How Twitter Changed My Life

As we ring in the new year and ponder resolutions present and past, it’s good to remember that even a small, insignificant action can have life-altering consequences.

In this instance, I am referring to a Tweet.

Like many people, I went on Twitter over a year ago to see what all the fuss was about. At the time, I just didn’t “get” it. I came away thinking it was only for twenty-something techies and I clearly was out of their league.

Then in January 2011 I started looking into freelance writing opportunities. The more I explored, the more I was aware of my vacuous lack of social media experience beyond Facebook. Zilch. Zero. Kaput. As a passionate lifelong learner, I knew there was only one thing to do: I would have to teach myself to Tweet.

I set up a profile, picked @ncbeachgirl75 as my handle, and began tweeting. My first tweet said something very profound like Well, here I go!

@ncbeachgirl75

16 characters heard ’round the world. I felt bold. Empowered. I could do anything!

Well, almost.

To be honest, I stumbled my way through those first few months. I learned about #FollowFriday and being unfollowed and about #hashtags and Twitterverse. I survived @charliesheen and got re-tweeted by @TheCivilWars. I was having fun.

Kevin Montgomery

On March 30, I gained a new follower: the very talented world-traveling, singer-songwriter, adventurist, dad, and blogger @kevinmontgomery. Kevin and I started chatting and he told me about his passion for helping foster kids aging out of the system through @ODBFoundation (The Orange Duffel Bag Foundation), the non-profit his sister @echogarrett had started. I went to check out @ODBFoundation and immediately started following Echo, an amazing person in her own right: an award-winning author/wife/mother (and friend) extraordinaire.

Echo started following my blog and asked me to give her a call and I did. Before our conversation ended, she asked me to be Director of Public Relations for @ODBFoundation. Life change #1.

www.orangeduffelbagfoundation.org

In June I sent a tweet to a Twitter friend in the UK and ended up writing, blogging, and tweeting travel for Essential Hotels UK for six months (see There Are Years That Ask Questions). Life change #2.

Life change #3: 1,800+ amazing new Twitter friends:

One of my first followers was @ManVsBooks, a Renaissance man who introduced me to the lovely and talented @Lynn_Shepherd, author of Murder in Mansfield Park and soon-to-be-released Tom-All-Alone’s (UK)/The Solitary House (US). Through Lynn I met BBC book reviewer and true blue friend @milorambles. My literary compatriots across the Pond.

Then there was Boston College lecturer and bestselling author (In Leah’s Wake) @tglong who asked me to write two guest posts for her blog “The Art and Craft of Writing Creatively”. Terri is an amazing person and an encouraging friend.

Somewhere along the way I met soon-to-be-released LINK author/thought promoter-speaker/techno music lover/storm chaser @JohnSerpa. John is passionate about @ODBFoundation and drove from Virginia to Atlanta to attend our ODBF gala in December. If you’re not following John, you should.

I have made dear new friends: @EviePorter1 and @TheBoudicca. #GOAM @Bromiegirl and @AlysaAKim. And the lovely @tle1011. And I have met others who have inspired me to be a better me: @SalhaKaitesi @PattieSimone @FrankCunhaIII @Staticulator @lexilawson @andioakes and @tedrubin (just to name a few).

Finally, I have unapologetically hooked (at least) two friends on Twitter: @kdcaulfeild and @cassyelliott201. Way to go, girls! Ride the wave!

What have I learned from Twitter? That there’s a big world out there full of interesting and talented people who want to connect.

As a lifelong learner, I am learning so much. And I continue to learn each day.

So remember, if you’re pondering a tiny change this year, gather up your courage and take the first step.

It just might change your life.

I’d love to hear how Twitter has changed your life. Leave a comment below.

Living in the Shadow

Now go back to your classroom and act like nothing has happened. 

Those are the words my headmaster spoke to me after telling me that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers and that no one really knew what was going on.

I remember thinking, I can’t do this. I can’t go back in there and pretend that the world has not changed forever.

I took a deep breath and walked dutifully into my classroom. I looked at my students sitting up front on the circle and lifted a quick prayer.

My own children, thank God, were there with me at school that day and I knew they were in capable hands.

The rest of the morning was a blur. I remember trying to pull up something, anything, on my computer. Finally I saw a photo of smoke billowing from Tower One. The image took my breath away.

The next thing I remember is taking my students out for recess. That day was not unlike today. The sky was cloudless and blue (we all remember that) and crisp and cool and tinged with a hint of autumn.

I looked up at the sky, anticipating something awful.

But we are in North Carolina. How could anything bad happen here?

Then: The world as we know it has just come to an end . . . who knows when and where “they” will strike again . . . no one is safe.

I carried on that day with a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat. Unlike thousands of others, I did not have a loved one who worked at the World Trade Center or the Pentagon or who had boarded United Flight 93 that morning en route to San Francisco.

What I was thinking of that morning was 1976. I was twenty years old and living in New York. The World Trade Center had opened just three years earlier and it was the city’s crowning glory. I was an aspiring model who spent time in the company of fellow models, photographers, and successful businessmen who were also my close friends. Very often we would all end up in my friend Martin’s limo headed downtown to the Twin Towers and Windows on the World.

Windows on the World (Photo: Ezra Stoller/Esto)

I remember the elevator whisking us up to the 107th Floor. The doors opened onto a world we called our own. Standing there taking in all of Manhattan in its glittering nighttime beauty made us believe we were invincible. We laughed, drank, ate, and sealed the bonds of our friendships there. It was magical. And it filled us with hope.

But on that clear September morning, that hope was shattered.

My daughters’ lives and the lives of the students in my classroom (and the rest of the world) were changed inextricably that day. We have all grown up in the shadow of those Mighty Towers. They are now a part of our collective history. They bind us. The Towers are gone, but the lessons learned from them live on.

Remembering the Twins. Forever in my heart.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. ~Psalm 91:1

Life is like a box of chocolates . . . or a bike ride.

photo: Getty Images

I love great movie lines. One of the most quoted is from “Forrest Gump”: “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.’

You never know “what you’re gonna get” on a bike ride, either.

Maybe that’s why I’ve clung so tenaciously this summer to workouts at the gym or walks with my dog.

No, I wasn’t afraid of falling off. I was afraid of falling back . . . into the past. Or into the unknown future of my hopes and dreams.

You see, whenever I ride my bike, I become 14 again. And no wonder. I loved biking as a teenager. I saved every penny from my first job to buy a purple 10-speed Gitane.  Never athletic (more the artistic type) I’d hop on my bike every chance I could get and traverse my town, taking no thought of hills or vales or anything in between. I just wanted to ride and feel the wind in my hair. It made me feel happy. And free.

Part of me loves feeling fourteen with my glasses and braces and backpack of insecurities. Then I think, “How far have I really come after all this time?” College, jobs, marriage, children, divorce . . . the years roll on. I am no longer that girl. But in some ways I most certainly am.

Lately I have felt a lightness of spirit that I haven’t felt in years. I felt it this morning as I went on my early morning ride. “You’ve come a long way, girl!” I said to my 14 y.o. self as I climbed a hill I was unable to climb just last night. And I have. And it’s good.

Back to last night. The heat index hit over 105 yesterday so I decided to wait until dusk to ride. Still in the 90s at 8 pm, I slogged along, barely able to breathe. The air was heavy. Oppressive. Hills were difficult. I felt old. I was not having fun.

This morning was different. Without even realizing it, I’d bitten into a chocolate truffle dream. The air was cool. My mind was racing and my muse had decided to come along for the ride. After half an hour, I couldn’t wait to get back to my desk to write.

There will be more hills. Difficult ones. I know that. But there will also be the exhilaration that comes from pressing on. And that is what makes this thing called life worth the ride.

“Mail, it was called mail . . . “

A scene from “You’ve Got Mail”:

Schuyler Fox: “Cecilia Kelly, lovely woman, I think we might have had a date once . . . maybe we just exchanged letters.”

Joe Fox: ” You wrote her letters?”

Schuyler Fox: “Mail, it was called mail.

Nelson Fox: “Stamps. Envelopes.”

Joe Fox: “You know, I’ve heard of it.”

Schuyler Fox: “Cecilia had beautiful penmanship. She was too young for me, but she was . . . enchanting.”

"This is not a letter . . . "

Today people fall in love through email. Or Twitter.

My parents fell in love through the mail.

That is the way the story was told to me. Now both my parents are gone and I only have one aunt who could verify the facts. But I choose to tell the version I remember (as told by my mother) to my children and to those who will listen . . . so here goes.

My parents attended the same college back in the early 1940s. Now East Carolina University (Greenville, NC), it was then affectionally known as “ECTC” (East Carolina Teacher’s College). But their story did not begin there.

It began with humble beginnings.

My mother, Annie Laura, was the daughter of a tobacco farmer in eastern North Carolina. The oldest of six siblings and called “Sister”, she took charge of the household whenever my grandmother was pregnant had to go on bed rest for weeks at a time. She was a strong, capable, and beautiful woman.

my parents, James and Annie Laura Whitfield

My father grew up in a tiny two-bedroom dwelling in “Little Washington” (NC). His father was a carpenter, his mother a homemaker. My father sold apples on the street corner and delivered newspapers to finance his college education.

He excelled in high school and when he finally arrived at ECTC, he made his mark: News Editor & head writer for the Greenville daily. Correspondent for the Raleigh N&O, the Norfolk Times and United Press. Assistant Editor of the college newspaper. Student radio program director. Vice President of the YMCA. And Founder & President of the Young Democrats Club.

The BMOC (Big Man on Campus).

As my mother told it, he was “out of her league”. She would watch him from her dorm room, sauntering across campus, chatting it up with a young co-ed, rushing off to class.

And then the war broke out and my father was drafted. He left the comfort of college, enlisted in the Army, and was sent to South America to protect the Panama Canal.

One of the skills my mother learned on the farm was sewing. She belonged to a “sewing circle” and she and her friends decided they would take part in the war effort and write letters to servicemen.

My mother drew my father’s name. And that is when it all began.

Their three years of writing letters. Of forming a friendship. And, with time, a deeper connection. Of falling in love (through letters). And of my father proposing, and my mother accepting, via paper and ink.

'Open thine heart and write."

My mother had beautiful penmanship, not unlike Cecilia Kelly’s, I imagine. I can see how my father found her, well . . . enchanting.

My father’s hand is barely legible. And yet his words are some of the most romantic, and tender, I have ever read.

words, like lovers, entwined on a bed of paper

My youngest daughter, Annie, chose to make an altered book of my parents’ letters for an art project when she was at VCU Arts. In her words: “This is a true love story, told through letters.” And so it is.

Thank you, Annie, for these beautiful images. You can follow Annie on Twitter @skyspaintedblue.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,000 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 50 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Rainbows . . . seriously?

Rainbows get a bad rap. People associate them with hearts and flowers and unicorns and everything pink.

Judy Garland immortalized them in the “Wizard of Oz.” Kermit the Frog sang about the “Rainbow Connection” on Sesame Street.

But rainbows are more than dream-like illusions in the sky.

In reality  (if one dares take notice) they are the serious stuff of life.

The Bible begins—and ends—with a rainbow. They are a sign: that one will survive and that things will get better.

I know many of you will exit this post now. The rainbow cynics and pundits.

I understand. But perhaps it’s you, most of all, who need to read on.

This weekend I have had several serious rainbow moments.

The first took place Friday. I was on the way back from a quick trip to the mountains and came upon one of the worst thunderstorms I’d ever encountered. Exhausted and wanting to get home as quickly as possible, I pressed on, all the while questioning my sanity at refusing to pull over until the storm passed. Pushing ahead, I rounded a bend, and there, sweeping across the interstate, was a huge, in-your-face rainbow.

The sky was black and angry. And there it was, this brushstroke of profundity. I knew it was a sign, a reminder from God that He is faithful in the midst of our storms. He has brought so much beauty into my life this year—and it has been a very difficult year—and I have learned much about pressing on and holding onto hope. So I drove right into that torrential downpour with complete assurance that I would be safe.

The second moment happened when a friend shared in a Facebook post that he had lost a child. This time I sat at my computer and wept. I had caught only glimmers of this from reading older posts. But when I saw it spelled out in black & white, it became real. I deliberately entered as fully as I could into my friend’s grief and loss and just lingered there.

I thought about my three girls and what it might be like if one of them were suddenly torn from my life. I thought of another friend whose son took his own life last year and for whom going on day after day has become an unbearable burden. Lastly, I thought about a fallen Marine whose wife and young children are now left without the man they love.

The pain of empathy weighed me down. I quickly messaged a friend . . . “I’m feeling so sad today.”

She told me she was sad, too. The fallen Marine was the brother of a close friend of hers. So we chatted for several hours by email. We shared our hearts. Talked about loss. Grief. And rainbows. It turns out she has had some significant rainbow moments, too.

By the end of our visit, my heart was lighter. I was encouraged. More hopeful.

I daresay each of you has a rainbow story which, maybe, like my friend, you’ll be brave enough to share.

We had another drenching thunderstorm last night. This morning the sun mustered an unusual brilliance.

No, I didn’t see a rainbow. But I do believe there was one hidden somewhere underneath.

“There are years that ask questions . . .”

. . . and there are years that answer.” ~ Zora Neale Hurston *

This is an answering year.

My last two posts were about waiting. Many of you have checked in over the past few weeks to find out whether I am still waiting.

Well, I am happy to report that my waiting ended this week. Tuesday, May 24 at 8:15 pm ET to be exact (no one waits as long as I have and then fails to note the moment the waiting ends).

Several difficult weeks led up to that moment. First, my old boyfriend re-surfaced (see my post “Enough”). After a few days of phone calls & emails, I realized, once more, that we had parted several years ago for good reason. So we said good-bye again, this time, for good.

Week 2: My beloved dog, Fiona, began having serial seizures. After several sleepless nights, two visits to the vet, and a dose of Valium (for her, not me) the seizures stopped.

My Fuzzy Girlfriend

The week following I had dental surgery and all the lovely accompanying pain. Enough about that.

By Monday of Week 4, my left foot was painful and swollen and I was having trouble walking. After visiting an orthopedist, I found out that I had a stress fracture. I would need to wear a large black boot for three weeks and stay off my feet.

I didn’t mind the boot or the three week bit. But I didn’t know how I could continue to work the part-time retail job I’d had since January.

I realized that the long hours of teaching and working part time had taken their toll. That night, I sat at my computer and tried to process what had happened.

“Lord, what do I do?”

Suddenly I knew. I had to stop asking questions. I had to let go, surrender.

So that’s what I did.

A few minutes later I was tweeting with a friend from the UK. I gathered all the self-confidence I could muster and sent him a tweet that read: “Know anyone in the UK looking for a great communications person?”

One minute later I got this reply: “Why are you asking the question when you know the answer?”

Sonning on Thames, White Hart Hotel

So now I am officially working part-time for Essential Hotels in Berkshire, England. I will be writing for their new US website (launching early 2012), blogging at Essentially Laura and tweeting about travel in the US & UK @essentiallaura.

My English teacup collection

I now “fancy myself a Brit.” I will be traveling to my beloved England often. Perhaps I will even live there one day.

But for now, I am sitting here (in my big black boot) blogging about waiting. Again.

And I couldn’t be happier.

* Special thank you to Tony Deifell, author of Seeing Beyond Sight for this quote from Their Eyes Were Watching God by Nora Zeale Hurston. You inspire me. You can follow Tony on Twitter @deifell.

Lessons in Waiting (part two)

Manteo waterfront

I will never forget the summer of my 18th year when I moved to the beach to live with my brother in the sleepy little town of Manteo, North Carolina. We occupied a rambling old turn-of-the-century house with cracks and creaks and bats that got in through the woodstove. It was primitive and magical.

My days were spent either on the beach slathered in baby oil or working at The Island Art Gallery and Christmas Shop where I sold Christmas ornaments and fine art to tourists from New York.

The Christmas Shop

At 5 pm, however, I’d take off my apron, hop into my little red truck, and hurry over the Causeway to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. There I would sit alone on a dock in the middle of the marsh, waiting for the sun to go down.

I always took my journal. Sometimes I wrote poetry. Often I would just sit. And watch. And wait.

Sunset over Roanoke Sound

I remember feeling a tinge of sadness as I cheered the sun to its resting place. The day was now officially over. What had I accomplished? What had I neglected? What did I regret?

You wait, wait, wait, and then–poof! Like those sunsets, the waiting is over and the thing you have waited so long for has either been realized or eluded your grasp.

So what’s to be learned then?

Waiting, as difficult as it is, should be a time for reflection and preparation.

What am I learning about myself while I wait? Am I content living “in the tension”? Or am I restless? Impatient?

Am I wasting today worrying about what might, or might not, happen tomorrow? Or am I growing (emotionally, spiritually, creatively) so that, whatever the outcome, I can look back and see my time of waiting as a gift?

Once more I find myself in a period of waiting. Waiting for a creative break. For a paradigm shift. For a man whose heart sings to my own.

This time I am determined not to waste the wait. This time I will grasp that moment of breathtaking beauty just before the sun slips behind the horizon. And I will hold on tight.

At least until a new day dawns.

Waiting (part one)

Journal entry from February 7:

Just had a HUGE blue heron walk into view of my writing desk window. He stood there staring at me for the longest time (almost 10 min.) before walking into the woods. Maybe it’s because I’m part Cherokee, but this didn’t escape my notice. Out of curiosity, I looked up the significance of herons. Here’s what I found on one website:

“In ancient Egypt, the heron was their phoenix, symbolic of spiritual rebirth. I believe [so says the writer] that the standing heron as it waits for hours like a statue is symbolic of a person’s current state: they are waiting for something very important, they are in a state of stasis, and nothing in the world will bring them what they need apart from waiting for the passage of time to deliver it.”

Don’t believe in omens, but I must say, that one is spot on . . .

The List (top ten destinations)

1.   Great Britain:  London. Cambridge. Oxford. The West Country, Cotswolds, & Lake District. Oh, heck. The whole thing. Edinburgh and Ben Nevis in Scotland.

2.   Spain & Portugal – I was in Barcelona for 24 hrs. I want to see more.

3.   Italy – Tuscan countryside. Sicily. Venice, Florence, and Rome (third time’s the charm)

4.   France – Paris (you knew I’d say that). Giverny. Provence.

5.   Greece – remaining islands

6.   Fiji and Bali

7.   Prince Edward Island – lighthouse tour

8.   The Big Country – Montana and Wyoming

9.   Taos and Sante Fe, New Mexico. Sedona, Arizona

10. The arms of a special someone.