing more readers than ever with their contemporary (and fresh) romances promising “real” endings. Stories about children show love with hope and purpose. And all of these are popular and money-makers. And they are good.

But what about the love that you feel when the glamour is gone, when the lights go out, when the feelings are hurt, when the other stops loving, when hope never existed in the first place? That is real, too. What about the love that never is expressed? And love that begs to be massaged and explained?  Like the romantic poet Pablo Neruda said:

Show me the love remaining after death. Show me love born by jealousy and going strong after defeat. Show me love for the woman who took all the money and left, but loved him/her anyway. Give me the pain that is love. Make me cry for want of darkness where love waits when I know there is none for me but I want to be where it is anyway.

Love has darkness beyond pain and death, or loss of hope. Love has weakness that becomes strength. Love has worshippers that take being forgotten and make a memory that becomes immortal. Love is diverse and complex. Love is changeable and malleable. Love is exceptional and rare. It doesn’t have to be the savior of the story. Love can be a monster that we want. Love is stars but also black holes. Love is depth and also shallow and made potent in the shallows.

A good love story reaches for new definitions. The same-ol’-same-ol’ will sell books, yes. But the writers who give us new ways to dream of, live with, or die for love will be most remembered. I mean, don’t be the rose, be the thorn. Don’t strive for pain but understand the blood. It isn’t what dies but what remains. I hope you see what I’m saying.

Because Frankly, Scarlett, we do give a damn. Just not for what has “always been.” Because tomorrow IS another day and we can remake it to be more to our liking. Love without expectation and fulfillment. Love without apology or excuses. Love without like or ego. Love with greed but not hurtful. Love with envy but not destructive. Experiment. Love doesn’t’ need to cry and neither does it need to smile. Love can be jealous and still be good. Love can do endless things.

Take the boy or girl who fell in love and love was returned and then moved away. Not died, just gone. Slowly to be replaced by reality. Find love in the dark room of the paralyzed soul who can no longer express the love but hopes to, despite the odds, walk, but maybe not to be married, and maybe never gets to. Still, love lives.

I like the darker side of love, the one where fear keeps the light off, where shining a light might break the spell, or prevent one. I believe that love has a tremulous side that bleeds in the dark, that cries in the light, that lives without like, and that cries because it is happy not to have to forgive again.

Just because this week you hope to receive something beautiful or yummy, does not mean you should forget that love, glorious love, can be dark and inglorious, strong when it is weakest, scary when it is light. And lovely in the shadows. Don’t be afraid to redefine happily ever after into never ever.

Try some speculative fiction, a ghost story, something irreverent, a supernatural thriller, a true life mystery (without a resolution). Remember “dark” does not have be twisted or perverse. Dark can be simply unusual and unexpected with a creepy twist. Try erotica with something atypical. Or try a fairytale where the frog never gets to be a prince and goes without a “princess.” Can there still be love? Can it be a kind yet undefined? Why not? Maybe the twist is being in love with freedom from love.

See love in new ways and learn to write about it with darker daring, without stereotypes and without fear. Find love in the dark by turning on the light and staring deep into its eyes. You might fall in love all over again with new truths. And it will make your dark chocolates taste even richer. Look into the abyss and dance with shadows. Fall in love for no reason. Then walk away.

Like different percentages of dark chocolates, so there are levels for darkness in love. Try some! And just for you, I’ll turn out the light.

Happy Valentine’s Day all you daring lovers.
I remain, yours between the lines,
Sherry