Sue is just about my oldest (longest?!) friend. I have known her since I was in middle school - she was my church youth group leader. There were activities and retreats and rites of passage in the church; Sue was there. As we've gotten older, she became and has remained a close friend. When I was living in Connecticut, I led a Bible study group, and Sue was the collective group's director, giving the talk to the larger group at the end of the evening each week - always thoughtful and interesting with historical context and visual aids, but also always with a core message of faith.
She has always been a voice of spiritual reason for me. When I find myself asking questions, Sue has always been the one to bring me around to what I know. She does this most of the time by simply reminding me of scripture. Many years ago, she impressed upon me the importance of knowing scripture - and not just being familiar with it, but memorizing it. If it lives in your heart, it is always with you, and you always know where to find key passages.
This is a lesson I have never forgotten and have been explicitly reminded of many times over the years, when I'm reaching for a verse or word from God that I can't quite find. I have a distinct memory of driving north on 95 one (pre-Google) day, trying desperately to remember the beautiful words of Jeremiah 29:11. I knew the beginning, but couldn't quite get to the end, and had no idea where to find it. Someone eventually helped me out, and I haven't forgotten it since.
I have found myself in situations and conversations over the years, in which I know the general content of a verse, but don't have it handy. "There is some something about that somewhere in one of the gospels - I think - that addresses that .... if only I could remember it ...." isn't quite as effective as saying: God tells us in John 16:33: "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." Sue has always beautifully modeled this ability to conjure up scripture applicable to the situation, and for that lesson, I have always been grateful.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
17. Ann: what conviction looks like
I had the great fortune of meeting Ann several years ago. You know how this goes "oh, I think there's someone you should meet ...." This is sometimes just an exercise, a rotation ... some strung-together set of perceived interests by the mutual contact, not always fruitful.
In this case, however, fruitful. My partner in Freedom Week (anti) crime, Ann, has been one of the key influences in my life over the last several years. This is a woman who has sacrificed much for something she believes in, wholesale. It has cost her a lot, in the economies of location, career, finances, proximity to family, leisure time. To others, it doesn't come across as sacrifice; it's so a part of what she believes in that it never seems to be a second thought.
Meet her one day - she'll tell you the story of why she's so convicted about the horror of human trafficking, and why other things in her life - things that might seem important in our culture of amassing - seem to carry less weight when faced with this global and local greater tragedy and its vast need.
She is one of the most kind, lovely, sweet, and warm people you will ever know. She's also a smarty and has a great vision. Freedom Week is all hers - a dynamic and practical concept of coalescing many great New York City organizations that are all doing something distinct to stand up against human trafficking; a week of interesting and compelling events that spread the word, share the messages of the important work being undertaken by these great organizations, and create channels to get involved. Ok, that was a bit of a plug, but truly, it's all Ann and I wanted to highlight her beautiful vision.
She is truly an inspiration to me, in her positioning her life to face squarely toward something about which she is so convicted that everything else diminishes in light of the greater cause.
In this case, however, fruitful. My partner in Freedom Week (anti) crime, Ann, has been one of the key influences in my life over the last several years. This is a woman who has sacrificed much for something she believes in, wholesale. It has cost her a lot, in the economies of location, career, finances, proximity to family, leisure time. To others, it doesn't come across as sacrifice; it's so a part of what she believes in that it never seems to be a second thought.
Meet her one day - she'll tell you the story of why she's so convicted about the horror of human trafficking, and why other things in her life - things that might seem important in our culture of amassing - seem to carry less weight when faced with this global and local greater tragedy and its vast need.
She is one of the most kind, lovely, sweet, and warm people you will ever know. She's also a smarty and has a great vision. Freedom Week is all hers - a dynamic and practical concept of coalescing many great New York City organizations that are all doing something distinct to stand up against human trafficking; a week of interesting and compelling events that spread the word, share the messages of the important work being undertaken by these great organizations, and create channels to get involved. Ok, that was a bit of a plug, but truly, it's all Ann and I wanted to highlight her beautiful vision.
She is truly an inspiration to me, in her positioning her life to face squarely toward something about which she is so convicted that everything else diminishes in light of the greater cause.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
16. My Grandma: don't wait
This will be the hardest of my lessons to write. I started it in my head tonight, walking east along a slippery and slushy 13th Street, and realized I was adding to the slush as tears started to stream down my face. My relationship with my grandmother was complicated, in some ways tortured, and evolved over the course of our overlapping lives.
As a kid, my grandparents were the absolute best. They always had something fun and thoughtfully planned to do for us when my sister and I visited - magic shows, dinner theater, ice cream parlors with ice cream sundaes so big they were announced with horns and sirens, Donnie and Marie live! It was always so much fun.
Our summer "camp" would be visiting them in DC, the old ladies in all their crazy bathing caps getting a kick out of my sister and me jumping around in the pool for hours like fish, until we were so waterlogged that the little crystal light fixtures that lined the long condominium hallway glowed like rainbows. We played dress up, did our nails, and the puzzles! There was always a puzzle on grandma and grandpa's living room table. And stacks of them in the foyer closet. Stacks!
As we got older, I started to become aware of the things that little kids aren't tuned into. I began to be privy to some difficult family dynamics between my grandmother and her daughters. As I watched them at odds, I would invariably side with my mother and aunts. A slow but steady divide began to grow between my grandmother and me. The older I got, the more clearly I understood the complexities. We continued to drift until we eventually were just maintaining a skeleton of the relationship we once had. Year after year of (ahem) colorful holiday dynamics fortified this expanse between us.
When she got sick, there were things to be done. We all rallied. My family and I spent several draining weekends preparing her place to be sold - clearing out every last reminder from all the nooks and crannies that were replete with vivid but fading childhood memories. We moved her to hospice.
In these final stages, she was as difficult as ever. It made it very challenging to be sympathetic; I was conflicted knowing she was scared and in pain, but dealing with pain of my own. One day, it all came rushing back to me, and I realized I didn't want her to go without knowing it all. I wrote her a letter - a long letter recounting the happy memories, and how important it had all been to my childhood. I was careful to remain true to myself and the situation, and not gush with falsities, but to tell her that she had always been important to me and that I did, in fact, love her. Feeling as though a huge weight had been lifted, I mailed it to her. I should have faxed it, but I flippantly decided there would be enough time. She died the day it arrived. She never read it.
My "consolation" was to read it at the small family memorial service we had for her. It was no consolation. I was heartbroken, sobbing as I waded through it. "Don't worry - she knows!" friends reassured me. No she doesn't. How could she? She died without knowing it and now will never know, which is something I have never gotten over and now live with. It's my biggest regret in life, and was one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn: the moment you realize something is important, do it now. Even if someone isn't on her deathbed, anything can happen, so seize the opportunity immediately - don't wait.
As a kid, my grandparents were the absolute best. They always had something fun and thoughtfully planned to do for us when my sister and I visited - magic shows, dinner theater, ice cream parlors with ice cream sundaes so big they were announced with horns and sirens, Donnie and Marie live! It was always so much fun.
Our summer "camp" would be visiting them in DC, the old ladies in all their crazy bathing caps getting a kick out of my sister and me jumping around in the pool for hours like fish, until we were so waterlogged that the little crystal light fixtures that lined the long condominium hallway glowed like rainbows. We played dress up, did our nails, and the puzzles! There was always a puzzle on grandma and grandpa's living room table. And stacks of them in the foyer closet. Stacks!
As we got older, I started to become aware of the things that little kids aren't tuned into. I began to be privy to some difficult family dynamics between my grandmother and her daughters. As I watched them at odds, I would invariably side with my mother and aunts. A slow but steady divide began to grow between my grandmother and me. The older I got, the more clearly I understood the complexities. We continued to drift until we eventually were just maintaining a skeleton of the relationship we once had. Year after year of (ahem) colorful holiday dynamics fortified this expanse between us.
When she got sick, there were things to be done. We all rallied. My family and I spent several draining weekends preparing her place to be sold - clearing out every last reminder from all the nooks and crannies that were replete with vivid but fading childhood memories. We moved her to hospice.
In these final stages, she was as difficult as ever. It made it very challenging to be sympathetic; I was conflicted knowing she was scared and in pain, but dealing with pain of my own. One day, it all came rushing back to me, and I realized I didn't want her to go without knowing it all. I wrote her a letter - a long letter recounting the happy memories, and how important it had all been to my childhood. I was careful to remain true to myself and the situation, and not gush with falsities, but to tell her that she had always been important to me and that I did, in fact, love her. Feeling as though a huge weight had been lifted, I mailed it to her. I should have faxed it, but I flippantly decided there would be enough time. She died the day it arrived. She never read it.
My "consolation" was to read it at the small family memorial service we had for her. It was no consolation. I was heartbroken, sobbing as I waded through it. "Don't worry - she knows!" friends reassured me. No she doesn't. How could she? She died without knowing it and now will never know, which is something I have never gotten over and now live with. It's my biggest regret in life, and was one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn: the moment you realize something is important, do it now. Even if someone isn't on her deathbed, anything can happen, so seize the opportunity immediately - don't wait.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
15. Kim: take a breath
Often when you ask Kim a question, she pauses. And hmmms for a second. Occasionally, it will be a pause just long enough, in response to just a certain type of question (how are the kids? how are your parents?) that will have me worried for a second. But then her fully thought-out and emphatic response puts my mind at ease. She takes her time with her answer; she is thoughtful, reflective.
It would be an understatement to say that this little pause is something I don't do. I can hardly even wait for someone else's sentence to be finished before I am responding. Yes, of course I know it's rude! And hasty and immature and self-centered. I know all these things.
But I'm hyper. I get ahead of myself. My emotions work faster than my brain (refer to yesterday's post). My hasty words can create a verbal mess. It's not infrequently that I say something I later wish I hadn't, or simply regret that I have been more focused on how I am going to respond, than on thoughtfully listening.
When I do this, I think of Kim, and her hmmmm. I'm guessing she takes time to think about the response. At the very least, she gives her attention and the chance for someone to deliver completed thoughts. I admire this quality, and aspire to emulate Kim's moment for reflection that may allow for a more thoughtful (and grown up!) response.
It would be an understatement to say that this little pause is something I don't do. I can hardly even wait for someone else's sentence to be finished before I am responding. Yes, of course I know it's rude! And hasty and immature and self-centered. I know all these things.
But I'm hyper. I get ahead of myself. My emotions work faster than my brain (refer to yesterday's post). My hasty words can create a verbal mess. It's not infrequently that I say something I later wish I hadn't, or simply regret that I have been more focused on how I am going to respond, than on thoughtfully listening.
When I do this, I think of Kim, and her hmmmm. I'm guessing she takes time to think about the response. At the very least, she gives her attention and the chance for someone to deliver completed thoughts. I admire this quality, and aspire to emulate Kim's moment for reflection that may allow for a more thoughtful (and grown up!) response.
Monday, January 20, 2014
14. Randi: the importance of being true to yourself
Randi doesn't settle. If there is something that isn't sitting right with her, she says so and says no.
Peer pressure? Forget it. Even in high school, Randi knew who she was and had no use for anyone trying to convince her to do something she wasn't already interested in doing. She has immediate visceral reactions (she doesn't need to think about it) to suggestions I might consider in the same situation. "No ... " comes the answer, with closed eyes, pursued lips that betray a hint of a smile, and a slow side-to-side sweep of the head.
It may sound inflexible, but it's not. This is not about flexibility. Randi can flex and accommodate with the best of them. This lesson is about knowing who we are and not betraying what we know.
My favorite movie is Elizabeth, a historical drama about Queen Elizabeth I's rise to power. Early in the story, when she has been summoned by the current queen, her half-sister who hates her, she is uncertain of her fate. Her closest confidant takes her hand in encouragement and whispers in her ear as she's being taken away "Remember who you are."
These could be words from Randi. And they translate into her immutability on things she knows would compromise who she is. We run into these situations all the time, don't we? "Listen, I hope you don't mind if ...." My default? Well okay, sure, I guess. Which eventually devolves into me regretting the assent and asking "what was I thinking?!" I tend to over-accommodate. Later, I tend to feel like a doormat. Randi's default, on the other hand, cautions against this. A great apartment with an awkward element I might convince myself I could get used to? Move on. The less expensive option, that compromises on some features? Not likely. Roommate wants to sublet her room to a stranger while out of town for a couple of weeks? No freaking way.
This strength of belief and knowing who she is, and its manifestation in how she responds to such life questions, is a quality of Randi's I truly admire. As I said, this is not my default, but I'm slowly creeping along in that direction. When I'm presented with options or requests that give me pause, rather than quickly say "sure!" I am learning to take a breath, think through how I really feel about it, and remember who I am in the situation. Oh and also, I remember to call Randi for advice, because when I forget, it's Randi who invariably remembers for me.
Peer pressure? Forget it. Even in high school, Randi knew who she was and had no use for anyone trying to convince her to do something she wasn't already interested in doing. She has immediate visceral reactions (she doesn't need to think about it) to suggestions I might consider in the same situation. "No ... " comes the answer, with closed eyes, pursued lips that betray a hint of a smile, and a slow side-to-side sweep of the head.
It may sound inflexible, but it's not. This is not about flexibility. Randi can flex and accommodate with the best of them. This lesson is about knowing who we are and not betraying what we know.
My favorite movie is Elizabeth, a historical drama about Queen Elizabeth I's rise to power. Early in the story, when she has been summoned by the current queen, her half-sister who hates her, she is uncertain of her fate. Her closest confidant takes her hand in encouragement and whispers in her ear as she's being taken away "Remember who you are."
These could be words from Randi. And they translate into her immutability on things she knows would compromise who she is. We run into these situations all the time, don't we? "Listen, I hope you don't mind if ...." My default? Well okay, sure, I guess. Which eventually devolves into me regretting the assent and asking "what was I thinking?!" I tend to over-accommodate. Later, I tend to feel like a doormat. Randi's default, on the other hand, cautions against this. A great apartment with an awkward element I might convince myself I could get used to? Move on. The less expensive option, that compromises on some features? Not likely. Roommate wants to sublet her room to a stranger while out of town for a couple of weeks? No freaking way.
This strength of belief and knowing who she is, and its manifestation in how she responds to such life questions, is a quality of Randi's I truly admire. As I said, this is not my default, but I'm slowly creeping along in that direction. When I'm presented with options or requests that give me pause, rather than quickly say "sure!" I am learning to take a breath, think through how I really feel about it, and remember who I am in the situation. Oh and also, I remember to call Randi for advice, because when I forget, it's Randi who invariably remembers for me.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
13. My Mom: what the heart of a giver looks like
The giving lobe in my mom's brain never sleeps. This is a woman who can't not help if help is needed. She sees a hole of need, and plugs it with her gifts, her time, her generosity.
She's been suffering - for years with painful afflictions in her feet, and most recently with newly-diagnosed lupus. She aches and is tired and sometimes can hardly walk by the end of the day, often has trouble using her hands in kitchen tasks, is exhausted from the inability to sleep. I can't imagine her daily plight. But seriously, nothing stops this woman.
She makes regular, on-going commitments - to make dinner for the youth group at church every week, to host the annual luncheon for a benefit walk for the charity of friends with a disabled daughter, to have weekly afternoon 'camp' for a family of dear friends with four kids to give the parents a break, to lead the charge on an annual church-wide fellowship dinner and activity evening at Christmas time ... to give just a sampling. And if someone is in need (surgery, loss of a loved one, house under construction, the list goes on ...), my mom is the first one at the door, full meal of multiple courses - lovingly made and carefully packaged with detailed instructions - in hand.
These aren't just meals and occupiers of time. They are a meticulously curated set of dietary restrictions and preferences, creative and thoughtful activities, gifts prepared with great care and great love.
New to town, no family nearby? You'll be having Christmas at our house. And Thanksgiving. And weekly dinners.
Besides the time and planning and care that go into these gifts, the expense is not insignificant. And that's another thing. While she's never said it to me quite in these words, she lives her life as if to announce that any money she has really isn't hers. It's been entrusted to her ... to give away. Her generosity to such things as friends and church members in need, sponsored children, christmas gift drives for underprivileged kids, ministry support ... again, the list goes on. A commonly accepted guideline within the church is to give away 10% of the gifts with which God has bestowed us. The percentage of money that my parents give away far exceeds this, and it's never a second thought. Not to mention the (ahem) assistance they are giving to one unnamed blogger while she is in graduate school; can't walk out of their house without being loaded down with groceries, prepared food, small things I have previously mentioned I might like, or "here's $20 - so you can get a haircut." Ok, that last one might be motivated by something other than generosity ...
I could go on (and on and on) but I'll wrap it here. The great gift my dear mom has given me has been bestowed to me through the vehicle of experiencing the gifts - both tangible and intangible - she has given to so many throughout her life. These gifts of generosity, hospitality, care, attention to detail, and the giving of herself have been an incredible example to me my whole life. While I'll never live up to it, I can always aspire; but the truth is, no one has the heart of a giver like my mom.
She's been suffering - for years with painful afflictions in her feet, and most recently with newly-diagnosed lupus. She aches and is tired and sometimes can hardly walk by the end of the day, often has trouble using her hands in kitchen tasks, is exhausted from the inability to sleep. I can't imagine her daily plight. But seriously, nothing stops this woman.
She makes regular, on-going commitments - to make dinner for the youth group at church every week, to host the annual luncheon for a benefit walk for the charity of friends with a disabled daughter, to have weekly afternoon 'camp' for a family of dear friends with four kids to give the parents a break, to lead the charge on an annual church-wide fellowship dinner and activity evening at Christmas time ... to give just a sampling. And if someone is in need (surgery, loss of a loved one, house under construction, the list goes on ...), my mom is the first one at the door, full meal of multiple courses - lovingly made and carefully packaged with detailed instructions - in hand.
These aren't just meals and occupiers of time. They are a meticulously curated set of dietary restrictions and preferences, creative and thoughtful activities, gifts prepared with great care and great love.
New to town, no family nearby? You'll be having Christmas at our house. And Thanksgiving. And weekly dinners.
Besides the time and planning and care that go into these gifts, the expense is not insignificant. And that's another thing. While she's never said it to me quite in these words, she lives her life as if to announce that any money she has really isn't hers. It's been entrusted to her ... to give away. Her generosity to such things as friends and church members in need, sponsored children, christmas gift drives for underprivileged kids, ministry support ... again, the list goes on. A commonly accepted guideline within the church is to give away 10% of the gifts with which God has bestowed us. The percentage of money that my parents give away far exceeds this, and it's never a second thought. Not to mention the (ahem) assistance they are giving to one unnamed blogger while she is in graduate school; can't walk out of their house without being loaded down with groceries, prepared food, small things I have previously mentioned I might like, or "here's $20 - so you can get a haircut." Ok, that last one might be motivated by something other than generosity ...
I could go on (and on and on) but I'll wrap it here. The great gift my dear mom has given me has been bestowed to me through the vehicle of experiencing the gifts - both tangible and intangible - she has given to so many throughout her life. These gifts of generosity, hospitality, care, attention to detail, and the giving of herself have been an incredible example to me my whole life. While I'll never live up to it, I can always aspire; but the truth is, no one has the heart of a giver like my mom.
Friday, January 17, 2014
12. Laurel: it's good enough
The topic of this entry, I've made before in my Africa series. (ha - I like that I think I have series). The message of this entry isn't so different from the first so I won't rehash it all. But Laurel's lesson of 'it's good enough' has long been on this developing list. I remember distinctly standing in her kitchen, her left hand leaning on her counter, sharing her revelation: "you know, sometimes it's just good enough." The image and the message have stayed with me for many years.
In this age of Martha Stewart perfection, curated social-media renditions of ourselves, and airbrushed photo-shopped magazine spreads, to name a few, it's stupid easy to forget that things don't have to be perfect. Actually, they shouldn't be perfect. It's ok to stop, and accept that good enough can just be good enough.
Ok, fine. I still get hung up about a few things. I won't go out with chipped nail polish, a coat with a missing button, or boots that need heels replaced (clack clack clack). But for most things in life, I've grown to accept, and in fact embrace, that sometimes what it is, is just good enough. Man, she's right. This simple word of wisdom washed a wave of relief over me, and let me off the hook. To dismiss the pressure I put on myself, in fact to write so publicly exposing my fallibility (gasp), has been a process - one that has been hard to cede, but a veritable relief once realized.
Ok, fine. I still get hung up about a few things. I won't go out with chipped nail polish, a coat with a missing button, or boots that need heels replaced (clack clack clack). But for most things in life, I've grown to accept, and in fact embrace, that sometimes what it is, is just good enough. Man, she's right. This simple word of wisdom washed a wave of relief over me, and let me off the hook. To dismiss the pressure I put on myself, in fact to write so publicly exposing my fallibility (gasp), has been a process - one that has been hard to cede, but a veritable relief once realized.
Life is too short to get hung up on the pursuit of perfection. I don't need to spend it worrying about things that won't mean a thing in a hundred years. I think we need to worry about things that really do matter - not external perceptions that grow from other people's hangups, but the things that truly enrich our own lives and those of others. The nails / boots / buttons notwithstanding.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
11. Christian: everyone's story is worth listening to
I can be intolerant. I get a little spun up in my own world sometimes. Christian, on the other hand, is one of the most generous-of-spirit people I have ever met. It has gotten him into trouble over the years, but I hope he never changes this about himself.
The day he was moving to Florida, his brother and I took a cab with him to Penn Station. Tim was telling a story, and the cab driver began chiming in with his own stories - about his home country, and his daughter, and who knows what-all (see? intolerant).
In the just-under-a-year that Christian had lived in New York (this time), he became one of my closest friends. We were both working non-traditional hours over the summer and early fall, so we had tons of time to hang out and wander the streets, talking about life and everything in it. I grew quite attached to him, so when he was leaving, I was sad and anxious and basically, acting like a bad version of myself. Enter the cabby's stories. With something like 30 minutes before Christian's train departed, I didn't want to listen to the cabby. And I said so. With a tilt of the head and a roll of the eyes, I drop "I don't want to listen to this guy's stories" into Christian's lap. With a tilt of the head back in my direction and a widening of the eyes, he responds softly but emphatically "I do. This guy's stories are cool." The next thing I dropped was my eyes. In shame. I don't even know if this guy's stories were cool; Christian's point was to not dismiss him.
The day he was moving to Florida, his brother and I took a cab with him to Penn Station. Tim was telling a story, and the cab driver began chiming in with his own stories - about his home country, and his daughter, and who knows what-all (see? intolerant).
In the just-under-a-year that Christian had lived in New York (this time), he became one of my closest friends. We were both working non-traditional hours over the summer and early fall, so we had tons of time to hang out and wander the streets, talking about life and everything in it. I grew quite attached to him, so when he was leaving, I was sad and anxious and basically, acting like a bad version of myself. Enter the cabby's stories. With something like 30 minutes before Christian's train departed, I didn't want to listen to the cabby. And I said so. With a tilt of the head and a roll of the eyes, I drop "I don't want to listen to this guy's stories" into Christian's lap. With a tilt of the head back in my direction and a widening of the eyes, he responds softly but emphatically "I do. This guy's stories are cool." The next thing I dropped was my eyes. In shame. I don't even know if this guy's stories were cool; Christian's point was to not dismiss him.
I think it's really easy to get spun up in our own worlds, and quickly dismiss those who are on the exterior. In deciding what's important and worth our time, we easily marginalize others. But what right do I have to marginalize anyone? That look on Christian's face, which I won't soon forget, will continue to remind me that indeed, everyone's story is worth listening to.
disclaimer: I recognize the grammar issue (mom) and went with it anyway.
10. More of the exes: the importance of asking about family
While I've dipped into the land of the ex, I'll stay here a minute. My ex is middle eastern - and not "of middle eastern descent," but born and raised there. Needless to say, their family culture and that of my white-bread, preppy, New England family were quite different.
One of the earliest things I noticed was, whenever I saw anyone in the ex-law family, the first question was always "how are your parents?" And then my sister. Fine. Why? Did something happen? Oh, they're just trying to make conversation. But the question persisted invariably, for over a decade, even after we had (many!) things to talk about. I found that this started to sound and feel completely normal to me as part of a greeting dynamic.
This is a part of their culture - in fact, of most cultures worldwide, ours excepted. I realize that when I get together with my girlfriends from university, we don't lead with this question, even though we might not have seen each other for a year or longer and many things will certainly have changed with our families.
One of the earliest things I noticed was, whenever I saw anyone in the ex-law family, the first question was always "how are your parents?" And then my sister. Fine. Why? Did something happen? Oh, they're just trying to make conversation. But the question persisted invariably, for over a decade, even after we had (many!) things to talk about. I found that this started to sound and feel completely normal to me as part of a greeting dynamic.
This is a part of their culture - in fact, of most cultures worldwide, ours excepted. I realize that when I get together with my girlfriends from university, we don't lead with this question, even though we might not have seen each other for a year or longer and many things will certainly have changed with our families.
Why don't we ask? As much as it started to feel normal to me to ask, it also started to feel abnormal not to ask. The topic will come up, sure, as some have lost parents, others' parents have struggled with illnesses, there have marriages and divorces, some have moved, many travel now since retirement, etc. Sharing stories of quirky and patterned family dynamics, especially after holidays, is always a highlight of our weekends.
But this direct "how are your parents?" is something we don't just do. It's a lovely bit of other cultures that I admire, and would like to work harder to adopt. It has always struck me as an instant way of expressing care and concern for the important dynamics of my life, and also has the potential to deepen a relationship as those life details are shared and entrusted. It's such a simple thing - a tiny question - but it's a lesson for which I'm grateful to my ex-laws.
But this direct "how are your parents?" is something we don't just do. It's a lovely bit of other cultures that I admire, and would like to work harder to adopt. It has always struck me as an instant way of expressing care and concern for the important dynamics of my life, and also has the potential to deepen a relationship as those life details are shared and entrusted. It's such a simple thing - a tiny question - but it's a lesson for which I'm grateful to my ex-laws.
Monday, January 13, 2014
9. My Ex: the importance of knowing how you feel and articulating what you need
Some lessons grow in unwanted spaces. Some lessons grow out of great negativity and regret. Sometimes we learn lessons from what we did wrong.
Mawwage. That bwessed awangement. That dweam within a dweam. Successful or failed, we learn more than we ever wanted to know about ourselves in marriage. Mine was in jeopardy from year one. After a failed attempt or two at some requisite marriage counseling, we finally found one counselor who changed everything. The most memorable thing he ever said to us, he said in our first session: "I've never known two people with as much of an inability to communicate with one another as you two." (gasp) What?! I talk more than anyone I know - what do you mean I'm not communicating?! Well, it turns out that not all communication is successful communication. Who knew. My form of "communicating" with my husband was passive-aggressive, sarcastic, non-verbal, loaded. I discovered that when I was feeling hurt, I had no ability to accurately articulate what I needed. This was in fact because I was unable even to identify how I felt. I could react, but I lacked the ability to express my reactions in a consumable way. Instead, I attacked, sniped, shut down. It got me nowhere. I had no idea he couldn't read my mind. How dare he... As it turned out, he was in exactly the same boat. Two people with this precise inability to express their feelings and needs in a relationship? Recipe for disaster.
Growing in this area has been an uphill journey. I don't claim to have mastered it, even a little bit, but I'm getting better. In my next relationship, I worked so hard - sort of hard-to-believe hard - at broaching a subject without bringing all of that along. I would run it in my mind, over and again, and like a writer crumpling up sheet after sheet of writing paper with false starts, I would clear the slate and start again. How can I say this without sounding like that person who makes things fail? How can I do this without sarcasm and finger-pointing? How can it be different this time? When I'd finally find the right combination of message, words, and tone, I would do a little victory dance. In my head. It still hasn't become easy, but it's definitely moving in that direction.
I don't pretend to think that if I had mastered this art of not-loaded communication, my marriage would have been saved. No chance. But things would have been really different and way less painful. And less drawn out. And less blame-filled. I can't have too many regrets because <insert cliched adage here:> the experience and its inherent failures, and the lessons gleaned, made me the person I am today. And I'm pretty happy with that person, who now appreciates - among other things - the value of understanding how she feels and being able to articulate what she needs.
Mawwage. That bwessed awangement. That dweam within a dweam. Successful or failed, we learn more than we ever wanted to know about ourselves in marriage. Mine was in jeopardy from year one. After a failed attempt or two at some requisite marriage counseling, we finally found one counselor who changed everything. The most memorable thing he ever said to us, he said in our first session: "I've never known two people with as much of an inability to communicate with one another as you two." (gasp) What?! I talk more than anyone I know - what do you mean I'm not communicating?! Well, it turns out that not all communication is successful communication. Who knew. My form of "communicating" with my husband was passive-aggressive, sarcastic, non-verbal, loaded. I discovered that when I was feeling hurt, I had no ability to accurately articulate what I needed. This was in fact because I was unable even to identify how I felt. I could react, but I lacked the ability to express my reactions in a consumable way. Instead, I attacked, sniped, shut down. It got me nowhere. I had no idea he couldn't read my mind. How dare he... As it turned out, he was in exactly the same boat. Two people with this precise inability to express their feelings and needs in a relationship? Recipe for disaster.
Growing in this area has been an uphill journey. I don't claim to have mastered it, even a little bit, but I'm getting better. In my next relationship, I worked so hard - sort of hard-to-believe hard - at broaching a subject without bringing all of that along. I would run it in my mind, over and again, and like a writer crumpling up sheet after sheet of writing paper with false starts, I would clear the slate and start again. How can I say this without sounding like that person who makes things fail? How can I do this without sarcasm and finger-pointing? How can it be different this time? When I'd finally find the right combination of message, words, and tone, I would do a little victory dance. In my head. It still hasn't become easy, but it's definitely moving in that direction.
I don't pretend to think that if I had mastered this art of not-loaded communication, my marriage would have been saved. No chance. But things would have been really different and way less painful. And less drawn out. And less blame-filled. I can't have too many regrets because <insert cliched adage here:> the experience and its inherent failures, and the lessons gleaned, made me the person I am today. And I'm pretty happy with that person, who now appreciates - among other things - the value of understanding how she feels and being able to articulate what she needs.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
8. Daniel: the importance of perspective
This is something of a part II to the Day 7 post about Dianne. Daniel is another great voice of reason in my life. His gift to me has been the reminder of perspective.
As previously noted, I can be a bit dramatic. Emphasis: a bit. I get dramatic when things go wrong. Things like work, life, decisions, travel, men (boys?), exercise, friends, family, indignities, injustices, money, boots ... whatever is taking up my current space. I get myself twisted up over pedantic details that no one cares about but me. I play out all kinds of scenarios based on what ifs - usually about things that have already happened, things I can't change but lament anyway. I then over-analyze (there's that word again): "If only I hadn't (or had) .....", "What was I thinking?", "How could I have done that?" "Why I am so stressed out about this?!" You get the idea.
It's a waste of time, energy, and emotional stock, but this is my default in response to many an embarrassing moment, regrettable decision, stupid mistake, or revelation of hindsight clarity.
In said twist, I call Daniel. In a calm voice, he reassures me with words like "well, it was always going to be that way, wasn't it?" or "anyone in your position would feel that way, right?" or "this isn't really going to matter in the long run, is it?" His words fit the scenario; they are logical and direct, and like a pin, they send an instant wave of deflation into my balloon of panic. Whenever I need talking off the ledge, it's Daniel.
These are simple words, but they're not what I expect, especially from a man ( ! ). I expect we will go about formulating a plan to fix my life, to minimize the damage. We will develop action plans for future similar situations. We will prospectively solve any issue that will ever affect my life in all the years to come, forever.
But no. Rather, with these straightforward words, he calmly introduces perspective, which almost instantly has me take a deep breath and a step back. The gift here is that I'm getting better at doing this on my own. But I often need some reminding, as my first instincts still default to the panic button. Daniel's voice in my head has me take that deep breath and that step back that allows me to see the situation with perspective. From someplace other than the ledge.
As previously noted, I can be a bit dramatic. Emphasis: a bit. I get dramatic when things go wrong. Things like work, life, decisions, travel, men (boys?), exercise, friends, family, indignities, injustices, money, boots ... whatever is taking up my current space. I get myself twisted up over pedantic details that no one cares about but me. I play out all kinds of scenarios based on what ifs - usually about things that have already happened, things I can't change but lament anyway. I then over-analyze (there's that word again): "If only I hadn't (or had) .....", "What was I thinking?", "How could I have done that?" "Why I am so stressed out about this?!" You get the idea.
It's a waste of time, energy, and emotional stock, but this is my default in response to many an embarrassing moment, regrettable decision, stupid mistake, or revelation of hindsight clarity.
In said twist, I call Daniel. In a calm voice, he reassures me with words like "well, it was always going to be that way, wasn't it?" or "anyone in your position would feel that way, right?" or "this isn't really going to matter in the long run, is it?" His words fit the scenario; they are logical and direct, and like a pin, they send an instant wave of deflation into my balloon of panic. Whenever I need talking off the ledge, it's Daniel.
These are simple words, but they're not what I expect, especially from a man ( ! ). I expect we will go about formulating a plan to fix my life, to minimize the damage. We will develop action plans for future similar situations. We will prospectively solve any issue that will ever affect my life in all the years to come, forever.
But no. Rather, with these straightforward words, he calmly introduces perspective, which almost instantly has me take a deep breath and a step back. The gift here is that I'm getting better at doing this on my own. But I often need some reminding, as my first instincts still default to the panic button. Daniel's voice in my head has me take that deep breath and that step back that allows me to see the situation with perspective. From someplace other than the ledge.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
7. Dianne: It doesn't have to be that way
Dianne is one of the voices of reason in my life. The thing about Dianne's reason is, it's never what I expect. Her advice and take on things usually surprise me - she challenges my status quo. She thinks differently from me. Like looking through a View Master, I sometimes only see what's directly in front of my face, as though my life has been predetermined and designed to be rendered on my own personal cartoon reel, that has been used over and over again.
A conflict or crossroads will arise. I will over analyze it. When I play it out, it will have something like one of three endings. But all three of those endings will be the result of a formula, a history, the only ways I can envision the outcome in my shortsightedness. And all of those endings will be a version of the way things always have been. They may all be unappealing, but they are all I can see.
It's dramatic and self-indulgent and I do it over and over.
Dianne, who is thankfully not inside my View Master, will say something along the lines of: it doesn't have to be that way. Just because it's not one of the ways I can envision this, doesn't mean it's not possible. She challenges my world view, my faith perspective, my perception of people and how I experience them, my understanding of relationships, my vision of some future version of myself ... just about everything.
This friendship has been of inestimable value to me. Dianne not only listens (repeatedly) to my over-indulgent over-analyses (saint), but shes gets me outside of myself - she removes that reel that's worn from use, and says it's time for a new one.
It's hard to give this lesson any skin without examples, which I won't share here. But I want to give a nod to Dianne for reminding me frequently that just because it doesn't fit into the formula or the expectation based on the past, doesn't mean it can't be part of the picture. It quite possibly can be any way I want it to be.
A conflict or crossroads will arise. I will over analyze it. When I play it out, it will have something like one of three endings. But all three of those endings will be the result of a formula, a history, the only ways I can envision the outcome in my shortsightedness. And all of those endings will be a version of the way things always have been. They may all be unappealing, but they are all I can see.
It's dramatic and self-indulgent and I do it over and over.
Dianne, who is thankfully not inside my View Master, will say something along the lines of: it doesn't have to be that way. Just because it's not one of the ways I can envision this, doesn't mean it's not possible. She challenges my world view, my faith perspective, my perception of people and how I experience them, my understanding of relationships, my vision of some future version of myself ... just about everything.
This friendship has been of inestimable value to me. Dianne not only listens (repeatedly) to my over-indulgent over-analyses (saint), but shes gets me outside of myself - she removes that reel that's worn from use, and says it's time for a new one.
It's hard to give this lesson any skin without examples, which I won't share here. But I want to give a nod to Dianne for reminding me frequently that just because it doesn't fit into the formula or the expectation based on the past, doesn't mean it can't be part of the picture. It quite possibly can be any way I want it to be.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
6. Shelby: "You picked the wrong one."
I am a bit stubborn. I know - brand new information. My stubbornness sometimes serves to cloud my judgement. Also, I'm a lousy judge of character on initial meeting - I often get it wrong; there are quite a few examples of this.
A few years ago, I found myself in a new situation, with a bunch of people I didn't know, who were all already well-acquainted with each other. Everyone was cordial, with requisite introductions. But there was one girl there, Karen - I felt like we were going to hit it off. She seemed cool, funny, fun, smart. Shortly after I met her, she was looking for someone to get a bite with one day. She asked everyone around me - no one could make it. I was sitting right there the entire time. She proceeded to loudly complain with witty self-deprecation, to anyone listening, that no one wanted to have lunch with her. I'm right here! I thought. She must not like me. I must not be cool, funny, fun, or smart enough for her to want to be friends with me. The failure is clearly mine.
I tell this story to Shelby. I'm laughing, but also sort of incredulous. I tell her that I had been sure Karen and I were going to be fast friends, so was feeling like the little girl not welcome at the lunch table with the cool kids. Without missing a beat, Shelby advises, "you picked the wrong one." You have chosen ... poorly.
A few years ago, I found myself in a new situation, with a bunch of people I didn't know, who were all already well-acquainted with each other. Everyone was cordial, with requisite introductions. But there was one girl there, Karen - I felt like we were going to hit it off. She seemed cool, funny, fun, smart. Shortly after I met her, she was looking for someone to get a bite with one day. She asked everyone around me - no one could make it. I was sitting right there the entire time. She proceeded to loudly complain with witty self-deprecation, to anyone listening, that no one wanted to have lunch with her. I'm right here! I thought. She must not like me. I must not be cool, funny, fun, or smart enough for her to want to be friends with me. The failure is clearly mine.
I tell this story to Shelby. I'm laughing, but also sort of incredulous. I tell her that I had been sure Karen and I were going to be fast friends, so was feeling like the little girl not welcome at the lunch table with the cool kids. Without missing a beat, Shelby advises, "you picked the wrong one." You have chosen ... poorly.
Well, but no. She's really cool - I'm telling you, she's great. Again, "you picked the wrong one." Not wanting to perpetuate this disagreement, I dismissed Shelby's theory. I was sure I was right.
Karen turned out to be one of the worst people I have ever met. Materialistic, duplicitous, and condescending are the highlights; the list goes on. I quickly ceded; Shelby was right. I had indeed picked the wrong one.
These words have stayed with me. The lesson is that just because someone isn't interested in my company doesn't necessarily indicate a failure on my part. Where in the past I may have been quick to assume I wasn't <fill in the blank> enough, I now remember Shelby's words and consider that, in whatever the situation, I just may have picked the wrong one.
Karen turned out to be one of the worst people I have ever met. Materialistic, duplicitous, and condescending are the highlights; the list goes on. I quickly ceded; Shelby was right. I had indeed picked the wrong one.
These words have stayed with me. The lesson is that just because someone isn't interested in my company doesn't necessarily indicate a failure on my part. Where in the past I may have been quick to assume I wasn't <fill in the blank> enough, I now remember Shelby's words and consider that, in whatever the situation, I just may have picked the wrong one.
Monday, January 6, 2014
5. Amy: "Just go."
When I (ahem) left my job last fall, I knew I didn't want to go back into the same type of work. It was time for a change - long past time for a change.
One chilly night, I biked over to Amy's. After getting lost in Peter Cooper Village (duh), I found her building, and we had an uncharacteristically quiet dinner together. I had been just a few days unemployed, and was in a fog about what was next. Amy, on the other hand, was giddy. I've never seen someone so pleased about another person's joblessness. Her eyes were sparkling. Take a trip! she exclaims. She can hardly contain her excitement. Just go! Anywhere. Just go. If she was in my position - no kids, nothing holding her - Amy would be on the next ride out of town looking for the next adventure.
She recounted her cross country trip with our friend Sue, just after we graduated college. Amy had just invested $1000 with a friend's broker brother when Sue suggested the trip. She immediately called brother broker and got the money back before he could even buy anything with it; they lived off this for six weeks, funding fuel and Taco Bell. They drove their trip into the ground. On their return, they reached the final bridge toll without enough money left to even pay the toll - Amy wrote a check to the New York State highway authority for something like $4.
I have heard this story several times, and always listen with deep envy and marked regret at not having done anything like this myself. Some may be familiar in fact with my unrealized plan to make a cross-country venture this past summer - a vain attempt to recapture something I missed, I guess.
But back to last fall, Amy couldn't stop reveling on my behalf at this time in my life - you may never get the chance again, she emphasized. Over and over: "Just go!" And thus inspired Africa.
I remember getting on the plane at JFK with a deep-seated nausea. What I am doing? I was uncertain and nervous and sick to my stomach. Fast forward, I can't imagine not having gone. The worry seems foreign. I can't wait for the next adventure.
Amy was here tonight, and we revisited that conversation. I said to her, "Africa was all you, you know," to which she raised her hand in a high-five and proudly owned it. Damn right it was.
Amy's love for adventure and disinterest in the practical aspects that might hold her back inspired me to take off for a few months, have a life-changing adventure, and look forward to the next. We live once, so why not really live? Just go, her words in my head remind me. Just go.
One chilly night, I biked over to Amy's. After getting lost in Peter Cooper Village (duh), I found her building, and we had an uncharacteristically quiet dinner together. I had been just a few days unemployed, and was in a fog about what was next. Amy, on the other hand, was giddy. I've never seen someone so pleased about another person's joblessness. Her eyes were sparkling. Take a trip! she exclaims. She can hardly contain her excitement. Just go! Anywhere. Just go. If she was in my position - no kids, nothing holding her - Amy would be on the next ride out of town looking for the next adventure.
She recounted her cross country trip with our friend Sue, just after we graduated college. Amy had just invested $1000 with a friend's broker brother when Sue suggested the trip. She immediately called brother broker and got the money back before he could even buy anything with it; they lived off this for six weeks, funding fuel and Taco Bell. They drove their trip into the ground. On their return, they reached the final bridge toll without enough money left to even pay the toll - Amy wrote a check to the New York State highway authority for something like $4.
I have heard this story several times, and always listen with deep envy and marked regret at not having done anything like this myself. Some may be familiar in fact with my unrealized plan to make a cross-country venture this past summer - a vain attempt to recapture something I missed, I guess.
But back to last fall, Amy couldn't stop reveling on my behalf at this time in my life - you may never get the chance again, she emphasized. Over and over: "Just go!" And thus inspired Africa.
I remember getting on the plane at JFK with a deep-seated nausea. What I am doing? I was uncertain and nervous and sick to my stomach. Fast forward, I can't imagine not having gone. The worry seems foreign. I can't wait for the next adventure.
Amy was here tonight, and we revisited that conversation. I said to her, "Africa was all you, you know," to which she raised her hand in a high-five and proudly owned it. Damn right it was.
Amy's love for adventure and disinterest in the practical aspects that might hold her back inspired me to take off for a few months, have a life-changing adventure, and look forward to the next. We live once, so why not really live? Just go, her words in my head remind me. Just go.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
4. My Dad: the importance of encouragement and always asking
My dad. I adore him. He is the most encouraging person in my life. He sends me these little notes telling me how proud he is of me when he sees something I've done, reads something I've written, hears about some (small) accomplishment or another. He's very thoughtful in these comments and clearly has a genuine interest and concern for the details of my life.
When I return from a trip, even if he's gotten regular updates, he still wants me to sit down and tell him everything ... the small details, how it felt, what it was like, my thoughts about it all. He's interested, thoughtful, and soaks it all in.
No matter how often I see him or talk to him, he never stops telling me: "I miss your cute face." It sets firmly, deeply in my soul. When I do see him, he often stops me from walking by, takes my shoulders and hugs me, asking me quietly in my ear how my life is, am I happy, if I'm ok. He worries about me. It's really incredibly sweet and never ceases to really touch my heart.
I, on the other hand, can be an emotional iceberg, so sometimes shake it off, tell him I'm fine and not to worry. He doesn't really need to worry - I am fine. But I also don't tell him how much I appreciate his asking and his care.
My friend Joey, upon my telling her of this recently, said to something to the effect of: "yeah, good luck finding a guy if that's what he's up against." It's true. My dad's gift for this kind concern and genuine interest in my life is not easy to find elsewhere, but it's become so important to me.
While I don't always tell him, I think often about how much my dad loves me, and appreciate so much that he always asks. Even when I shirk it off and assure him, with simplicity, that I'm just fine, he reminds me that, no matter the reaction, always encouraging and always asking are foundational components to a relationship that matters. It would be easy to feel unappreciated and simply stop. But his persistence teaches me that regardless of the icy reaction, the lesson is to keep encouraging and keep asking those we love, as we never know how our care and concern affects those on the receiving end.
When I return from a trip, even if he's gotten regular updates, he still wants me to sit down and tell him everything ... the small details, how it felt, what it was like, my thoughts about it all. He's interested, thoughtful, and soaks it all in.
No matter how often I see him or talk to him, he never stops telling me: "I miss your cute face." It sets firmly, deeply in my soul. When I do see him, he often stops me from walking by, takes my shoulders and hugs me, asking me quietly in my ear how my life is, am I happy, if I'm ok. He worries about me. It's really incredibly sweet and never ceases to really touch my heart.
I, on the other hand, can be an emotional iceberg, so sometimes shake it off, tell him I'm fine and not to worry. He doesn't really need to worry - I am fine. But I also don't tell him how much I appreciate his asking and his care.
My friend Joey, upon my telling her of this recently, said to something to the effect of: "yeah, good luck finding a guy if that's what he's up against." It's true. My dad's gift for this kind concern and genuine interest in my life is not easy to find elsewhere, but it's become so important to me.
While I don't always tell him, I think often about how much my dad loves me, and appreciate so much that he always asks. Even when I shirk it off and assure him, with simplicity, that I'm just fine, he reminds me that, no matter the reaction, always encouraging and always asking are foundational components to a relationship that matters. It would be easy to feel unappreciated and simply stop. But his persistence teaches me that regardless of the icy reaction, the lesson is to keep encouraging and keep asking those we love, as we never know how our care and concern affects those on the receiving end.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
3. Tim: "Come, come! We're hanging!"
I'm kind of a lunatic. About some things. When I make a social decision, I weigh travel time against activity in question, I weigh amount of time needed for said activity against other things I need to with the rest of my day, I weigh the next time I'll see that person against the potential gain from our time together. Like I said, lunatic.
My friend Tim, on the other hand, doesn't ever do any of these things. "Come, come! We're hanging!" He says this frequently. If he wants to see you, he wants to see you - that's it. Let's hang. And it's okay to just hang. He doesn't care if he saw you yesterday or will see you tomorrow. He doesn't care if hanging furthers his goals for the day or the week or whatever, if the activity is productive. Hanging means talking and talking means growing and that's what you do with people you love. The rest of the details are just incidental.
What is wrong with me? Okay, I've exaggerated my neuroses here just a bit, but the lesson for me is that it doesn't need to be productive or efficient, or fit into a grand plan to be worth my time. I've gone through some life changes recently and it's taken some adjusting, like being forced to chill the eff out. And in this transition, I'm grateful to Tim for the reminder that just hanging with people I care about - even the most simple of hangs - is simply good for the soul.
My friend Tim, on the other hand, doesn't ever do any of these things. "Come, come! We're hanging!" He says this frequently. If he wants to see you, he wants to see you - that's it. Let's hang. And it's okay to just hang. He doesn't care if he saw you yesterday or will see you tomorrow. He doesn't care if hanging furthers his goals for the day or the week or whatever, if the activity is productive. Hanging means talking and talking means growing and that's what you do with people you love. The rest of the details are just incidental.
What is wrong with me? Okay, I've exaggerated my neuroses here just a bit, but the lesson for me is that it doesn't need to be productive or efficient, or fit into a grand plan to be worth my time. I've gone through some life changes recently and it's taken some adjusting, like being forced to chill the eff out. And in this transition, I'm grateful to Tim for the reminder that just hanging with people I care about - even the most simple of hangs - is simply good for the soul.
Friday, January 3, 2014
2. Josie: always keep writing
Josie and I have been friends for years, through the course of many life events: the loss of jobs, the loss of a parent and grandparents, divorce, wedding, interstate moves, career changes, life changes.
Josie and I have never lived in the same state. So through these trials and triumphs, much of our encouragement to one another has manifested in writing. Every once in a while, she busts out something that I had written to her, something from the past, something I don't even recognize. I think, where'd you get that? The answer is, from me. Really? That was really good! Ha. The insight and emotion in these will often surprise me. I think, shoot, I can't write like that anymore. Where'd that go??
When you don't use the silver, it tarnishes. When you stop exercising, you fall out of shape. When you don't speak or hear a language for years, you lose it. Reminders that in order to stay in synch with something, one must keep doing it.
Josie's gift of glimpses into things written but long forgotten, and her constant commitment to her own writing, encourage me to write. The more I write, the more I learn about myself. That's the key. Once I start, it just keeps coming. And in that, I learn about who I am, and discover things I might never have gotten to otherwise.
A blog is so cliche and self-important; how presumptuous to expect that anyone is interested in what I have to say. Yet, it gives me the opportunity to write, no matter who reads it, even if no one at all. So thank you to the interwebs for a platform, and thank you to Josie for being in my head, reminding me to always keep writing.
A blog is so cliche and self-important; how presumptuous to expect that anyone is interested in what I have to say. Yet, it gives me the opportunity to write, no matter who reads it, even if no one at all. So thank you to the interwebs for a platform, and thank you to Josie for being in my head, reminding me to always keep writing.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
1. Tomer: the importance of doing something new
I'm starting 2014 with another 30-day project.
This has been inspired by my dear friend Tomer, who is obsessed with Ted Talks. He may marry Ted. This past fall, he watched a three and half minute talk about trying something new for 30 days. I went vegan, he took a photo of a different friend every day, forcing him to make intentional dates with people and deepen his relationships. Another friend did something she had never done before, every day for 30 days; one of those things was getting married.
Tomer pretty consistently reminds me to always be exploring ways to do something new, something challenging, something that stretches you a bit.
He's now onto his next project, one second a day - this one is going to be cool (check it out), and I do believe he'll stick with it.
I'm sticking with the 30-day project for just now. I'm starting 2014 with 30 Days of Life Lessons (or as many as I have ...), imparted to me from the wisdom and insight of those closest to me. This is not an exercise of me going through a list of my friends and trying find some soundbite to attach to each. Rather, these are the lessons that affect my everyday life - things that I think about often, that help me make better decisions, that challenge my perspective, that are always with me, and the recognition that these insights and bits of wisdom have come to me through the blessing of those who love me and care about me, and help me see things in a new way.
Today is Tomer, and his irrepressible vigor for new things, new people, new experiences. It's easy for life to become routine, but Tomer reminds me - often - to do something new, and love life while doing it.
This has been inspired by my dear friend Tomer, who is obsessed with Ted Talks. He may marry Ted. This past fall, he watched a three and half minute talk about trying something new for 30 days. I went vegan, he took a photo of a different friend every day, forcing him to make intentional dates with people and deepen his relationships. Another friend did something she had never done before, every day for 30 days; one of those things was getting married.
Tomer pretty consistently reminds me to always be exploring ways to do something new, something challenging, something that stretches you a bit.
He's now onto his next project, one second a day - this one is going to be cool (check it out), and I do believe he'll stick with it.
I'm sticking with the 30-day project for just now. I'm starting 2014 with 30 Days of Life Lessons (or as many as I have ...), imparted to me from the wisdom and insight of those closest to me. This is not an exercise of me going through a list of my friends and trying find some soundbite to attach to each. Rather, these are the lessons that affect my everyday life - things that I think about often, that help me make better decisions, that challenge my perspective, that are always with me, and the recognition that these insights and bits of wisdom have come to me through the blessing of those who love me and care about me, and help me see things in a new way.
Today is Tomer, and his irrepressible vigor for new things, new people, new experiences. It's easy for life to become routine, but Tomer reminds me - often - to do something new, and love life while doing it.
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