Archives for 2012

Vote for your favorite January “My Gutsy Story”

February 2, 2012 by Sonia Marsh

VOTING BADGE — Vote for your favorite January "My Gutsy Story"

From February 2nd until February 14th midnight, PST, you can vote for your favorite January 2012, “My Gutsy Story.”

To VOTE, please go to the poll on the right side of this post. You will find it on the sidebar listing the names of all 5 “My Gutsy Story,” authors.

Here are the 5 stories. Only ONE vote per person.

1). Lois Joy Hofmann

2). Dodie Cross

3). Sara Padilla

4). Pamela Sisman Bitterman

5). Kenneth Weene

The winner will be announced on February 16th. Winner gets to pick their prize from our 9 sponsors.

Good Luck to all of you. Your stories are amazing and inspiring. HELP your fellow writers out by clicking on the SHARE links below.

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Next Monday February 6th, we have a wonderful new “My Gutsy Story.” If you wish to submit your own, please check out the guidelines and sponsors on our “My Gutsy Story” contest page.

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I’ll share My Gutsy Project, which I’m doing with my husband next Thursday , February 9th on my blog. Please come back and see.

My Gutsy Story by Kenneth Weene

January 30, 2012 by Sonia Marsh

“Being a Hero”

One thing I have to admit – I’m a coward. So what the heck was I doing with my fingernails digging into the tiny crevices of the slate roof? What the devil was I doing crawling along the peak of a roof five stories above a parking lot that was rapidly filling with police, fire fighters, and gawkers?

No, I wasn’t drunk or high. And I certainly wasn’t suicidal. I wasn’t, but the young woman teetering on the far edge of the roof was. She had somehow made it out of the psych ward, slipped through a window onto the roof of the chapel – that huge vaulted wing of the hospital — and had walked the crown of that building to the far edge, where she now stood screaming at the world that she was going to jump.

Even as I edged towards her, part of me was hoping she’d go off. Then I could wait patiently until I could be rescued by those experts who now impotently stared up at her. There was no way I wanted to keep moving forward – no way this story could end well. Still I moved ahead, inches by inches, slate capping stone by slate capping stone.

What propelled me. Not a personal concern. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t want to know her name. I didn’t work in the psych ward, not really. I was just a summer intern in the community mental health unit. My job description – do little, stay out of the way, and on occasion make a fool of myself. I also carried papers around. That was why I had been at the same floor as the psych ward, why I had been passing that window as she tightrope walked her way along that roofline.

For her it must have seemed so simple. Bare feet on either side of the peek, walking as easily as if she were in a meadow; perhaps in her head she was. Her robe was flying about in the breeze. She paused for a moment, took it off, and dropped it on the slates. It slid down the roof, gathering speed as it went.

I watched her move gracefully towards the end of that roof, and I slipped out the window after her, dropped to my knees, and then to my belly. I’m not particularly good with heights. I get vertigo when I look down any distance. I’m fine when I look out, but looking straight down – perhaps it’s my astigmatism. I clung to the roof and inched forward.

In my head there was a constant refrain: Talk her off the roof. Get her back to safety.

She reached the end of her journey and looked over the edge. It had seemed only seconds, but the watchers and rescuers had already starting assembling. She began a colloquy with them. She wanted to die. She had nothing to live for. Nobody cared.

That, finally, was my opening. “I care,” I yelled. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be out on this damn roof trying to get to you.”

Another inch forward.

She looked back, saw me, and asked who I was.

“Your friend,” I answered hoping that she would accept my word at face value. A summer psychology intern would hardly instill trust and acceptance; a friend might.

“You could get hurt,” she called to me.

“So could you.” There was a pause. “Let’s get the hell off this roof.”

“I want to die.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody cares.”

“I care,” I tried again, “or I wouldn’t be out here.”

“Oh.” She came towards me.

“I lost my robe,” she said as she came closer.

“We’ll get you a new one.”

I inched backward. Suddenly there were strong hands grabbing my ankles and pulling me back through the window. The young woman was right behind me. They helped her through the window, gently oh so gently. Then, once she was through, they wrestled her to the ground, stuck a needle into her, strapped her into a straightjacket, and hauled he back to the ward.

“What the hell were you thinking of?” my supervisor asked.

“It just seemed that I had to do—“

“Don’t ever do it again. Do you realize how lucky you are?”

“Believe me I do. I was terrified I’d fall the whole time.”

“Who’s talking about falling? If she had jumped while you were out there talking to her, we could have been sued. In which case, young man, you would have been better off if you had fallen.”

The next day in the cafeteria one of the aides came over to me. “That was great what you did yesterday.”

Maybe, maybe not.

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Kenneth Weene Bio

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil

A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.

Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, and Empirical.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk and Memoirs From the Asylum, and Ken’s newest novel, Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, which should be out January, 2012, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit: http://www.authorkenweene.com

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Thanks Kenneth for being a hero and for saving this woman’s life. I know readers will praise you for what you did. I am curious if this woman ever spoke to you about your heroic deed later on. Please check out Kenneth’s new book and book trailer on his website.

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Our second POLL starts February 2nd-February 15th to VOTE for your favorite JANUARY “My Gutsy Story” of the month.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”you’d like to share?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our 9 Sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

Please leave your comments and questions for Kenneth Weene below, and click below to share his story with others.

Have you tried couchsurfing?

January 26, 2012 by Sonia Marsh

Have you heard of couchsurfing ?

I hadn’t until a few days ago when I met my friend Melissa Adams, a fantastic travel writer, who moved from Newport Beach, California, to Amsterdam, Holland. She wrote a story about her biking safari in South Africa, and other Gutsy adventures, called “Follow Your Dreams and Find Yourself.”

Melissa explained how couchsurfing has been a wonderful experience for her and how she’s been able to make new friends from around the world, either by hosting them at her place in Amsterdam, or by staying on their couch/spare bed, in foreign cities for free.

I started thinking about how many options we have in life that we don’t take advantage of, due to lack of knowledge, fear, or some other reason.

I’m sure most of you are thinking, how safe is couchsurfing? I asked Melissa to explain this, and why anyone would consider couchsurfing.

“I learned about couchsurfing through my son, Blake, when he was studying art in Florence, IT. The concept fascinated me as a way to meet locals and experience destinations the way residents, not tourists, experience them. Since 2007, I’ve surfed couches in Vienna, Jerusalem and Paris. For the past year, I’ve hosted guests from around the world in Amsterdam, of all ages and all walks of life. I’ve never had a bad couchsurfing experience. Indeed, my visits to foreign cities have been enriched and deepened through the eyes of locals. And my guests have taught me so much! I learned how to make homemade mayo from Austrian world-traveler Angie and how to travel to the Galapagos on the cheap through Ecuadorians Juan and Leo. My friendships are now global and I’m confident any of my past guests would gladly host me in their cities.

To those who think the concept of staying in the home of a stranger is unsafe, I say this: Couchsurfing is a world-wide community based on trust and the desire to connect with people of different cultures. Hosts are verified and prospective guests can see testimonials and references on their profiles. Hosts can also research guests through their profiles. While I’ve been robbed in traditional hotels and know others who’ve found intruders in upscale hospitality digs, I’ve never lost a trinket or feared for my safety when hosting guests or sleeping in the homes of former strangers.Couchsurfing is open to those who don’t have a couch to offer. While reciprocation is nice, it’s by no means mandatory. You can be a guest and down the line you might become a host. However you tap into the network, one thing is certain: you’ll have interesting friends from around the world, as close as a click on a computer.”

Take a look at Melissa’s profile on the couchsurfing website.

Yes. CouchSurfing is committed to making it easier for all people to explore the world and share inspiring experiences. It will always be free to join CouchSurfing. Hosts should never charge their CouchSurfers; anyone who does will be removed from the site. Most CouchSurfers do like to thank their host with a small gift or an act of kindness (such as cleaning the house or cooking a meal), but this is not required and should not be requested by a host — the only thing that’s expected is an inspiring experience!

Melissa Adams
Travel & Lifestyles Writer

Learn how I found myself in Amsterdam

Read some of my cover stories.
Globetrot with me at The Write Brain and Trazzler.
Learn about European travel & cycling.
Tune in to my YouTube channel.
Join me on Facebook!

“What gets the equivalent of 1,000 miles per gallon, doesn’t pollute, will save the world, and transports you in breezy style? Your bike.” —Mark Jenkins

If you would like to learn more about safety, and have your questions answered, such as:

Is CouchSurfing safe?
Where are CouchSurfing members located?
Do I have to let everyone stay at my house?
Do I have to host someone first in order to surf?
How is the privacy of CouchSurfing members protected?

“Members choose which information they wish to share with the CouchSurfing community by selectively filling in their profiles, and by customizing their privacy settings. “

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Melissa will be happy to answer your questions below. Please share with others.

I searched Orange County, California, and to my surprise found many couchsurfers in my city. Now if I need a free couch to sleep on around the world, I know where to go.

House-sitting is another option which Nikki Ah Wong, wrote about in her “My Gutsy Story.”

I’m a firm believer that there are always ways to see the world, make new friends and experience new adventures, for less money, if you are Gutsy like Melissa and Nikki.

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Short Video from Sonia Marsh to thank you for your “My Gutsy Story” submissions

“My Gutsy Story” by Pamela Sisman Bitterman

January 23, 2012 by Sonia Marsh

My checklist is getting checked off. I have the basic necessities covered. There are other details I could obsess over, more material I could learn, extra gear I could bring. But I imagine that I’ll be able to make do with what I have or grab what I need on the fly. I feel pretty good to go! My faculties are sharpening into adventure mode. And my old gumption that has been busting a gut to get loose for a quarter century is now ever present, even at three a.m. when I lurch wide awake from my warm bed in a cold sweat and blurt out, “What the hell am I thinking?”

It’s not that I’m having serious personal reservations. It is simply that moms tend to worry that their families will implode without them. As it happens, I find that I am not in the least fearful for myself. In fact, I discover that I’m as game as ever to take this next leap of faith. The “yee-hah!” exhilaration of climbing out to life’s edge has never entirely died out in me. It’s merely been lying dormant beneath a meticulously constructed, implied housewife persona, a twenty-five year stint of nurturing-mother prioritizing for which I have absolutely no regrets. Everything has turned with the seasons, as they should. And a bygone time has finally come back around, although to what purpose under heaven remains to be seen.

That being said, this go-for-it attitude of mine does pose a psychological incongruity that I do have some measure of difficulty coming to terms with. I am experiencing a powerful, altruistic desire to “go help starving children, be a blessing in the world, touch just one life,” with a hefty side of, “travel, have an adventure, get out there, prove you can still do it,” purely selfish thrill-craving. Like a cup of warm milk with a Wild Turkey chaser. When I ask my husband, who has actual skills and a medical background, if he is planning to accompany me, he replies, “Pami, I have a job I love, responsibilities, the mortgage and college tuitions. I don’t need to go. I don’t even want to go. This is your dream. And yes, I am afraid for you to go. But I know you. And I am more afraid for you not to go.”

No, I don’t want to go without this wise man, but I want to know that I can. I don’t need to fly halfway around the globe to be benevolent but I do need to get back out into the big world. I have no concrete conception of what I am moving toward but the lure of the unknown pulls me like a familiar drug. There is nothing in my life to escape from and yet the passive act of staying put evokes despairing thoughts of, “Oh, if this is all I’m going to do, then just shoot me now!” Some things never change. This is still the same me, just me a little older, me a little slower, me jetting off to Kenya . . . with Ian.

Ian is our son’s pal, the child of a good friend, a physician who personally knows the doctors who are running the program that I am going to join in Kenya. Ian knew about the project from his father and was committed to going even before I was. He is a lot like the “me” of 24 years old. And I cannot fault him for that.

However, I have to say that having one of my children’s schoolmates in on my personal journey of self-reinvention wasn’t in my blueprint. I fear Ian will disrupt my somewhat anal and scrupulously economical organization. I am packing the bare minimum, just what I think I can get by with; for example, one handful of laundry tabs, one small two- in-one bottle of concentrated shampoo/conditioner, one bar of soap, one package of antibacterial wipes separated into several neat little plastic snack bags, and one box of energy bars. One! I envision Ian bumming a tab for his rank clothes, a dab for his cruddy hair, some suds for his grimy bod, a swipe for his germy mitts, a bite for his grumbly tummy. And will I deny him, scold him for being unprepared, admonish him for being selfish, berate him for blowing my cover and outing me as “the mom person” I am endeavoring to leave behind? Never. I am resigned and actually curious to discover how it will all play out between us. When his folks implore me to please look after Ian for them, I tell them that we will look after each other, figuring that I can at least keep myself off the liability hook to that extent.

Truth be told, Ian and I do look after each other. We both prove to be ready, savvy, daring, caring, and gung-ho—intrinsically different, independent explorers embarking on a journey to discover our separate ways—together.

And what grander venue could we dream up in which to have at it than extreme Africa. The Dark Continent looms outrageous and I find I am not permitted not to be outraged. The media blitz has played on this brilliantly. Hollywood is literally and figuratively all over the map with the Dark Continent and they aim to pluck my purse strings. From Oprah to George Clooney, Angelina Jolie to Madonna, HBO to CNN, Bill Gates to U2’s Bono. There are brochures advertising the dozens of religious charitable organizations with their hands out, along with a smattering of non-ecumenical groups. Then there are the governmental and non-governmental organizations, the grants, fellowships, and philanthropists. Africa’s plight is discussed on the floor of Congress and at the annual G-8 summit.

I can’t help but gag on the grisly need, while feeling sick from the force-fed horror. Consequently, I gamely truck right on over to a little godforsaken corner of Kenya. Enter my story—timely, unique, honest, important, shocking, and first-person true.

Pamela Sisman Bitterman Book Muzungu Cover_7 — "Muzungu"

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Pamela Bitterman’s first book, Sailing To the Far Horizon, her own story of life, loss, and survival at sea is graphically biographical. It encapsulates the author as product of the first thirty years of her life. Muzungu, the story of the author’s unlikely escapades throughout Kenya, picks up on that journey a couple decades later.

She has also written a children’s book titled When This Is Over, I Will Go To School, And I Will Learn To Read; A Story of Hope and Friendship for One Young Kenyan Orphan. Finally, the author has penned a homily entitled, Child, You Are Miracle. Links to these, plus trailers to her three published books can be found on her website: www.pamelasismanbitterman.com

Bitterman’s writing has emerged amidst her travels, adventures, and finally her marriage and children, her persona as wife and mother – the heart of her; the author as her best self. Her future remains to be seen, and to be told.

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Sonia Says:

Pamela, thank you for sharing your Gutsy attitude and for being so honest. I enjoyed what you said, ” I am experiencing a powerful, altruistic desire to “go help starving children, be a blessing in the world, touch just one life,” with a hefty side of, “travel, have an adventure, get out there, prove you can still do it,” purely selfish thrill-craving.

I would like to do something like this myself and the fact that your husband said, “This is your dream. And yes, I am afraid for you to go. But I know you. And I am more afraid for you not to go.”

Please leave your comments and questions for Pamela below. She will be over to answer.

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Do you have your own “My Gutsy Story” to share?

Please view the guidelines and the prizes from our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page.

Gutsy cave-tubing in Belize

January 19, 2012 by Sonia Marsh

After our morning of zip-lining and repelling, we welcomed a quick Belizean lunch consisting of chicken, rice and beans, with fresh, juicy pineapple for dessert.

Now it was time for the six young women and I, to try cave-tubing in the underground caves of the meandering Caves Branch River. In a weird way, I looked forward to overcoming my fear of claustrophobia, and what better place than in the underground caves where the Mayans had once lived and worshipped. Considering this happened to be one of the most popular tours in Belize, I refused to back out.

Photo credit kthypryn

The young women and I changed into our bikinis, and carried our inner-tubes through the jungle. “How many of you thought you’d be hiking in the jungle in a bikini, with an inner tube and flip flops? I asked. “What a fashion statement,” one of the girls said. A section had been landscaped for the tourists, with paths and labeled trees, such as the poisonwood tree. “You better stay away from that one,” I told the girls, remembering how my son, Austin, had suffered for five weeks after touching a poisonwood tree when we first moved to our hut in Belize. We reached a small area of rocks perched above the Caves Branch River. “For those of you who don’t want to wait, you can jump off this rock,” Sylvan, our guide said. “Others can take the path to the right and wait in line.”

“Are you sure it’s deep enough?” I asked Sylvan

“Yes.” So I jumped in.

The water was refreshingly cold by Belizean standards, around 70 F. I settled my butt inside the tube and waited for the other six women to join me. They all took the speedy route, jumping in one after the other.

“Who wants rum punch?” Sylvan asked. I vigorously flapped my arms backwards to reach him. I figured better to numb my claustrophobic fear with a cocktail than be overly anxious for the next hour and a half.

“That’s one strong punch,” I told Sylvan.

“I made it myself. It makes the ride more fun,” he said. It certainly helped for the moment, however I couldn’t figure out how to hold my drink, flap my arms and move forwards into the dark caves, since the river current didn’t seem to be cooperating. “Bingo! Just in the nick of time surprise number two. Marco, another young Belizean guy, showed up. “Why don’t you put your feet under Tracy’s tube and we’ll form a chain,” he said. “I can pull both of you along.” Now I’d been upgraded to first class, rum punch in one hand, gliding effortlessly inside dark caves with a miner’s lamp attached to my forehead.

Some beautiful photos of cave-tubing from the Caves Branch website.

We weren’t alone in these sixty- foot wide caves. Several cruise ship passengers were ahead of us. The inside of these vast caves was illuminated by flickering miners’ lamps. Poor Marco did all the work while Tracy and I looked around the caves’ ceilings looking for bats. Marco pointed out some beautiful stalactite crystal formations with an extra strong flashlight.

“Butts up,” Marco shouted, breaking my relaxed trance.

“We’re reaching a very shallow spot only four inches of water, and your rear end gets a rocky ride if you don’t lift it as high as you can.”

We slid along to the impossible spot forcing us to get out of the tube and walk over some painful rocks. Fortunately, Sylvan showed up for a rum punch re-fill, just in time.

I preferred zip-lining to cave-tubing. I had hoped to see some Mayan artifacts and with chilled bones inside dark caverns, I couldn’t wait to get out and warm up. Walking on slippery wet rocks was no easy task, but this was our only option to get out of the river and change into our dry clothes.

The old, yellow school bus, our transportation back to the boat, waited for us with reggae music blaring; just what I needed for the ride home. Rum punch and beers flowed, and everyone seemed content and exhausted. Sylvan stopped at a local store to get some ice for our drinks, and then we headed back to the boat.

“It’s going to be a long boat ride home, especially as the winds are picking up, and rain clouds are forming,” Sylvan said. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten my jacket. Now I only had my wet beach towel for protection. Belizean rainstorms were aggressive, especially when sitting in a moving boat. They attacked you with piercing pellets resembling mini ice picks injuring your skin. I had two choices, either to laugh or to cry. I decided to laugh; it helped ease the pain.

Above photo credit Satanoid.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

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