Author: Swimming Toward the Shark

‘failures of kindness’

In the latest episode of one of my new favorite podcasts, The Curiosity Shop, the hosts – Brené Brown and Adam Grant – share their all-time favorite commencement speeches.  Brené quotes from Professor George Saunders’ 2013 convocation speech at Syracuse University. The speech begins with a few humiliating experiences Saunders has survived and could understandably regret but doesn’t. Then he continues:

But here’s something I do regret. In seventh grade, this new kid joined our class. In the interest of confidentiality, her Convocation Speech name will be “Ellen.” Ellen was small, shy. She wore these blue cat’s-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she had a habit of taking a strand of hair into her mouth and chewing on it.

So, she came to our school and our neighborhood, and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased (“Your hair taste good?” — that sort of thing). I could see this hurt her. I still remember the way she’d look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, as if, having just been reminded of her place in things, she was trying, as much as possible, to disappear. After a while she’d drift away, hair strand still in her mouth. At home, I imagined, after school, her mother would say, you know: “How was your day, sweetie?” and she’d say, “Oh, fine.” And her mother would say, “Making any friends?” and she’d go, “Sure, lots.”

Sometimes I’d see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it. And then — they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing. One day she was there, next day she wasn’t. End of story.

Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her. But still. It bothers me.

So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it: What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded… sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

As I listened, memories of my own “Ellen” story bubbled up. For this retelling, I’ll call him “Sonny.”

In 4th grade, Sonny moved to my hometown, where my friends and I had lived all our lives. Sonny had messy dark hair and rotated through the same handful of t-shirts and thin drawstring shorts that likely came in a plastic pack from one of the big mart stores off Main Street. His high-tops were marred with gray scuffs, and their laces were dirty and ragged from so often being untied. On occasion, when a passing grown-up would ask Sonny to tie his shoes, he would squat down, and those shorts of his would sag, revealing some of his backside. (“Is your daddy a plumber?” another kid would taunt.)

Mrs. Wooten was our teacher that year and had arranged our desks into tidy, alphabetical rows by last name. Sonny’s desk sat at the end of the row closest to the classroom door. I remember being glad for him to have some privacy back there as the new kid and an easy exit for restroom visits and such. What I didn’t consider was how something so insignificant as the first letter of his last name would amplify Sonny’s outsider status, putting him on the edge of the circle the rest of us had been part of since birth.

Now, Sonny didn’t do himself any favors either. Take his watch, for example. He wore one of those Casio calculator watches that had a grid of rubber buttons on its face. Sonny liked to press those buttons in a sequence known only to him and then make an audible bludadadadaDIP! noise with his mouth. Then, he would place his lips close to the watch face and whisper. The stray words we picked up on here and there, mixed with Sonny’s sound effects, gave the impression he thought he was involved in some type of space mission. This was far from cool-kid behavior.

During lesson time or any other part of the day when we were expected to be quiet and attentive, Mrs. Wooten would shush Sonny and ask him to pay attention. Of course, she was responsible for keeping order, minimizing disruption, and teaching us how to behave. But maybe she was also trying to shield Sonny from his own embarrassment and give him a better shot at success. Sonny would try to follow her instructions to sit quietly, but it never lasted. The rest of us were amazed. While we didn’t have the words for it at the time, we knew that repeatedly choosing willful disobedience meant you were either going to be the bully or the bullied.

During weekend sleepovers, my friends and I often played Truth or Dare, an early way to try on vulnerability in a low-risk environment. Sonny tended to come up a lot. (Truth: If Sonny were the last boy on Earth, would you let him kiss you, like on the actual lips?) At some point, I chose Dare. The other girls huddled up to brainstorm my charge: “We dare you to erase Sonny’s picture from your annual!” one of them said. Someone else held out a pencil. (FYI, we call yearbooks “annuals” in the South.)

What was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to do it, honestly, I didn’t. But the next thing I knew, I had pulled my yearbook off the shelf, sat back down on the floor, flipped to Sonny’s page and row, and put that pencil to work. When my vision cleared, Sonny was no longer there. And I knew there was nothing I could do to bring him back.

I don’t remember much else about that night, but I’m confident the game went on, we eventually fell asleep, and then woke up as the good girls once again. The rest of the school year is a series of flashbulb memories, and I don’t know where that yearbook is today. I also don’t know what happened to Sonny or how his life has turned out since. But I do know the choices I made as his fourth-grade classmate were true failures of kindness, and I regret them deeply: what I could have said to him and didn’t, how I could have treated him but chose not to out of fear that I would catch whatever thing made him so different. The worst part is that he probably thought I was one of the nicer ones.

Now, some thirty years later, I wish I could tell Sonny how sorry I am for choosing to laugh rather than be laughed at, for choosing to be liked over being kind. I would leave out the specifics from the sleepover, since those would only absolve my conscience while causing him unnecessary pain. But I would thank him for helping me learn, at an early age, who I didn’t want to be.

Maybe as an apology gift, I could give him an iWatch to remind him he wasn’t all that weird after all. Just a little ahead of his time.

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Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, or pass these words along to a friend. Relatability is a powerful antidote. I appreciate you!

the world she witnessed

If my grandmother were alive today, she would be celebrating her 100th birthday.

Born June 14, 1926, Evelyn Mae Fitzgerald Boozer entered the world before humans had flown into space, before the Civil Rights era, before computers, the Internet, and mobile phones, before commercial jet travel, before television was common in American households, before antibiotics were widely available.

She experienced the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, the development (and use) of the atomic bomb, and the entire span of World War II before she turned 20.  

As a young adult, she became a mother just as the United Nations was formed, the Cold War began, America’s interstate highway system opened, and rock and roll took over the airways. In her 40s, she watched Martin Luther King, Jr. – a man who shared a middle name with her husband – lead a human awakening that stirred turmoil in her soul as a white Southern lady who also longed to live like Jesus.

She watched the Apollo 11 crew land on the moon and take that “one giant leap for mankind.” She wiped her brow and dabbed her neck as she watched coverage of the Vietnam War and nationwide protests flicker across her living room, now for the first time in color and even more real.

In her late 40s, on March 10, 1973, she watched her husband, David Luther Boozer, walk their daughter, Suzanne Elizabeth, down the aisle toward their new son-in-law, James (“Jim”) Cooper Frazier. At 52, she met her first grandchild and namesake, Evelyn Rose Frazier, and at 57, her second granddaughter, Sarah Katherine Frazier, named after her grandmother, Sarah, and her niece, Katherine.

She felt the unrelenting momentum pushing her to evolve her secretarial work from analog to digital and ultimately decided this was one change she wasn’t going to make. So she poured her talents into her church, where it was still perfectly acceptable to type the weekly bulletins and stack the offering coins into paper deposit rolls – red stripes for pennies, blue for nickels, green for dimes, and orange for quarters.

During her sixth decade, she lost her husband of nearly 50 years and made a new home in Jim and Suzanne’s basement apartment, specially renovated just for her. She hosted friends for card games, walked the carefully placed stepping stones beneath the shade of the backyard pine trees, and loved her two lapdogs in succession – first Sport, then Sparky – most often while sitting in her favorite spot, the swing on her screened-in porch, where she could hear the birds and watch the sunlight trickle through the leaves.

She took an RV road trip to Alaska with her sister, Alma, and brother-in-law, Hugh. She flew to Israel to walk the streets of Jerusalem, Switzerland to see the Alps, and Ireland to kiss the Blarney Stone.

As 24-hour cable news came on the scene and the sounds of dial-up Internet and AOL mail chirped upstairs, she was more comfortable with the pages of Readers’ Digest and reruns of Andy Griffith, Cheers, and M.A.S.H.

She watched with pride as her daughter returned to school to earn her professional certification as a Court Reporter, eventually rising to become president of the Alabama Court Reporters Association. She applauded her son-in-law who turned his unfortunate termination from corporate downsizing into an opportunity to own his own business. As America’s foreign and domestic policy further evolved in the wake of September 11, 2001, she doted on her granddaughters and watched them grow into young women, both meeting their future husbands while attending college, which was a first all its own. She watched her grandson-in-law, Daniel, sign up to serve his country as an Air Force JAG – the first military serviceperson in the family since her husband, David, who served in the Army Air Corps and then the Reserves.

She danced the night away at her youngest granddaughter’s wedding in 2003. Her oldest granddaughter made her a great-grandmother in 2006, when her great-grandson, James David, was born and given a double moniker steeped in meaning. In short succession, James David’s sisters arrived – Emma Katherine, followed by Anderson Elizabeth, and then Finley Evelyn.

She watched Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, and Katie Couric announce advances in cancer treatment, heart surgery, and organ transplants. She saw letters take a backseat to email. She saw landline telephones become novel and cell phones take charge. She gasped with awe during her first Skype video call, realizing she could speak to her granddaughter, Katherine, in real time, face to face, from five states away. “I never thought I’d live to see the day,” she marveled.

Two months after her 87th birthday, she left a world that had changed at a rate she never could have imagined.

She left us with her light and love.

Happy Birthday, Gran.

chances

“Chances.” It’s one of those rare words that lives in the past, present, and future, all depending on the context. It can be a future-facing word when used to describe the likelihood that something may happen, as in “Chances are …”

It can be the exact right word for the here and now, as in: “I now have the chance to…”

It can also be a rearview mirror word to express regret, as in: “I had multiple chances to…”

Interesting that my brain wants to frame that last one as failure, ending with something like: “… but I didn’t take them.” Or “but I got distracted and missed out on them.” As if chances by their very liquidy, shifty nature must always be seized, captured, and converted into winnings. But is it so wrong to know you had a chance (or chances) to do something, and instead, you chose to do nothing at all? If not, then why all the guilt?

For the first time in my adult life, I’m unemployed. Well, truthfully, I just launched my own consulting business, but I don’t yet have any clients. There’s a reason for that, but it’s complicated. Just know that, for this week (and maybe a few more), I am getting to choose – for the first time in my adult life – how to spend my time. Being that it’s the first time, as I said, it’s been a bit of an adjustment. Part purgatory, part time warp, part freedom.

Monday was the first day of this new reality, and to be honest, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I did what I always do when I don’t know where to channel my energy. I cleaned. Like super-duper deep cleaned. Like YouTubing how to use a flathead screwdriver to remove the tricky glass from the shelves so I could wipe away the unidentifiable gunk in the corners, clean. I’m pleased to report that my refrigerator is now sparkling, and there’s not an ounce of expired condiments anywhere in sight. Sure, that chore felt good to do for my home, but by day two, I realized I needed to step away from the rubber gloves.

On Tuesday, I planned the week’s menu, made a grocery list, went to the gym, and put all the groceries away before lunch. Then I took a nap, watched a show, and soaked up that rarest of jewels: unstructured time.

Wednesday began with good intentions to spend the day writing, after a quick trip to the dog park, which turned into what I thought was a sprained paw, which led to a visit to the vet and then a pet emergency clinic, and a prescription for pain meds. (Sigh) I’m thrilled nothing was urgently wrong with my baby girl, but also, I hated she had to endure the stress of “ going to the vet” not once, but twice, and maybe there wasn’t a reason to even take her in the first place? Hindsight, I guess. But I did go to the gym that afternoon, which felt like a big win after the rest of my day had run off the rails.

Thursday, I went to Pottery Barn and picked up a new cover for one of our throw pillows that keeps dropping feathers, and I decided to double the expense and get two. I mean, why not? It’s not like I’m not bringing in income right now… oh wait. Then I found this cute little local luggage store where I bought Daniel’s birthday gift – a real beauty of a carry-on, which I justified the pricetag for due to the lifetime warranty, “suitor” feature, and expandable/compressible functionality. It was definitely the most grown-up purchase I’ve made since my mortgage. What can I say? The fact that there are still mom-and-pop shops selling exclusively luggage and travel accessories delights my heart. It just does. So, if I’m going to spring for sticker shock instead of sensible, let it be there.

For dinner, I made spaghetti with a side salad using only ingredients grown in my garden – butterleaf lettuce and radishes, plus fresh parsley to sprinkle on the spaghetti.  Being able to eat things grown from tiny seed specks, watered every day, and lovingly nurtured into recognizable ingredients was a real treat.

Today is Friday, and I haven’t gotten out of my pajamas. And I watched three episodes of reality TV – probably the first time I’ve ever done that. And I mean, ever. And it wasn’t even good. It’s like I wanted to see the ridiculousness that the rest of the world is so transfixed by, but I just didn’t get it. When it was over, I only felt guilty and that I really wanted the past three hours of my life back.

Then a fear started to creep in: maybe this unemployment shtick is revealing me to be one of those people who think they crave freedom only to discover that they’re their healthiest when they are smack dab in the middle of a structured routine. When I was still working full time, I found myself fantasizing about the possibilities this time would bring: rest, the space to create, the opportunity to rediscover the deepest parts of myself, to cash in on all of the chances being presented to me… Okay, yes, I have a teeny bit of a tendency to romanticize, but I will not apologize for being who I am. (There, I said it.)

So here I am in my pajama-ed state, thinking about the definition of “chances” in hopes that, by knowing its etymology, I may be able to better examine how I’m using my own chances this week. There’s gotta be a scoresheet for this kind of thing somewhere…

Merriam-Webster defines “chance” in six different ways – three of them are similar to my past, present, and future usages above. “Chance” is also defined as “risk,” as in “I’m not taking any chances.” The final usage is “chance” as a synonym for “possibility,” as in the likelihood of an outcome. But isn’t there another component to this connection with possibility, as in the possibilities the chances may be presenting? The chances for something great? The chances for positive change and reinvention?

This week has given me numerous chances to think, reflect, ruminate, and meditate. To choose to do or not to do. To explore newness or stay close to the familiar. To accomplish or to rest. My default mode tends to be questioning whether I’m making the right call with all these either/or choices. But chances are not mathematical certainties. If they were, there would be a lot more winning lottery tickets, yes?

By the same logic, I guess there is no right or wrong way to spend your time when given the opportunity – the chance – to choose. Perhaps the rightness can only be measured in the satisfaction of the choice. Or maybe the satisfaction comes from having the agency to choose, not from the choice itself. Or maybe I’m gravitating to that explanation because it absolves me from having watched three hours of “Love is Blind” today – like when I was a kid on summer break and spent the whole day watching VH1 rather than ticking off my assigned chores before indulging in mindless media.

But I don’t have any assigned chores right now, and that’s a really weird frontier for me. Perhaps that’s what makes it the exact right analogy to run with for a while. Like a permission slip to stop overthinking and just go outside and play. After all, kids don’t first run through thought exercises about their own worthiness. They just take the dang hall pass and relish every minute of being on their own. It’s worth a shot…

Cue the mixtape. I’ll be back by suppertime.

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Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, or pass these words along to a friend. Relatability is a powerful antidote. Appreciate you!

slow takes

Today’s writing prompt is about slowing down and using silent observations as a guide for where to begin. The chapter’s author, Rachel Schwartzmann, author of Slowing and the multimedia project Slow Stories, suggests setting a five-minute timer and doing nothing but looking and observing what comes up. This is my slow story.

Gratitude.

For the house around me that has become my first single-family home. For the architect who designed the blueprints, long ago sketching marks on a page to represent rooms that would someday hold space for my life to unfurl. For the vision that formed in the architect’s mind for a home, the last of sixteen Daniel and I would walk through on a cold December day, some 25 years later, and instantly know was meant to be ours.

Gratitude.

For the interior designer who thoughtfully selected each material and texture, like the golden lumber beams shouldering our ceiling’s rough-hewn planks, each positioned beautifully at alternating angles that invite you to lie back, relax, and look. For the round smooth sections of adobe walls that soften square corners and invite your hand to reach out and touch.

Gratitude.

For the muscular, yet delicate fingers of the Moroccan weavers who hand-knit the vanilla and indigo rug beneath my feet as I watch Fischer twist on her back, dancing belly up in its soft shag threads.

Gratitude.

For the craftsman who artfully split the cream and copper ledgestones that would one day become my fireplace hearth, and for the nursery gardener who lovingly cared for the foyer fig tree long before she was mine.

This carved out time of slowing and observing sparked gratitude for the endless stories my home holds – the ones I know, the ones yet to be told, and the ones that will ever remain out of reach.

Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, and pass it along to a friend. Connection is a powerful antidote. Thank you!

alchemy

In this new year, I am aiming to be more intentional in my writing practice. Not just in the doing, but in the cultivating. Deliberately getting into the headspace and rhythms and comings and goings that feed my practice. That attract spark and freshness and – most importantly – the desire to move the ideas from head to hand.

I recently started reading The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life by Suleika Jaouad. Every chapter is a short essay by a different author, each closing with a journaling prompt thematically connected to the essay. I look forward to this book. I am delighted by this book. It is now an essential part of my morning. The way it helps me mine your memories and connect with the deeper parts of myself. The way it kickstarts my creativity for the day ahead. It is one of the best gifts I have given myself. And when I find something I love, my most earnest desire is to share it with others.

Over the next series of posts, I’ll share a selection of the prompts and what came up for me, in hopes it will call to that thing that also lives in you. The creative connection we humans all share.

“Write about a time when you began doing something daily, be it a creative endeavor, a new course of study, or a form of exercise. What prompted you to start it? What obstacles got in the way? When you felt resistance or missed a day, what called you back? What did you gain from it and how might you apply that knowledge to a new daily creative practice?”

Oh, let me count the ways… the numerous endeavors I have aimed to complete daily: exercise, meditation, sweating, scheduling my tasks, journaling, praying…

I detect a theme: they are all tools I believe I need to regularly sharpen in order to be my best self. Inevitably, I get bogged down in the “have to” of the assignment, which usually comes with a self-imposed and wildly unrealistic goal (“every day at 9:02 a.m.!”). When I inevitably miss a step or get off the schedule because, well, life, I view the entire system as one big failure. The goals, the intention behind them, the structure of the schedule, the method of the reminders, all of it.

And here’s the naked, raw, unfiltered reality: I then translate that failed attempt into believing I am the one who is failing to launch. So I must try something else! Some new calendar pad, or a dry-erase board, or getting up an hour earlier, or fill in the blank. Then, ready, set, go, new structure activated! But then the same outcome over and over and over again.

Through the years, I have gotten better at setting realistic expectations and a manageable list of tasks – accepting there are but 24 hours in a day (sigh) and that I am human with undeniable requirements to subsist that my keyboard and computer screen cannot provide. But, if I’m being honest, I still overdo it from time to time. Believing I can squeeze more into my day. That TODAY will be the day I accomplish the ONE GREAT THING on my to-do list. And then, as with every other time, ending the cycle with a big slice of humble pie and, once again, renewing my mindset. But, honestly, isn’t that the point?

To forgive myself, no matter how many times it’s required. To honor the intention of reinvention and reinvestment in myself. To smile at my child-like enthusiasm for the newness. To reflect on the insights gleaned from each round of the rinse-retool-repeat cycle. To give thanks for the learning in my lifelong pursuit to be… me.

Authentically and wholly me.

Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, and pass it along to a friend. Connection is a powerful antidote. Thank you!

encountering the grand

I saw the Grand Canyon from the ground for the first time yesterday. 

That statement deserves its own paragraph. #iykyk

No words can describe the experience of standing on the rim of such an awe-inspiring phenomenon and witnessing that scale of grandeur in real time. Many have tried to document its size and beauty visually and verbally, but nothing compares to experiencing it in person. I get it now. 

After we arrived to our new home in New Mexico in February, Daniel quickly got about orienting us to the many roadtrip possibilities we now have access to. He was fortunate to experience the Grand Canyon for the first time years ago with a friend, while they were serving together as JAGs in the U.S. Air Force. It means the world to me that Daniel chose to prioritize the Canyon as our first family roadtrip destination for the July 4th holiday weekend so I, too, could share in such a wondrous experience. 

The three of us – Daniel, Fischer, and I – left Thursday after work and headed west for an all in all, four-and-a-half hour drive from Placitas, NM to Flagstaff, AZ. The wide open spaces of the southwest are sometimes visually overwhelming for me when behind the wheel, so Daniel was kind enough to drive the vast part of the journey. The squared-off buttes and jagged cliffs, red rocks and green pastures, rivers and full-length freight trains, and entirely different weather systems on one side of the horizon from the other – so much beauty to take in. As the elevation rose, so did the greenness around us. By the time we arrived in Flagstaff, the landscape was filled with evergreens, and the cooler temperatures had turned the air extra crisp. 

Yesterday morning, July 4, we headed to the Grand Canyon to beat the crowds. We selected Mather’s Point as our first stop. As the sidewalk curved toward the lookout point and the top edge of the canyon came into view, I could see families out on the ledge taking photos and taking it all in. I saw a section of the rim off to the right where no one else had stopped, so I detoured us that way so my first encounter with the Canyon could be mine and mine alone. As we stepped up to the railing, the only word that escaped my lips for a good three minutes, was a whispered ‘wow.’ My eyes scanned left and right, up and down, near and far, then to Daniel’s and Fischer’s faces, and then back through it all again. Sacred – that’s the only way I can describe it. Silence and stillness were the only possible reactions. So we stood there, breathing it in, just the three of us. 

And it was everything. 

I strongly believe that nature is the healing elixir that most powerfully brings us back to ourselves. That quiets the anxieties, soothes the fears, and clarifies perspective. When we have encounters with places and spaces that involuntarily stun and silence the inner noise and flood us with stillness and space to realign and reset.  When awe and gratitude are the only possible responses.  Where our feet of clay directly intersect with the unexplainable wisdom and immeasurable creativity of our God. 

That’s where the healing happens.  

embracing enchantment: lessons from the big magic retreat

I just returned from the Big Magic Retreat in Cleveland, Georgia with the brilliant writer and one of my all-time favorites, Elizabeth Gilbert. The retreat was a birthday gift from Daniel, and what a gift it turned out to be. I met phenomenal women from all over the country – Hawaii, California, Ohio, Georgia.

We learned new mindfulness practices to help center my intentions for creative work, moved my body in new ways thanks to the African Movement dance class, threaded together beads and string in the ancient japa mala technique, walked and sat in nature amid crisp Fall air, managed to get quiet and still, and reconnected with my inner child thanks to the rustic sleep-away camp setting.

The experience introduced me to a new layer of myself and generously filled my cup. I have begun submitting query letters to potential agents and am anxious/freaked/energized to be able to introduce my debut novel to professionals in the industry.  One of them will be my agent who guides me through the journey of publishing and sharing my work with the world.  What a magical realization! 

The process of pitching my manuscript is thrilling and humbling, filled with equal parts rejection, terror, opportunity, and hope at every turn. Speaking of hope, I hoped this retreat would fuel me with renewed curiosity and confidence to do this “brutiful” thing (to quote Glennon and Amanda Doyle) of putting my work out there for critics to consume. And it did exactly that. 

Now that I’m back home, I have recommitted myself to daily quiet in scripture, blank paper, prayer and meditation. For my meditation this morning, I chose to sit on my patio rug and listen to the Ignatian Saturday Examen prayer, which invites you to reflect on the previous week and the guidance you seek for the week ahead.

Then I transitioned to the Daily Trip meditation led by Jeff Warren. The theme today was about tapping into a state of wonder, imagining that you were born in this moment and experiencing breathing for the first time. What would you notice? What would you see?

I rounded my back and let go of my posture, completely relaxing into my seated position. I imagined being able to see my lungs inflate and deflate in their real, anatomical shapes. Then I imagined them as a single round balloon inflating and deflating inside me. Then, the clearest visual came to me as I sat and breathed.

A butterfly. Its wings displayed an intricate pattern of purple, white, black, and gold. They flapped slowly up and down in rhythm with my breath. All around the butterfly was inky black night, yet the butterfly was lit by brilliant sunlight.

As thoughts and distractions arose, as they inevitably do each time during meditation, I checked back in with the butterfly and found it still perched inside me but keeping its position with some difficulty now.  Its wings were now rippling as if in an unseen wind.  Then, as I recentered my focus on its movement, the wind ceased, and the butterfly’s wings began to gently rise and fall, once again safe and secure to be there and dance. I smiled and opened my eyes.

This meditation was a beautiful reminder that the moments in our lives of pure tranquility are often fleeting and fragile. I am grateful I was able to round my body in stillness this morning and for a moment, observe, reflect, and just be present to beauty. Elizabeth Gilbert calls moments like these “enchantment” – where you find yourself in “the warm, vanilla pudding hum of wonder and well-being” grateful you were there, in that moment, aware and present to the experience.

One of the journaling exercises we did at the retreat was to write a letter from our enchantment, using the prompt: “Dear _____, I am your enchantment, and this is what I want you to know. I love it when…” and then begin each sentence with “I love it when” and see what came up.  

I’ll jump to the end and share that my letter from enchantment ended with “I love that we had this conversation and that we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.”

… and this morning, see each other we did. 🦋

‘when breath becomes air’

I just finished reading Paul Kalanithi’s book, When Breath Becomes Air, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer in 2016 and this month’s pick for my book club. The book is a memoir of the last seven years of Paul’s life when the grueling hours of a neurosurgical residency burn intensely on one end, a diagnosis of terminal cancer hungrily devours the other, and beautiful, brutal truths reveal themselves in the quickly diminishing space between. The closing chapter was authored by Paul’s wife, Lucy, as she describes Paul’s final days, burial and the legacy he is leaving behind through his research discoveries in neuroscience, the countless lives changed through his surgical expertise, and now through his story. The final page is a family portrait of Paul and Lucy and their eight-month-old daughter. 

When I closed the finished book, I cried alligator tears produced by actual sobs, thinking about the difficulty of his chosen profession, his triumph of reaching graduation, and his desire to bravely continue practicing as long as he could knowing that he was going to die before his daughter would be old enough to remember him. And the strength and presence of mind of his wife as they faced the weight of their reality together. What a read. I came in from the patio with swollen eyes and craving long squeezes from my guy. 

Later in the morning, Daniel and I went to the beach. He was laying on a blanket getting sun on his back, and I was sitting in one of the reclining chairs watching the gulls feed. I looked to my right and saw a man and a woman walking together. They looked to be in their eighties and had stopped to inspect some shells on the shore. They were holding hands – his left, her right – and in their opposite hands, each held a mask and snorkel signaling they had just wrapped up a morning swim. 

“I want to be those people,” I said to Daniel. He raised his head up. “Which ones?” he asked. “You know the ones,” I said, nodding in their direction. He smiled and rested his head back on his forearms. 

The couple resumed their walk, and as they passed by my chair, I had to speak to them. 

“I love your love!” I said. They smiled, and the man took a few steps my way with his arms stretched out to his sides. I thought he may give me a hug. “What was that?” he asked as he got closer and I remembered their age. I stood up from my chair and walked toward them at the surf. 

“I love your love,” I said a bit slower and louder, and drawing an imaginary heart around them for emphasis. “It’s so obvious that you love each other very much.” 

“Oh, thank you!” he said proudly, with a hint of an English accent, watered down from a lifetime in the states. 

“How long have you been together?” I asked. He looked lovingly at his wife and then said, “Well, we got married in 1958, so that should tell you something.” 

“Wow, that’s beautiful,” I said, watching him again take his wife’s hand. “Enjoy your walk.” They thanked me, smiled and continued on their way. Daniel raised his head up again and watched with me as they walked away. “I knew you were going to have to speak to them,” he said. “Yep,” I replied with tears welling in my eyes. 

Sixty-eight years together, and they are still active and enjoying each other’s company. “That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, truly,” I said, my voice breaking a bit. 

It really had been. Thinking about the gift of longevity and that couple’s many years together contrasted with the chasm of loss and what might have been in the book I had just finished reading.

“Think about it…,” I said. “If we are together that long, then it’s a blessing to think we’re not yet even a third of the way through our marriage!” 

“Oh Lord,” Daniel said sarcastically, his voice muffled on his arms. 

I got out of my chair and sat on his bum, stretching out my back along his. 

“Tailbone to tailbone,” I said, rocking side to side and giggling at his groans. 

As I leaned my head back against his and closed my eyes, I gave thanks for silliness after 20 years of marriage and the gift that couple had given me – the hope that this really could be just the beginning. 

flying (less) fearfully

I’ve traveled to nearly all 50 states, down south to the Virgin Islands, across the Atlantic to Europe, as far north as Finland, and as far east as Okinawa, Japan. Yet, if I go more than a few months in between flights, it’s like my memory bank flushes all of the sensations of flying entirely, like the gray marbles in Inside Out growing dim. Sure, I know how to buy my ticket, check-in, board, and all of that jazz, but it’s the actual sensory experience. Poof. Gone. Like it never even happened. Now, if I was a thrill-seeker, I might approach it like a child going on an adventure. But the thing is, I’m really more of a home body who thrives in layers of cozy creature comforts. So if it’s been a while since I’ve been on a plane, I feel a form of primitive anxiety that traces back to, well I guess, the first time I ever flew into the complete unknown.

I’m actually on a flight right now, my first since February. In months, that’s eight too many of having my feet firmly on the ground. Did I mention I live at sea level? So, yeah, I don’t even have altitude going for me. Maybe that’s why it feels so completely unnatural to be hurtling through the air at a zillion miles per hour (I mean, does 500 mph really translate all that well to ground speed?).

I should also mention that I may have been a sun worshipper in a past life or a moon cycle hippie – okay, not really, I’m way too Episcopalian for all that. But I do have an uncanny appreciation for the sky: the stars, planets, moon and sun. If there is a sunset happening, I simply can’t look away. It feels as if anything less than unblinking, in-the-moment presence is utter sacrilege. There is this unbelievably insane beauty unfolding right there – like RIGHT THERE – begging for someone, anyone to notice, yet so few pause and look up from their screens, to-do lists and lives to even take note. Maybe I’m compelled to do all the taking note for those who aren’t. Or maybe the sky’s just really pretty, which is reason enough for me. 

So here I am in said sky that I love, among the clouds, watching the sun set. I feel so grateful, truly. I think about my gentle, saint of a grandmother who, when she was alive, adored flying. I’m talking an ear-to-ear grin from wheels up to wheels down, completely lost in a marvel of modernity. Or so she said as she narrated photo albums from Switzerland, Israel, Ireland, and all the faraway places she visited in her golden years. (Most likely there was some slack-jawed snoozing and snoring somewhere in between all that awe, but you get the point.) When Gran was getting up in age, and I had begun traveling far and wide, I used to confide to her that I wasn’t a comfortable flyer. She would urge me, in those fearful moments, to think of her and how much she wished she could be on that plane with me. 

I do my best to keep Gran close to my heart each time I fly. But, I gotta tell you, from the moment we back away from the gate, journey through the slow twists, turns and straightaways of the various runways, and when the flight attendants make their announcement about the beverage service and demonstrate the security protocols, followed by the brief stop for the pilots to check the wing flaps control and countless other thingamabobs on their cockpit dash, and then that moment when the engine comes fully to life and our backs press into our seats, all the way through the springing leap the plane seems to make when the back wheels lift and we fly into the sky, and then up up and away we go, banking until we reach our flight path and level off and the flight attendants come on the mic again to share that welcome phrase that we’ve reached 10,000 feet and can now turn on our electronic devices (which always has such a classic ring to it)…. Until that moment, I’m a nervous wreck.

And then I can relax, order my in-flight beverage and zone out with a movie or show. But in that 15 minutes between the gate and the 10,000 feet, I do all the self-care things to try and tamp down the anxiety: play soothing songs, ponder aviation safety statistics, conduct meditative body scans, say prayers, take deep breaths, and each time, I’m still a mess. I don’t even want to imagine what it would be like if I didn’t go through this routine. 

But, therein lies the underlying issue, right? I’ve realized through my years-long struggle with anxiety that the fear often disguises itself as the comfort zone. The vicious cycle of calm-to-nervous-to-full-on-freak-out-to-I-made-it-I’m-alive-to-I-can-now-be-calm again is at least a pattern I recognize and strangely find comfort in purely because it’s familiar. I think that’s why for many anxiety sufferers, we tend to believe (even if we don’t admit it) that the chronic worrying is the very thing that keeps the bad thing from happening. That’s the dirty underbelly of an intelligent mind – that our brains are creative enough to believe the completely made-up fallacy that if we just do the anxious song and dance steps consistently every time, we’ll keep arriving at the safe and secure place where we get to have that brilliant moment of clarity and reflect back on the chaos and see from a safety distance that we needn’t ever have slipped on our dancing shoes in the first place, or for that matter, ever taken them out of their box. 

Yet, inevitably, when that “next time” rolls around and we’re faced with an unknown or a familiar fear, we’re like, Yeah, remember that great nugget of wisdom we picked up back there about not needing to freak out in order to keep ourselves safe? Hey, why don’t YOU go on ahead and demonstrate that for us. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be back here not being the one to take the chance, because you know, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, am I right? And then it’s off to the races, knees bobbing, feet shaking, breaths shallowing, and heart racing all the way down the freaking runway. 

Where I get into trouble is when I try to wedge the illusion of control into reality – that, as Oprah says, we are spiritual beings having a human experience.  That we are not in control, even for a second. I always say, if I was the type to ever get a tattoo (and maybe I will be one day), it would be this phrase: 

Find freedom in the boundaries of your domain. I’m going to ask you to read that one again: Find freedom in the boundaries of your domain. 

I’ve given a lot of thought to why I love these words. I think it’s because they perform some kind of literary alchemy, making juxtaposing concepts – freedom and boundaries – two equal and equally necessary parts of the equation for peace. It reminds me that I can’t have one without the other. Freedom and boundaries are in a symbiotic relationship and need each other to exist, so who am I to try to break up their happy marriage? 

I think I also love this phrase because it gives me a proverbial sandbox that’s all mine to play in. Inside that sandbox, I can throw sand and dig holes, and make smooth surfaces, build castles, knock them down, and even invite my friends inside to play. The one thing I can’t do is make the sandbox larger, smaller, longer, or thinner. I can’t make it anything other than what it is – my lovely, boundaried sandbox where I can be me. Where I can be free. 

As I look out of the airplane window, I can see that the sun has now gone all the way down. White, yellow, blue, green and red lights dot the cities below, situated between large swaths of darkness. Maybe it’s the classical music playing in my ears, or the shot of Jack Daniel’s I had at the bar before takeoff, or the numbing whir of the background noise lulling me into this peaceful state. Honestly, I think it’s none of those things at all, but rather this. Right here. This transformation of the whirling, fearful thoughts into visible pixels and linear sentences that can be revisited and reflected upon at every “next time”.

That’s the secret ingredient that’s urging me to trust the process. That’s the ending I am going to choose. That I will become more and more at ease in the anticipation of the unknown and evolve into a peaceful, confident flyer, like my Gran. Mesmerized by the wonder of air travel as I fly somewhere exciting, magically crossing states in a matter of hours and hovering above oceans, making my way to some distant shore. Boundaried and free.

do family collections preserve our past or weigh down our future? 

I recently helped my best girlfriend pack up her three-bedroom house (with a full basement) in preparation for her family’s move to a one-bedroom condo. She and her husband have been married for 25 years and have two daughters – one 18 and headed to college and one 8 and headed to third grade. Among the four of them, they have accumulated… well, a lot. What would be sold, stored, tossed, or moved? 

As I bubble-wrapped collection after impressive collection of their family treasures – from National Park plates and Disney figurines, to miniature spoons and state quarters – I found myself marveling at the depth of these memories they had collected through the years. But then I felt a certain sadness about them being boxed up out of sight and out of mind, shuffled from one house to the next. My sadness then shifted to something I can only describe as overwhelm, thinking about the weight of it all, the literal and figurative heaviness of these objects. The physical weight of each box, the resources spent to acquire them, the space required to store them, and the heart space filled with obligation to hold on to them for one day when. (“One day when I have more walls…” “One day when the girls are grown and have children of their own…”).

Growing up, my mom assigned everything in our house (and I mean every. thing.) immense sentimental value. (“This bowl / this plant / this tablecloth was a wedding gift from your great grandmother / from my cousin / from my first boss. When your daddy and I are dead and gone, please don’t put it in a yard sale.”). While I used to get annoyed with her constant reminders of which items came from whom, I now realize that my mother doesn’t have generations of stories and heirlooms passed down to her through the thick branches of a centuries-old family tree. Mom was adopted and, until just recently in her late 60s, she knew very little about her birth family. Perhaps the constant inventorying is her roundabout way of creating a rich family history in a single generation’s time. Perhaps my sister’s four beautiful children are her own gifts in service to my mom’s quest. Maybe they are just both doing what they can to give our family tree some extra branches. 

While I admire their intent (and adore my nieces and nephew), I’m just not wired for collecting. A couple of times a year, I cull my closets and drawers, creating piles to toss out, donate, or organize. I don’t buy souvenirs or collect coffee cups. I won’t allow myself to feel obligated to or weighed down by things. I actually get quite anxious if I find myself believing that a story or memory is inextricably linked to an object. If I find myself believing that without the thing the memory will cease to be, I can start to feel really squirrelly and jump into a tidying, purging frenzy. Just this weekend, I downsized four large storage bins my mom had given me of my childhood keepsakes into two small boxes – one for early keepsakes like my nursery blanket, diaper pins, and kindergarten class photos; and one for grade school report cards and high school memories from the dance team. 

During our packing party back at her house, my friend said she didn’t recall me having any collections of my own. I had to give that some thought. What have my husband and I had collected during our 20 years of life together? Passport stamps, National Park medallions for our walking sticks, bins of hobby gear (camping, skiing, fishing, golfing, flying, scuba diving…), and books, books, and more books. While we do have to account for an entire extra room for our book collection and a garage for our hobby gear when looking at real estate, I am grateful that our collections are uniquely ours. That our library of books invite us to be still and grow our minds. That our hobby gear invites us to get up and go. And that our passport stamps are our gateway to adventure. 

So do our family collections preserve our past or weigh down our future? Maybe it’s less of a question that needs a specific answer and more of a mantra to be consulted when considering what should stay and what should go.