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 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

Mardi Gras is coming! Laissez le bon temps rouler! (Let the good times roll!) Time to get out your krewe masks and your beads. Time to be more (or less) than normal. Find your identity. Be your own phantom. Discover yourself and don your best mask.

Much of who we are comes from how we humans design identities to our bodies. And beyond sexuality (a discussion for another day), much emphasis is placed on our various body parts but most of our identification comes from our faces. Our face is our “self.” Age and biological features such as “you look just like your Mom,” are often obvious ways we mark our identities. Other symbolic identities like our social identity and status require our face in order to express or alter our identities. How is this done? By adding or subtracting something like cosmetics, costumes, hairstyles or masks. Or a combination of all of those. Our masks therefore, are important.

A mask completely or partially hides the face. Did you know that the word “person” comes from the Greek word meaning “mask,” or the role played by an actor in a performance?” So our faces reveal our social self, who we make ourselves in relation to the role we choose to play in society and in relation to other people around us. Our persona, or mask, is related to and is revealed in the personality, the self or the ego. Masks give us the ability to transform the “person” behind the image into someone or something else. This “else” makes our masks playful and powerful and can relate our new “else” to myth or ritual. Masks allow us to pretend. Or “become” new.

As an example, what child can put on a Halloween costume and not carry through the mask identity? A dragon must roar, a vampire must bite, and a fairy must wave a wand. For a moment in time, an hour, a night, a child has taken on the personal of the dragon who loves tacos, of the scary count vampire or the good witch from Oz.

Adults do no less. I have seen fully-grown women in a witches black gauze, cackle through the night and mature men in grey robes brandishing a staff yell, “you shall not pass!” I have watched teens suddenly become orcs and mothers of little tykes become Mothers of Dragons.

These new identities allow children and adults to become something beyond who they are or can ever be. Then how much more powerful is a mask when the transformation feels real?

Great civilizations of the Old and New Worlds made and used masks daily. Death masks accompanied the Egyptian mummy to the tomb, and allowed the soul of the deceased to recognize its body after it returned to the tomb in the evening. The Aztecs and Maya of Middle America, and the Inca and other civilizations of the Andes used masks. The Chinese, Indians, and Japanese used masks from ancient times in a variety of different ways including theater, as did the Greeks and Romans. Finally, tribal and elder societies continue mask use in today’s rituals.

The early Christian Church took a dim view of masking and suppressed it whenever possible. This was partly due to masks’ association with pagan rites, and partly because of the immoral behavior that was often released through the anonymity afforded by the mask. However, the Church’s efforts at suppression were not entirely successful. In rural Europe, masking customs survived as Carnival and Mardi Gras; with the rise of the Commedia del’ Arte during the Renaissance, and the subsequent popularity of secular theater, masking firmly established itself in European traditions.

Arizona

The Milwaukee Public Museum has more than 300 masks on exhibit, and at least twice that number in its stored collections. Every continent except Australia is represented, as well as every medium from leather to clay. The masks come in all sizes, all shapes, encompassing all levels of social and economic peoples from the Eskimo to the Japanese. They also “do” a great many different things, and this “doing,” or function, is further complicated because the same mask can do several different things at different times and for different activities.

Historically, Greek drama, which was and is a masked performance, began as a masked ritual. Over time, the religious aspects of masked drama gave way to a more secular function of entertainment. In Indonesia, India, China, Japan and Europe, masked theater continues to be performed, either with religious or semi-religious overtones, while masked festivals are found throughout Europe, Central and South America and often coordinate with significant Church holidays.

One of the most important things that masks do is transform the identity of the wearer, and changing identity is not the same thing as transforming it. Take ceremonies in New Guinea, West and Central Africa, and North America where masks are used in “rites of passage.”

These rituals mark important transitions in the life cycle of individuals, or classes of individuals, in a society. Initiation into adulthood or a secret society, marriage, movement to a higher social rank, and funeral ceremonies are events that are often marked by masked performance. Death and rebirth are common themes in rites of passage, and masks help the visualization. In a rite of passage, an earlier identity ceases to exist, and is symbolically replaced with a new and entirely different identity. This is also a permanent change via the mask.

Masks encourage us to transform ourselves, and empower us to do so. They permit us to replace one reality with another. They can ultimately provide us with a better understanding of who we really are behind the role/masks we put on every morning and take off every night in our dreams.

For writers, masks are important. We use them to create. We “mask up” and become our characters, we redefine life, worlds, morals, and refine personalities and behaviors. Masks allow us to write fabulous stories or tell truths (or both). Masks can help us be real or help us be fantastically bizarre.

Understanding the role your persona takes in real life determines your author ability to make the masks work for you and your characters.

Mardi Gras is Feb 13, so I’m a bit early. But that week I want to talk about more loving pursuits, so forgive my early examination. Hey, all good right? You have time to find your mask. The key is to remember masks can transform and empower in real life and in your stories. The trick is making yours masks so good that no one can tell truth from fiction.

Inside or out, your mask matters. Reveal with pride.

I remain, Yours Between the Lines,
Sherry
(Completely unmasked. Honest.)