Vivid Living

So I’m finally reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

I’ve been meaning to read the book for a few years but have resisted largely because of its grim plot.  Typically, I have no interest in books built around violence and destruction.

And yet this book is different. For those of you who haven’t read it (and I hope you do), I won’t give away the apocalyptic story line.  For me, I’m moved on a few levels. The writing is sparse and powerful.  “There were times when he sat watching the boy sleep that he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it wasn’t about death. He wasn’t sure what it was about but he thought it was about beauty or about goodness.”

Beyond the pitch perfect writing, the story is so raw and primal that it has deeply unnerved me. I’m dreaming in vivid colors – black rage, red fear, purple anxiety. Last night I dreamt that I got arrested for stepping off the curb with the wrong foot. The previous night I had lost my way and was running, en route to my children, who were lost and waiting for me. My first husband was in the dream and also my stepson.  I can’t quite make it all out but I woke to my own cry of “No.” Steve jumped.

For someone who usually can’t remember any aspect of her dreams, I find all of this fascinating.

I suppose I really shouldn’t read dark subjects before bed. Yet what lingers for me is that light and hope persist in the darkest of times.  That is what moves me deepest.

Because I know, and I understand.

My friend Julie and I celebrated our 40^th birthdays at the Red Mountain Spa in picturesque St. George, Utah.  We’re four years late, but who’s counting?

Julie and I were fresh-women roommates at Northwestern University (sorry, fresh-men just doesn’t sound right) and in large part, she beckoned me to Denver in 2006.

Back when life was simpler – when we weren’t juggling quite so many jobs, kids, schedules and losses – we tried to carve out special time once a year or even every second year, for a girlfriends’ getaway.  In more recent times, life’s been full for both of us, and while we manage to squeeze time for lunch or a walk, celebrating our friendship in this way – with three days of hiking, talk time and pampering – was a rare and wonderful thing.

Being with my friend, of course, was like diving into a velvety chocolate sundae. It feels so good and sweet that you just want to stay and play.

There’s more to it though.  Being a friend is one of the roles I hold dear, right there with wife, mother, daughter, sister, writer, and advocate. And yet when life pulls the way it does, it’s impossible to keep up with all the people in life who matter. We mean well; we just can’t be all things to ourselves and others all of the time.

Celebrating the part of me that is a friend proved to be just the elixir of wholeness I needed. I came back from Utah ready for action.

Make time for those friends that matter to you, when and how you can.

Celebrating friendship

“You kids need to go to bed NOW,” I hollered from the bottom of the stairs.

It was shortly after 9 p.m., past my eight-year-old twins’ bedtime, and fast approaching mine.

“But Mom, I REALLY need you,” Casey pleaded, his voice earnest and tender in just the piercing way that wears me down (which he knows).

Not wanting to prolong this stairway scene and further excite his sister, I trudged upstairs, a little impatiently, and sat beside him in the dark of his room.

“Mom,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about making friends.”

Before I’d even begun to process a response in my tired stupor, suddenly, he sits up, flicks on his bedside lamp, grabs a pen and small white pad, and begins to write “10 Ways to Make Friends by Mom and Me.”

“So, tell me, how do you do it?” he asks, looking at me with those irresistible tootsie-brown eyes. At once I understand that this is one of those teachable moments so I give him a few suggestions, milking the opportunity to offer welcome parental guidance.  But then he takes off, content to write strategy after strategy, oblivious to his mother staring over his notepad in quiet wonder.

In his own words (and spelling), here’s the list:

1. Say yes!

2. Be kind.

3. Be honost.

4. Be tough.

5. Believe in your self.

6. Trust.

7. Try new things.

8. Say nice things.

9. Have allot of play dates.

10. Ask to be incluudied.

The end. From Mom and Me.

Well now..the kid might not be too coordinated on the playing field, but he’s got soul, and a lot of it.

Again and again, it’s my son who proves to be the wisest of teachers.   I’m so glad that I veered from routine to listen to him: you never know when inspiration strikes and someone’s soul comes calling.

A few weeks ago while visiting relatives in California a friend having a zero birthday and a midlife crisis called.  In reality — by which I mean the “big picture“ snapshot — everything in her world was alright; it’s just that she couldn’t see, well, er…the  ”big picture.”

My cousin, Josetta, who knows the friend and overheard my conversation, had one word to say: “Next?”  I looked at her, trying to read her mind.  “Next?” she repeated, this time with the added drama of cocking her head sideways.

But of course!

Next? means MOVE ON!  As in…make that phone call, clear that debt, shrug off confrontation, reset your thinking, pursue your passions, risk, and focus on all that is possible and positive.

I love this clean, direct wisdom because its relevance can be tested across small disappointments like a traffic ticket and larger ones, like job turmoil or, yes, even mourning.  How you proceed is up to you, as is the timing (let’s face it –  five days for one person might mean five months for another) but at some point, I think, intuition leads you to the next place.

There aren’t many certainties in this world. But choosing when to ask and execute Next? is within our reach — always. In spite of the thorns in life, if we’re not moving forward, I wonder, just where are we going?

Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to tell one’s story. By which I mean, what moments shape you?

If you’re lucky, maybe small, seemingly insignificant matters are most striking: your brother’s daydreaming; how you couldn’t sit still as a child; your son’s strange aversion to gummy textures and sauces. For many others, it’s the life-defining moments that mold character and strength, fusing past, present and future.

On February 24, I’ll be addressing a group of writers from the Colorado Author’s League about creating personal essays. The opportunity came about courtesy of my writing teacher at the Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop.  “You have a story to tell,” he told me. “I recommended you because of the way you are driven to tell that story in your blog, your articles, your magazine column and memoir.” I hadn’t really thought about my story serving as a platform, but that’s precisely what is has become, and I no longer buck it.

It’s true that I feel both happy and driven to share my story.  Writing about loss and love and renewal feels like the giveback of my own personal tragedy (you can read about it under the About Vivid Living tab or on my website). It’s what motivates me to write: my voice is a way to lend meaning and courage to others who must also learn to summon the faith and blind hope to rise again.

In what ways do you tell your story?

I’m thinking hard these days about not being a slave to time.

The new year is still fresh, and above all other resolutions, creating more time and sacred space in my life is occupying my thoughts.  Because I seldom feel that I have enough – time.

Do you?

Every working mom my age (or thereabouts) feels similarly – we’re all doing a mad- dash juggling act.

There are no easy solutions and to suggest otherwise is insipid.   We have real responsibilities and interests that tug at us – jobs, kids, husbands, extended families, friends, activities, bills, side projects.

And yet ignoring our need to step away from the daily drumbeat only increases our stress and exhaustion.

How do we give ourselves permission to make time for time?

While writing about this very subject for Colorado View Magazine, a psychologist friend and I developed a series of strategies. You’ll have to wait until February to read the full article, but in the interest of helping you, too, beat more to your own heart and less to the ticking of the clock:

Create sanctuaries.  That is, designate a quiet place in your home or in your mind where you can be still.  For me, it’s the bath and the serenity of my bedroom.  What feels best to you? Indoors? Outdoors? No clocks or watches, and please, please set the blackberry aside.

Safeguard your time.  Certainly, leave the Olympic multitasking to the 2012 Games. Think carefully about “the extras” and recognize that you may not be able to give all your time to something.  Further, start only those projects that you can finish and do finish what your start.

Finally, as the Buddhists say, when you wash the dishes, wash the dishes. In other words, be aware of where you are in time and space.

Today I made time to sit down and have breakfast with my children before school. Typically, we run down to the wire with lunches that need to be packed, homework that needs to be finished, and last night’s dishes still in the dishwasher.  We had but five minutes but how lovely it was to sit together with the morning sun warming us.

Friends,

As we move into a new decade, I’ll let you ruminate over this favorite passage of mine from Emily Dickinson.

We never know how high we are

Till we are called to rise.

And then, if we are true to plan

Our statures touch the skies.

May you soar into 2010 with wings of grace –  gliding effortlessly whenever you can, rising up as needed, and always, always living fully and well.

Thanks for reading Vivid Living.

Recently I purchased a t-shirt from my children’s school that reads Operating at Full Potential.  Don’t you love this?

The message is particularly apt for me, because these days I’m only dreaming of peak performance.

And yet, some weeks are just like that.

Like many of you, I continue to struggle with juggling all on my plate.   I used to be an Olympic multitasker – I’m the gal who once boarded a bus from Hoboken, NJ to New York City with a bag of garbage because I was so lost in my to-do’s.

I was young and impatient back then so while the episode was funny, I didn’t really “learn my lesson.”  I’m learning it now.  At 43, my brain simply can’t process washing dishes, talking on the phone, supervising the twins’ homework, and answering my stepson’s questions about where he can find a spare roll of toilet paper.

Ample research exists about the perils of multitasking, most of which confirms that the supposed benefits are little more than an illusion.  We just think we’re getting more done, but in reality, we’re only switching tasks because the brain can’t really process multiple cognitive feats.   The garbage incident was harmless, but I confess to other times where multitasking could have led to a more damaging outcome.   Thank goodness for new laws about texting and driving.

Admit it, you multitask, too.  Who doesn’t? Especially working moms.  Perhaps it’s because of evolutionary reasons, or the fact we’re hard-wired differently (which we are!), but wow, we women are the Cirque du Soleil of multitasking.

Which is nothing to celebrate.

Tackling “it all” poses a real quandary. Ask yourself: “What can I let go of?”  “What’s my top priority today?”  Finally, “am I being realistic?”

For me, this means I can’t always blog as often as I’d like.   The world won’t end (but thank you to the few readers who have noticed the lapses).  It also means that I might not make it to the gym this week because I’ve got a cold and I’m tired and why the heck should I push myself? So what if my thighs feel flabbier.  I do enough.  And that is precisely my point.  If you want to operate at your full potential, try accepting “what is” instead of swimming upstream.

I’m beginning to see the rewards of doing less at once: more productivity, more energy, more quality time.  More, more, more.  It’s never too late.

If you have a funny multitasking story, or know someone who does, write me.

I’m back! No, I haven’t run off to Tahiti although the notion of a clean getaway from the crush of life does sound appealing.  In fact, I’m sitting at one of my favorite writing haunts, The St. Mark’s Coffeehouse, looking at the following anonymous message scribbled in pink chalk: Let’s runaway together. Just you and me. I haven’t even met you yet but I’m ready. Let’s go.

Hmmmmm.  That’s an enticing thought. Where would you like to go? Fantasize. If only in your mind, or beneath the soft weight of your comforter, dream, it’s healthy.

My spirit needs recharging, that’s for sure. Just the other night I said to Steve, “let’s go away for the night, let’s head to the mountains.” Past experience has taught me that  stepping away every so often is the best boost to my emotional and spiritual health.  It’s like meditation ; when I’m outside of my daily grind, I take time to slow my pacing, breathe deeper, and gain perspective.

Times are tight, and it’s hard to break away, I know.  Still, I’m a big advocate for physically shaking life up every few months, just like applying that fresh coat of paint I blogged about in my first entry. You don’t really need to hop on a plane or train – although the idea of doing so is sometimes enough of a release. Steve and I have a running joke that when the going gets rough we’ll meet one another aboard the flight to Italy.  He’ll text me, “hurry, the plane is leaving in a half hour.” Someday…

How about starting with small ideas? A restorative hike; dinner out with your partner or a special friend; a visit to that museum you can’t ever seem to make time for; or, a movie (my spirit was higher after armchair traveling with Mamma Mia.)

Maybe your ideal retreat is secluding yourself at home?

The point is to make time for yourself amidst the fullness of life. I’m a better wife, mother, daughter, friend, and writer when I do.

I leave you with ripe food for thought by Maya Angelou, whom I came to know through my experiences at UNICEF.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

All week I’ve been a grump. Blame it on a full plate and empty fuel tank.  You know how it goes…squeezing work and then writing time on my off days, hauling my kids all over town yet still catching slack for not buying the Halloween costumes in time for their school parties (hey I’ve still got six days!), catching still more slack for not wanting to spend  $39.99 on the puffy suma wrestler get-up my son yearns for, squinting my eyes at the two loads of laundry waiting to be folded as I climb the stairs each night (by now there’s three more loads crying to be washed so why bother with the first two?), watching the leaves make a dense collage on our lawn. And so it goes.

Perhaps, I’m also grumpy from my trip back East.  For the first time since my husband, Brett, passed away, I visited the hospitals and hospice where he fought and ended his long battle with cancer. I did this for writerly reasons, as research for my memoir. More on this visit at a later post, but yes, the trip left some residual clotting.  How could it not?

And then.  In the midst of feeling scattered and overwhelmed, I received an e-mail this morning from a stranger who read my recent column about leaps of faith and the courage to change in the new Colorado View Magazine.  She wrote: “The past six years, I have felt stuck in Colorado…afraid to make a move because of money, support system, job, etc., etc.  If I move will I be able to find a job at my age?  Can I sell my house? My heart is on the East Coast, warm sunny beaches.  I’ve been researching the coast of South Carolina and Florida, and want so much to just say, “Do it…you can do it.”  After reading your story, I realized that I CAN….thank you for giving me that courage to at least begin my journey home.”

My words may have helped this reader cast her life forward, but she, too, taught me a lesson about service and gratitude.    This is why I share my experience so freely: to give hope to others that in spite of the shits of life – big or small – hope and possibility exist.   Always.

In the footprint of helping others, I also freed myself.  My mood has lifted.  I’m still staring at the laundry and the leaves but there’s always tomorrow.