The Storyteller's Calling

I was walking along the beach when I ran into a man in an orange prison jumpsuit. I was a little afraid since the shoreline was deserted except for us and a few seagulls.

Should I keep walking? Run like mad? Call 911?

You'd think living near Hollywood I'd know by now things often aren't what they seem. Turns out the "escaped convict" was an actor waiting for a camera crew.

Watching the actor, photographer and ocean move with each other was like turning the pages of a book. Storytellers - crafting lines with images instead of words.

In my mind the beach melted away and I was back in Haiti where I'd write sitting under the mango tree. This is where I finally got it: for some of us storytelling is a calling, not merely a job.

"The times when I got to uncover someone's story," said Kezia, "when I got to ask questions and discover something I would not have known had I not hunted for it, those are the things that moved me."

Watching the story being written on the shore stirred something in me. The calling. Yes, it's still there.

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Jump Cut

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

"Mommy says my legs are fat," the little girl said quietly.

I'm all for fighting childhood obesity but she didn't even look chubby. Labeled "fat" by first grade, I wondered what demons lurked in her future: self-hatred? depression? perfectionism?

I was such a perfectionist that a professor worried I'd crack under the intense pressure of a TV career. 

"You're too hard on yourself," she cautioned as I tried to fix a jump cut (an unintentional edit in news that makes it look like there's a jump between two shots) in my story.

While a jump cut isn't fatal, there's no room for imperfection when performance is measured frame-by-frame. The bad edit was like a neon sign: FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE.

To prepare us for TV's relentless demands, certain mistakes meant automatic failure. 

Misspelled name? "F." 

Mispronounced city? "F." 

Late to class? Don't bother coming. "Doesn't matter who you are," our professor warned, "the news airs without you."

It took years for me to see the difference between perfectionism and excellence. I finally got it when I heard a speaker say, "If your perfect life is coming between you and love, you're paying too high a price."

What he meant is: If your husband is afraid to kiss you for fear of smudging your perfect makeup and your kids walk on eggshells for fear of ruining your perfect house, then your perfect life costs too much.

For the times when life is messy or our thighs are fat or there's a jump cut in our story, perfectionism is unforgiving; excellence gives grace.

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Time to Shine

Maria Peterson Photography

Goodbye 2010. Time to shine in 2011.

People often ask why I moved to a place they call Sodom, meaning Los Angeles.  What they really mean is: "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!!" 

Honestly? 

I wanted to see my legs again. wear sundresses. dance on the beach. drive with the top down.

Friends promised I'd get used to the cold, foggy Bay Area summers. I never did. 

And I didn't even consider moving back East in winter; suffered too much frostbite reporting in blizzard conditions. We'd freeze even wearing station-issued parkas.

I didn't handle the cold or the spotlight well back then. Viewers could be mean, my ego fragile.  And they didn't teach us in journalism school how to handle haters.

"Honey, blot your lips!" a viewer had sneered at my first TV job. Yet, our anchor Pam had turned being trashed into treasure. 

"Blot?" she'd ask before going on set. It became our code for, "Do I look ok?" 

What we were really saying is, "I got your back."

So what was I thinking moving to LA?  Well, sunshine. But in my heart I was saying, "God, here I am. Use me.  If this is the place, I'm ready." 

So thanks for your prayers. Thanks for having my back.  Time to shine in 2011.  Blot?

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Trinkets and Trees

Maria Peterson Photography

Tiffany's and some other luxury brand stores just opened in our coastal town. Amusing -  the juxtaposition of beach-goers dressed in tank tops and flip-flops toting those exclusive little blue bags.

Did you know you can actually buy Tiffany's boxes on eBay?  

"For those who want to try to illicit the oohs and aahs without the genuine article," wrote Luxist blogger Deidre Woollard.

Deceiving loved ones by giving them fake gems in a Tiffany box? The Grinch would be proud. Reminds me of the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree because it appeared lush yet was bearing no fruit. No one wants to be deceived, whether by a trinket or a tree.

It seems we're growing tired of the chasing the elusive Hollywood and Madison Avenue fantasies. We long for the genuine: real love. intimacy. purpose. Maybe we're searching for substance over shallowness because of misfortune, maybe because of tragedy - the kinds of things that make us seek deeper meaning.

Whatever the reason, I pray you experience God's heart of love this Christmas and not settle for an imitation...even if it's wrapped in a pretty blue box.

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Brides, Brooms and Grooms

I've been home visiting family and a four-year-old who quoted me lines from Disney's The Princess and the Frog while insisting we rehearse for my wedding. 

Never mind that I'm not engaged.

Four-year-old is dead set to be a flower girl. She's decided I'm her best bet. 

"Let's practice for your wedding," she said, "You just need a broom."  Took me a second to realize she meant groom not broom.

I wasn't about to leave the warm diner where we were sharing Mickey Mouse pancakes for a fake ceremony in the cold. I tried offering alternative relatives.

"Practice with my niece," I said.

"Not her," four-year-old rolled her eyes dramatically, implying niece is a bad girl.

"What about grandma?" I tried.

"She has too many wrinkles," countered future Bridezilla.

Ever try arguing with a four-year-old wearing a pink tutu and tin foil tiara?  Arms linked, we walked slowly through the restaurant humming, "Here Comes the Bride."  Never mind strangers staring - when you're four, nothing inhibits love.

Surrendering the heart is so much harder as adults. I thought of several friends who are having marital trouble.  Love has grown cold. 

But then I remembered Solomon, the king who falls for an improbable bride: "See! The winter is past. Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me."

Flower girl may have seen one too many Disney flicks but I envied her openness to love.

Maybe the weather wasn't so bad after all. "Shall we walk like brides out to the car?" I asked. She excitedly replied, "And if you don't get a broom, maybe you can borrow my daddy!"

Love really is simple when you're four.

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In the Recording Studio



Matthew Marsden and Garcelle Beauvais in
"Eyes to See."  Photo: Caroline Choi photo

Just finished in the recording studio for Eyes to See. The film is based on true events surrounding the work of a relief team I covered in Haiti last January after the massive earthquake. 

The film's director asked me to voice the role of a newscaster for the opening scenes. This was my first time seeing footage.  Some scenes brought tears to my eyes.

The film's stars were at the recording studio when I arrived. Matthew Marsden (Transformers, Rambo) and NYPD Blue's Garcelle Beauvais needed to re-record some lines.

Between sessions, Matthew brought up  George Clooney's work in Sudan;* I had expected light-hearted from the funny Englishman.

"How can I help standing here in a recording studio in Hollywood?" the director ended the conversation - frustrated at our own inability to help, and also wanting us to stay focused  since we were running behind schedule. 

We went back to our lines but the question nagged at me. How can we make a difference when the need is so great? Sudan. Haiti. Hollywood - even here hundreds of homeless people sleep in alleys and beg tourists for money.

"At least one hospital..." I started the script again, grateful that at least my voice might draw attention to the plight of a country in need.

*(There are safety fears with concerns that the upcoming South Sudanese cessation vote may cause civil war.)

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Freely

On Tuesday, I will get up and choose what clothes to wear.
Somewhere else in the world a woman will be forced to cover her face, hair and skin in black cloaks.

On Tuesday, I will wear a gift--a necklace bearing a cross.
Somewhere a man will be executed for revealing his faith.

On Tuesday, I will drive to my appointments.
Somewhere a woman will face imprisonment for breaking the law by driving a car.

On Tuesday, I will make dinner with friends.
Somewhere a woman will be murdered for talking to a man who is not her husband; an "honor killing" her family will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to the store by myself.
Somewhere a wife will remain trapped inside her house, forbidden to travel, get an education or go out alone.

On Tuesday, I will dream about my wedding night.
Somewhere a girl will be subjected to genital mutilation; later, even while still in puberty, she will be forced to marry a man who may treat her worse than his livestock.

On Tuesday, I will flirt with my neighbor.
Somewhere a woman will be stoned for a suspected "sexual indiscretion" that she may never have committed.

On Tuesday, I will watch kids play in the park.
Somewhere children will be gang-raped and tortured; "spoils of war" soldiers will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to my polling place.Somewhere a man will die fighting for his voice to be heard.

On Tuesday, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving.
Somewhere from behind bars prisoners will pray for freedom.

On Tuesday, I will Dress. Drive. Work. Play. Dream. Love. Pray. Vote...freely. Please vote on Tuesday.

© 2010 Shay Holland

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