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.