March Madness

"March is the month of expectation, the things we do not know. The persons of Prognostication are coming now." - Emily Dickinson

I have to admit that if I were ranking months of the year, in order of my enjoyment and delight, March would come in last. March, especially in Northern New England, isn't a month "that comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb." Rather, it brings with it freak snow storms, followed by torrential rains, epic amounts of mud and a enormous amount of the unexpected. March is an impossible month to predict. It can be both frustrating and exciting. March seems to bring out the very worst in people, but also glimmers of the very best. Grumpy tempers can flare up, partly due to prolonged cabin fever. Yet, I've also seen people desire to transcend the nastiness and swallow down terse remarks to surprise me with unyielding kindness and compassion. With all these complications, why is March a time of immense growth?

I'm just as guilty, of allowing the sense of hope to drain from my body, as the next person. Even as a yoga instructor and a theology student, this time of year presents the biggest challenge to my body, mind and spirit. I find myself defensive, clumsy, short-tempered and anxious. I work very hard on not sniping at those closest to me, and by not allowing myself to sink into a perpetual state of peevishness. It's not an easy task this time of year. The expression "madder than a March hare" dates back to medieval times when wild rabbits would emerge from their dens to mate, and would be unusually aggressive towards other animals and towards one another. I believe this phrase, co-opted by Lewis Carroll in "Alice in Wonderland", is applicable to humans, as well. As we emerge from our winter slumber, mentally and physically deprived of sunlight, we are beset with petulance and annoyance.

Without all of these obstacles in our paths, however, we would never learn to overcome them, whether in March, under an eternal cloud of bad moods and limited sunshine, or throughout the year. March may be a time of bickering and ill humor, but it also provides us with an invaluable opportunity for overcoming the very worst of our natures. Without the darkness, there is no light to be seen clearly. Without challenges, there is no occasion for personal growth. In the absence of sufficiency, we are urged to go out and become seekers. In other words, if the month wasn't a lousy one, we'd have no reason to get off our tuffets of complacency and work harder to become stronger in body and mind. March gives us that amazing chance: to become dissatisfied with the way things are and to yearn something more for our lives.

During my yoga classes this time of year, I add in extra rounds of Sun Salutations. This series of choreographed movements is designed to unite body and mind, and wake up the senses. Sun salutations are defined as "a series of twelve yoga postures performed in a single graceful flow with each movement coordinated with the breath." Called "surya namaskar" in Sanskrit, Sun Salutations have an exceptional ability to increase flexibility and strength, to focus thoughts onto the present moment and to raise endorphin levels. Combining all of these benefits, this series of asanas are a powerful method of dealing with the erratic feelings of March. Sun Salutations are practiced in many Yoga styles, but all are designed to leave the yogini with a renewed sense of purpose, with inspiration and with a less sluggish body. Sun Salutations aren't a miracle drug that will make the user feel the delights of June weather, while still under March's cloud bank, but they will give the yogini a greater sense of control over her emotional responses.

We are now left with a choice of how to view March. We can see it as Garrison Keilor does, "March is the month that God designed to show those who don't drink what a hangover is like", and feel wretched for 31 days. Or, we can find ourselves admiring Marianne Williamson's philosophy of "March can be a miracle in a shift of perception". I imagine most of us will land somewhere in the middle...muddling through and looking for those exceptional moments of grace, while still working to overcome the feelings of foggy dread. Let's make a goal to take note of the dread, analyze it for what it is (and for what it isn't), and discover our own paths to reemerging in the April light.

Diversity and Friendship

“Diversity is the one true thing we all have in common. Celebrate it every day.” ~ Melissa Etheridge

I didn't realize how exceptionally open-minded, inclusive and forward thinking my parents were until I became an adult. My father and mother had an extraordinary group of close friends. These people were vastly intelligent, successful, creative and dynamic. I grew being surrounded by men and women who had grown to prominence in their fields through hard work and inestimable charisma. These friends were of every color in the rainbow of human existence. Some were gay and some were straight. My childhood was not only a melting pot of talents, but also of backgrounds and lifestyles. When people, today, say they are "color blind", I know that there are those who take umbrage with that fact. Yet the way I was raised was not to ignore the color of a person's skin, their age, or their lifestyle choices, but to look within them...to see our commonalities and our bonds. Diversity, when I was growing up, wasn't even a buzz word yet. It was simply how we lived our lives; appreciating people whose company we enjoyed, whom we cherished and who were important to us. I didn't grow up color blind. I grew up looking for friends in whom my heart felt comfortable.

What I've come to realize, as an adult, is that without diversity, life is unbearably bland. In my Theology class, we have a wide variety of backgrounds, age groups, birth nations, financial situations, talents, political leanings and life experiences. Some have their lives already dedicated to church ministry professionally and personally. Others are lay people in various stages of spiritual quests. A group of 10 people with seemingly little in common, but our shared commitment to the class, began in September. In February, we are our own special, unique and deeply caring community. We are there for one another and our differences of opinion make for fascinating intellectual conversation and exploration. Had we all been in the same mindset, our study of Church history, Philosophy, Old and New Testaments and Ancient history would have been dull. It's the wide ranging interests, areas of expertise (or ignorance, in my own case), and perspectives that give our discussions regarding our readings for the week their zest. My class is respectful, curious, inquisitive, opinionated and dedicated. We range in age of from our 30's to our 80's...with every decade represented. We are teachers, artists, ministers, Brothers, mothers, people in the business world and people at home. We are all different, but that makes our community far more intriguing.

My one area of intolerance happens to be ironic: I'm deeply uncomfortable with those who are intolerant themselves. I find all my compassion, my heart for the world and my inner kindness to turn into something bitter and angry when confronted with nasty people. It's an area I'm working on and struggling with, but it remains a place in my heart that is hardened. I've been in situations in which several women (with whom, on paper, I should everything in common) were mean-spirited towards the daughter of a gay friend of mine during a ballet recital dress rehearsal. I have seen people judge a handicapped woman harshly because of the 'inconvenience' of accommodating her. I have heard rude remarks, by a highly educated woman, about the religion I was born into, as well as had anti-Semitic remarks directed to my family. I have born witness to every kind of wretched, ignorant and bigoted train of thought. I have answered back sharply. I have rebuked. I have ignored. I have held grudges. I have let things go. Most of all, over the years, I've learned to pick my battles. I've discovered when to fight and when to retreat in disgust. I have determined with whom to place my friendship and from whom to withdraw it. Initially, the idea of withdrawing friendship seemed to be cut from the same cloth as bigotry. I was uncomfortable with stooping to the same level. And yet, how could I choose to remain friends with people whose mindsets weren't a sign of 'diversity' or 'difference of opinion' but hatred and aggression?

The answer for me, in all of this, is forgiveness. When a person is simply ignorant and has their own issues of insecurity, this person may lash out in fear of the unknown. If that individual continues to grow, to develop and to seek out knowledge....especially about situations she doesn't understand....I believe forgiveness is well in order. I, myself, am far from perfect. I've been rude, unkind and unjust. My impulsive nature has gotten the better of me far too many times. But, through all of that, I've been shown mercy and forgiveness myself when I've actively worked to regain the trust of those I've hurt. It may not be my responsibility to chase after people to educate them, nor is it appropriate for me to require every single person I meet to think just like I do. However, I do have a duty to listen, to comment and to forgive, if forgiveness is warranted.

Through all of this, I have to count my blessings. I have the most exceptional friends any woman could hope for. They are all over the globe, and they are broad ranging in talents, backgrounds, ages, interests and life choices. The fact that they care about me is humbling and mind boggling. I feel like the weakest, dullest link in a beautifully luminous, interwoven chain. I feel profound gratitude to be counted among them....and I realize how vivid my life is because of its heterogeneity.

Farming, Growing Things and a Brown Thumb

I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden. ~Abraham Cowley, The Garden, 1666

My Grandma Rose was an amazing gardener. She was able to take a tiny cutting from any type of plant, coax out roots from it, and then transplant it into her garden. She lived in a historic Russian Hill Victorian in San Francisco, and despite the house's many period treasures, it was her beautiful English garden that captivated me the most. In the midst of a busy urban center, she cultivated her modest backyard into an enchanted space, complete with winding walkways, unusual breeds of flowers and vegetables, and a yellow wooden playhouse that divided time between her potting shed duties, and my dolls' tea parties. Grandma's garden always had something new to capture my attention, to draw me further in and to cast a spell upon my childhood self. I found peace there during stressful times, and pure joy, during happy ones.

These memories make it all the more tragic for me that I have not inherited Grandma's gifts for plant cultivation and landscape design. Additionally, I lack even the most rudimentary of 'growing' skills. Beyond that, I seem to have become the antithesis of my grandmother: where she could breathe life into any increment of flora, I seem to be the instrument of torture and death to them. I have long joked that I am the Dr. Kevorkian of plants....they seem to find their way into my home and yard when they want to end their own lives. Once, my friend, Mary, was in the midst of a major home remodel and had to remove all her house plants from the construction zone. Mary is one of many friends who are exceptional garden enthusiasts, and her yard has been featured in the House & Garden show several times. When she asked me to mind her houseplants, I begged her to find another host family. Seduced by my bright and sunny front windows, Mary promised that I couldn't possibly kill her indoor plants, if she placed them herself and left me specific instructions. She was wrong, and they were dead within a week. We are still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong....fifteen years later. I bemoan my lack of gardening abilities. I have read books, I have taken nature walks with landscapers and consulted specialists. Everyone is left with the distinct impression that I honestly have a Brown Thumb. It's a "gift". This time of year in northern New England, many of my friends are consulting seed catalogs and beginning to get their orders placed for the coming Spring. I'm simply listening to their conversations and wondering if I missed out on learning the secret handshake in Kindergarten.

Therefore, a game on Facebook has left me particularly excited. Facebook is a social networking site through which I've been able to remain in touch with close friends and family, as well as to rekindle friendships from long ago. The game "Farmville" was initially a sore spot with me. Several of my dearest friends were posting accomplishments, winning blue ribbons and having barn raising events. They were growing everything from rice to roses, and landscaping their virtual plantations beautifully. I had to roll my eyes and wonder how my vastly intelligent, well educated and interesting pals could be so enamored by a silly game. And, then I tried it. Despite the fact that I did manage to kill my first few (okay, more like first dozen) virtual crops, I did begin to enjoy the game. The better I was able to produce my produce, and take care of my livestock, the more I was rewarded. I found that improving my farm's layout, crop rotation, and type of seeds used truly helped them to flourish and grow. With each successful harvest, I was rewarded with the ability to expand my farm and try new seeds. For the first time in my life, I've found some measure of enjoyment in watching my yield accrue. There is something deeply satisfying about sowing fallow ground, choosing which type of plants to produce, watching them blossom and then in-gathering the results. Even though these plots of land are simply virtual squares, and my "Me" is just a character controlled by the click of a mouse, I'm proud of my little farm. I have a barn, a dairy farm, a chicken coop, a silo, scads of animals, a farmhouse and many plots of different crops; from grains to flowers to vegetables. I have grape arbors and cranberry bogs. My tomatoes and red and luscious. My roses are full and hearty. My sheep bah. My cows moo. And my ducks quack. It's a goofy cartoonish game, and yet I find the whole experience to be oddly satisfying. I can almost picture myself walking through the lanes between my fields, brushing my horses and fertilizing my grains. I can wish myself a cup of iced tea as I survey all that I have grown.

I still harbor the hope that someday my real yard will resemble something akin to my virtual garden. And yet, in every day life, I realize that I have the opportunity to create 'something from nothing' through my words. In writing, I have the ability to cultivate the soil of my imagination by reading good books and listening to the advice of others. I can plant my own seeds of ideas and nurture them along with practice. I can wait patiently as I work through rewrites and yank out any literary weeds that are sapping my energy. I can watch those first shoots of persistence spring up, and I can harvest them by finishing a piece over which I've toiled. While my writing will never resemble that of William Shakespeare or even John Grisham, I will have the satisfaction of toiling over each word in the piece, from beginning to end. In that, there is a sort of farming garden of words.

Perhaps someday I'll have rosemary by my garden gate, and a small pond with swans swimming, surrounded by lavender and lilac. Or, perhaps, I'll leave this part of my life as metaphor and leave the real gardening up to experts.

Mardi Gras

“You must treat everyday like a present and open it with great expectation.” ~ John De Lemme

Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday. Carnivale. New Orleans. Rio De Janeiro. Venice. The time period, in the liturgical calendar between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday, marks one of the most celebratory delineations of time in the earliest Christian calendar. What began as a simple period of joy became synonymous with decadence, lasciviousness and hedonism.Yet, regardless of one's religious beliefs or affiliations, Mardi Gras has its own delectable spirit that is both captivating, and feels a little dangerous. It is the idea that all inhibitions can be released before a period of austerity. It encapsulates the impression of absolute license for freedom proceeding deprivation. It's the purging of animal impulses before the mastery of them. It's retrogression of composure before the ultimate test of asceticism.

Rather than give an easily found, and utterly fascinating, full history of Mardi Gras, I would like to explore why this holiday is captivating to so many of us. Few people live by the true liturgical year any longer. Lent is rarely a time of fasting and self-mortification in the 21st century. If observed at all, most people I know try to give up a bad habit, such as smoking or junk food. This is less about trying to deprive oneself as Christ fasted in the desert, tempted by the Devil. These relinquishment's are much more about letting go of something we shouldn't be doing in the first place. Like New Year's resolutions, these are begun with the very best of intentions but generally, without a conscious effort to become Christ-like in the process. Additionally, like most New Year's resolutions, these promises for self-improvement are usually begun with the very best of intentions but fall short within a week or two. I'll never forget the year my friend, Debra (a sweets fanatic) gave up desserts. I gave up shopping the same Lent. As we walked through the Mall, I pulled her away from Godiva's immense chocolate covered strawberries, as she gently led me away from Ann Taylor. We were like two addicts, trying desperately to be sponsors for one another, but failing horribly. As she bought her box of truffles and I my blouse, we promised to hang onto them for one another two weeks, just until Easter Sunday, when we'd exchange them as gifts of bonded friendship to one another. We didn't even make it home from Portland before we were digging through the two parcels. On the one hand, we felt horribly guilty. On the other, we secretly delighted in our sins. It was a dangerous combination.

That experience taught me something valuable: being forbidden makes the acts we're trying to avoid all the more delicious. We, as fallen, wretched humans, are prone to deep desires and desperate wants. We are tempted and we can resist, but we often fail. Mardi Gras may seem riotous and deplorable to many, but what it really does is to tap into our base natures of rapaciousness. I believe that the reason this holiday is so attractive is because we know that "anything goes" has a time limit. We understand that our days of infatuation are, indeed, numbered. Perhaps the early designers of these times of revelry knew that people would be more likely to succeed during Lent if they were given free rein the time period preceding. One of my first teenage jobs was at Dunkin' Donuts. The store manager told me that I was allowed to eat as many doughnuts as I wanted. I have to admit, I was more than just a bit of a glutton the first few days. I sampled the glazed, Boston Creme and the blueberry. I gorged on the cinnamon, the chocolate and the jelly filled. I feasted on the sour cream, the maple frosted and the apple fritter. By the end of my 5th day at work, I was not only disgusted with myself, but never wanted to eat another doughnut again in my life. This experience was thirty years ago. I have never eaten another doughnut since. Is my doughnut feeding frenzy anything like the intention behind Mardi Gras? Do we need to move through a time of extreme indulgence to teach ourselves self-discipline?

In my yoga classes, I try to teach a balance in all areas of the class. We practice willpower, self-restraint and control in our breath, in the movements of our bodies and in the thought patterns of our minds. Yet, there are asanas in which I lead movement for the pure exaltation of being alive and well. The Warrior poses are

a good example of this phenomenon. They do require a singleness of thought and focus, and yet, they feel utterly empowering. The delight to be gained from practicing Warrior is heady; it allows the Yogini to feel mighty, beautiful, desirable, exceptional and even a little racy. There is a powerful sense of being when in Warrior. It feels at once self-controlled and alluring. Warrior is a highly transforming series of dynamic poses.

Mardi Gras, for all its decadence, its mystery and its ribaldry is ultimately about just such a transformation: from the boundaries of gluttony to be remade into the self-control over weakness.It's very difficult to overcome our useless attempts at discipline unless we have tired of them. Additionally, it's harder to see the metamorphosis into the enlightened life if we don't understand the transitory attractions of the alternative. This is not to say that we must all rip off our clothing and fall down in a drunken heap on Bourbon Street to understand the value of seeking spiritual illumination.What Mardi Gras has the potential to create is a way past those tiring impulses and a way to see more brightly see the window of inspiration.

Whether you feast on King Cakes tonight, or share a cocktail with friends, I hope the coming of new awakening awaits each of you. As we begin our magical transformations from spiritual worms into butterflies, I pray that these weeks inside your own personal chrysalis bring you the radiance you are meant to develop.

"The journey between what you once were and who you are now becoming is where the dance of life really takes place." ~ Barbara De Angelis

Passion

Chase down your passion like it's the last bus of the night. ~Glade Byron Addams

One of my greatest frustrations about Valentine's Day is how dreadful the holiday makes people who aren't deeply in love feel about themselves. The not-terribly subtle message is "You have to have a partner with whom to share this day of passion or you are left out of the club". I find that both offensive and condescending. It's a wonderful and beautiful experience to be in love, particularly in those heady days of early romance. One's heart beats faster at the mere thought of the object of one's affection. Pondering all the daydreams, the "What if's?" and the meanderings of an idyllic fairy tale can be even more magical than the romance itself. When one isn't in love, it's difficult to envision passion on a grand scale. Additionally, when one has been in a relationship for many years, the day to day practicality of bills, schedules, parenting, chores and jobs can overshadow the illusionary enchantment.

It's my firm belief that passion should have far less to do with wooing the object of one's desire. In my own mind and heart, it should be the wooing of our own deepest dreams for our own lives. Living a life of passion doesn't have to either involve, or negate, another human being. Rather, it means kindling the fires the lie within each of us to lead a life filled with purpose and confidence. A passionate life doesn't need to signal an immoral one. It can mean an existence in which one seeks out her dreams, discovers her hidden talents, and loses herself in the present moment. A passionate life can mean not allowing opportunities to fall by the wayside, but embracing each chance to learn something new. Achieving this can also mean asking yourself "What do I love?", "What makes me the happiest?" and "What can I do to feel jazzed about being alive?".

Far too much time is spent worrying about our failures. I am terribly guilty of this issue. I have allowed my anxiety over disappointing others, as well as myself, keep me from experiences, goals and seeking out my heart's desire. I have felt that, as long as I've secretly nurturing and daydreamed about my future, I would never be disillusioned. I was afraid that if I should try and then fail, I would have nothing left to look forward to. But, what's happened is that I've squandered my time...I've allowed decades to slip away from me because I was too nervous that I'd be rejected. Therefore, I want to commit myself to living more passionately. I want to submit more articles to magazines, to keep working on my book, and to expand upon pieces I've already finished. It's terrifying. But, unless I proceed with courage and confidence, I will never achieve my goals. I will only wonder what might have been in my life.

Passion can also apply to how we take on obstacles that lie in our path. We can decide to retreat and go back into our shells of complacency. Or, we can venture forward with William Wordsworth's "Might Yawp" and passionately defeat those troubles that create the blockages in our lives. We can choose to work around people who are naysayers. We can decide to face our fears. We can adopt a resilience that will enable us to keep moving forward...with passion and determination.

If you received candy and flowers from the love of your life, be appreciative but look for your inner ecstasy too. If not, fear not! A passionate life depends far more on how we meet life head on, than how others make us feel.

The Host and Companionship

“Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation...” ~ Oscar Wilde

Suffice it to say that I'm not a big science fiction fan. Like many women, I find the idea of aliens, space ships, rockets, futuristic weapons, sea monsters, Big Foot, and the entire area surrounding Roswell, New Mexico to be a colossal annoyance. I have never watched the SciFi Channel on cable television. I had no idea that there were entire series that had garnered passionate followings. I was terribly disappointed to see how many recent films either had aliens on Earth as their 'surprise twist' at the end, or as the movie's entire premise. I was ready to walk out of the much anticipated final Indiana Jones movie, when the otherworldly zinger happened. I have never even seen E.T.

However, because I liked Stephanie Meyer's "Twilight" series so much, I was willing to give her newest novel, "The Host" a try. I was reluctant, to say the least. Yet, I'd heard Ms. Meyer's interviewed about how this novel came to be. As a mother myself, I could relate to her story. She was driving a long (and dull) distance with her boys in the back of the car. They had finally settled down and were watching a DVD on the integrated system. I remembered, when my children were younger, wanting to canonize the person who developed this. It prevented me from spending 10 hours in the car, dealing with arguments like "Mom! She's over the LINE!" or hearing "I'm not touching you!". Ms. Meyers then related her profound boredom at the monotony of the road ahead and wishing she had someone (over the age of 9) to talk to. The thought came to her: "What if there were two people living in my head?".

Therein lies the premise for "The Host". Once I got passed the slightly creepy and wee bit confusing first two chapters, I realized that this was an excellent story about two women, with different thoughts, different ideas and different priorities who come to love one another in a deep and true friendship. Some of their goals become common to one another. Others remain individual and intact. Rather than give a synopsis of the story, I'd prefer to reflect on how much I gleaned from a novel that I hadn't believed I'd enjoy. The relationship between Wanda (the alien who inhabits the host's body) and Melanie (the host herself) is both complicated and fascinatingly simple. They come to admire one another's strengths of character and conviction. They come to realize that each personality possesses gifts that the other lacks. They realize that together, they create a powerful and well balanced person. They give each other advice, understanding and unconditional love.

How often in life have each one of us wished we'd had someone to talk to? There are times when just speaking words loses meaning and intent. What would it be like to have a best friend who is so completely integrated into our thoughts, that she would understand our animus, our signification and our very heart's desires, without having to vocalize these wishes...and lose part of the "meat" in the telling? Many children have imaginary friends. Some children go so far as to want to set a place at the table for "Mrs. Bloomsbury" or make sure she has her own stuffed animal to sleep with. These children (myself included, though it's only in reminders from my mother that I know this happened) "see" their chimerical whimsies, but only in relation to these sidekicks existing outside of their own bodies. The difference in the idea brought up in "The Host" is: "What if your companion resided within?". There are those who would say this is the path that leads to madness or delusion...and they wouldn't be far off the truth. In centuries past, people who 'heard voices' were burned at the stake for being possessed by demons! And yet, it's fascinating to contemplate having another sounding board, another voice or another perspective to bounce ideas off, to keep us company or to have that deep sense of intimacy with. After all, aren't we all looking to be understood, admired and loved for who we are?

While science fiction is still not my 'genre', I did learn a great deal from "The Host". I learned that it's always a good practice to step outside our comfort zones, and to experience a different perspective. It also sent my imagination off, wondering what my internal duality would be like, if she existed. I can only hope she has more coordination and is better at balancing the checkbook.

Red Dress Day

"Red has more personal associations than any other color. Recognized as a stimulant, red is inherently exciting and the amount of red is directly related to the level of energy perceived. Red draws attention and a keen use of red as an accent can immediately focus attention on a particular element." ~ From "Sensational Color"

My 15 year old daughter has a major complaint about my wardrobe. She'll walk into my closet and look around, shaking her head and grumbling to herself, as she's devising an outfit for me to wear to an event. "What exactly do you have against COLOR, Mom?", she'll ask, "Everything in here is brown, gray and black!". Her thoughts aren't off base. I have an unreasonable fear of color in my clothing. Every time I try to wear something outside of my comfort area, I find myself feeling uncentered, lacking focus and nervous. In my limited palate of clothing, navy blue is my color of reckless abandon. My mother and my daughter are both colorful...in wardrobe and personality. They love to joke that they are monkeys; attracted to bright, shiny objects. My mother looks amazing in turquoise and my daughter shines in vivid purple. In their world of zest and spice in the use of color, I'm afraid that I'm the drab pigeon to their peacocks. I can appreciate how lovely and vibrant they both look....but when dressing myself, I'm far more likely to shrug off those same colors, despite the fact that we all have the same coloring.

When I first read about "The Red Dress Project" a few years ago, I was enchanted. What a delightful idea about spreading the message of women's risks for heart disease! This program has grown from one fashion show to a global awareness event. Because heart disease kills more women every year than any other cause, I was intrigued. As a survivor of women's cancer, I had always assumed that cancer would be the leading cause of death in women. How wrong I was! Heart disease kills 18 more women than cancer does every year. I became involved in the charity thanks to a good friend, who raised my awareness. Thanks to her, our local community is passionately involved in not only increasing perception to this crucial health risk, but also in helping those already effected by the disease. Women are not only encouraged to wear red dresses, but skirts, shoes, sweaters and scarves. Gentlemen are implored to wear red ties, shirts and hats to help create an atmosphere of compassion for the women in their families.

The first Friday in February, the Red Dress day becomes an international event, garnering attention for this exceptional cause. First begun here in the United States, the project has spread to a dozen countries. Will I participate? I most certainly will. I own one red dress, and I plan on wearing it to a charity event this evening. Will I feel out of place? Absolutely not...this is the one evening each year I can shake off my charcoal gray-ness and know that my clothes will speak for something larger than myself. When we only look to our own comfort areas, it's very difficult to help make the world a better, more loving place. When we step outside those areas of black and white, we find there is a whole rainbow of color, just waiting for us to experience them.

Won't you join me in this endeavor?

Red Dress Day