Vivid Living

It’s been awhile. I know.

My friend, Cindy, is spot-on when she says May should be called MAYHEM.  I had one of my busiest work months ever, and for those of us with children, this month is always a whirlwind. Seems like every diorama project, field trip, spring fundraiser, and picnic takes place. Not to mention all the birthdays – in our own family alone, May and June must have been optimal the time to be born.

The good thing is that all of this is cause for celebration, something that’s been on my mind lately.  Because I’ve doing a lot of it.

And this spurt of good times and party going has taught me something: that the more you invite celebrations into your life, the more you want them.  They’re contagious, I think, in a good way.

While interviewing an executive the other week for a speech, she reminded me about an old maxim: “Attitudes are contagious; don’t let ‘em catch yours.”  Naturally, she said this in a different context, yet I can’t help but see the relevance here.  So much does depend upon our attitudes.  And experience tells me that the more open we are to extolling the singular blessings in our lives, the more we are able to connect the dots.  Suddenly, we see that one happy moment bleeds into the next, that the grass is greener, the sky appears wider, and the watermelon is more succulent.

My children also teach me that the simplest of moments ought to be cause for celebration – a winning presentation, success navigating friendship dynamics, an excellent story.  Yes.  We don’t need a ready-made event to celebrate.  I’ve come to believe that we can turn any finite moment into a mosaic of happiness.

Speaking of feasting on good times…I may be writing you next from Italy.  Steve and I are off to celebrate his 50th birthday.

Arrivederci, for now…

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?

My last post generated some bold e-mails, enough to warrant a second glance at the concept of marrying your life.

It occurs to me that too often we squash our dreams.  The dreams that keep us up at night, gnawing at our subconscious because they are so revealing.   I’ve had a recurring dream of writing a book under a cherry blossom tree in Italy.   In the dream, I was alone, relaxed, mindful of the blush of pink flowers above me, the sweet fragrance in the air, and the pleasing view of the green and terra Italian countryside.  I wrote longhand. Imagine.

Two things have come of this dream:  my husband and I have decided to travel to Italy in June; and, I’ve decided to get my MFA in creative nonfiction writing at Goucher College.

How much simpler to follow the path of least resistance than to buck convention.   There are plenty of reasons why we probably shouldn’t go to Italy this summer, chief among them money.  And yet, what are we waiting for? Steve is celebrating a zero birthday. For a new couple with four kids between us, we’ve earned this romantic getaway.

As for the MFA, I’m ready.  After many years of juggling various responsibilities, I  yearn for focus and structured time to write.  In the quiet of the evening and the time-robbing bustle of the day, the vision has come to me slowly but convincingly.  At first I couldn’t embrace it.  Could I really make this sort of commitment to myself?  I worried about giving up consulting work; I worried about who would help with the kids during the annual two-week residency; I worried about balancing the demands of the program with those in my life; I worried about making a mistake.

But the greater part of me, the part that is married to my life, began to pay close attention to the voice inside saying “yes.”  This is the same voice that led me to recast my life nearly four years ago by moving to CO, and it’s clear for all to see what a positive move that has been.

If not now, when?

What dreams are tugging at you?

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s new memoir, Committed.  As you probably know, she authored Eat, Pray, Love.

In Committed, I particularly like how Gilbert wrestles with the idea of love:  What if love never finds you?  What if you never find love?  Can you marry your own life?

It’s this last question that really leaps out at me.

Gilbert explores this scenario through the eyes of her 40-year-old friend, Christine, a single woman who decides to forgo loneliness for life.  She sets a small wooden boat adorned with rose petals and rice on fire. Then, she let it go – “releasing along with it her most tenacious fantasies of marriage as an act of personal salvation…She had finally married her own life, and not a moment too soon.”

I love this image of Christine transcending her perceived tyranny, and moreover, the notion of her “marrying her life.” To me, this concept means many things: stepping out; facing fears; plunging forward; accepting what is; celebrating the everyday; and having faith.

I have many single, fabulous women friends, some of whom marry their lives without ever realizing so.  They plan trips, take classes, make dinner plans, and run marathons. Yes, they bemoan not having a life partner, but this sense of loss doesn’t prevent them from living.

I lost my first life partner, and now I have another.  And yet I, too, am married to life. It’s the commitment I cherish most. My experience has taught me that when I nurture all that I am and all that I aspire to be, I am the best woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend and colleague that I can be.  This is a vow I’ll be glad to make daily.

It’s rather serendipitous that my husband, Steve, bought me a card today with this perfect quote from Thoreau: “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.”

Yes!

Last weekend I traveled back in time.  I went roller discoing with my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.

The last time I did this was 1980 when Donna Summer belted out Last Dance. I was an athletic, 14-year-old freshman who used too much pink blush to disguise her adolescent insecurities. A group of friends had gone to an indoor rink in Orange, CT and somehow I found myself cozying up to a very cute, not-so-innocent sophomore named Jimmy. I was boy crazy but had never dated.  “Do you want to go out?” Jimmy asked me while taking my hand. “Sure,” I said, beginning to exit the rink and walk toward the door.  “No,” he smiled, a flash of surprise flickering across his silky blue eyes.  “DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT?” I was standing right beside him and couldn’t understand why he was speaking so loud.  “YES, I DO!” I answered, matching his volume as I tried to lead him once again toward the door.

I had no clue the guy was asking me to be his girlfriend until we were back in school the following Monday and suddenly he sought me out.  This was before the age of cell phones, texting and e-mail. Duh!

I can’t tell you what music played the other evening but I can tell you three things:

1) Your center of gravity is wholly different at 43 than 14.  Let’s just say that every time my daughter and her 8-year-old friends yanked my arm for support I felt an immediate snap in my back.

2)I’m not as light on my feet as I think I am.  I wanted to defy gravity, allowing the innocence of the past to carry me. But my legs felt like tree trunks.

3 Being the oldest person on the rink by at least two decades gave me a shot of youthful energy but it also made me feel, well…old and out of place.

I was so relieved to send the Girl Scouts home to be tucked into their cozy beds, and happier still to sip my chamomile tea and drift off to sleep aside my husband. It’s good to be 43, smarter and weighted by life experience. I think I’ll leave the roller discoing for the younger set: I like where I am.

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.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about perseverance.  I love that vowel-packed word and all that it implies.

Perseverance has been on my mind for a few reasons.  About a week ago my 8-year-old-son announced that he had tired of Tae Kwon Do. “It’s too hard, Mom.  Wednesdays are the worst day of my life.  I want to quit.”

I’m no sadist, but Paul, the Tae Kwon Do teacher, has only recently begun to push Casey harder…and it’s good for him.  Because my son has both confidence and motor issues, the tendency is to be extra lenient and accommodating.  This serves a purpose, but so, too, does instilling the idea that hard work can yield great rewards.  By which I really mean: “work your combinations Casey and the triumph is all yours.”

My son loves heroes like Martin Luther King and Ghandi.  “What would have happened if they gave up their fight when under pressure?” we asked over dinner that night.  Think about how they persevered, we told him, when so many people were against them.  His big brown eyes widened.

And then we brought the conversation closer to home.  Paul has cerebral palsy. He’s had 13 surgeries, his body is contorted and he needs crutches to walk.  And yet each Wednesday he shows up at our house ready to share his passion and expertise.  He’s a double black belt in the martial arts: he earned his first black belt in Sun Doul Soul and the second in American Karate.  Paul may have a profound disability, but he’s an absolute lion in my book.

Up until now, Casey was more fixated on Paul’s bird tattoos than his inner strength.

“We know Paul is driving you harder,” my husband and I assured him.  “But can you imagine how difficult it must be for him just getting out of bed every day?  His muscles are stiff, he can’t run or jump the way you do, and he’ll never walk on his own. “

“Alright, I’ll do Tae Kwon Do,” Casey sheepishly decided.

And so he is.  My boy still kvetches (that’s Yiddish for whines) but one nod to Paul is all it takes to convey a little perspective.

Perseverance has also been on my mind because of Hanukkah.  Today is day six.  My children are now old enough to understand the significance of the holiday beyond the eight days of gift giving, which, much to their dismay we don’t adhere to religiously.  We do, however, light the candles and make it a point to talk about how the Jewish people of ancient times persevered amidst great hardship in order to reach freedom.

These are teachable moments, for my son, yes, but for all of us.

Think about it.  We persevere every day and in so many ways — exercising because it’s good for us even though we’re tired; raising confident, self-directed children; proving our mettle at work; waking up to write at 5am because that’s when the house is most peaceful.

Take stock of how you persevere in your life.  For all that you do and all that you desire, let it guide your path.

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.

We’re having a bee problem: yellowjackets are swarming our house.  They’ve infiltrated the kitchen and hallway, and built a small army in my daughter’s room.  Rebecca refuses to sleep there. I can’t blame her.  Just the other day we pulled back the bedding and discovered the queen bee staking new territory amidst her floral blue sheets.

Seems like wild things are everywhere.  A Denver friend tells me, “we’ve got squirrels in our home.  Isn’t it just the way things happen that their house is on the market?

My friend, Sarah, too, says a pesky mouse is fluttering about their New York City apartment.  A mouse that apparently likes physics as it moves into the open when her husband reads Disturbing the Universe.

Bedbugs, too.  Infestations and exterminations and the pests of life.

Do we coexist with these creatures? What kind of nuisances are we willing to accept?

Perhaps we shrug them off, make a beeline for the movies, and reel in the real Where the Wild Things Are.