“You stopped during the middle of a race to drink water?” I ask him incredulously (which explains why his time increased by five minutes from the previous week). May I point out that it wasn’t sunny or even hot, and in fact the riders had the benefit of a cloudy breeze on the afternoon in question.

“Yeah, well, Mom, I was really thirsty. I tried to do it while riding, but I grabbed the bottle closest to the seat, and then I couldn’t fit it back into the holder. And then I just took a little water break.”

His friend and teammate Savannah, 16, adds to the picture. “I saw him going maybe 12 mph and he was just waving at everyone with a huge smile on his face.”

Water breaks and waving during a race?

God bless my son. I really mean it.

His blithe, relaxed manner might suggest otherwise, but Casey couldn’t be more proud to be a member of the Front Rangers team, a group originally founded in 1993 by the Denver Police and elite cyclists to keep inner city kids off the streets. Soon after, the organizers created a race team because the kids fell in love with biking. More than a decade later, the Front Rangers stays true to its community service roots by hosting monthly gatherings where some 50 volunteers (myself included) take up to 50 or more kids biking, bowling or for other social outings. The team also offers educational scholarships for its kids, those part of the racing team and the broader Front Rangers community.

This is the ideal team for a kid like Casey, who is content to serve as one of the 18 junior race members. He is just as content bringing up the rear or helping younger kids master their bikes on group rides. My son has always been drawn to individual sports. I’ve come to see that his experience with the Front Rangers is the best of both worlds: how he performs is up to him but he also learns the value of serving on a team.

“Everyone has a place here,” says Paul Braun, FRCC Racing Team Director. “We recognize our juniors have full lives beyond racing, and we want them to figure out on their own to what degree they want to pursue the sport.” Several Front Rangers have gone on to pursue collegiate, elite and professional cycling (in Europe). Braun noted the demanding nature of the sport, especially for the younger kids who are likely to burn out if they’re pushed too hard.

This makes good sense to me. I’m happy to let Casey build confidence, endurance and skills while quite literally enjoying the ride. So what if he says hello to every passing biker and walker? So what if he eyes cars and trees and dogs? He’s a friendly kid, a curious kid. So what if he can’t really keep up with his teenage teammates? Savannah, Andrew, Spencer, Nicholas and the others understand. They look out for him, allowing him to set up his stationery trainer right beside them each Wednesday during the time trials. “Hey guys, here’s our training spot,” Casey tells them, delighted to be in grown-up company.

What serendipity that we became involved with the Front Rangers. Right now in fact, Casey is on a training ride with his mentor and friend, Jim Levy, one of the adult volunteers who, in his other life, works as a Denver realtor. Jim is a passionate cyclist, and get this, he and his family own twenty-six bikes, both racing and recreational. His two daughters were elite cyclists growing up and through their collegiate years, and now that they’re away from home, Jim volunteers his time. “I find it so satisfying to share my love for the sport,” he tells me when he and Casey return from their morning jaunt. “Biking is for life: you can do it anywhere in the world and at all ages.”

In his fifteen years as a Front Ranger, Jim has mentored lots of kids like Casey, helping them to develop their skills.

Maybe when he gets older Casey will become more competitive. Maybe not. At this tween stage he and his twin sister are entering, I don’t really care if my son rides to race. In the long run, I prefer he races to ride. He’s already got a winning attitude because he understands the secret to happiness is finding joy in the simple things. Like water breaks.

Both Sides Now is a complex, layered, deeply personal account of giving birth to twins and learning the same night (yes, that’s right) that my first husband’s cancer returned. It hardly seems possible, and yet that is what happened. Life and death in the same moment of time. And then life again by virtue of being a parent, wanting to live, and eventually, risking love again. Hello Steve.

Enough about the story and publishing prospects. For now, I want to focus on the process of writing a book. Here are some fresh takeaways that not surprisingly ring as true in life as they do for the written page.

Value singular steps. Sometimes, the long view is beyond our grasp. Some days, it’s best to proceed bit by bit. We don’t always have to see the clear path ahead; one step generally builds to another.

Dream in color. Which is to say, be fluid and open to change and possibility. We tend to be black and white in our thinking. Embrace the many shades of grey.

Not even Einstein had all the answers. It’s just not possible to plot every move, every emotion, every outcome. There’s real joy (and meaning) in discovery.

Edit yourself.  We all benefit from self-examination and tweaking now and then. This is the path to growth.

Be willing to accept feedback from others while also maintaining your own thinking.  Watch your ego. Be gracious. Sure, you can do both at the same time.

Accept that you will have very fine days and days you stumble. Do-over days.This is normal. Take a nap or step away (“shelve the work” as one writing mentor said) until you are ready to pick up the threads again. There’s always tomorrow.

No doubt, some of these insights were percolating prior to completing my book. But I never felt them as a collective whole the way I do now. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s good, I think, to be mindful of the way our passions fuel our lives.

The whole incident is quite bizarre. Until the man behind the mask revealed his true identity and mission: Lenny Robinson, father of three, caped crusader for seriously ill children with cancer and other maladies. He also visits schools to talk about bullying. Lenny is a real, live superhero.

Let’s move west for a moment, to my hometown, Denver.

For weeks I’ve spotted a man at 24 Hour Fitness wearing a rubber crown with red lights. He doesn’t always turn the lights on, and I can’t quite tell what prompts him to do so. But lights or no lights, the bejeweled crown is quite a sight. He looks regal as an African king. He doesn’t engage with other gym-goers — he’s intent on his workout — but I’ve seen enough of him to feed my curiosity. Once, twice, three times and more. Who among us wouldn’t want to know the story behind the crown?

So instead of ignoring him as I’d done in the past (I mean, Halloween’s in October) the better part of me shed all judgment and simply said hello.

“I like your crown.”

“Thank you,” he replied, puffing his chest and standing taller.

“Why do you wear it?”

Pause. Smile. Pause. “So that I always remember I am king of my own destiny.”

Woah. His answer surprises me. We are, after all, standing in a crowded, sweat-filled health club. But it’s obvious he isn’t clowning around. He’s serious. Impact and intention meet in the firmness of his brow, and I’m genuine when I say, “Right on.”

“What’s your name?”

“King Matthew.”

“Nice to meet you, King Matthew. I’m Queen Nancy.”

Batman (aka Lenny Robinson) exists to do good by others. King Matthew wears his crown to do good for himself. King Matthew didn’t share his history, but I discovered from a few of the trainers at the gym that not long ago he’d been overweight, unhappy, anxious, asthmatic. The whole of his life frightened him and he wanted to break this oppressive cycle. With the help of a counselor and personal trainer, he lost the weight and found the confidence to declare that yes indeed, the way he lives his life is up to him. King of his own destiny.

Good for Batman. Good for King Matthew.

We needn’t mask ourselves in order to fulfill our dreams. Superheroes come in all sizes, costumes and colors. Why must we always take ourselves so seriously? That’s the real lesson for me. That, and the royal reminder that we can’t be for others until we exist for ourselves. So stand tall. Pull out the pink wig, red cape or Burger King crown. Who cares what others think? Do as you wish. Do what’s in your heart. Act like the superhero you are.

My friend, George Karl, head coach of the Denver Nuggets is busier than most people but we did find time to check in with each other recently.  We actually had to reschedule our conversation because he had to close out a personally difficult trade with Nuggets center Nene.

As hectic and high pressured as George’s life is, he’s still among the most centered people I know. You can’t help but feel “up” about life when you meet him. My twins and George’s daughter attend the same school so I’ve known him for a few years as a father, community leader, cancer warrior and coach. Previously, I interviewed him and his fantastic partner, Kim Van Deraa, for a feature story.  What impressed me then continues to impress me now: George’s candor about rebounding, second acts, mindfulness and unadorned positive thinking.

Many know that George has successfully battled cancer twice in his life. First, prostate in 2005, and squamous cell carcinoma of the head and neck in 2010. The latter was especially intense, requiring eight weeks of treatment and many more months of unexpected traumas that frequently landed him in the hospital. While still in recovery, he radically altered his diet, eliminating processed foods, red meat and the Honey Buns and Mountain Dew he used to eat for breakfast. Today he is sixty pounds lighter. He eats an organic diet and practices a holistic lifestyle.

“I wish I knew at twenty what I know now,” George told me in a moment of reflection.  Don’t we all.

For my own mental fitness and yours, here is some wisdom from Coach Karl that holds up on and off the court.

Too many times we wake up feeling that life is a pain in the ass, wondering how we’re going to fix it.  It’s just as easy to wake up and decide to think life is good. In fact, our job is to make it great.

Wear your attitude. Kim and I have over thirty “Life is Good” hats, t-shirts, caps, pajama bottoms and vests. We recently bought our daughter a Life is Good lunchbox. I talk to her a lot about waking up in an energizing mood. You’ve got to plant the seeds early.

Take walks. Run. Bike. Do what you must to clear your head. Now is a very pressured time for me as a coach so it helps to set aside fifteen minutes for a walk where I can breathe deep. It’s very meditative. I focus on taking in as much oxygen as I can. I’m more clear-headed after this exercise – the walk and the breathing.

Stay away from negative energy. I’m insistent upon this; I tell my players all the time to stay humble, positive and to be proud. No one needs to be swayed by the negative forces of the season because, really, there isn’t one coach or player in the NBA who is a failure.

Have vision. In an NBA season it isn’t the current chapter that counts, you’ve got to focus on the end result. So many things can happen during our season – injuries, training camp shortened, trades.  Coaches have to be reasonable and understanding. When you lose a game, you lose to a team that played well and was coached well. Build on the foundation of success. See? You can turn your loss into a win-win if you stay on that track.

Expand your mind.  I carry Wayne Dyer’s Wisdom of the Ages in my briefcase. He offers sixty meditations from renowned teachers like Buddha, Michelangelo and Emily Dickinson. I enjoy reading a page or two at a time. On my nightstand right now is “Drive” by Daniel Pink. It’s a book about motivation, and how we’re actually motivated by our inner passions and thoughts.

Be engaged in the world. Personally, I want to kick cancer’s butt.  I’m committed to doing what I can to see that patients have more of a say about how they want to be treated. I believe that people need personalized treatment plans. (See the George Karl Foundation for more about George’s advocacy efforts).

Few of us have as many public wins and losses as Coach Karl; such is the life of an NBA coach. Still, he will be the first to tell you that what ends up in the sports pages is not the ultimate measure of success.

If you are grounded and know what you are about, then you create the winning moments.

My 10-year-old daughter wakes up with a fever and hacking cough. Even she knows she’s sick, and yet she demands she go to school. She bawls. She whines. She throws her body on the sofa. “I have to go to school.” Cough. Cough. “You don’t understand, I HAVE to go to school!”

Three geese walk across a busy road. Hello, geese. Dum de dum de dum de dum. I slow down my car down hoping the guy in back doesn’t railroad me since we are stopped in the middle of the street. It’s morning rush hour and people need to get to work. The geese don’t care. They have all the time in the world — and they take it.

It’s 3 p.m., not a cloud in the cerulean sky. I look up and see the moon, fainter than at night, but moonshine all the same. You can’t help but smile at such a sight.

For three days we wear shorts and sleeveless shirts and flip-flops. We walk without sweaters and run without nylon jackets. We leave the windows open, air furniture on our front porches and lounge on the grass. It’s winter, right?

A couple sitting on a park bench in Denver toast over plastic glasses of red wine. Why yes, they sure are drinking wine in the park, engrossed in conversation and the sight of the ducks and geese on the lake. The woman stretches her legs and slouches against the bench. “So civilized,” I remark.

While walking in this same park, Washington Park, I nearly hit a tree with a happy face painted in black. A tree with a smiley face?

On their own, none of these goosey events (sorry, can’t resist) are worth talking about. It’s only when I group them together that the lessons become clear.

We humans crave predictability. We drive the same route to our jobs, eat peanut butter on toast every morning and sleep, always, on our side of the bed. Consequently, we expect things to be a certain way. Think about it. You know how much peanut butter to spread on your toast and can practically anticipate the first bite. No surprises. No shades of grey. We like what we like, and when given a choice, we’ll gravitate toward the familiar. A 2010 mobility study shows that most people are predictable in the range of 80-93 percent. No wonder why we like being in control!

But what about the tinier percentage of times when the unexpected happens? Geese on my route home from school drop-off? A tree with a happy face? Paying attention makes the days more vivid. We get to be flexible and embrace our own adaptability. We get to laugh at something that strikes us out of the ordinary. We get to devour the new and now and to bask in the sheer oddity of the moment.

I’m hardly a sports fan, but I couldn’t agree more with the writer Susan Orlean. She had this to say in a recent article in the New York Times: “Sports are a thrill, visually — all those amazing bodies, doing amazing things. What makes it appealing is the theater. It’s one of the few things you can watch that is unscripted, where anything might happen.”

Like last night’s Denver Nuggets game against the Sacramento Kings. With only seconds left on the clock, the Nuggets came from behind to beat the Kings 119-116. No one expected the Nuggets to win; fans watched on the edge on their seats — or pillow, in my case. This was pure theatre.

Let yourself go the next time you stumble across the improbable or the unforeseen. Be wildly silly and curious about everything that you see, paying attention to all that is quirky because you never know what meaning lies behind.

When has unpredictability worked to your favor?

Did I forget the day? How could I let this slip?

I’m not thinking clearly at this ungodly hour so I begin to track back. He died in February, toward the end of the month. Last Tuesday was Valentine’s Day. I count the days that follow on my fingers until I land on today, February 20.

I am so relieved because I have not missed the day my first husband, Brett, died. It’s tomorrow, February 21, which is the eight-year anniversary.

Something has shifted for me this year; the day of his death is far less meaningful now than the scope of his life.

Still, in years past the date itself has loomed like a predator, evoking anxious feelings the entire month. I tend to stare at my children more intensely during this time, focusing on the way Casey’s cowlicks and slender feet resemble his dad’s, and the likeness of Rebecca’s skin tone and beauty mark on her cheek. We make a point of looking at old photos and videos, and I tell them funny stories so that they have a sense of their father. Not even three years old when Brett died, they have no real memories, only those that are shared with them.

Like this one, which I recently learned from Brett’s closest friend, George, while doing some reporting for my memoir. “We used to call him crazy legs,” George tells me, reliving glory days of playing intramural football freshmen year at the University of Maryland. This would have been 1982. “Brett was all legs on the field, running everywhere, always laughing.” George is revved up. “But we weren’t such knuckleheads after all, because we won the championship!”

It turns out that the school held a banquet in the team’s honor where everyone was given silver turtle charms inspired by Testudo, the university mascot.

I had no idea that when we buried Brett in 2004, George brought the charm and tossed it into his gravesite of earth and casket.  “From the way he ran, he deserved two charms.”

I share this story for many reasons.

There’s no moratorium on the life of a story.  See how this one was told to me eight years after the fact?

Today, Brett’s memory is like particles of dust in the air.  He’s with us in the most minute ways even when we aren’t consciously remembering him.

And that’s true for all lost loved ones. We can trust that they breathe inside us as memories.

*

So tomorrow is in fact the day Brett died and I plan to honor him in the sweetest of ways. I’ll bake a key lime pie (his favorite), and together with my current husband, Steve, and the twins, we’ll taste life. Here’s the recipe, courtesy of allrecipes.com:

TELL YOUR STORIES. IT’S NEVER TOO LATE.

“So they read aloud for ten minutes and then another fifteen minutes on their own? And Rebecca took the Airborne and Casey trained on his stationary bike?”

Yes,” says the babysitter, smiling straight into my eyes.

I am happy to write a check.

Until the next morning when I ask the kids over breakfast, “So how was the babysitter?”

“GREAT,” Casey says emphatically.

“That’s because we got to do whatever we wanted,” chides Rebecca. Here is when the truth emerges that the babysitter did none of the things I asked, and the kids, being kids, were enthralled to have a night to themselves.

“Are you serious?”

They are completely serious.

I am even more stupefied when my daughter tells me how the babysitter ignored bedtime, shooing them upstairs past the appointed hour, with one instruction only: to turn off their lights the minute they heard the garage door open, signaling Big Mama’s return.

Yowsa. I think about calling to expose this dishonesty and teach a lesson.

But I don’t call or text. I sit patiently and think – for a surprising number of days. I have no intention of hiring the babysitter again, so what’s the point? Will I really succeed in changing this behavior?

The takeaway for me, I realize, rests less with the babysitter and more with my children, who I commend for telling me the truth. Here are the simple lessons our family has been discussing ever since:

*You can’t control what other people say or do, or how they behave.

*Be responsible for your own actions. Don’t wait to be led by a babysitter, or nagged by me, do what you must.

*Honesty matters.

Don’t you agree?

Ny Nephew Cooper and his All-Star Surprise Face

Maybe it’s because I forgot to wear my watch. I’m out and about for two hours on this snowy Tuesday before I realize my mistake.  And when I see my naked wrist, I am not the least bit fazed, which is unusual for me since I’m usually driven by time.

Right now I hear my friend David’s voice in my ear saying, “there are no coincidences.” David founded Kabbalah Experience, and I studied with him for a few years. Lately I’ve been examining old notes for my memoir, and wouldn’t you know I’ve stumbled upon whole pages about time:

Time does not impose itself on us. We create time.

We may strive towards that which is determined in life, but so much of life is indeterminate.

How do we get to that place of timelessness?

*

For reasons that I can’t fully explain, I’m dwelling in timelessness today. Random thoughts like Madonna’s staying power. I was in high school when she released her first album, and now look at me, still a fan of the Queen of Renewal almost (gulp) thirty years later. She came of age even before the Palm Pilot! I swear Madonna’s been on my mind on account of Sunday’s Super bowl performance and not Kabbalah, but you tell me if there really are “no coincidences.”

And then there is the roast chicken I plan to make this evening. When I close my eyes I step back into my grandmother’s linoleum green kitchen in Englewood, New Jersey circa 1980. You smelled it from the moment you set foot in her house. I still picture her leaning over the stove to baste one of her chickens, licking the gravy spoon for good measure before wiping the excess on the bottom of her apron. “Mmm, good,” she’d announce. “Come taste.” What I wouldn’t give to be at her table again.

Funny isn’t it that part of me was ruing the day for wasting time when really I have things to do.  I might have lost productivity but I found much more.

Where are you in time today?

Right now, I’m in an upswing. Which means that many positive events seem to be happening at once. There’s my memoir, Both Sides Now, which is in capable hands with my Goucher mentor Dick Todd, and my new literary agents at Brick House. No contract news yet, but that’s coming, one of these months. I can taste it. Speaking of tasting, have I mentioned that I was asked to host a cooking show called “Tasting Life: Conversations at My Kitchen Table?” This endeavor came about rather serendipitously after a talk I gave last October about faith. I bet you’re thinking…what exactly is the connection here between food and faith. In this context, none. But unbeknownst to me, a television producer was in the audience that day. She identified with my story and subsequently scoured my blog and website where she read in small print about my longstanding fantasy to host a cooking show. You see, I was named after the Nancy Lynn Bakeries in Connecticut so perhaps it’s destiny that all my life I’ve been an unabashed foodie.

More on this show – which is still very much “in development” later. More later, too, about the other happy happenings.

Here’s the thing: my plate is bursting now. While part of me prefers to more evenly disseminate the pacing of such good tidings, the more knowing part of me understands that doing so would be detrimental. Because rarely can we control the timing of events in our lives, especially when they are external. Everything in my experience tells me that when you meet life head-on by saying YES, that is when the unexpected happens. That is when hope and possibility multiply.

What about you? In what ways are you saying YES to life?

Great question, and I love how in the midst of pre-pubescent hormone surges he is still “boy” enough to show his vulnerability.

The answer, of course, is neither straightforward nor prescribed. Time. Maturity. Having a passion. My inner compass. Perspective. Friendships. Success. Life experience. Love. These are all the things I might say, but that a ten-year-old cannot easily grasp. The truth is…the question of how you believe in yourself is intensely personal. What lights my fire might extinguish yours.

That said, I had a flash of inspiration the other day while touring Denver’s new Clyfford Still Museum (which I loved).  Still was a pioneering Abstract Expressionist, a contemporary of artists like Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko. Apart from bold colors and large-scale paintings, Still is recognized for using vertical forms that stretched upward, beyond the reaches of the canvass, if at all possible. Remember the era — post World War Two — a time when people needed to gaze higher, toward some semblance of hope and understanding.

“My paintings have the rising forms of the vertical necessity of life dominating the horizon. For in such a land a man must stand upright, if he would live.”        -Clyfford Still

So this is the message I’ll share with Casey and anyone else, young or old, who occasionally stumbles or falls like all of us mortals, or simply questions how to believe: Look high, stand tall and see beyond the frame’s edge.