Beauty Carved In Flesh and Blood

Piper Bayard

Each year, the beautiful August McLaughlin orchestrates a celebration of women and beauty. Drop by her site this week at the Beauty of a Woman Blogfest V for prizes and tributes to the Beauty of a Woman.

 

Waterolor beautiful girl. Vector illustration of woman beauty salon

 

Beauty Carved In Flesh and Blood

I am the body that learned to walk, that ran in the sunshine and kicked off shoes to dance in the rain – the body that thirsted for life.

I am the body that was “too tall,” “too fat,” “too feminine” for boys to let join in their games – the body so embarrassed that it had to hide.

I am the body the men whistled at, honked at, and devoured with their eyes – the body that strutted with sexual pride.

I am the body that was violated, shamed, and silenced – the body that wanted to die.

I am the body that choked on its anger, was strangled by cancer, and fought back with faith and laughter – the body that was no longer whole.

I am the body that thrilled to a lover’s caress, rejoiced at the quickening of my womb, and writhed in the primal screams of childbirth – the body that gave life and by it was made whole once more.

I am the body that cooked dinner, nursed wounds, taught letters, and did not sleep for a decade – the body that fed its children on its flesh and bones.

I am the body that grew crooked and crippled before its time, suffered surgeries and rehab, and contorted with agony – the body that learned to walk again.

I am the body that looks in the mirror and sees wisdom etched by laughter into its face and beauty carved by blood into its scars – the body at peace with itself.

I am old.

I am beautiful.

I am the body of a woman.

The Power of Self-Indulgence

Bayard & Holmes

~ Piper Bayard

Nicotine patches are flying off the shelves and personal trainers are working overtime as every gym across the nation fills with the January Resolutioners.

image from US Air Force, wikimedia commons

The Resolutioners are easy to spot, and their shelf life is plastered all over their approach.  The overweight guy who’s straining to press his maxed-out set of three? He’s done now because he just hurt himself. The lady sitting on the mat, looking around for someone to talk to between her two sets of ten stomach crunches? She’s out January 4^th. January 5^th if she’s with a friend. But the aging realtor in the power training class who ran out, vomited, and came back? She’s the one to watch. Ask her name. She’ll have the bikini bod by July. The difference? She wants to be there.

The hard fact is that people do what they want to do. Period. Most resolutions are about “should,” and shoulds never pan out.

Here’s an example for you. I took an aikido class where I was almost the only woman with a lot of hot babes. None of them smoked. I did. When faced with the gorgeous, clean-living martial arts hunks, I was ashamed of that fact. I decided I needed to either quit smoking or come to terms with it. Since quitting was difficult, and I didn’t like difficult, I chose to make peace with my choice.

I watched myself objectively. I discovered that I began by justifying the cigarette. Then I lit up and enjoyed the first third of it. That’s when the self-recrimination kicked in. . . . Why can’t I just quit? Those hunka hunka aikido guys would never want an ashtray-mouth like me. . . . I vowed it was my last cigarette forever and felt strong for a while because, in the words of an old friend, “Junkie always strong afta he fix.”

Since my resolution was to smoke proudly, like Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not, I short-circuited that cycle at the point of self-abuse and turned off the negative talk.

I told myself to just smoke or don’t. It worked, but not like I thought it would.

When I used smoking to beat myself up, I felt like a loser. When I felt like a loser, I had an excuse to fail in all of my goals. Beating myself up was a way of abdicating my responsibility to do my best in this life, right now, today. When I removed that self-abuse, I no longer had the Lame Loser Excuse. Smoking lost its appeal. It became nothing more than a dispassionate choice. I chose to quit and never looked back. Good thing since I could never afford it now.

Since then, my only resolution has been to do what I want. I vowed to be a secretary forever if I wanted. One year later, I started law school. I vowed to eat all the sweets I wanted. I lost 30 pounds. I vowed to only write when I wanted. I now have two bestselling novels to my credit.

That’s because something deep inside each of us wants what’s best for us. If we surrender to that voice, we rise above self-destruction.

image by John, wikimedia commons

In that spirit, these are my 2016 resolutions:

1. I will eat all the donuts I want. Especially chocolate donuts.
2. I will sleep in any time I want instead of going to the gym.
3. I will yell at my children whenever I want. (Looking forward to that one.)
4. I will buy every pair of shoes I want, even the ones that don’t fit well and serve no purpose.
5. I will only write when I want.

And as for the January Resolutioners at the gym? Good for you! I’m rooting for you and hoping you will only come to the gym when you want. I’m hoping you will want often, and that I will see you on the beach in July.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Piper Bayard is an author and a recovering attorney. Her writing partner, Jay Holmes, is an anonymous senior member of the intelligence community and a field veteran from the Cold War through the current Global War on Terror. Together, they are the bestselling authors of the international spy thriller, THE SPY BRIDE, now available on kindle and in paperback at Amazon and on nook and paperback at Barnes & Noble.

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The Power of Indulgence

By Piper Bayard

Nicotine patches are flying off the shelves and personal trainers are working overtime. And every gym across the nation is filled with the January Resolutioners.

image from US Air Force, wikimedia commons

The Resolutioners are easy to spot, and the gym rats know just how long each of them will stay.  The overweight guy who’s straining to press his maxed-out set of three? He’s done now because he just hurt himself. The lady sitting on the mat gossiping between her two sets of 10 stomach crunches? She left January 4^th. January 5^th if she’s with a friend. But the aging realtor in the power training class who ran out, vomited, and came back? She’s the one to watch. Ask her name. She’ll have the bikini bod by July. The difference? She wants to be there.

The hard fact is that people do what they want to do. Period. Most resolutions are about “should,” and shoulds never pan out.

I took an aikido class where I was almost the only woman with a lot of hot babes. None of them smoked. I did. When faced with the clean-living martial arts Chippendales, I was ashamed of that fact. I decided I needed to either quit or come to terms with my vice. Since quitting was difficult, and I didn’t like difficult, I chose to make peace with my choice.

I watched myself objectively. I discovered that I first justified the cigarette. Then I lit up and enjoyed the first third. That’s when the self-recrimination kicked in. . . . Why can’t I just quit? Those hunka hunka aikido guys would never want an ashtray-mouth like me. . . . I vowed it was my last cigarette forever and felt strong for a while because, in the words of an old friend, “Junkie always strong afta he fix.”

Since my resolution was to smoke proudly, like Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not, I short-circuited that cycle at the point of self-abuse and turned off the negative talk.

I told myself to just smoke or don’t. It worked, but not like I thought it would.

When I used smoking to beat myself up, I felt like a loser. When I felt like a loser, I thought I was a loser. When I thought I was a loser, I had an excuse to fail in all of my goals. When I removed that self-abuse, I no longer had the Lame Loser Excuse. Smoking lost its appeal. It became nothing more than a dispassionate choice. I chose to quit and never looked back. Good thing since I could never afford it now.

Since then, my only resolution has been to do what I want. I vowed to be a secretary forever if I wanted. One year later, I started law school. I vowed to eat all the sweets I wanted. I lost 30 pounds. I vowed to only write when I wanted. I now have a publisher. That’s because something deep inside of us wants what’s best for us. If we surrender to that voice, we rise above self-destruction.

image by John, wikimedia commons

In that spirit, these are my 2013 resolutions.

1. I will eat all the donuts I want. Especially chocolate donuts.
2. I will sleep in any time I want instead of going to the gym.
3. I will yell at my children whenever I want. (Looking forward to that one.)
4. I will buy every pair of shoes I want, even the ones that don’t fit well and serve no purpose.
5. I will only write when I want.

And as for the January Resolutioners at the gym? Good for you! I’m rooting for you and hoping you will only come to the gym when you want. I’m hoping you will want often, and that I will see you on the beach in July.

The Pool Walker’s Creed

By Piper Bayard

Long ago, Holmes and I discussed the fact that we’re no good to each other dead. As we age, we have to work a little harder at that not getting dead thing than we used to. So we agreed that our bare minimum fitness requirements demand that we walk at least one mile every day. For Holmes, that translates into a 12-mile vertical hike. For me, that translates into . . . walking at least one mile a day.

I don’t talk much about my health issues. Hell, they bore me. I can’t imagine that they would interest you. But as it’s relevant, I will share that I have moderate arthritis in my hip and back. “Moderate” means enough to hurt all the time, but not enough to take any permanent surgical measures. It also means that I am genuinely in the “move it or lose it” stage of life, and sometimes, walking my mile is an agony. As a result, I have become that which I used to dread. A pool walker.

 

Pool Walker. Not me. She would kick my butt.

 

The gyms I go to always seem to have those windows in the workout room that look out over the pool. I can’t pretend to know what everyone thinks when they’re climbing their mountains on their stair steppers and ellipticals, but I was once guilty of gazing out at that pool and thinking, “I’m working hard to put off the day when I, too, will be a heavy-set blue hair who can do no more than walk around the lazy river.” Ah, the vanity of ignorant youth!

Then came injuries and age, and I found out first hand that deterioration comes to us all. We can only hope that we live in such a way that character and wisdom balance us when we lose the ability to Salsa all night in high heels.

Fancying myself to be someone who always does what she must, I swallowed my pride, put on my mom-style swimsuit, and went to a pool walker class. What I found was that it stretched muscles I never knew I had. It left me sore in a good way, and nothing genuinely hurt the way it had for so long.  I also found that those heavy set blue hairs kicked my butt. They have to have some serious balance and poise to do all of their calisthenics against the current. Shame on me for ever thinking pool walking was somehow a lesser fate.

I hate swimming. I hate swimming pools. I hate what swimming pools do to my skin and my hair. . . . No one sets out in life to be a pool walker. No one. We are all there because it is what we have to do to stay active, alive, and useful to ourselves, our families, and our communities.

So for myself, my family, and my writing partner, I take the Pool Walker’s Creed:

I will never quit. I will brave every child-ridden kiddie pool, every rude teen queen in a bikini, and every derisive glance from the young studs who are trying to impress the teen queens in bikinis. I will forge every toppling current in every lazy river if that is what it takes to avoid unnecessary pill-popping, surgeries, and deterioration, so that I will stay as strong as possible for my family, my friends, my partner, and myself. Because the only thing worse than working out, is not being able to.

What have you done to survive that you never thought you would do?

Because Laughter is Apparently the Only Medicine

By Piper Bayard

No matter what your stand on Obamacare, it’s undeniable that so far it’s falling ludicrously short of White House promises, from the crafty bait and switch that is resulting in a majority of people having to change their health insurance* to the Healthcare.gov website that will forever stand for monumental bureaucratic incompetence.

So what can we do? At this point, there’s nothing we CAN do but laugh. Let me help you out with that today.

Join us over at Bayard & Holmes by clicking on the link below, and remember to transfer your subscription to the new site. We would hate to leave you behind.

Bayard & Holmes

Because Laughter is Apparently the Only Medicine

Having Fun in Bed

By Piper Bayard

I always say the only thing worse than working out is not being able to, and that’s why I go to the gym. Even when we’re doing our best, though, those inevitable illnesses and injuries come along that keep us semi-bedridden for a while. I’m currently going through one of those times myself.

I find the challenge is to keep my spirits up and not give in to thoughts about how long it will take to recuperate, but rather focus on what I can do today. The most important way to accomplish this is to keep up a variety of character building, brain stimulating activities. These are some of the things I’ve found to pass the time during my breaks from reading and writing.

image by Poptart at wikimedia commons

10 Ways to Keep Occupied In Bed

1. See how close I can roll to the edge of the bed without falling off.
2. Practice burning the edges of satin ribbons with a lighter without turning them black. (It’s an oddly addictive activity. Don’t judge.)
3. Make a genuine effort at levitating the dust off of the ceiling fan and into the trash.
4. Howl back at the neighbor’s dog.
5. Make prank phone calls from my cell phone to the house phone downstairs.
6. Watch all episodes of Breaking Bad.
7. Mourn the fact that there isn’t another season available.
8. Repeat 6 and 7 with Game of Thrones.
9. Pause to wonder if J. “R.R.” Tolkien and George “R.R.” Martin are related.
10. Contemplate changing my name to Piper “R.R.” Bayard and writing high fantasy. Suppose Aaron Paul and Bryan Cranston would star in the movie?

What do you do to keep your mind active when you’re stuck on bedrest?

Besides the obvious, that is. We do keep a PG-13 blog here. 🙂

All the best to all of you for staying gainfully occupied.

The End is Near (and we deserve it) . . . “Howdy Ho!” Boxer Shorts

Seems we’re all still here today, but men, if you show up in the bedroom wearing these, this really could be the end of the world for you.

Yes, they’re real. You can find them at WalMart. If you do go to WalMart just to find these, please do the world a favor and stay there.

Blogs and Articles in No Particular Order

Today, I thank Kristen Lamb, who first gave me the idea of The End is Near (and we deserve it). She compiled a few choice apocalypse predictors of her own this week.  The End is Near and We Deserve It – The Top 12 Reasons Earth Deserves Annihilation

Warning to Instagram users: Instagram Says It Now Has the Right to Sell Your Photos.

Twenty-three years ago this month, I lost my first husband to mental illness. There simply was no one with the tools to help him. It was an event that divided the people in my world in no uncertain terms: those who unflinchingly stood by me, and those who suddenly didn’t know my name. I could never have predicted who would fall into which camp. When I read this article by the mother of a mentally ill son, I felt her sense of despair to my core. ‘I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother’: A Mom’s Perspective on the Mental Illness Conversation in America

Via Rachel Funk Heller, we have this gem. 26 Moments That Restored Our Faith In Humanity This Year

Award Winning Author and International Best Seller Vicki Hinze shares 10 Christmas Fun Facts. What was the biggest Christmas present ever? What was used for the first artificial tree? How did Christmas stockings get started? Who’d have thought?

Some frank and encouraging talk from historical fiction author and publishing attorney Susan Spann. Watch for Susan’s debut novel, CLAWS OF THE CAT, due out this July. An Open Letter to Authors Who Hear a “No”

Air Force Pilot Relays Coordinates of Downed Pilot by Senior Airman Scott Saldukas. An excellent example of how being prepared can save lives.

Some great observations from Jenny Hansen. Who doesn’t need more time? Thoughts on Being Busy

Kitt Crescendo dug up a fantastically twisted but hilarious clip with Johnny Carson and Mona Aboud. What Did You Say You Wanted for Christmas?

Considering those boxer shorts, I thought it might be appropriate to bring in some certified HO! Specialists for our video. Anyone remember this guy?

And for our insightful Campaign Style Poll Daddy of the week . . .

Due to the Great Trinity Alignment of the Mayan Calendar Turn, the Holiday Season, and the Flu Season, posts here at Bayard & Holmes will be sporadic until January 2.

Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! Happy Solstice! Cheerful Kwanzaa! Intensely Satisfying Bah Humbug! to all of you from Holmes and I. A big thanks to all of you for your patronage. We appreciate each and every one who gives us the time of day. May your 2013 bring you gentle lessons and abundant blessings.

Piper Bayard–The Pale Writer of the Apocalypse

Hospice: Telling People I See Their Butts

By Piper Bayard

Someone recently asked me what I do as a Hospice volunteer, and I told her that basically, it’s my job to tell people I see their butts.

Hospice is a service dedicated to providing people with the most comfortable death possible. We tend to physical, emotional, and spiritual needs of patients who usually have less than six months to live. We call ourselves midwives because each of us has felt that overlap between this life and the next as heaven opens to receive its newest child.

image by I. Craig, wikimedia commons

When I first told my friends I was training for Hospice, I got a number of reactions.

1. Uhmm . . . Better you than me.

2.  Wow. I could never do that.

3.  She’s such a Drama Queen that should be perfect for her. (Said behind my back by a catty belly dancer and passed on to me by another catty belly dancer.)

Most often, though, I got a mystified look and a disbelieving shake of the head with the question, “Why?”

The smartass answer? Because it’s easier to deal with dying people than with my teens. Dying people are a temporary commitment, but my teens want to hang out on my couch and eat my groceries forever.

The real answer? Because when my mother was dying, I was all she had. Since my children were young, I couldn’t be with her at the nursing home more than a few hours a day. I really wished someone could sit with her when I couldn’t. So after she died, I realized that was something I could give to someone else.

One thing I’ve learned from my work is that dying people tell the best stories. They are a hoot. I’ll be talking with a woman who looks like the quintessential grandma. You know, the kind that bakes cakes that really do look like Thomas the Tank Engine and flinches at the word “sex” because she couldn’t possibly have ever had it. No grandma ever has, right?

So I’ll be talking to this grandma with wise eyes and perfectly coiffed hair, except for that messy spot that mushes up against her pillow, and she will tell me some crazy stories from the youth her family never knew she had. She thought she was so smart at fourteen, smoking in the bathroom and blowing it out the window, until she opened the door to find her father standing there. She stole away from home at seventeen to elope with a boy, only to jump out of the car at the Washita bridge in the middle of the night and run all the way home, still single. At forty, she and her friend got a wild hair one day and did a “Thelma and Louise” cross-country, but without the flying leap at the end. Ten days later, their husbands both took them back.

image from “Thelma and Louise”

And then there are the other stories. How her mother and father stopped speaking after that night he came home so late, and the family grew cold and distant. How she regretted not marrying that man she left at the Washita bridge. How her husband didn’t really die of a heart attack like she always told the world, but that he committed suicide, and she never knew why.

As humans, we have a deep need to say, “Yes. I was here. Did you see me?” We need to know we did not grow and bloom and die in a vacuum. We need validation, because parts of us are like our butts. We can’t see our butts. We may feel them, but we need a mirror or a friend to tell us what they look like. As a Hospice volunteer, I give people the gift of letting them know I see their butts. Yes. Those parts of you are here, and I see you.

Today, I’m dedicating this blog to Teri Parks, who was born into a new life almost a month ago. She loved to laugh. Not only was she the best Mrs. Claus ever, but she also threw the social event of the season every 4^th of July with a dozen fried turkeys, bubble-blowing guns, horseshoes, music, and 150 of her closest friends. The world is a little colder with her passing.

When I went to visit her on her last day, she had the greatest blessing a soul can earn in this life. A room full of loving family and friends, talking and laughing and remembering with her, confirming for her that, yes. She was here, and they saw her. All of her. And she was beautiful.

Do you have witness in your life who tells you they see your butt? Do you do that for someone else?

All the best to all of you for a week of validation.

Everything I Need to Know about Twitter I Learned from Hospice

By Piper Bayard

As some of you know, I volunteered with Hospice for a time. I am also blessed with the best tweeps (Twitter friends) on the planet. So much so that lately a few people have come to me for advice about how to find such amazing tweeps. It’s simple. I treat everyone like they are about to die.

George Washington on His Deathbed by Junius Steams

No, I don’t ask them for their stuff. . . . Well, okay, there was this one woman. But I knew her melodramatic threats to kill herself with a spork while reading my first manuscript were completely insincere. I mean, she doesn’t even go camping to own a spork. Though come to think of it, I haven’t heard from her for a while. But I digress. . . .

This calls for a list. When people are dying . . .

1. We don’t judge them.

Their Judgement Day will come soon enough, and the Big It needs no assistance from us on that score.

2. We do listen to them.

In that moment, they are more important than we are so we keep our mouths shut and our ears open.

3. We do let them know they are heard.

This doesn’t mean we agree with everything they say. It means we validate that they said it. One way to let them know we heard them is to say, “That sounds . . .” Difficult, painful, amazing, intense, etc. I mean, when someone tells us their mom is in the ICU, it’s not hard to find an adjective. It does sound painful and intense. When they tell us the book contract came through, it does sound joyful.

4. We don’t argue.

Letting people know we heard what they said is not the same as agreeing with them so we are not violating our integrity when we refrain from disagreeing. “It sounds like you feel quite passionate about that.”

5. We don’t offer unsolicited advice.

Most of the time when we want to fix other people’s problems, it has nothing to do with being nice people. It’s because their misery is making us uncomfortable. So we understand that other peoples problems are not ours–we have plenty of our own–and we simply provide our presence unless they specifically ask for something more. “That sounds like a difficult situation.”

6. We don’t whine about our problems.

It’s one thing when we share the truth of our lives, such as our allergies, our sudden hospitalizations, or our sadness when a child leaves home. It’s another to whine about our hemorrhoids. (Note: Hemorrhoids are those pains in the butt that never really go away, like wretched stepmothers, drunken relatives, or abandonment issues.) Dying people may be interested in us, but NO ONE wants to hear about our life’s ‘hemorrhoids’.

7. We do validate their feelings.

When they say they are angry because a new jerk on their HOA board is going through their neighborhood counting dandelions and sending out violation notices, “I can see why you would be upset about that.”

8. We do validate their lives.

We read their words and comment on their pictures, and we let them know we are a witness to their existence. People need to know we see them.

9. We do find sincere, positive things to say.

We notice their accomplishments. We notice their efforts. We notice the beauty of the day.

10. We do show our gratitude.

We say thank you. Because every single time they share themselves with us, it is a gift we may never experience again. And every single time, they didn’t have to do it.

Making great Twitter friends is simple, because it’s like life. What we give is all that matters, and we may never get the chance to give to this person again. So treat everyone like they are dying.

Or, as William Shatner says, “Live life like you’re gonna die, because you’re gonna.”

I’d love to chat with you while we’re here. Please follow me on Twitter at@piperbayard and say hello. I always follow back humans. You can also find some awesome Twitter friends at the hashtag #theconnecter.

What social media tips would you like to share, and how did you learn them?

My sincere gratitude to each of you for sharing this moment in time with me.