And suddenly, his life made me wonder, when did we stop taking responsibility for ourselves?

As a little boy, my grandfather found his mother shortly after she committed suicide. A few days later, he found a note from her in his sock drawer…a note he interpreted to mean she killed herself because of him. His dad didn’t know what to do with him, so he sent my gramps off to live with his cousins. His cousins treated him horribly, and on and on the story goes of no one ever wanting this incredible boy. Not until he fell in love with my wonderful grandmother was he really wanted. And yet, he never played the victim. Never acted out of his circumstances. Always worked hard to take responsibility for himself and his actions. He remained a good man, chasing service above self and education.

Now, it seems, we’re more apt to pinpoint our shortcomings on our less-than-ideal home life. As though we’re excused from really treating people with respect, or entitled to be a little rude, or selfish, or unforgiving, because of situations in our past that made us this way. A poor home life is the ultimate bandaid.

Well. I think it’s time to grow up. To get over “what’s been done to you” and start doing right towards everyone else. And my best friend, Madea, had some great thoughts on the subject.

I am aware some people have been raised in horrible, life-altering situations. And I’m not saying everyone has the opportunity or wherewithal to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. I know some folks who have had things done to them that literally makes me think they’ve been to hell and back. But they’re also more likely to step up to the plate and take responsibility for themselves. Not all, but more than you would think.

So c’mon, Gen-Y! Let’s do this thing! As far as it is possible for us, let’s keep the peace. Take responsibility. And live like we mean it.

He was more than a grandpa. He took an active role in my life. In all his grandchildren’s lives. We were educated on history and geography and science and the arts when we were with him. I was 10 years old when he realized, horrified, I didn’t have every waterway to a country of my choice memorized. I was 12 when he attempted to teach me how I could always tell which way was north without a compass. He taught me how to eat politely at dinner parties. He taught me how to ask questions. He taught me how to put together a kite, and how to catch a fish.

He was tough as nails, but was so acutely aware of what was happening around him. He truly sought out opportunities to serve. He served in three wars as a pilot for B-17s and C-130s. When he was in Vietnam, he spearheaded a campaign to build a well in the Negative Barrio, which is where non-contagious lepers lived. He was generous with his time, money, resources and talents. I’ve never known anyone his equal.

I came to see him two months ago. He wasn’t doing too well, and I was crying as I was saying goodbye. He looked at me and said, “Why are you crying?” I told him it was because I was going to miss him. He looked at me, eyes tearing up a little, and said, “Miss me? I didn’t know you were aiming for me.” Then he laughed and wiggled his nose, like he always did when he wanted to make us kids laugh.

So…to David Solomon Kahne…thank you. Thank you for working so tirelessly to help shape me into the person I am. Thank you for your love. I can sincerely, and honestly, say I wouldn’t be who I am without your care. I couldn’t ask for a better grandfather.

And I really…really…really don’t want to let the things I’ve picked up in Spain to wear off once I’m back in the US.

Here…you let life happen. You ENJOY. You take your time. You laugh. You let relationships happen. You strike up conversations with the people at the table next to you. You’re invited over for a drink. You breathe deeply. You rest well. You take yourself less seriously. And it’s wonderful.

I’ll miss the sangria…cafe con leche…patios facing the ocean and conversations with locals and travelers alike. I’ll miss the pace. I’ll miss the pubs during World Cup wins, the beachside sushi in Sitges, and the upfront frankness of the men. (I mean it…it was fascinating to be spoken to so bluntly.)

But I just hope I can live like this once I’m back in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Hollywood. To step back and remember to enjoy the moments, love people, be hospitable to others, and find lots (and lots) of time to laugh. And to those of you who see me on a regular basis…please remind me. : )

For now…I pack. And try to remember every detail of this summer. If you want to take a peek at my time, you can do so here.

Why some, and not others?

I think part of it may come from highly social communities. I remember people being really socially exhausted in Nashville, so it was more likely for walls to go up with some folks. It wasn’t necessarily to be a jerk (although it comes off that way), it was just a defense mechanism to preserve our energy for the people we feel more naturally drawn to.

And while I think boundaries are good…I don’t think choosing who we are (and aren’t) kind to is an okay way to go about it. I see this tendency far too often in myself. And I hate it. So…it’s time to wage war on myself. To painstakingly cut that out of my character. To offer grace to those who aren’t kind to me…because I understand where their reasons may spring from. And to those I’ve treated in this manner…I’m very, very sorry.

For now…here’s another Spain peek:

Aslan's in Madrid! With Edmund and Lucy!

I forgot my sunglasses. Bad. Move.

What mealtimes look like these days.

Google sponsors Madrid's Gay Pride & Owen enjoys a Corozon Bandera Gay (he was not *at* the parade, fyi)

The day we *thought* we were getting Owen's cast off.

Again, please cue the “You care too much, Rachael. Get a grip.” theme song.

I was walking through Jardines de Retiro, a beautiful park in the middle of Madrid. I happened upon a small lake surrounded by ducks and geese. Not an unusual sight…until I spotted one female duck squaking and quacking as several male ducks held her pinned to the ground. I got closer, and two of the male ducks had their beaks around her neck, holding her tightly to the ground as they, ahem, had their way with her.

I didn’t want to look like the crazy American, by swatting the ducks away…but as more and more Spaniards gathered with looks of horror or sadness on their faces, I thought it was okay to intervene. But even tossing my shopping bag at them and yelling at them to “scram” didn’t stop them. She fought hard…and managed to escape a few times…but they kept getting her back. To the point that she didn’t have many feathers left on her head afterward (the male ducks pulled them out when they were trying to hold her down).

Someone…please…tell me they’re just ducks. And that this is the way it’s been happening for as long as the world has been turning? Por favor?

1) Spanish. Coffee to go is “Cafe con leche para llevar, por favor.” What’s in the croquettes is “Lo que hay en las croquetas?” No seafood is “No mariscos, por favor.” And finally, to get a guy away from you is, “Soy una loca americana que problamente mas de comunicarse con usted acerca de sus sentimentas y le empuja a resentir mi. Mejor seguir el ritma.”

2) I LOVE the coffee here. I prefer coffee treats in America, but the standard single shot of espresso here is perfection!

3) You won’t find a big salad. So stop trying.

But it’s beautiful. It’s hard to deny that there is a purpose in all things when you’re overlooking a city filled with tiled roofs and winding, cobblestone streets and history and architecture and sangria and laughter and ease.

Today the Smith clan is headed to La Isla Magica in Seville…a water/amusement park. I’m thinking about heading to La Museo Baile Flamenco and taking a flamenco class. Wouldn’t that be a riot? And I could put it on my acting resume, as Holly reminded me before leaving for the park. Hmm… My other (favored) option is heading to the Palace here and sitting in the gardens with my book for the afternoon. To be surrounded by ponds of fish and tall palm trees and strutting peacocks and labyrinths of hedges…this isn’t a bad life.

Quietly goofing off in the Alhambra Palace | Granada

Doorway to La Sagrada Familia | Barcelona

Cathedral: Day and Night | Seville

Listening to a Spanish guitarist in Plaza de Cruz | Seville

I’m about two feet away from hopping on the PETA, animal rights, ASPCA train. I’m about to give up meat, volunteer all my free time at an animal shelter, go back to school to become a vet, the list goes on and on and on. (And maybe I’m not really planning on becoming a vet…but perhaps working in a vet’s office?)

All this to say, traveling around Spain has been a little tough on that front. I’ve wanted to start a “Spay & Neuter Your Pets” campaign, as well as bathe every animal I see (to include cats…and that’s a big step for me). I saw a dying sparrow in Cordoba and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night…I passed by the line of horse-drawn carriages a few times in Seville yesterday, and a few had sores and scars on their noses from the bridles. And then there’s Pamplona coming up in the next couple of weeks. We’ll be on a balcony overlooking the running of the bulls…but I’m already prepared to be in the fetal position for most of that day. (And if you’d like to join Ricky Gervais in a step to end bullfighting, you can do so here.)

So…that’s it. That’s where I’m at. Someone…tell me I’m crazy. Tell me there’s room for moderation. Tell me it’s the cycle of life for birds to die. Tell me dogs have done just fine with all of their organs and limited baths. Tell me horses get scrapes and sores just like humans do, and they seem to carry on. And someone *definitely* tell me if I hop on the PETA train they’ll stop being my friend. And remind me how good a juicy cheeseburger is. And how life simply isn’t the same without bacon. Please?

And for now…here’s a peek into my life in Spain so far.

Yep. Lots of beautiful architecture, babies with forks, fountains and peeking into doors. I love it all.

Turns out it’s a way to check for oral cancer, something that is starting to be diagnosed more often. And why is it diagnosed more often? Not just because of the usual suspects (tobacco and alcohol), but because of mouthwash. I know! I was shocked, too! Apparently, if you use mouthwash on a regular basis, and it contains alcohol, you’re at a higher risk for oral cancer.

On top of THAT, constant trauma to your mouth can heighten your risk for oral cancer as well. And that means me. When I get stressed, I chew on the inside of my cheeks. I even bit *through* my upper lip when I was at my most stressed point.

So…basically…if you want to keep your teeth, jaw, tongue, etc…go easy on the alcohol and tobacco, get non-alcoholic mouthwash, and don’t chew your cheeks to bits.

That’s it. Just new information I felt was vital enough to pass along. : )

Skip Hopkins is the lovely photographer that took my headshots shortly after I moved to Los Angeles. I knew him from Nashville, and as fate would have it, he happened to be visiting LA at the very time I was looking for new headshots. Although it was his first time dabbling in that form of photography, his professional creativity ended up being what has got me in the door for every audition I’ve ever gone on.

No. Seriously. I mean it.

I wouldn’t be able to get my foot in the door anywhere if it weren’t for his work. In fact, almost every casting director has said to me when I’ve walked in the room, “Wow. This is a really great headshot!”

What astounded me most about Skip was his dedication to the project. He was serious about what he was doing…he didn’t go halfway with me just because I was a friend. He scouted out locations for the pictures, researched what made a great headshot, and walked into our session prepared and ready to work. And the best part? HE DIRECTED ME. He didn’t rely on me to know what I was doing. He told me when to soften my eyes, mouth, hands, arms, etc etc etc. I was more confident because he took the initiative.

And, for you LA folk, the really good news? He’s here for the rest of the month, with the hope that he’ll be moving out here full time soon. So if you need headshots/model shots/wedding shots/fun shots/baby shots/pet shots/tequila shots, he’s your man. Okay…I’m not sure about the tequila shots. He may be more of a Jack man. You’ll have to ask him directly.

Skip Hopkins, guys. He’s a lifestyle editorial photographer who can really do it all. You won’t be disappointed.

www.skiphopkins.com

I’m 27. Incredibly young. A whole life ahead of me. So take these words with a 27 year old grain of salt. I could change my tune completely in two years. But after the handful of relationships I’ve been in (and out of), I feel like I’ve learned a bit about how to be respectful of the other person when ending things.

If you’ve only been dating a few months, all you have to say is this:

“I’m sorry. My feelings have changed. I don’t know why. But they have. And staying with you longer is keeping you from the person you’re supposed to be with.” (and thank you, Paul Padgett, for the inspiration and thoughts behind that last sentiment.)

But that’s it. Period. Keep things simple. There’s no need to harp on every point of the other’s personality that drove you crazy or stifled you. Just firmly, and kindly, let them know that your feelings have changed.

If you’ve been dating longer than a few months, like a year or more, you have more ground to say why you feel like the relationship needs to end. But you can still do this without pointing the finger in an exhausting blame game.

Never. ever. ever. EVER say this, or any variation of it:

“You’re more into this relationship than I am.”

Well, DUH. You’re breaking it off. That statement does nothing but negate the entire relationship, and leave the dumpee feeling really misunderstood and foolish, with no recourse. So zip it, folks. You can do the deed without pouring salt into that open wound.

I just want to relieve the world of feeling like the ending of a relationship has to be big and drawn out. All you need to do is give the same respect to the other person during the breakup as you did in the relationship. It doesn’t have to be awkward, or uncomfortable. Will it be? Probably. But keep the focus on being KIND, rather than being right. Either way, you’re coming out of the conversation single. You might as well do it with your head held high. (And if you’re not coming out of a break up convo single, there are forms available at your local police precinct. They’re called restraining orders. Never underestimate the message a restraining order will send.)

And finally…as you’re wrapping things up…please don’t say, “You’re an incredible person.” It’s not the time. It seems trite. If you want to get across the point later that they’re so incredible, carrier pigeon it over. But telling someone you’re dumping that they’re incredible is a little like saying, “I’m sorry, BUT…” No one believes an apology that has a “but” after it.

I know this is all so subjective. Relationships are messy. They probably will never not be messy. I just really want there to be some way for all of us to realize how much weight our words have on others.

So. Be Kind. Rewind. : )