Our Palms

As I sit to write this, my topic in mind, I think of the line from Romeo and Juliet that says, "For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." The palm of the hand is a fascinating spot—however flat or rough or small it seems—and carries with it immense meaning, despite its size. Being palm to palm with someone you like, or love, makes you feel like you're plugged into an electrical outlet; the palm is used in handshakes to show our strength and trust; it is also used as the most universal gesture of need, as someone reaches out their hand in hopes we'll put something in it.

In yoga last night, my instructor asked us to do many things that required our "palms to face upward." His words created a dimple in my mind, and I mulled over the idea as I transitioned from pose to pose. An open palm; an upward facing hand. I asked myself whether or not my hand facing down instead would really compromise the move and make it incorrect, and decided that no, neither direction really affected how I held my posture. And yet, if you believe yoga is as much for the mind as it is for the body, then perhaps the open palm is the pose for the brain just as warrior one is a pose for the legs. Perhaps it signifies, to yourself and to others, that you are more apt to receive than to decline. By keeping our palms facing up instead of down, we are telling our brain and our body that we are ready to accept, and connect with, others.

So, yes, maybe this is a grand idea taken from a simple gesture. But maybe this one simple gesture makes a big difference in what experiences find their way into our hands.

 

Bedazzled

It is true that Christmas really does feel so different from any other time of year. The biggest explanation is the spirit behind it, with the birth of the Savior giving meaning to all of our celebrations. Apart from that though (without at all minimizing it), I often wonder why it is my fingers tingle when I decorate my Christmas tree and why I keep it lit so much it's a crisp cracker halfway through the month, or why I keep a candle burning 24 hours a day just to inhale the glow, or why giving gifts to others makes me so happy I almost burst and tell them weeks early. And it's not only me. Everyone, everywhere, becomes more sentimental, more romantic, and more spiritual without feeling the need to excuse themselves.

One answer to these wonderments is this: Christmas does such a number on us simply because we decide to let it. The warmth and frenzy that overpowers us during the holidays is completely by choice (though anyone who secretly loves Justin Bieber's holiday album would have you believe otherwise). And if that's true, and so much of it is by decision, then I can feel this happy all year long by putting the same enthusiasm and excitement into my everyday life, into the more ordinary of months. I can take the holiday philosophy of embracing the moment, despite all other circumstances, with all of the positive energy and bedazzlement I can muster.

Some unknown person said, "I fall in love with people's passion, the way their eyes light up when they talk about the things they love." So here's to having Christmas passion for life for the whole of the coming year.

Abundance

When we got back from our study abroad in college, my friend Danny gave me a copy of the The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. For those who've read it, you know that each verse is enlightened, earthy, and simple in its expression. In one place, he writes, "You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance." In light of the week, and the many things that I lately ask for, I am acknowledging my abundance today.

1. I am grateful that there are people in my life who make me laugh so hard my upper lip starts to sweat.

2. I am grateful to have been loved, a couple of times, and for the way it has carved me.

3. I am grateful for a healthy body that responds when I push it and even thanks me for having asked something of it.

4. I am grateful for caramel popcorn, oreos dipped in milk, and pistachio gelato, and the moments when I can enjoy them without thinking twice.

5. I am grateful that the world is diverse and stunning in its variety, and for any chance I've had to visit parts of it.

6. I am grateful for my memory, which catalogues everything from pointless movie lines to the crisp details of moments I never want to forget.

7. I am grateful that I always have someone to call when I need to cry.

8. I am grateful for the conversations my siblings have when we sit together after dinner and that, at the end of the day, we prefer each other's company above anyone else.

9. I am grateful for things that smell good: perfume from Passion Flower, men that pass me on their bikes wearing cologne, and the candles my sister makes.

10. I am grateful that life isn't without meaning; that it all fits together in the end because Someone has specially designed it that way.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Investing

Something a little bit sad happened this week. My cute "little sister" from Big Brothers, Big Sisters has hit an age where she'd like to spend more time with friends. So, after four years together, we decided it was time to end the match. What sounds small really wasn't to me—I was crushed. Watching her grow up to be what she is (someone resilient and surprisingly wise, both considering her age and circumstance) has been one of the most significant experiences of my life. Her brightness, strength, and her needs brought out a sense of nurturing and loyalty in me. Even this week, as I applauded for her at the end of her school play, I felt a mother-like pride (evident in my Disney-sized tears).

The truth is, ending my special match with her opened up wounds of other relationships that have ended, some recent, some not. And for a brief moment last night, I broke down at the thought of filling yet another impossible-to-fill hole. Feeling that deep ache of relationships lost—romantic, familial, and friendly—made me question why I invest in them at all when there's no guarantee. And yet, despite the risk, I always seem to play another hand. I keep investing; I keep believing.

As I laid in bed this morning, a nice-sized snowstorm attaching itself to my bedroom window, I decided something with myself. No matter the loss I feel when something ends, for whatever reason, I have to learn to love moments in my life not for how long they last, but for what they meant while they lasted. Because, truly, not every experience needs to last a lifetime in order to be a significant part of life.

 

Lost Arts

Lately, for whatever reason, I've started to make a mental list of things that got lost somewhere in the mire of time (in the last year? the last decade? the last century?), things that I think make the world a happier place.

1. The Lost Art of Accepting a Compliment. At some point, embracing a compliment, without deflecting it or negating it or changing it, made us feel less humble. But in fact, it is the opposite—it shows a grateful heart. It also makes the person who gave it to us feel all the more valued for having spoken up to say something kind.

2. The Lost Art of Relaxing. In our country, conquering and succeeding are the top tier of our value list. But as we travel around the world, we see that most other countries value the moments of rest as much as the moments of success. Drive-thrus are replaced by three-hour dinners; weekends working are replaced by weekends away. The best thing is, the balance of the world tilts on the axis of both, despite their displaced value.

3. The Lost Art of Being Alone. Sometimes, when asked about my weekend, I feel the pressure to say that I went on five dates, hit up two parties, met up with 10 friends, all while getting my errands done and my fingernails painted. But our time isn't any less wonderful if it is spent alone instead of with a group of people. Both have their place; both are wonderful. And sometimes there's nothing better than hours lost in a delicious book and a good meal fixed for a party of one.

4. The Lost Art of Believing in Our Bodies. I too fall victim to looking in the mirror and wishing I could tighten something up or flatten something down. But in a world of being and looking better, we can still honor ourselves for exactly who we are right now. It is okay to let a big, fat smile creep across our faces when we look in the mirror. It is okay to mentally cat-call yourself when you feel you're looking fine. The confidence that comes from loving ourselves is more attractive than losing five or ten more pounds.

In the words of Elbert Hubbard, "Art is not a thing; it is a way." So here's to bringing back a few old school ways.

Tucked In

Last week for hospice, I volunteered to do the "tuck-in calls," phoning up a list of patients to see if they had everything they needed before the weekend. Some patients had wives or husbands, sons or daughters to answer the phone for them; others answered themselves, silence reverberating in the background. Some people I spoke to were warm and thankful for the call; others were abrupt and eager to get off the phone. After each conversation, I felt myself becoming more and more lost in thought. I couldn't help but wonder, as I read their names and heard their voices, what the lives of each of these people were like right now. What were they feeling? What were they thinking about? And most importantly, were they alone?

One patient I called caught me off guard as her husband picked up the phone and explained that his wife was chasing two-year-old grandkids around the living room and to please hold. Out of breathe but a fresh laugh in her voice, this woman eventually came to the phone to answer my questions. She said she was appreciative of the call but that she was being well cared for. I hung up still thinking about what her house sounded like during that five-minute conversation. It was the opposite of quiet and heavy—it was actually happy, with screams and laughter from the other rooms. Even her husband, who will lose his wife in the next few weeks, sounded content.

I keep thinking about that woman, about her home, and comparing it to what my own might be if I knew my expiration date. No doubt it would be filled up with people, some good food, some movies on in the background, and much sitting on couches telling stories. But no matter what would be going on, I do know who would be there. And that is a comforting thought.

 

For everyone who has people to rally around them, this I am discovering is true—we are pretty damn lucky.

The Nougat

I came back from Italy to cooler temperatures, crunchy leaves, and days that feel golden when you're out in them. A palpable change happened while I was away, and I've tried to slow down the pace of my life and simply enjoy the Fall. I started the weekend out with a party, which would usually make me shutter, but instead seemed like a fun alternative on a Friday night. For someone who is more comfortable in small groups than large crowds, I was surprised at both the ease and energy I brought to the night, introducing my friend and I to many new people. I balanced out this night of genuine socializing with a rainy Saturday soccer game, some low key friend time on Saturday night, and a Sunday afternoon of experimental pumpkin pancakes and a big helping of Netflix streaming el solo.

As I sat in my car late Saturday night, a nine-minute song finishing on my iPod and my windshield wipers sweeping water in sync with the music, I realized that I was truly in the thick of my own unique life. I felt a strong ownership over every dumb thing I've done, every banal or flat moment that I've waded through, every moment that turned out not quite like I'd planned. I smiled that I am eating canned beans heated on the stove because I spent too much money on a pair of Italian shoes. I accepted my nights curled up in my leather chair watching a movie alone. I honored the big questions, the great kisses, the sometimes sad mornings, and the long Sunday afternoons. I embrace them because they are mine. Despite it all and because of it all, I am living in the nougat of my own life.

So here is to being in the thick of it, whether it involves living in someone's basement, cheerios in a car seat, or too many baked beans for one week. Here is to our own beautiful existence, whatever it brings. Here's to our nougat.

Italia

Two weeks' worth of Italy makes it hard to know where to begin and end. There's just too much. Instead, here is a random collection of moments that hopefully give a small flavor of my trip. Italy is beautiful, humid, and delicious, but it was the people I met that made it.

1. Waiting to see the David in Florence, I slyly took pictures of the people standing in line around me. This young Swiss guy with incredibly shiny hair leaned over and asked me if I was paparazzi and if I was going to sell the pictures. I said it depended on whether or not he was famous. He laughed and then bought me a bottle of water.

2. Ado, a 60-something-German man who knew no English, stopped me on our first day of cycling to give me a piece of fruit. It was filled with a seeded jam, and he laughed when he saw how much I loved it. It was a fresh fig! He picked me over 20 during our week of riding.

3. Kathy and I stopped to help Magda, the loveliest Brazilian woman I've ever met, with a leg cramp on the side of the road. A 6"5 young Italian guy from another tour company came over to see if we needed help. Kathy couldn't stop staring at him and after he left, she said she signed up with the wrong company. From a few people back, I hear Kathy's husband say, "Down, girl."

4. The climb (there were many) into Assisi was steep and windy. We were going so slow up the narrow streets that my handlebars would wobble back and forth (never a good sign). The tourists stood on the sides of the road and watched us climb, looking both shocked and impressed.

5. Eating dinner in Umbria in a small stone restaurant behind a church. Oil-soaked cabbage salad; breads with cheese, beans, and garlic; pasta covered with truffle sauce. This place is known for its mushrooms, and each course melted with flavors both thick and earthy.

6. Riding on a dirt road to Spello, I saw an old woman walking through her olive orchard early in the morning. Her dress was the color of eggplant; her hair as white as flour.

7. An old grandma hotel owner telling Judith, who is from Australia, to speak better English because she couldn't understand her. Judith, her eyes darting back and forth said, "But this is only English I know!" I laughed so hard, I had to sit down.

8. A cab driver in Rome driving so fast I felt the flesh on my cheeks stretch backwards. The song on the radio was Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue."

9. It rained on my Sunday in Rome, and everyone whipped out umbrellas, all colored. As I walked to the Spanish steps, my shoes completely filled with water, I felt like I was walking through a batch of colored balloons.

 

10. Standing in line my last day in Rome for a tour of the Vatican, I felt someone give me a hug from behind. I turned around to see Judith and Sandra from biking who had randomly scheduled the same tour time as me. The three of us stood like ducks in a row under the Sistine Chapel, our necks craned and mouths open, both out of admiration and awkward angle of viewing.

 

11. Sitting in Campo de Fiori, a flower and food market, for breakfast my last two mornings. I would watch the vendors set up their booths, eating my cream-filled something or other, and then I would buy plums and figs to eat as snacks throughout the day.

A New Road

The more I live, the more I realize that the word courage isn't always as bombs-blazing glorious as it seems. Really, it just means you are about to do something hard. But anytime you muster up courage, you also know you are about to do something important, something that might end up defining your life. And so today, for more reason than one, I am hoping for a little courage to face a few new roads. I want, more than anything, for them to lead me to where I was meant to be.

In two days, I will fly over a big ocean and land in a country where I don't speak a lick of the language. My planned communication tactic is to flamboyantly use my hands when I talk and pray that others understand this universal language (if basic hand gestures don't work, I will resort to full-on charades). For two weeks, I will ride a most-likely-sketchy bicycle across Italy in hopes that I find happiness and hope and good feelings for my future in the small towns I visit, the plates of pasta I ingest, and the foreign people I meet. Maybe in being away from my house, I will start to feel a little bit more at home—namely, in my own skin.

 There's nothing more to say this week than this...Wish me luck, my friends.

My Digging Day

With a few weeks under my belt, I am feeling settled into my new place. I am acquainted with each room; the walls now have something of "me" on them; and the smells that greet me when I walk in the door are, thankfully, familiar (three candles and a "birthday cake" air freshener later). I have picked up some old routines (wheat thins with cheese at my desk after work), and I have started some new ones (spending time in my kitchen making too much food for just one person). In short, I am starting to believe I am home.

One place I hadn't tinkered with too much yet was my front yard (a liberal term for a very small piece of grass). So with a few Saturday hours to spare this weekend, I started washing windows and squirting down shutters; and despite their not looking much different after, it still felt good to work on something that looked like it needed my help. The last thing I left for myself was my very sad-looking flower garden, which hadn't been remembered by anyone for more than a year. So, on my hands and knees and with my untied shoe laces soaking in the wet dirt, I dug around every weed I could for more than two hours. And surprisingly, in the middle of my fingernails becoming marinated in mud, I realized that my insides were smiling, and smiling wide. I couldn't help but feel like I was preparing for something with all of my digging and changing and creating, and that perhaps something good, something fulfilling, something magnificent was soon coming my way.

This hopeful, almost magical feeling stayed with me all weekend. And I welcomed it with a kid-sized hug. I am grateful for any moment in life when instead of wanting to pull the covers over my head in the morning, I have the urge to rip them off with great enthusiasm for the day. I am grateful that my very center is telling me that all of my work and effort, the digging and pulling, are about to lead to something great.

After all, flowers grow from where dirt used to be.

The Art of Resting

Last night during one of my sporadic stints of yoga going, my inner voice was being particularly snarky with me about having to go to positions like "crescent pose" and "warrior 1, 3, 2, and reverse." I silently cursed all of the stretching and reaching and breathing as I stood there with shaking muscles, wondering if I would have been better off riding my bike instead. But then the instructor said the blessed words, "Go to child's pose," and I remembered why I started to believe that there really is something to all this. With my body whispering a thank you, I knelt down on my mat and rested my forehead flat on the ground, my arms limp beside me. In that moment, every pressure and expectation that had been perfectly perched on my back and shoulders throughout the week had no choice but to roll forward and away from me. And my forehead, which so rarely makes contact with anything, slowly melted into the ground along with my thoughts.

As I drove home after the class, I thought more and more about stretching, breathing, and meditating. We so often praise the person who runs the longest or the fastest and less the person who can bear to sit still for an hour and stretch. Even with my own exercising, I stick a bigger gold star on my long bike rides and hard lifting sessions than I ever do on my yoga classes. Yet, when I think about it, it is a bigger accomplishment for me to sit silently for an hour and just "be" than it is for me to stay in constant motion. And it is often while sitting still, my forehead to the floor, that I receive much needed emotional refueling and a quietness of spirit that I can then carry with me for the rest of the week.

Maybe there is something to the art of reaching instead of running, stretching instead of sprinting. And maybe, despite our mad dashing to different goals and destinations, the rest really is as important as the race.

Ripples

I saw a movie this week, "Beasts of the Southern Wild," that left an indelible on me as a person, so much so that at one point in the movie, I was holding in audible (and embarrassing) sobs. I felt so deeply and thickly the poverty some people live with their entire lives, that they can never seem to escape. And while we often use the cliché saying that "there are starving kids in Africa," this film showed that it is as much the case in our own city and country as it is halfway around the world. In truth, people are starving all around us, not just for food, but for affection, safety, attention, and education, to only name a few. And yet, some of the most unlikely of people face it all with bravery and a magnanimous spirit.

Sometimes when I am in bed at night and can't sleep, I started to wonder what my purpose and contribution will be (or even more haunting, what it was meant to be and if I missed it). Sometimes the most I accomplish after work is to go for a bike ride, cook dinner for one person (i.e., myself), and paint my toenails. But in those silent moments in bed, I often dream that I could one day be as big as to touch the world with a feel-better wand, that something I could do or say would travel far enough to make a difference. I have to remind myself though of the story of a group of people who were trying to safely move a piano. After much discussing and measuring, someone finally said to the group, "Just lift where you stand." 

As much as I would like to leave behind a legacy of humanity or compassion, I may have to accept my influence in a smaller sphere. I can simply believe, as someone once said, that I am responsible for the energy I bring into a space. So maybe the smile I gave a stranger in the grocery store parking lot, or the tone I took with a coworker, or even my own laugh floating across a room will unintentionally raise the spirits of someone I don't see. Maybe the ripples of these small things alone will circle wide enough to collide with the ripples someone else creates by lifting where they stand.

And if they do, then the world is covered.

Decisions

A week ago, someone I very much respect was talking to a group of people about what motivates us to make decisions. He asked everyone if we are the kind of person who makes decisions based on consequence or makes decisions based on our identity. At first, my mind glossed over what he said, deciding that I was not ready to look at my "identity" at 2:00 in the afternoon (in the summer, no less). But as I went home and mulled over what he said, it sank in—deeply. Do I make decisions because of what will happen to me if I do or don't? Or do I make decisions because, despite the consequence, it is in line with who I am?

When we were young, I feel like we learned right from wrong through a series of rewards and punishments. If you did something right, you were given praise, a treat, or a privilege. When you did something wrong, you were grounded, put in time out, or you lost something you wanted. As an adult, the rewards and punishments have changed slightly, but we often operate under the same principle. If I do well at work, I will be promoted and will earn more money. If I launder money from my work, I will go to prison (hopefully).

After thinking about this idea throughout the week, I decided to take the time to look at the decisions I make in my own life. Instead of doing a good job at work because I want my boss to notice, I will do well because I am a hard, honest worker, whether someone sees it or not. Instead of making good spiritual decisions because of what will happen to me if I don't, I will make them because I am a person who wants God to know that I honor Him. And instead of loving and serving someone because I hope they will do it back, I will do it because I am a person with an immeasurable capacity to love, despite its returns.

In the words of the Disney creator, "When your values are clear to you, making decisions becomes easier." So here is to clearer values, and the courage to make decisions from my core.

Making Room

In what seemed like a day, I made the decision to finally leave roommate housing behind and find a place all on my own. After a few weeks of looking, something popped up that felt nothing short of fate. My soon-to-be-home is small, and to some, may seem incredibly cramped and sparse all at the same time. But with a fridge entirely to myself and more than one shelf in the pantry to stock, I am already salivating at the available space to reinvent myself and my habits.

In an effort to simplify, cleanse, and prepare for my new space, I have been in a fit of organization. Each thing I own has been carefully sized up as I ask myself what "things" have become "stuff" and what "stuff" is really just "junk." Belongings that were once kept in shoe boxes under my bed (which created waves of guilt when I realized just how many shoe boxes there were) now have a neat, designated container. A little box for hardware. A little box for important papers. A little box with my shoe shining kit (a gift from an old school dad). A little box with cards people have given me. In putting everything in its place, I became soaked in nostalgia. The photographs, birthday cards, and what I now realize are real love letters put me on a merry-go-round of memories. The pictures showed outfits I could barely afford in college but bought anyway for that one special date. They showed my first car with chipped paint, campfire double dates, international movie nights on couches that couldn't have been sanitary, and late night dinners at stale breakfast spots. They showed me crushes I hadn't thought about in years and great loves I won't forget in years.

As I sat there, I started to feel indebted to all of the things strewn across my floor. All of my experiences, the ones that stung and the ones that sung, had given me the confidence to sign the lease agreement on my desk. Each good, great, and awful moment proved to me that I can move somewhere with an unplanted flower garden, a bare kitchen, and a very empty living room (which might be empty for a while longer considering my shoe purchases), and that I fully believe I will populate these new spaces with things that are grand.

21 more days.

Diamonds

July, to me, is the great American month—fireworks, barbeques, and long nights outside holding tight to light that lingers. My nights lately have been spent cheering on local sports teams with friends, cokes in hand, while we sit on the grass and gossip about our lives. Best of all, nights like this always include laughter, the kind that feels like tangible happiness you wish you could bottle and drink in the cold month of February. Truth be told, nothing makes me happier than seeing a friend smile so wide it's almost audible or laugh so loud, you know it comes from their middle.

I read somewhere that as you age, you don't need a lot of friends, you just need real ones. In college, the pressure to know everyone was overwhelming, and confidence seemed to be built on the contacts in your phone and the number of hellos you said on campus. But as someone who inherently keeps a small circle around me, the changing friendships of adulthood suit me. The list of people I lean on is short, but our mutual experiences together long. I have friends that care when you break up with the same person for the 20th time, but listen to you like it's the first; friends that know what to say to make you laugh and know when silence and a good movie are the best remedy for a very bad day; friends that joy in your successes even when their own hearts were needing a victory; friends that never forget you, forsake you, or stay mad at you too long.

In the words of a great writer, "it is not diamonds that are a girl's best friend, but your best friends who are diamonds. It is your friends who are supremely resilient, made under pressure, and of astonishing value. They're everlasting; they can cut glass."

To all the diamonds in my life—I am shaped by your perspective and in constant awe of your hearts.

Pacing Myself

Last week I went for a trail run with a friend who recently made the change from graphic designer to full time photographer. In talking about this big change, I asked him what his "ideal" situation in life would be. His answer, though not new to the world of advice, was that he tried not to look too far into the future at the risk of missing the things he was experiencing right then.

Sadly, I am not naturally a "Zen" thinker. At some point in my life, I began to think that we were all running the exact same race. And as time passed, and I reached landmarks at a different pace and order than people around me, I fell victim to the thought that I was "behind." But as my friend and I remarked, and in light of the Olympics, I need to remember that like runners on a track, we too start at staggered places on the field. Built uniquely for different destinations, paces, and distances, we were never meant to compare ourselves to each other as if we were running the same course, in the same lane, toward the same finish line.

My new hope then is to slow my internal clock a few clicks and enjoy more my individual race. While there are still things that I hope will happen, great things, I will try and culture the thought (like the popular country song) that I simply "could not ask for more." By doing that, I am telling the divine beings at large that I recognize the experiences I am having right now. And when something different is given to me later in my race, I will know how to appreciate that too.

While "ideal" may still sound a little more appealing to me than it does to my friend, so do the slow possibilities of this very moment. And in not focusing too much on what could be, I more readily show my gratitude for what is. 

Roots

When it comes to my parents, I always assumed that I would be the one to fly off someday, turning around to wave at them as they stood on our porch, rooted deeply to the home I grew up in. Instead, it is my roots that are becoming more firmly planted (I have now lived in the same apartment for two years, who knew), and it is my parents who are off on an international adventure that will keep them away for more than two Christmases. 

My relationship with each parent is unique. Moments with my dad, while quality, are marked largely by silence as we ride our bikes together, our cadence a constant hum in an otherwise quieter conversation of hearts. For him, he simply needs to know that his family is doing okay. With my mother, silences are rare, and our time is spent on the basement couch, me reverting to a childish position so she can tickle my back while we talk about things we don't often admit to others. Thinking of these memories, dependent so much on physical proximity, I can't help but wonder what truly makes a home, especially when your parents aren't in it anymore. And most importantly, how can I keep all this from changing when they are moving two oceans away?

The answer is, I can't. My other friendships undergo constant face lifts as people's situations change and their needs in the relationship do too. But while I never considered this would happen with my parents as they were meant to stay in the exact same place, to their credit, they are choosing not to. When many people around them are starting to cash in their chips (some alarmingly young), my parents are daring to take a risk with their future, which they still treat as long, exciting, and unknown.

Perhaps the best thing my parents could do for their family was not to stay behind so that our home never changed, but to leave so that we know that it is never too late to tug up on your roots a little to do something you truly believe in.  

Constants

 
I drove home from my parent's house last night, exhausted and satisfied from hours of unrestrained eating and time talking underneath umbrellas in the backyard. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw the sun hanging low like a golden peach in the sky. Even with the air still hot and stifling, I kept my windows down all the way home on the highway. As someone who often opts for quieter spaces, some may be surprised that I love to do this when I am alone. The noise of the cars and trucks moving at high speeds alongside me is almost deafening, and the air hits my face like a power hose. Yet I am comforted by the constancy of it—the noise, the heat, the pressured air—and I feel completely present for an hour.

My 20s so far have been one change after another. Graduating from college; finding a spot in the professional world; friends marrying and moving away; new apartments every year; relationships beginning and ending; my own family growing and shrinking all at the same time. Still, as I was driving last night, I thought about all of the things that remain constant despite this ocean of change. For instance, I know when I see my mother that she will always greet me as if she hasn't seen me in years. I know my boss will joke at least once a week about how technology is going to be "big" someday. I know a piece of chocolate always tastes the best after a workout, my dry mouth watering around something sweet on my tongue. I know when I hear certain men speak publicly that I know God exists. I know that mowing the lawn makes me feel American. I know hearing live music makes my insides feel like they are hooked up to an amplifier. I know that I never want firework displays to end when I am watching them with someone I like. I know that nothing makes me feel better than when my own laugh becomes a cackle.

With change moving around me like water, I savor more and more the moments when I find something familiar, like a power hosed drive home, to remind me that some things never do change. Because even in the moving ocean, some things are constant.

Dusting

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that moving on meant erasing all evidence that something had happened. I didn't want anyone, even me, to see my disappointment, so I would go about removing pictures, emails, text messages, kleenexes, and anything else with an associated memory. But even with all of my cleaning, I still find that heartbreak, like any other strong experience, is like a layer of dust. It can settle on all surfaces of life: work, friendships, workouts, books, nights out, food, furniture. Panicked by it, I used to try and sweep this sad dust up with my proverbial swiffer, hoping I could get rid of it for good. But the tricky thing about dust is that it only stays afloat for a few minutes before slowly settling back down onto things.

I am starting to realize that moving on, for me, has as much to do with staying still as it does with moving forward. Instead of running until I am out of air, I stop and try to settle deeper into myself. I honor the experience that I have had; I honor myself for the effort I put into it. And I try and find the balance between looking inside myself and simply letting everything breathe, unquestioned and unexamined. Finally, I remind myself that I am, and am doing, enough.

This time, I will not be scared of the dust collecting in my corners. After all, when I see people acknowledge their fears or inadequacies, I do not see them as weak, I see them as human. And when people keep going despite all of the things they are willing to admit to out loud, to me, they are the picture of brave.

And maybe it isn't even dust that I am seeing at all. Maybe what I am seeing is just the residue of a life being lived.

Connected Hearts

Some of us, even when surrounded with the best of family and friends, feel like we shoulder many of our thoughts and problems alone. We don't always share the quiet hurts, the disappointed heart, the fear of failure, or our concerns for the future with others. Instead, we keep them tucked away. But once in a while, we have a moment that connects us to someone so significantly that even for just a second, we feel like we are seen and understood.

A few months ago, I became a hospice volunteer, something I had thought about for almost a year. While a lot of people worried that being with patients who would inevitably pass away would be too hard for me, I knew it would be a perfect fit. Instead of trying to help people recover, which is actually the harder task, my sole purpose was simply to make their last few months as pleasant as possible.

One of the women I see doesn't remember me from week to week when I come, but she still welcomes me into her house with incredible warmth. For her, I am sure, it is a nice break in an otherwise long, repetitive day. When she is feeling well, we sit in her living room and she retells me the same heartfelt stories about her life that she told me the week before (I wonder what stories of my own will readily come to mind when I am her age). Other days, when she is struggling, I sit next to her bed making small conversation or reading to her. Sometimes we don't even talk at all. Yesterday was one of those days. As she laid on her side in bed, holding a glass of milk I brought her that I knew she wouldn't be able to finish, I absentmindedly rubbed her leg and wondered if I was really making a difference to someone who wouldn't even remember in a few hours that I was ever there. I felt sad for her; I also felt alone in my own thoughts. As I got ready to leave, I asked her as always if I could come back to visit her next week. But instead of her usual affirming response, she looked at me and said quietly with her far-away accent, "You know, I think you understand me a little bit." In hearing that, I felt my heart make room for a woman that I barely knew. And for that minute, of which only one of us would remember for very long, the two of us were connected.

Bright Ideas

 
Every day we are surrounded by someone's bright ideas. Many of these ingenious creations come with a little "i" before them and make our lives incredibly convenient. Others are just plain fantastic (hello, nut chopper from Pampered Chef, I do love you). But in a world of great creativity, I am here to give a shout out to the other kinds of ideas—the not-so-bright kind. These little dud-nuggets often make for the best stories, and when we are 90, they may be as valuable to us as the bright kind.

One of these moments came for me 2 years ago as I was getting into my work elevator at 7:15 in the morning and noticed that my shirt was inside out. I would like to think that had it been later in the day and my frosted mini-wheats were fully digested that I would have decided to fix this in a bathroom. Lucky for all who know the story, I did not. I decided that 5 floors of elevator traveling time was more than enough to remove my shirt and get it right side out. And it might have been had the elevator not stopped on floor 2. In complete horror, with my shirt in hand and my striped bra out for heaven-knows-who to see, I panicked. I leapt like a frog on a lily pad across the elevator and slammed the button that read EMERGENCY (I justified that this truly was one). With a mind-numbing alarm going off and the assured belief that a SWAT team was going to be waiting for me when this was over, I quickly shoved myself back into my shirt, smoothing my hair with the same urgency that you pet a new puppy. I re-hit the elevator button, the doors opened, and the only person staring back at me was the building's old maintenance man who was completely indifferent to what felt like the 15 scariest seconds of my life. I walked quickly to my desk, sat down, and burst out into laughter.

My recommendation is this: own your own crazy and never assume you can accomplish anything in an elevator, no matter how many floors you have to go.

The Birthday Girl

Most of us are fortunate to have sisters, whether by blood, by marriage, or by fated friendship. I am lucky to have sisters in all of these categories, and this week, one of these sisters has a birthday.

This sister deserves, perhaps more than anyone I know, a day that celebrates her goodness. From nieces and nephews whose special occasions and even most ordinary of moments are never forgotten to members of her church who are constantly looked after and loved, she radiates a spirit of giving. Even her profession, which takes her from big conference rooms in Europe to small clinics in Africa, is proof of her unfailing personal principles. But those of who know her well can add other, much smaller wonders to this list: the way her apartment smells like lavender is hidden in the corners; the way her clothes are always crisp; how she sweats so much when she runs her shoes squeak; the way she is always concerned that she has hurt someone's feelings; her love for Paris and all things French; the way her skin glows; that she can fall asleep instantly yet always wakes up too early; when she stands in the kitchen and eats jam on crackers. All of her, both the big and the small, leave an indelible mark on us.

She may feel that she gets into a rhythm of "doing" that no one sees. Thinking of all my sisters, I am sure there are things we feel that no one notices. The meals we prepare; the kids we care for; the person we said hello to; the workout we squeezed in; the test we did well on; the productive day at work; the silent service we gave; the book we read; the candle we created. But the simple truth is, these things do not go unnoticed. And what is better, they all deserve to be celebrated.

So here's to the birthday girl and to all of my sisters who have a noticed spot in my world.

Warriors of Light

One of the advantages of being single, as my brother likes to remind me, is that my money is essentially my own. But so is all of the risk, responsibility, and decision making, as I like to remind him back. The weight of big moments and big chances falls on one person's shoulders—mine.

Paul Coelho, author of The Alchemist, has a philosophy about people he calls "warriors of light." These individuals, he says, "when they believe that the moment has arrived, they drop everything and go off on some long-dreamed of adventure." I am happy to say that this week I took a risk with my solely owned pocket book and abandoned the role of miser to become a warrior.

I had been to Europe in college for a brief, but wonderful study abroad experience. Unfortunately, I never made it to Italy where years of art history classes and my own obsessive reading has always made me want to go. I have admired the Italians not only for the art on their walls, but for the art in their daily living. While perusing the internet this week, my new sad heart in tow, I came across a remark from Rick Steves that sometimes the best way to see a country is not to fly to it, but to ride your bike across it. Since most people know that I love my bike more than my car, I felt this statement was for me. But as quickly as I was exalted by the idea of a new adventure, I was splashed in the face with another: I may have to do this alone. From two cute sisters who couldn't sneak away from work to a few close friends who would be back teaching school by the Fall, I realized that the same freedom that enabled me to take this trip was the same freedom that meant I have may to do it without anyone else. And as much as I wanted to sink down in my chair at this thought (which already has a generous imprint of my very round bum), I didn't. Instead, I decided to do something a little bit braver than dream—I decided to do.

In September, I will ride my bike from Florence to Rome. For more than eight days, I will make my way through Passignano sul Trasimeno, Perugia, Assisi, and Spoleto. I will do this without family or friend, not because I have to, but because I chose to.  

And who knows—I may meet a few other warriors of light on the road through Tuscany.

Tipping Our Hats in Tribute

One of the sad truths about living today is that most of us know, or will know, someone with cancer. In working in medical publishing, I see cases of it every day in patients who usually don't live. But while the disease itself isn't contagious, I found recently that the love and generosity given to those who are touched by it often is.

A woman from my neighborhood and local church was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer almost a year ago. Growing up, she was artsy, creative, and modern. One of my earliest memories is visiting her house with a broken porcelain doll (I don't know why my mother trusted me with them) to have it re-fired by the kiln she conveniently had in her basement. In hearing about her diagnosis, the motion to support her was swift and seamless. When she began to lose her hair, my mother and other women from our church purchased kooky hats to wear to church with her every Sunday. It was an indoor Kentucky Derby. And she, of course, responded to her situation exactly the way you would have thought--with generosity, class, humor, and tenderness. Even in the middle of her own struggle, she visited my mother after she had had surgery on her foot and learning that my mother was having trouble finding comfortable shoes, she removed her own and walked back to her car in socks. I wondered, when I heard that story, if she thought she might not need her shoes anymore; then I realized it wouldn't have mattered. She would have given them anyway--she had that kind of heart.

This woman passed away a few weeks ago, right at the end when they thought everything was clear. Instead of a funeral, they had a day of celebration where friends came to share their memories with her family. The women in our church paid a final tribute to her in all wearing hats the Sunday after she died. To wish that cancer, and like diseases, didn't exist would be an understatement. Still, out of situations like this, I am also awakened when I see the sense of community, service, and heartfelt sympathy that often follows it.

This woman's husband--one of the most quiet men I have ever seen--paid his wife a final compliment in including the following poem in her funeral announcement. These lines, from one of my most favorite poems by Lord Tennyson, is the perfect way to tip our hats to a woman who was able to fly Sky Priority to heaven.

Tho much is taken, much abides; and tho
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

To a woman who never yielded; to a community of heroic hearts.