Tag: happiness

friendships

“We have three types of friends in life: friends for a reason, friends for a season, and friends for a lifetime.” This phrase has been attributed to various authors, but I will forever attribute it to my mom, spoken in her kind yet matter-of-fact voice when my tender heart was wounded. The first time I remember her sharing this concept with me, we were sitting on the edge of my childhood bed amid a lot of tears and sniffles, as I realized my world was rapidly changing in ways I never anticipated.

My group of best friends, a circle strengthened since pre-school, was officially splitting up. Not because of any unresolved skirmishes but because of geography. As the end of sixth grade approached, some of us (including me) would start our next chapter at Bragg Middle School, which would then feed us into Gardendale High. The other half were going to North Jefferson Middle School and then on to Mortimer Jordan High School.

Up until that point, it felt like we had been aboard a train of single-file cars gliding toward our futures and then – schwoom! – the track unexpectedly split in two. Some cars turned south to the maroon and gray campus of the GHS Rockets, and others bent north to the blue and silver stomping grounds of the MJHS Blue Devils. Suddenly, the very same people who had helped shape my identity, build my community, and determine how I would move through the world would soon become bitter rivals we would cheer against from opposing sides of the field.

Back in my bedroom, I felt the ground unravel beneath my feet as I came to terms with this new reality. In my heart of hearts, I had trusted we would be friends forever. After all, we had plastered “BFF” on our notebook covers and bedroom bulletin boards. And what about the sets of silver friendship necklaces that, only when placed together, formed a complete heart? What about all the sleepovers and swim days and secret crushes? Finding out that we had been seasonal friends all along made me feel duped, an eleven-year-old sized deception.

I’d like to say to any younger readers out there that this was the worst of it, but the truth is, the stakes only kept getting higher. Take my best friend in high school. She heard every detail of my first period and showed me how to practice my first kiss with a fist. I was by her side through a flood of regret after she lost her virginity and had big questions as a girl raised in the South where promise rings encircled the wedding finger of most of our peers. We went from sharing everything from changing bodies, matching hairstyles, and first hangovers to being strangers in the same college sorority. Then came my longest former friendship with twenty years of military ties, godparent titles, and international travel, culminating in an epically dramatic fallout that still leaves me scratching my head.

Now a year and half after my cross-country move from Florida to New Mexico, I’ve found myself trying to predict which friends will be in my life a year from now, a decade from now, and when (and if I’m lucky enough to become) old and gray. And I’ve been wondering: Is it possible to avoid being blindsided when you find out a friendship you thought was air-tight and non-perishable actually has an expiration date?

In attempting to answer that question, I’ve discovered a few things (some the hard way) worth sharing:

  1. Real friendships come with a push-away-pull-together ebb and flow of constant motion due to the simple fact that no two humans can grow in the same direction all day, every day. But the relationships that last will return from those stretched times with new stories that fuel the next layer of excavation and connection.

  2. Much like romantic relationships, lasting friendships require authentic, sustained effort. That means showing up when we don’t always feel like it. That means staying genuinely curious about each other’s most primitive fears, bravest dreams, and most obscure oddities. That means telling the truth even when it’s hard. That means putting in the time and care required for the friendship to shed its armor and exhale.

  3. Friends for a reason (and a season) are just as necessary to our human experience as friends for a lifetime. We need kindred spirits of all shapes and sizes to get through life’s tough stuff, to share in the mundane, to make the team work, to achieve the big milestones.

  4. Friendships need permission to evolve.  They can be hungry for the minutiae that incessantly streams across the tickers of daily life. They can be crisis caregivers who drop everything and come to each other’s aid when life gets especially hard. They can be adventure partners who share a world view of compassion and curiosity. They can be old friends who connect with random check-ins or door knocks that reaffirm they will continue to show up for each other. They can debate, disagree, and even distance for a while. They can be all of the above or something else entirely.

Maybe the answer to the question above is to learn how to swallow this jagged little pill: If we are fortunate enough to live long enough, friendships will come and go, and even some of our most special ones will fade regardless of our investment. But that doesn’t make them any less worth the risk. Because those rarest of jewels, the friendships we have the good fortune to share in for a lifetime, they are forged and refined by fire, by walking hand in hand, free of judgment, and doing whatever it takes.

At its outset, it’s impossible to determine whether a friendship will be for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. But with that unknown comes beautiful possibilities. Maybe it will be a brief kinship. Maybe it’s the start of a season of meaningful connection. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of something lifelong. I am grateful for them all just the same.

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the world she witnessed

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

Born June 14, 1926, Evelyn Mae Fitzgerald 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.

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syncing with my sandbox

We’re in Key West for our annual long weekend, celebrating my husband’s birthday. While this travel tradition aligns with my husband’s special day, it is also a gift for me.  The gift of time, the gift of being away, the gift of no plans other than the occasional dinner reservation.

Daniel rose at 4 am this morning and biked to Garrison Bight to board the flats skiff owned by Lenny Leonard, his guide and friend for more than a decade. They pulled away from the dock at 5 am sharp, and I received a text from my guy by 7:30 am saying they had boated a 100-pound tarpon on fly, reenergizing his addiction to tight lines.

I walked Fischer, our Brittany Spaniel, down to the docks for a quick walk and listened to a podcast episode on the way. Elizabeth Gilbert, famed author of Eat, Pray, Love, is a close friend of Glennon Doyle, host of my favorite podcast, “We Can Do Hard Things”.  Liz came on the podcast for a two-episode interview, celebrating the podcast’s one-year anniversary. A woman called into the show looking for advice on how to move on from a desperate situation. The advice Liz shared with her is universally helpful to all people trying to be the best versions of themselves, me included. Here’s a brief excerpt from the transcript:

“My experience is that if I focus my attention on good orderly direction, healthy activities for myself, taking care of my inner little, going to sleep at the right times, nourishing my life in all ways. If I pay attention to those things, then eventually something happens behind my back and those obsessions dissolve… I can’t manufacture the end to that story, but I can turn it over to a higher power and then do what I can to nourish myself. And one day I look up and I notice I haven’t thought about that person in a month. And so what I would do, if I were counseling you, is that I would make a list of top-line behaviors: 10 things that you do that are really good for you, whatever those might be. And then every day, look at that list and try to live in those top lines. And live as much as you can in those top lines, because that’s all I am in control of. That is really all I am in control of. I’m not in control of anything else. And be willing to let time do its good work and let time do it for you, rather than you trying to do it.”

Yes, Liz, yes! When I have battled anxiety in the form of racing thoughts unable to sit still in my own skin, it is only when I lovingly but firmly committed to doing the things I knew were good for me, that make me happy and grounded, that those unhealthy, negative and brooding thoughts slow down and make space for more good stuff in between. I love how Liz articulated that connection while also giving it structure, explaining that when we are living in integrity with ourselves doing the things we know make us feel most aligned with our true and best selves, we will stop focusing on the things we can’t control by finding ourselves among the only things we can – our own actions. Her advice inspired to create my own list of top-line behaviors, or what I am calling my sandbox tools – the behaviors that create space for me to find and be me.

My Sandbox Tools

  1. Spending time outside among nature, preferably in the presence of those I love
  2. Getting 8 hours of sleep
  3. Moving my body – exercise, dancing, swimming…
  4. Drinking plenty of water and eating fresh foods
  5. Getting still and quiet
  6. Reading good books
  7. Journaling
  8. Swinging in a hammock, preferably near a body of water
  9. Creating – writing, designing, inventing…
  10. Paying attention to beautiful experiences with lingering curiosity – the taste of an exquisite meal, the points of light in a painting, the unique characteristics of each sunrise/set, the smooth motion of a satellite moving across a night sky, the shimmering dance of the moon on the surface of an inky ocean, the soft crinkles around my mother’s eyes when she laughs, candlelight flickering on the plates of a fine table setting, the sound of the breeze as it moves through palm fronds, sea foam fizzing across the tops of my feet…

It’s not lost on me that one of the many reasons Key West retains its magic year after year is because, when I am here, I tap in daily to nearly all of my top-line behaviors. I enjoy beautiful experiences, pay close attention to my curiosities, rest, read, journal, meditate, swim, dance, create, and spend time with those I love. In other words, I find my sandbox and get in sync with its rhythm that only I can identify and move freely within. I imagine that’s why time spent here always feels like hitting the reset button, like an opportunity to recharge and reconnect with my best self. 

Now, rather than pack my sandbox tools away until next time, I must remember Liz’s advice – to pull them out and use them, every day. That is how I will find and stay connected to my best self. On the island, on the mainland, and everywhere in between.

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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!

reinventing ourselves: possible or mythical?

In the journey of life and self-discovery, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of reinvention. Here’s my question: Can we really reinvent ourselves and leave our old baggage behind, or are we destined to keep the unsightly stuff from our past as permanent carry-ons?

In my late 20s and early 30s, I started getting a lot more anxious about things that used to be sources of joy (social situations, traveling, family gatherings, etc.). I would find myself – pardon the heavy term – mourning my younger self and wishing I could summon her spontaneity, free spirit and courage as super powers for wholesome living now. I wanted to break the chain of scheduled routines (control), keeping up appearances (control), staying within my comfort zone (control) and leap into life with that same child-like enthusiasm I once had years ago.

Recently, my best girlfriend from childhood came for a visit. We had a wonderful time reminiscing about high school boyfriends, friendships, trips and the many dramatic moments of adolescence. We were on our school dance team together for all four years of high school and, every summer, we would travel to UDA dance camp to compete against other schools in our state. When you’re a teenager dreaming of being a real Rockette at Radio City, you believe summer UDA camp is the gateway to the big leagues. Here’s how it works …

You bunk in a real dorm room at a real state university (a big deal, especially for pre-pubescent girls … hey, I was a late bloomer). Then you spend your days at the university sports arena learning multiple dance routines with girls from other schools. You may be the only girl from your school in your group, or if you’re lucky, there will be maybe one other girl you know. Then you spend all night (literally) practicing the routines in your dorm room or hallway until your fellow teammates deem you ready for the competition at the end of the week where you will be judged by real judges (Looking back, I’m not sure why I was terrified of the judge panel – they were probably just ex- high school dancers themselves with real day jobs).

At the end of each routine, you stand quietly looking at the ground (no eye contact permitted) with your hands behind your back. The judges then place one of three ribbons in your hand: White if you effed it up royally, red if you were mediocre, or blue if you were the bomb dot com (it was the late ’90s when we used terms like ‘bomb dot com’).

Our dance team sponsor (for me, my Home Ec teacher, Mrs. H), would then collect the team’s ribbons and hang them on a hanger. At the end of the week, the hanger would be filled to the brim of – what you hoped was – all blue ribbons. Then we would travel back to our small town with at least 15 dance routines to perform the rest of the school year at basketball games and pep rallies (no way would booty-shaking make it onto the football field in my town).

So, back to reinvention …

During our walk down memory lane over spiked lemonades pool side, my friend reminded me of our senior trip to UDA camp, when – as only seniors can – I tried out for UDA All Stars (the biggest of big deals). As an All Star tryout, you had to come up with your own 30-second routine and perform solo in front of – get this – the entire camp. Yep, all your teammates, all the girls from all the schools, and all their parents. Oh, and the scary judges. And this was in addition to your other routines you had to learn along with everyone else. AND, only three winners would be chosen and get to go to Paris to compete for international All Star status. Whoah. I’d never been out of the country! I’ll come back to this in a few moments …

So one of my teachers of the normal routines ended up being sick with the flu all week and couldn’t practice with us, so we all bombed it during the competition. With the stress of not having had ample practice time, embarrassing myself during the performance and working my toosh off for my All Star routine, I had a little (not so little) bit of a meltdown.

Standing there with my hands behind my back after performing (or should I say looking dazed and confused while marking time for more than half) the routine that no one knew, I could feel the white ribbon in my hand. Traditionally, once all dancers have their ribbons in their hands, the judges count down from 3, then everyone looks at their ribbons, jumps up and down while shrieking only the way teenage girls can, and then everyone runs to their team’s wire hanger to display their ribbon with pride.

Not this time. No way, Jose. I balled that freaking ribbon in my hand so tightly and refused to look at it. Instead I ran straight to my Mom with a fist full of ribbon and a face full of hysterical tears.

Pause: I remembered none of this. In my memory, it was all unicorns and rainbows, and I had completely forgotten about this less-than-stellar moment in my short-lived dance career. Okay, let’s go back …

My mom told me all the reasons it was okay to get a white ribbon, reminding me that the teacher was sick and that I was under a lot of stress and that my teammates would understand and blah blah blah. I knew she was trying to console me, but I knew my perfect blue-ribbon run was over. Only one other person on our team had ever received a white ribbon, and three years later, people still used her as an example. Snotty and splotchy, I refused to open my hand. White ribbon be damned. Finally, my mother pried my fingers open only to reveal … a blue ribbon.

You can imagine my surprise when I realized the sick instructor had shown pity on all of us and given everyone an honorable blue ribbon. I knew in my heart that I deserved a white ribbon. None of us deserved blue.

And then I snapped out of my momentary goodwill, got myself together and cheerfully hung my most infamous blue ribbon on the wire hanger with pride. Whew!

Then it was time to perform my All Star routine. I stood with the other girls in the back waiting for my name to be called. I remember hearing my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I actually asked a girl from Spartman HS (my rival) if she could hear it. Way to play it cool.

Several girls decided at the last minute that the pressure was too great and just didn’t go out there when their name was called over the loud speaker. For a moment, I thought about it and came so close to quitting. After all, I had gotten my blue ribbons. Did I really need Paris, too?

And then they called my name, and it was too late to back out. I ran out onto the floor, waited for the music to start, and then began my routine. I remember being in awe that my mind could be completely freaking out while my body flew around the floor, dancing to the rhythm just as I had practiced.

When I hit the last pose, the crowd roared, and I saw my mom and my teammates jumping and cheering. Then I saw smiles on the judges faces. I had won All Stars and gotten one of the coveted three spots. I was over the moon.

Sure, it was fun to relive my overblown reactions to big-deal moments of teenagerdom with my friend, but it also taught me an important lesson. Much like people who struggle with body dysmorphia, I had my own brand of youth dysmorphia.

I had rewritten the truth of my past into a cloud of naïve bliss, forgetting that my brave, spontaneous, free-spirited younger self had her own fears, stresses, challenges and insecurities, and just like my current self, she sometimes wanted to run for the hills.

But she didn’t. And I won’t either. There’s too many great opportunities up for grabs for those who are brave enough to keep going.

So, back to our question: Can we reinvent ourselves? Not in an instantaneous Abbra Cadabra way, no (not if you want it to last any way), but slowly and over time, I believe we can. No matter our location on life’s continuum, I believe the thread of who we are at our core remains the same, but it evolves, grows and expands with every choice, new experience or change in direction we’re brave enough to learn from and embrace.

And, when things get tough, it’s good to know we’ll always have Paris.

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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!

pause. notice. experience.

I’m inside my two-week notice period at my current job that I’ve held for nearly six years. I’m wooohoooo and eeeeeeek all at the same time. Counting down the days, yet savoring each one.

I’m also noticing a lot of internal observation about how I’m handling this transition. While I have one foot in the unknown adventure ahead, the rest of me is hanging back in familiar territory, reminiscing about all the good times and wearing rose-colored glasses, finding every excuse to categorize this new, exciting time as a scary place with just too much incalculable risk.

Lately, I’ve been unfairly comparing how I’m handling the situation to how I believe others would approach this time. Telling myself that it’s no big deal and that others would approach this unknown territory with more grace, more comfort, more confidence, and less anxiety, sleepless nights and what-ifs. I mean, isn’t this what I wanted? Yep. Haven’t I been praying for direction and that just right opportunity to come my way? Yep. And isn’t this the kind of opportunity worth moving my family, saying goodbye to friends and colleagues, and stepping out into a brave, new world where this particular girl has never gone before? Yep. And now … here it is, the opportunity of my life, checking all the boxes I wanted, and I’m greeting it with excitement, sure, but also a big ol’ heaping of fear.

So, I’m taking steps to learn to give myself a break and stop comparing my experience to other people and their response to situations I know nothing about. I am not those people. I’m me, responding the way I am responding, and that is okay. It’s more than okay. It’s exactly as it should be.

And by the way, those mixed emotions I’m feeling? Those are part of the human condition and completely natural. There is a wealth of experience to be had in good times, bad times and these awkward in-between times, and I don’t want to miss any of it sitting over here on the sidelines, awhirl in a flurry of thought.

Whatever “change” looks like now or down the road, I know that recognizing we’re afraid and calling fear by name rather than getting swept up in its powerful flow – well, that’s the first step toward weakening its chokehold on happiness.

So, starting right now, I choose to pause, notice and experience this day, this moment and this time of transition. And when I do look back on it from some future point in time, I hope I’ll see a younger version of myself who made a brave choice that led to fulfillment, growth and, yes, that sweetest emotion of all … happiness. Now that’s a very brave choice, indeed.

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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!