A Tradition

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I can't let this week pass without gratitude for this past year and its many gorgeous moments. Truth be told, there was some roughness in it. I remember a few days of hardcore tears and nights where I'd lay in bed wondering what in THE world I was doing with my life. Still, I love it all, and I carry around a profound appreciation for every second my eyes are open and I am alive. Life is a roller coaster, and I am thankful that my Creator allows me to keep riding.

I am grateful for…

1.   People's oddities—the good and the weird. People who dance awkwardly from the hips in a bath towel, who point their index finger a lot for emphasis, who look at you through the bottom of their bifocals, who get lost going somewhere they've been a hundred times, who can't stand having grass in their shoes, who are convinced every piece of meat is undercooked.

2.   Moments when people surprise you, when they do something so bold or so extremely kind that it wakes you up to life's purpose. And moments when you surprise yourself and do the same. 

3.   Friends who will sleep at your house during a windstorm because you are a scared pansy.

4.   A song that so perfectly fits your mood and elevates your soul, you can't help but listen to it for hours on end.

5.   Babies who lay on your chest and fall asleep to your heartbeat.

6.   Pears and the weeks they are in season.

7.   People who have the courage to look at you in the eyes for a few seconds longer than is usual.

8.   The nerve to take a chance on a new idea, without knowing how it will all work out.

9.   People who make you laugh so hard you have to cross your legs, for people who take the time to make happiness seep out of you.

10. The very real and very important moments when you love yourself and are proud of your authentic, ballsy life.

To Becoming

Last year I wrote about the lost art of accepting compliments. Since then, my friends and I remind each other to gracefully accept the kind things people say to us. A few weeks ago, a friend mentioned that he also struggles accepting compliments, often because they feel too finite: you are a great soccer player, you are very smart, you are kind, you are very handsome. To him, it sounded like he'd already achieved each of these things, which he didn't think was completely true. Knowing that self-talk is critical to success, he developed the habit of putting "becoming" before each compliment he gives himself: I am becoming a great soccer player, I am becoming a kind person. Instead of adding a little sugar to make the medicine go down, he adds a little medicine to make the sugar more believable.

Many of us struggle with this. Because we are not at the finish line, but also no longer at the start, we forego giving ourselves much needed credit for all that we've accomplished. We only see the areas where we still need to improve and the length of the path left to walk. Maybe our compliments should be more like our lives then—in motion and in progress. By adding "becoming" to each thing we want to believe about ourselves, we satisfy the part of us that needs encouragement to keep going and the part that needs to feel the deficit so we'll continue working hard.

So here's to living in the becoming—the fabulous gray area that celebrates who we once were and who we one day hope to be.

Living in the Why

In one of my classes this month, my professor touched on a subject that had a profound effect on me. She drew three circles inside of each other (visualize a dart board). On the outside circle, she wrote "what"; on the middle circle, she wrote "how"; on the inside-most circle, she wrote "why." Each circle represents a different level of depth and significance that we use to approach experiences and people. Sadly, most people never make it into the smallest circle. In fact, we rarely scratch the surface of the most interesting parts of life.

Question: What did you do today? Answer: I went trail running. Question: What do you do for a living? Answer: I work in publishing. Interesting conversation? Maybe. Question: How did you go trail running? Answer: I drove to Millcreek canyon and started running down the Pipeline trail with two girlfriends. Question: How do you publish books? Answer: Our authors write in a proprietary software that allows us to do many things with their content, like make eBooks. Better? A little. Question: Why do you trail run? Answer: I run on trails because, when I'm outside, I feel like my mind starts breathing. I feel calm, and I empty out the clutter and white noise I was carrying with me. Question: Why do you work in publishing? Answer: Because I love to see other people's ideas formulate. I enjoy seeing the books I help create on someone's book shelf, worn and being used. More interesting?

I am starting to discover that the depth of our experiences and the richness of people is found in the why. It's the question and the answers that really matter. They are the questions we should ask life itself (Why is what I'm doing meaningful to me? Why am I spending my time on x, y, and z?) and the questions we should regularly ask ourselves (Why do I want the things I want? Why do I think the way I do?). Here we find purpose. Here we come to know ourselves. Because, in the end, the people around us don't buy what we do, they buy why we do it. To live with passion, to make others around us passionate about us, we need to push past the what and past the how. We need to start with the why.

Here's to living in the why. It's a much more interesting place. 

Sky Splitters

I have known for weeks that I am very sadly behind. I have also know what I've wanted to write about. But it wasn't until I was in bed last night, struck with a particular line of a poem, that I knew I needed to put this experience to pen. Almost a month ago, someone anonymously paid my graduate tuition for Fall semester, a sum of which is 20% of my entire program cost. Overwhelmed, I did my best to find out who this individual was. And I did. In reaching out to thank her, I found someone largely uncomfortable with my knowing and who responded, genuinely, that she'd been blessed with a good life and, seeing something special in me, had wanted to help.

Over the last few weeks, I've thought a lot about this moment. As someone whose life is based on a belief in God and that the good I do is a reflection of the good He has done for me, I was in awe knowing that my benefactor, someone who I've had a few spiritual conversations with, does not necessarily share these beliefs. Instead, every good deed she does, every kindness that she anonymously gives, comes from a deep goodness inside of her. Her unfettered desire to give, with no expectation of reward in this life or the next, humbled me.

In the words of Edna St. Vincent Millay, "the soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through." So here's to a woman who split the sky on my behalf.

Good Intentions

We are living in a world of rapid-fire communication. I can text from my phone, my home computer, or my work computer (a recent happiness of mine). We email and send FaceBook messages; we can call, FaceTime, or Skype. The possibilities are endless. Still, I can't help but notice that despite all of these avenues, we so often misunderstand the people around us or are left feeling like we're on completely different pages.

I read something recently that resonated with me. Someone said that the source of most misunderstandings is that we judge others by their actions and ourselves by our intentions. How true this is. Knowing my own heart, I know (and assume others know) that I do not say things with the hope of hurting or belittling anyone. To most of us, this would be unthinkable. But when it comes to evaluating what other people say, we often question their motive or meaning, convinced that things aren't plain or in good spirit. Sure there may be those few people who intentionally jab at us, but they are likely far and few between. More often than not, we let ourselves become hurt or irritated simply because we don't assume in others what we automatically assume in ourselves: good intentions.

So maybe it is time to return to an old-fashioned and faith-based principle, one that would save ourselves a bit of grief. To always believe the best in others.

Dust If You Must

Lately, I've been thinking quite a bit about risk, both the personal and the professional kind. These big balloon-like questions consistently float around in my head: do I give up this to do that? what if I give up this to do that, and that doesn't work out? do I risk what happiness I have for something that may bring none at all? Taking risks feels dangerous. Even the word itself is short and abrupt, similar to the sound we make when our faces hit the floor after trying something new (it's happened to all of us). It can dramatically affect the things we value: our savings accounts, our cherished routines, our valued relationships, and even our hearts.

Like the most perfect synchronized swimming, a friend gave me an article on happiness in the midst of all of these thoughts. After hundreds of studies with thousands of candidates, there was one common result: those that risk more know more happiness. Despite the result, there's some part of our souls that is enlivened and delighted that we possess the courage to take a chance. We even subconsciously congratulate ourselves for a losing hand, simply because we know we were able to push past fear to put ourselves in the middle of the game. And through each leap of faith and each scary move, we collect experiences that surpass the happiness of a safely lived life.

In the words of an anonymous author...

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go—and go you must—
You, yourself, will make more dust.

The Noticer

Lately, I've been swimming in business classes. The creative part of my brain had momentarily atrophied until recently, when I read a book called The Noticer. In it, Jones, an old man of indescribable age and ethnicity appears to people in moments where they see their life with too narrow a lens. He shows them that life is only a matter of perspective. To the homeless boy under the pier, Jones explains that sand can be fertile ground. To the twice-divorced man who can only see what he doesn't have, Jones convinces him to stop letting his history control his destiny. To the corrupt businessman who is retracing his steps to make amends, Jones tells him that intention without action is an insult to those who expect the best from you. And to the old grandmother who feels her life has no purpose now that her husband and children are gone, Jones helps her believe that no matter her age, physical condition, financial situation, color, gender, emotional state, or belief, everything she does, every move she makes, matters to all of us and forever.

I often, like most people, walk through life believing that I see things as they are, that mine is the true perspective. I seem to know, by heart, my faults, my failures, my misgivings, and my missteps. They whisper to me that I often expect too much, push too hard, forgive too infrequently, and do too little. But lately, I've met a few noticers who have forced  my eyelids open to a broader perspective of myself. These individuals have altered my steps a small but significant degree, allowing me to stand taller and with more insight. With their help, the view is new. And bright.

As Jones said, perhaps to me, "think, learn, pray, plan, dream—for soon, you will become."

 

Neruda

I've been in the habit lately of reading poetry before bed. Some writers' words are fluid and neat, with few breaks in thought. Others remind me of running over hot pavement, with expressions that are sharp, short, and emphatic. My favorite of all are the words with palpable passion, with texture and vivid imagery about the things that I too think about. This week I've been married to Pablo Neruda, and I've always felt like his thoughts are the ones in my own mind that I can never articulate or punctuate.

Because sometimes, someone else's words are better than our own. Here's to one of the best and brightest every scribbled on paper.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

 

For My Marmie

There's something about a mother and something extra spectacular about mine. Mothers know how to love you the best and comfort you the most. And they always make it seem that whenever you leave the nest, wonderful things are waiting for you. I hear my mother's voice when I think of what Marmie March says to her daughter in Little Women, "Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You're ready to go out and find a good use for your talent. Tho' I don't know what I shall do without my Jo. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it."

Something that makes my mother perfect for me is that she knew what I needed at different times in my life. When I was little, she knew I needed lots of one-on-one time snuggling and talking. And let's be honest, not much has changed. When I was in junior high, and too nervous to eat in the lunchroom, she knew the perfect place for me was eating with her in her classroom. She never seemed to worry that I wouldn't eventually blossom, but acted instead like it was the bright spot in her day. Even now, my mother knows when to invite me home for a dinner pregnant with good conversation and the best flavors so that she can remind me that, yes, everything will work out for me (the big fear of my 20s). She knows when I've needed some coddling; she knows when I've needed a cheer.

 

My mother, for the record, is many things. She's a loyal friend, a disciple, a caring neighbhor, a fierce athlete, an explorer, a world traveler, and a wonderful grandmother. But, in honor of this Sunday, the mother in my mother is what I choose to celebrate. So here's to my Marmie, who has spent her life making everyone else's a beautiful thing.

Moving On Down

Last weekend, my friend and I made our way through the national parks in Southern Utah. I was surprised at how much the desert colors reminded me of a favorite t-shirt washed a hundred times: muted, blended, comfortable. At Dead Horse Point, we stood on what felt like the top of the world and looked out at endless, deep canyons. In the middle of them all runs the Colorado river, and per usual when I see rivers that size, the last line of A River Runs Through It crossed my mind. "I am haunted by waters..."

As someone who loves efficiency, I couldn't help but notice the roundabout route the river takes on its way to the ocean. It curves around rocks in big, horseshoe-like shapes and winds down canyons, over rocks, and through dams. And as far as we know, the river doesn't put up a fuss. It chooses to go around the things it couldn't go straight through and has kept moving despite hundreds of extra miles it takes to reach its destination had it been on a more express route. Staring out at it all, I could see the parallels to life. There have been times where I wanted to skip B, C, and D in order to get somewhere a little faster (both in literal and figurative journeys). I complained about unneeded loops, and I grumbled at the extra distance. But, like the river, I need to simply go around that which I can't go through and gracefully accept a new route if my persistent efforts with one don't lead me somewhere. And, most importantly, I need to remember that no matter the length of the journey, the destination is the same.

So here's to looking up, admiring the view, thanking the deep blue sky, and moving on down the river.

Marathon Monday

I have thought a lot about what to write this week. In my last post, I congratulated the 2013 Boston runners and spectators on the upcoming race. Little did I know how much they would deserve those cheers and praises. My personal part in the day is hard to tell since others went through much more. But, in short, I was a few blocks from the explosions but soon to be headed in that direction (had the trains been running a few minutes faster, it could have been a different day). I was also one of the few people who knew immediately that my sister in the race was absolutely okay. I didn't experience the same terror that others unfortunately did.

One thing I do share in common with everyone there is a deep gratitude and pride for the people who act in a crisis. That day, I was with my brother who happens to work in Boston law enforcement (we'll leave it at that). One of the most powerful experiences—and something I hope I never forget—was to see him go from a guy with sunglasses eating a hamburger to someone who literally launched (you should see him walk) into action. Yes, he has been trained and is often involved in dangerous situations, most of which we never know about. Still, no amount of schooling can give someone his pure feelings of responsibility. That comes from years of simply being a good and moral man. Like many others on Marathon Monday, he showed no hesitation to be in the middle of it all; he sacrificed sleep, time with his family, and his own safety for people who will never even know his name.

 

So, as cheesy as it may seem, here's to heroes, whether they are homegrown (in a cowboy hat) or those thoroughly trained. Here is to the only people who can make a dark situation seem hopeful.

Scream Out a Number

Next week, my sister Amie will wake up on marathon Monday and run 26.2 miles on the historic streets of Boston. And lucky for me, I will be there to cheer her on at every mile. I will scream and shout, and yes, I will probably cry. For one whole day, my life will be completely secondary to the happiness and success of hers. And for that, I am thankful.

While seeing thousands of runners living out their athletic dream is pretty big, a close second is the sight of thousands of bystanders who come to cheer the runners on. I've been told that many of these people do not have someone in the race but simply show up to scream out from the sidelines the numbers of people they don't even know. They are there to throw their positive encouragement on the runners like you'd throw rice and rose petals at a wedding—liberally and without constraint. I have to say, I find this sentiment powerful—to cheer someone else on, someone we may not know, with all the genuine feeling of our hearts. To forget for a minute, an hour, or a day about our own big hills and long stretches and completely focus on helping someone else get through theirs. To me, it is a reminder that we are part of a larger world that gains nothing from our negativity and everything from our friendly and positive push.

 

So here's to the 2013 Boston runners and to every moment we spend believing that the success of a friend, or even a stranger, is as big as our own.

Letting Go

One of the most difficult transitions into complete adulthood, for me, has been deciding how much I'll let what other people think affect me. I realize this is not a new idea (case in point, Oprah articles and bookstore self-help books). Still, it's hard to master, and there is inevitably a moment in our lives where we can no longer hold on more tightly to the opinions of others than we do to our own personal judgment, dreams, and feelings.

Really, it is as simple as letting go and letting live. One day, we will make a decision that someone close to us does not agree with. And in that moment, we will stop and consider, hopefully carefully, what they are saying. But, though torn, we may turn and continue walking forward because we firmly believe we are headed where we want to go. That moment of walking alone without the rally of everyone around us is frightening. And if the decision goes sour, a little embarrassing too. But in the loneliness of some of our decisions, we also come to know and trust ourselves more implicitly, owning our own lives more than we ever have before. Maybe it is time to sign our names next to not only our victories, but by our decisions that seem less certain too. In both losses and wins, great people are made. In both company and solitude, solid character is formed.

So here is to believing in ourselves with a robust confidence that might appear unmerited. Here is to signing our life decisions in pen, accepting that we are here to learn, to live, and to love.

Foundations

My brother Tucker paid me a high compliment this week. In telling him that I may go back to school to get an MBA, he responded, "Well, Kell, you know you never do anything half ass, so I'm sure it'll work out great." I thought a lot about what he said and appreciated how he viewed me. He believed I lived "pedal to the medal"—not necessarily in the context of speed, but in commitment.

And at the end of the day, it's true, and I'm willing to pay myself that compliment. I am committed. I am committed to my family. I am committed to my friends. I am committed to health. I am committed to searching out, and refining within myself, genuine goodness. But when this philosophy starts to fall apart for me is when the future is so uncertain that I'm unsure where my footsteps should lie and how safe it is to tie myself to so many unknown variables. But the truth is, I can. And the ingredients to do it are this: faith and hope. Sometimes these two principles to me are like clouds, these light, happy, fluffy things we talk about to keep us from giving up. But really, they are the earth instead. Hope and faith (coupled with commitment) are the foundation of a fully lived life. While we can't see them, touch them, or taste them, they are more solid than anything we can currently reach out and hold. And most importantly, they are as solid as we decide them to be.

So here's to my commitment to a future that is new and unknown, but always grander than I imagine. And here's to walking toward it all on the unshakeable foundation of faith and hope.

Culinary Journey

For whatever reason, I sometimes get squeamish talking about food, weight, and fitness outside of a few choice people. The reason is, different things work for different people. Few fitness programs or eating plans can be applied to multiple people without personal adjustments being made. I think the cornerstone to good health (the part we can control) is learning about ourselves and what we like, first and foremost. What healthy foods do I like to eat? what unhealthy foods do I like to eat and when do I usually eat them? what form of exercising do I actually like to do and what time of day is best for me? We are the only people who can answer these questions.

These thoughts come as I make some big changes this year. I scrapped my old workouts for others that have me challenged and energized. Most importantly, I swapped my old way of eating, which was often unplanned and half-hearted, for the kind of eating that requires me to do dishes four times on a Saturday (not an exaggeration). I decided to educate myself, to review my eating and make a plan for my health—the kind of plan that involves a lifetime of learning and loving to cook, eat, and to keep moving. Every day is a game of chess that I play with myself: finding a delicious recipe and making it healthy or finding a dessert that makes your mouth water but has only natural ingredients.

So here is to the adventure of finding our personal path to health, our own road to renewed energy and sustained eating. And if you'd like to be a part of my adventure, I have created a new page on my blog for Clean Eating, which is my new philosophy. Every week I try new recipes and will report!

Blinders

Sometimes I find myself walking around like the saddest horse there ever was: Black Beauty. I walk heavy footed with blinders over my eyes, aware only of my own frustrations. But as soon as I take off my blinders and spend a few minutes adjusting to the new bright and unselfish light, I can usually see someone who's feeling the same or worse than me.

As a single gal, some activities are just more lonesome. Going to the Saturday night session of stake conference, for instance, or a too-long Sunday afternoon. And while I actually do "alone" pretty damn well, I'm not immune to moments where I wish things were a little different. Last week, in light of those activities I mentioned, I decided to look around for someone who might be feeling the same as me. Not surprisingly, I found someone. A phone call led to a simple pre-stake conference dinner (simple, because I'm still learning to cook), someone to sit next to at the meeting, and then the idea to take a long walk together on Sunday afternoon. Two people were helped, and one was me.

The fact is, the world is full of people, despite our sometimes feeling alone. And the second we unfold our arms and raise our eyes, we can usually see someone to wrap our arms around and someone to make eye contact with. The simple gesture of removing our blinders and seeing past what we often think is most important (a.k.a. ourselves) helps us to see what is always true: there's someone needing something more than you.

Laundry Night

Last night, after a workout so brutal the gym owners walked around wiping sweat off the floors while people dripped from their pushup positions, I took a pealed orange, a fresh copy of The Hobbit (a first time read), and a huge bundle of clothes to the local laundry mat. Being able to do four loads of laundry in under two hours is quickly becoming my new favorite thing. I like the quiet time to read, and if that ever gets old, I look out of the huge frosted windows at the people walking around.

Few people who come to the laundry mat know each other, but quick relationships are formed in sharing quarters, borrowing dryer sheets, and like last night, working on the broken change exchange machine. I laughed with strangers as we pooled together our money so that a designated runner could go to another laundry mat to get us all quarters; we laughed again when someone new walked into use our change machine and it began to miraculously work. The four of us—an old woman in pink sweatpants, a young Asian student, a recently immigrated Kenyan, and myself—stood around the folding tables talking about the weather in Utah, the culture and the religion, and how hard it is to go to school and work at the same time. Outside of the laundry mat, I would never have told my life stories to these people, nor heard theirs. Still, for a night, we enjoyed our unexpected conversations with the hum of the dryers as background music.

The truth is, every day when we walk out our doors, we have an opportunity to experience something new if we want to. They may not be the experiences we were hoping to have—in fact, they may be nothing short of weird. But I am starting to believe that the weird and the unexpected add the most color to life.

Another Year Older

It's true, I don't do this for everyone's birthday (on purpose actually, as I deliberately don't set my own bar too high), but I couldn't resist celebrating a big, big birthday this week. As of Wednesday, my larger than life Dad is 75. And instead of bringing in his birthday at home with a ski day at Snowbasin and a fancy meal fixed by my mother, he is almost exactly halfway around the world surrounded by vanilla beans, mangos, and geckos he occasionally vacuums up. For him, I am going to share three memories.

Memory une. When my Dad had back problems years ago, he would walk up and down our street because it made him feel better to be in motion (imagine that). I still remember the way his loose Chaco sandals sounded as they scuffed on the pavement. I don't remember any particular conversations, only his invitations that I walk with him anytime I was home.

Memory deux. My Dad still sports a Velcro headband with a Hawaiian print when he works in the yard. And the widest, old school brown belt you'll ever see. He mows the lawn like someone is holding a fire torch to his heels. And he used to throw his awful socks in my face when he was done.

Memory trois. I remember my Dad coming to check me out of school early when I was in high school. He was wearing a checkered, light pink dress shirt with a beautiful tie and slacks. Even at 16 years old, I knew that he was sharp dresser. And I felt proud.

Here's to another 25 years of that great headband, Padre.

Power of Presence

In the past week, three very sad things have happened to people I know. And while hearing about trials is not at all the same as living through them, those of us bystanders feel their ache and are left wondering what to do, how to reach out, and when to simply let things breathe.

In thinking about this the last few days, my mind keeps recycling back to an essay I read from "This I Believe," a collection of personal papers gathered by NPR in the 1960s and 2000s. In one essay titled "The Power of Presence," a woman wrote about hearing that her good friend's mother had died and her conflict in not wanting to intrude on her friend's grief while also not wanting to leaving her alone with it. Someone finally told the woman to go to the hospital, to just be there with her friend. Since that moment, the woman wrote, "I have not hesitated to be in the presence of others for whom I could 'do' nothing. 'Being with' another person carries with it a silent power. [I am] repeatedly struck by the healing power of connection created by being fully there in the quiet understanding of another. In it, none of us are truly alone."

However much we'd like, sometimes there is nothing we can do for someone who is hurting; we can only be. We cannot remove their deep ache or real fears; we can only bear those feelings alongside them, as a silent but fully present companion.

So here is to our efforts to help those we love—not by removing what they feel, but by standing by them while they feel it.

I Hope

As I am sure most of us are, I am still gathering my thoughts for the new year. Most everyone I speak to has this tangible, yet unexplainable feeling that 2013 will bring great things, like we can almost taste it in the air. Some people I know will be having babies; some want their businesses to thrive; some want to make more of a difference where they're serving; some want to finish the year in love, to bring in 2014 by someone's side.  

 

I too feel hopeful for the coming year. Maybe some things will change; maybe nothing will change; maybe some tough times are ahead. But taking the words from my favorite story, "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies." So maybe the best thing we can take into the new year, whether the wishes we squeeze tight in our chests come true or not, is sustained hope. Hope for happiness; hope for goodness to come to the people we love; hope that the things we want most in our lives will be closer to our attainment or, in their continued absence, that we will feel peace. And most importantly, hope that we'll take every opportunity, ride every roller coaster twice, so that we can look back 12 months from now and know we did our best. Or, even more, that we lived our best.

 

"I find I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain...I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams...

....I hope."