Rosanna Pittella
Bio
Ideation and thought leader, specialist in all things business, technical and change, Rosanna shares Alice of Wonderland’s habit of “imagining 6 impossible things before breakfast” and demonstrates daily that no problem is unsolvable.
Stories (9/0)
Night Owls & Rebirth
The old farmstead was not as I remembered it. I parked next to the rusty carcass of a disintegrating tractor next to the rotting barn, my eyes filled. The last time I had visited, my grandparents had met me at the front gate, frolicking with the joy of seeing me, as I stepped off a rural bus that dropped me right there. Grandpa grabbed my bags, and Grandma my hand as they hustled me up the then spanking new, then deep red and bright white barn, of which they were so proud and then to the farmhouse, and one of the most sumptuous meals I had ever eaten. Tears rolled down my face, that I didn't bother wiping away, as I walked to what was left of the big porch at the front of the house. It lay in shambles looking very little like where hand carved rockers stood, and where the most delicious hot apple pie and coffee were served, enjoyed along with Grandpa's many silly jokes, tall tales, and songs he and Grandma knew by heart and sang in harmony. At one point or another every evening Grandpa would point at the barn and say "There they go, like clockwork" as we all the two huge, beautiful barn owls swoop from the hay bay out to begin the night hunt. "Go ahead my friends," he would say, " Safe hunting. Go feed them babies." And they would, and they did, and although I was not allowed to go visit the owls nest in the barn rafters, I would hear the cheeping of the owlettes, and see their parents come in and out time and time again. My Grandparents had very firm beliefs about many things including "their '' night owls, because, they said, unlike the horses, cows, goats and chickens on the farm, the owls "chose" to live there, and bless them. They believed living their good lives, being kind to others, and working hard, being faithful to each other and their family, that they earned blessings, manifested in tangible things like resident owls, good crops, enough rain, good health, good everything. In the end, they were confused, and heart broken because, as my Grandpa said as he wasted away, grieving the loss of his wife just weeks before, "Child, how did we run out of blessings?"
By Rosanna Pittella2 years ago in Fiction
How to stop saying NO to yourself by saying YES to SELF LOVE and (finally!) A Positive Relationship with FOOD
Here is a litmus test for you: When you look in the mirror, hear yourself speak, watch yourself in a video, see a picture of yourself or a reflection in a mirror or store window as you go by, or view your image in a zoom call, how do you feel about it? Does what you see reflect the person you think you are, and are you cool with it? Asked another way, Does your image make you happy, sad, neutral, embarrassed or other? For me, raised as I was, and a result of all manner of feedback over a life time, seeing myself simply expanded an already quite robust level of self hate. I realized one day that if I did not make a change that I was going to look back over my life and with my dying breath realize I had never, ever learned to love myself. In some areas I certainly had a bit of pride, academics for instance, and professional pursuits, and I rationalized my existence as an agent of charitable efforts. Certainly, I am fully aware, that I have taken care of countless others, and as predicted by my merciless, malicious mother from my earliest days, would never feel compelled to ask or expect anything in return (not because I was selfless but rather because I was simply undeserving of appreciation). That is an old story and luckily now a vestige of the past, no longer steering my course. I hope as you read this you simply cannot relate - because living a life with no sense or self appreciation, with minimal self care, and even less self prioritization, is brutal and sad. Worse, it is a terrible example for others who might actually think you know what you are doing. However, in my journeys these days in the corporate world and as a certified health coach, I realize that my fun-house mirror self perception is not unique, sadly, but quite pervasive and common, I notice especially in the case of women.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Humans
The Power of Photos and Mirrors
The Power of Photos and Mirrors Growing up I avoided being around people with cameras, getting caught in candid shots, or heaven forbid posing for pictures. I hated pictures, people who took pictures, people that shared pictures, being in picture and most of all my mother getting a hold of any picture of me. When they took school pictures every year it was an absolute nightmare. I couldn’t stay home sick that day because I had to have perfect attendance (yeah it was a thing). I couldn’t avoid having the pictures taken because the teacher, a young or old nun in full wimple and habit, rosary beading clacking as she walked would not allow such disrespect (and besides I could not lose my status as teacher’s pet, another thing). But man, did I hate the whole ritual, the picture taking, the distribution of the hated picture packets, the collection of the payment for the pictures from my parents to be brought into school, etc. But the worst part was the mean spirited critique my mother would do every year. Why didn't I fix my hair nicer? Why am I not smiling? Are you kidding? . When will I go on a diet and lose all that fat? And of course the never ending, you sister always looks so beautiful in pictures, sigh. And then me, humiliated, saying things like, Mom, you don't have to buy these. Sister said if you don’t like them just return them. Only a shrug and a sigh as she mournfully wrote out the check and handed it to me disgusted. Every year - year after year - even when in high school as yearbook editor my pictures actually rocked. As a favorite of the photo club that took the hsots, I actually saw a few that were not half bad. Yet, the story at home was always the same. Over time I realized that my mother’s hang up was that I actually look a lot like her - and she hated herself, and thus the venom towards me and pictures. Cerebrally I came to know that, but emotionally still could not bear cameras and pictures, associating them with feeling ugly, criticism, fat shaming, and embarrassment.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Families
Mother Nature's Tattoo
Mother Nature's Tattoo Are you aware that the powerhouse of every one of your cells, every single one, is a gift exclusively from your mother? Yes, that legacy came down generation after generation to you ONLY through the mothers, one after another in your direct genetic line. I remember when I found out about Mother Nature’s Tattoo, or perhaps more accurately every mother’s tattoo, when my favorite Biology professor discussed research that proved that mitochondrial DNA is passed down from mothers to their children, exclusively. He went on to say that since the mitochondria of every cell, the critical powerhouse of cells, and in fact, of human life is provided by mothers only, no dads. It was just around Mother’s Day as I recall, and he made a point of saying that like it or not every single person in that classroom, including himself, was completely saturated with gifts from our mothers, and that we owed them a lot. Mother Nature’s Tattoo, as he called it, is forever embedded in the human story and biology, like it or not, the females of the species rule on this point, AND each of us women in the room would be continuing a legacy that started with the very first humanoid female that walked the earth.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Families
Making It All Click Together
People who think they know me, actually buy my laid back, retro hippie vibe, it's-all-good, everything-just -falls-into-place aura. Little do they know what the woman behind the current is doing to produce that show! My life is a mosaic, a 10,000 piece puzzle that clicks together and seems pretty smooth, and is certainly productive and the trick is ridiculously simple. When your world is just not clicking together the way you would like, there are really simple steps to make that happen - it’s ridiculously simple and quite intuitive - but it took me a long time to realize what I needed to do.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Motivation
The Wisdom of Morgues and Delis
I have heard people say all they ever really needed to know is what they learned in kindergarten. Nope. I don’t think kindergarten lessons can hold a candle to what I learned over a dead body or a pastrami on rye with a pickle. I actually never attended kindergarten - it was a half day type thing and my mother wanted me out of the house at least till 3 PM, so that was out. But I can say that the countless hours I have spent in morgues and delis have been the height of enlightenment.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Families
I Blame Aquarius
I Blame Aquarius My less than stellar track record when it comes to love, luck and happiness have a very simple root cause: I am Aquarian. Yep, I have looked back at every whoops, faux pas, idiotic decision and crashed dream, and after careful examination and soulful root cause analysis, the truth is each was inevitable and I blame Aquarius! First of all, my mother, (hereafter to be referred to as The Empress of Pain, more on this later) was a. Scorpio, believe me that deadly scorpions were not just her astrological sign but her spirit animal. This chubby smiling Aquarian child and The Empress were doomed to be nemesis from the start. Her favourite child was a nice safe Libra swinging this way and that and always landing feet on balanced scales. School was heaven for me, sure, but Catholic academies are not good places for the idealistic Aquarian’s who just can’t take no for an answer. When Chatty Cathy Aquarian’s just can’t help asking questions that challenge the status quo, problems ensure. Like at the school trip, in 4th grade to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Families
The Matriarch's Notebook
Pages faded gold, splayed, spewing from its torn black cover, sprawled forgotten on a dust heap in the far corner of the garret, it lay barely visible in the growing shadows of sundown. How odd, I thought, to find this small but unsightly mess in an otherwise pristine, perfectly appointed house, staged for sale; an oversight I guessed by that ambitious realtor who had seen to every other detail with annoying gusto. Drawn to the curved bay windows overlooking the street 3 stories below, I knelt on the century old bench. Oh, what people might have seen from this perch a hundred years ago when the house was first built, by the pretentious looking people whose portraits still hung in its marbled foyer. My late, very single father, estranged from his family for most of his life, and all of mine, never spoke of them. Though a few of those immortalized bore maybe the slightest of resemblances to either of us, from my point of view, they may as well have been Martians. Turning to sit, I realized that this garret was likely built and outfitted for the servants of the house, simply, elegantly, cozily, nestled in its eaves. My eyes were drawn along the wall of fresh pink paint and then back to the annoying corner debris, probably left for removal when the faded floral carpeting was replaced with something far more modern. With idle curiosity, I decided to take a look at the discarded notebook which when shaken free of dust and wood chips, appeared to be an old journal with curled, fragile fading pages of loopy handwriting. Scanning a few, I noticed that most entries ended “Yours, Judith.” Judith. Judith? Had I not seen that name in the portrait gallery below? Intriguing! As I hurried down the winding stairways to each landing,I was careful with my new prize, which moments before had been trash. The steps ended at the foyer with its glistening marble floor, and vast gallery of family portraits. Ok, so which of you chic, bejeweled, coiffed ladies might be Judith?
By Rosanna Pittella3 years ago in Families
