Troubled Tides of Tuvalu

I’ve tried, but I can’t erase the tiny South Pacific nation of Tuvalu off my mental radar. Tuvalu you ask? Yes, Tuvalu, better known as the first nation that may disappear under rising sea waters produced by global warming — you know, the environmental catastrophe some argue isn’t real.  I’m willing to bet some naysayers believe every minute of their favorite TV reality shows. I’ll address this wacky tangent a little later.

So back on point.  Located midway between Hawaii and Australia, Tuvalu became an obsession after I learned about eco-artist Vincent Huang. The Taiwanese artist may also be obsessed with this low-lying nation of  about 10,000 Polynesians. He uses his thought-provoking art to direct attention to the plight  of a shrinking Tuvalu, which for the past decade, has earned millions by selling .tv internet domains. Cyber fairy dust rained down on the world’s fourth-smallest nation more than a decade ago when it received its unique country’s suffix of .tv. Such domains are great marketing tools for television companies as well as video businesses and hobbyists.

But as fascinating as all that is, my obsession is with the indigenous people who call Tuvalu home. What is their history? What will happen to their simple way of life? Where will they go?

Afelee Falema Pita, the nation’s ambassador to the U.N., sounds the alarm wherever he can. While there is disagreement about what causes Tuvalu to be one of the most vulnerable places on earth to the rising waters, the Tuvaluans are certain about this: high tides are ruining their main crop, submerging fruit plantations and eroding coconut trees. Sea water actually bubbles up through soil.

But, real life, like on reality TV, be it about shallow housewives or inebriated slackers, is so much more fun to discuss than Tuvalu being the first nation to bear the brunt of nature’s fury with the polluting lifestyles of industrialized nations.

How I long to visit and tell this story about a distant people and place not on many mental radars but whose climate woes may be fueled, in part, by our nation’s gargantuan carbon footprint. That kind of makes this distant story a local one, regardless of where  you live. Tuvaluans have some amazing stories to share. I feel a need to share them. Actually, I must be precise: I am obsessed with sharing them.

So there, I put my dream assignment out on Internet blast. Who knows? Maybe someone can help make my pet project happen.  All I know is if I never talk about my desire to go and report on Tuvalu’s plight, I have a head start on nothing happening. Unlike Huang, I can’t draw. But I know a thing or two about delivering compelling stories that amplify voices that need to be heard. And my passport is updated.

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Pedometer + Hike = Bliss!

Armed with my new pedometer, a gift from hubby, we set out to clock 10,000 steps by hiking the restored Forest Hill Lake trail and the Buttermilk Trail to end up on Belle Isle in downtown Richmond.

The renovated Forest Hill Lake blew me away, starting with a marker to name the new pedestrian bridge for the Harvey Family, who were killed on Jan. 1, 2006. Their smiling faces etched in the bronze plaque saddened me. My spirit lifted as we passed the gussied up lake, with its cute gazebo and benches. Blessed with a glorious sky that occasionally hinted at dumping much needed rain, we trekked down a path into a world I never visited before in the decades I have called Virginia home.

The temperature dropped at least 10 degrees as we moved under a canopy of trees. What a loss when we fail to explore our own backyard, I thought. I felt otherworldly as we stepped gingerly over rock- and bark-studded trails that often snaked up and downhill. Having sprained my ankle a few weeks ago, I walked carefully in the steep woodlands. We were alone, except for a few mountain bikers and joggers whizzing by. Several times I glanced back, realizing this was a perfect opportunity for the trail demons to do away with us just like in horror movies. When hubby found a hefty branch for a walking stick, I exhaled.

Three miles later, we approached the fast-flowing river. I suggested we climb onto the boulders jutting from the James River and enjoy the view. Hubby wanted to head back to beat the rain. I reminded him he loved the water and we’d stay briefly. Mesmerized, we sat for 30 minutes. A perfect breeze whispered for me to stretch out and enjoy a nap just like a couple sleeping on their bellies several rocks away. But the gurgling dance of the river cascading through the Fall Line hypnotized me.  Serenity among the skyscrapers. Where had I been?

I shifted into kid-mode and pestered hubby with questions about the James River. Where did the river start? (Blue Ridge Mountains.) When the river was high, did it cover the boulder we sat on? (Yes.) Why didn’t we come to the river more often? (I didn’t know you wanted to.) I shut my trap as we gleefully watched a duck bobbing along in the current. Suddenly, he paused, his hind parts greeting the sky, as he dived for dinner.

We nodded with satisfaction at the diversity of the rock dwellers.  And we made a promise: same place next week. But we’ll be better prepared to enjoy this 410-mile long river’s charms with a picnic on a boulder and a beach towel for a daylight doze. When walking 16,321 steps (8 miles) in a matter of hours, chillaxing makes sense. When you have the majestic James River in your backyard to embrace, doing so is a gift.

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Telling the Henrietta Lacks Story

I stood in a packed hall to hear author Rebecca Skloot talk about a black woman from Virginia whose cells helped to develop a polio vaccine, reveal the secrets of cancer and lead to advances about cloning and gene mapping, among other research discoveries.

Skloot is the author of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.

Henrietta’s cells, known as HeLa cells, were the first “immortal” human cells grown in culture. Today, more than 60 years after her death from cervical cancer, they remain alive. These HeLa cells, taken without Henrietta’s permission, have generated billions of dollars although Henrietta’s family did not receive a dime.

The book gave a voice and overdue dignity to Henrietta, who until May 29, was buried in an unmarked grave. Rebecca has also started a foundation, funded in part by book sales, to provide college scholarships and health insurance to Henrietta’s descendants.

Rebecca’s book is a testament to the power of judicious research, steely persistence and artful storytelling. I had to meet her. So did many others on a recent sweltering evening at the Library of Virginia. A lady with yellow Post-it notes collected our autograph requests for Rebecca. Mine had four simple but challenging words: For Robin, keep writing!

As I approached, a woman sitting next to Rebecca handed her my request.

“So you are a writer,” she said, as I stepped up.

I nodded, but I didn’t want to talk about me. “I know it floors you when people say you were an overnight success when it took you 10 years to write a story that you became curious about at age 16,” I said.

She looked up at me and nodded. We chatted briefly about her long journey to write the book.

“What kept you going after all those years?” I asked.

She said she had to tell the story, was unable to let it go and that she has a stubborn streak. Instantly I realized we had struck up a real conversation and not fan-talk chatter. But mindful of the women waiting behind me, I smiled and moved on, upset that I had left my camera home.  I remembered I had a camera on my Blackberry. Hence, the bad photo above of this amazing wordsmith and woman.

Rebecca did not grow up wanting to be a writer. As a child, she wanted to become a veterinarian.  After failing her freshman year, she attended an alternative school, which allowed her to take community college courses. It was there that she learned about Henrietta.

It’s the stuff of movies and the story will soon be on HBO. Oprah will produce it. I hope Skloot writes the script, too.

Earlier that evening, when I scanned the jammed-to-capacity crowd listening to Rebecca, I was struck by the diversity of her book-clutching admirers. This story weaving African-American history, medical research, bioethics, greed and a family’s struggles connected with readers on so many levels.

Rebecca gave the largely unknown Henrietta the legacy she deserved, helped her children to learn about a mother whose death at 31 left her a stranger, and extended educational opportunities to her descendants  — all while making science engaging. Small wonder readers of all ages, shades and interests felt the need to greet this author whose masterful storytelling connects disparate cultures.

Because of Rebecca’s stubborn refusal to let it go, Henrietta’s story lives on along with her immortal cells.

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Halle Berry’s Body Double Inspires

LOOK TWICE: Body double Elise Fernandez and Halle Berry on the set of her latest movie, Dark Tide Picture: JON-LUKE LOURENSi

Renowned for her beauty, Halle Berry’s recent actions after meeting her body double, Elise Fernandez, speaks volumes about her inner beauty.

Fernandez, battling breast cancer since 2008, met her look-alike on the set of “Dark Tide,” an upcoming thriller shooting in South Africa. While getting their wigs removed after a scene, Halle introduced herself and marveled over Elise’s double set of dimples. Halle also learned that her stand-in came to work four days after surgery because she needed the money to pay for her mastectomy. Moved, Berry donated to Journey of Hope, a local cancer support organization.

“I got the voice-mail message on my phone as I woke up after coming out of the hospital theatre,” Elise said in an interview with the the Johannesburg-based Times. “It meant that I would have only four days to recover, but I was desperate for the money,” she said.

Rewind. For. Just. A. Minute.  I can only imagine the drive Elise possessed to get out of bed, toss the covers of self pity, and go to work to take care of her two sons and pay mounting medical bills four days after surgery to remove a lump from her right breast.

Sounds like someone needs to do a biopic about Elise, 37, who wears a  prosthetic breast in her bra on the right side and has a silicone implant on her left.

But you know what?  Sometime the world balances out and gets it right.  Elise’s encounter with Halle came at a time she could probably use reaffirmation, not as an aspiring documentary filmmaker but as a woman. I can only imagine the transformational power Elise felt as she stood in for one of the world’s celebrated lookers.Their connection inspired me and I’m sure many others.  Elise is a warrior who, like many women around the globe, battles adversity with resilience and grace and then cooks dinner. Hollywood needs help capturing their stories.

I just hope Berry remembers Elise for future film projects.

What also moves me about Elise’s situation is the circle of support anchoring her during turbulent times.  She has credited her sons, 12 and 16, and her boyfriend, who has told her he loves her scars and she is beautiful. Are we listening men? Kind words, thoughtful actions and real prayers deliver the combination breast cancer survivors embrace. I have a friend battling the insidious disease and I know what authentic gestures mean to her.

Elise and Halle embody the power of female bonding and remind the rest of us to help our sisters struggling with a disease that preys on a woman’s sense of femininity. Elise and Halle redefine gorgeousness and where it’s located: in the heart.

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A Night Stroll for the Soul

Rascal Flatts Starry Sky

A blue funk propelled me to lace up my sneakers and go for a walk. At 10:05 p.m. I am blessed to live in a lovely low-crime community (the perfect locale in horror movies, but I digress).

Off I went, droopy-shoulders, self-worth so low I had to pull down my socks to see it. I meandered shadowy cul de sacs and gawked at stars crowding the navy sky. In the darkness the neighborhood’s 80-foot trees seemed to loom taller and the velvet sky stretched forever. Dwarfed by such natural splendor, I felt more insignificant and really, really small in this grand universe. How could I, a speck of unfocused protoplasm, matter in the larger scheme of things?

Then I remembered Stephen Hawking and his new book. The Grand Design argues the universe created itself. God need not apply. I have not read the book but instantly disagreed when I scanned an article about it a few days ago. I remembered I paused, thinking that DNA is the instruction manual for life. I’m not a rocket scientist, but if instructions exist didn’t something create the instructions? I thought about this again as I passed towering trees, an infinite sky and winking stars.

Suddenly I began to feel better. That happens when I link unrelated thoughts and get a mini epiphany. I mattered to my family, friends and a few enemies. I mattered. If this hippy speck of protoplasm has an impact on the lives of others on this gargantuan planet, well… I was pretty awesome after all. Five minutes into my trek and already I felt better. Empowerment, regardless of the source, injects a bounce in your step and laughter in your eyes. I strutted down the middle of the road like I owned it, smiling like the suburban stealth killers in horror movies. A man walking his dog actually crossed the street as I approached with my insaniac grin and deliberate gait. I like to think the dog tugged him away in search of someone else’s lawn to defile. As we came within clear view of each other, he looked me over and determined I was safe. Maybe sane, too. We exchanged pleasantries.

I walked 1.5 miles, all the while appreciating the beauty of a desaturated neighborhood. I listened to the cacophony of creatures in the dark and inhaled fragrances of unseen flowers. By the time I returned home, I felt so radiant the stars asked me to dim my shine. Who knew a night stroll borne out of sadness could turn so delicious? Whether feeling blue or buoyant, I think a nightly stroll may be a habit worth forming.

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Tools ‹ Lives Rebooted — WordPress

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Hello world!

Welcome! This blog is about people who promote topics I am passionate about: screenwriting, female empowerment, diversity and philanthropy. But, at its core, this is my homage to individuals inspiring troubled souls (aren’t we all) to start anew.

Visit anytime for a cup of cheer and a bite of motivation.

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