Unexpected and Beautiful

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I’ve seen them more frequently in the last 10 years or so, and I feel a little bad about their shrinking habitat. That said, they don’t seem to be at a loss for sustenance, as I often see them diving down into the brush alongside the freeway, grabbing something [literally] to eat, then flying off into the wild blue yonder once again.

Tonight during my evening walk, I saw one. In fact, I saw two. I was told by a neighbor that there were three in the trees above me, but I never saw the third one. Three red-tailed hawks have taken to calling a peaceful, jacaranda-lined street home; I can’t say that I blame them. I walked about an eighth of a mile with my head looking skyward, watching two of them flit from tree to tree. They were beautiful. Further down the street, a man was coming out of his house to take his trash barrels to the curb and he called out to me, “Sometimes they dive-bomb people.”

I picked up my pace, aware that my ponytail knot probably looked a bit like a rodent on top of my head.

A few weeks back, I had a family of cockroaches scurry across my path. Last week, no fewer than five June bugs made their lazy way through the evening air and straight into my neck. There were a lot of bees, too. Tonight, hawks. It’s as though I don’t live in the largest city in Orange County. True, there are more rural parts, but mine isn’t one of them.

The unexpected and the beautiful can sometimes be the most dangerous. If not literally, then occasionally in the sense that we may forget to keep our guard up. We’re captivated by such beauty, drawn in and, before we know it, we might be wishing we’d never seen them or been familiar with their presence at all. Lots of lessons are learned when this happens, but sometimes we forget them and find ourselves right back where we started.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminder that the red-tailed hawk family provided, and their unintentional urging to keep my wits about me and my radar fully functioning. Beauty is to be admired, but those times when the unexpected catches us off guard are the times when beauty will be the last thing on our mind.

Forever?

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I have an odd relationship with the word “forever.”

When I was in high school, my first relationship had all the hallmarks of young love. It was new, exciting, tumultuous and occasionally kept me up at nights. A few years in, I found myself in an especially trying time. We were both changing and growing, but I was the one still holding tight to the relationship I’d become very comfortable with and accustomed to. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but I remember bawling my eyes out before bed one night when — clear as day — “It’s supposed to last forever” came to mind. It was as though someone was kneeling next to my bed and talking to me. My mind was quieted, my heart was calmed and I fell asleep. I assumed I’d just received God’s confirmation that this would be the dude of all dudes for me, and that I should stop fretting. Not so much.

We eventually broke up, but it turns out it did last forever: he’s one of my best friends to this day. For this reason, “forever” is a funny word to me — funny in that it calls into question other seemingly permanent words.

When couples say their vows, does “till death do us part” literally mean death? Or could it perhaps mean the death of something? Perhaps the death of any desire to be married? Depressing to consider, but such is the way my brain works.

Back in February, I had a thyroid biopsy; twelve needles found their way into my neck over the course of about 30 minutes. When I’m going through a tough time (like my day o’ needles), I tend to get through situations by telling myself to relax, that I won’t die and that it “won’t last forever.” But what if the day comes when I know my end is seconds or minutes away? True, I can tell myself that XYZ won’t last forever, but the kicker is that when it stops, my last breath will be gone. Depressing again.

Some words aren’t what they seem, and forever is one of them. The only word I don’t really question is “infinity,” thanks to the lovely visual illustration of a sideways eight, resting lazily from here to eternity. How do you visually show “forever”? How do you visually show “always,” “never” and “promise”? Knowing that these words are often broken or proven wrong makes any illustration to try to prove their permanence seem pointless. All we can do is hope for the best if they meet our ears, and be ready for any variation of their meaning.

Tonight I am thankful for knowing that a sprinkling of reality is an essential pairing with any word that implies permanence, and an understanding of that word’s ability to change meaning over time is crucial to our sanity. I never would’ve guessed that “it’s supposed to last forever” would end up meaning what it did, but knowing how things turned out makes me a big believer in things happening for a reason, and exactly as they should…exactly as He thinks they should.

Here.

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Have you ever been paralyzed by fear, your own self-doubt or just not had any idea what’s holding you back?

You don’t know what the next step should be, how long it should take, and what the step after that would entail. Instead of simply starting, we think, we overanalyze, we procrastinate.

Where do we start? How do we begin?

The answer is here. Literally.

We start here. Right where we are. Where you are. Why not?

I’m a huge fan of maps — the old-fashioned paper variety. I grew up reading them all day long when my dad would plan our family road trip routes. I liked the birds-eye view of a state or a region, and I liked being aware of other cities, parks and landmarks that were nearby. GPS doesn’t give me that same knowledge so, by design, my car doesn’t have it. But when we’re directionally challenged in a professional sense, in ways of the heart or when it comes to simply shifting out of idle and moving forward again, neither a map nor GPS will help.

They say that life isn’t a dress rehearsal. It doesn’t come with directions, either. Marry the two, and you have a big ol’ demand for the here and now.

It’s hard to make every minute count, but knowing that tomorrow is never guaranteed makes it a bit easier to dial back the complacency and dial up the doing. Do something, do anything.

No step, no change. Even if your step ends up being wrong, you’ll know that course-correction is necessary — something that’s better than doing nothing at all.

For knowing that here is the best place to begin, and for knowing that I don’t have to have all the answers to take the first step — right here, right now — I am thankful.

The Purple Path

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They line the streets on my evening walk, and they’re nothing short of breathtaking. As the flowers fall, they float silently but deliberately until they meet the asphalt. At the second they come to rest, a faint, delicate pop is heard; it’s almost inaudible. I pass through patches of lavender snow, courtesy of the jacaranda trees that pave the way for me.

The only problem is the amount of bees that the fallen flowers attract — or, rather, the confused bees that they attract. For years, bees have been perishing in startling numbers. Nobody knows why, although parasites, multiple virus species, nutrition and pesticides are suspected.

I’m not sure if the bees are aware of their plight, but I imagine that they must harbor some bit of frustration at being relegated to airspace mere inches above the ground, living at the mercy of passersby, cars and birds. I wonder if they’re attracted to the purple carpet because they think they’ve struck the jackpot and perhaps found the holy grail which will restore bee colonies everywhere. Alas, they land on newly fallen blooms in vain, then fly to the next grounded bloom to try to pollinate it.

It is all for nothing.

There are things in life that we try so hard to make our own — relationships, jobs, certain endeavors — but sometimes they aren’t meant to be and, dare I say, we probably know it. But still we try, although our efforts are futile; we have all the signs we need, and we can practically see the end played out. Maybe we keep on because we’re creatures of habit, maybe it’s because we’re stubborn, maybe we think we can change someone. Whatever the reason, we try for things that occasionally aren’t meant to be ours. They’re the flower that’s beautiful, but which has no life to give us. At that point, it’s time to move on.

At the end of the day, it’s sometimes hard to remember that we’re worthy of life and those things from which we can glean energy, passion and motivation. But tonight along the purple path, I was reminded of my wasted efforts in some areas, the need to let the fallen stay where they are and of the growth and life that’s mine for the taking if I focus my energy on the right things.

The worthwhile things.

For this evening’s purple path, I am thankful.

The Ex-Ray

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They’re exes for a reason, but we also partnered up with them in the first place because there was something that we liked about them, right?

They might’ve been around for a few months or a few years, but no doubt they had an ability to leave a few parting gifts when they moved on. Maybe we didn’t know it at the time, but there’s perhaps a thing or two that we can thank them for these days. Enter: the ex-ray. Little rays of light that still warm our hearts when we think of the person we know isn’t — wasn’t — ultimately right for us, but which we can [hopefully] appreciate all the same.

I’ve gathered a few rays over the years, not that any of them make me want to reignite anything with past boyfriends. Here are a few.

Ex-Ray #1: Learning to not stress as much about running late. While an hour or more is absurd, a few minutes never hurt anyone.

Ex-Ray #2: Having an open mind when channel-surfing. It’s good to have — and see — a different perspective on something.

Ex-Ray #3: Appreciating the arts. Being involved in the arts.

Ex-Ray #4: Saying yes to spontaneity — even if that means heading out at 8:30 on a Friday night for some unplanned camping under the stars.

Ex-Ray #5: Eating outside more often. Enjoying the air. Feeling the breeze. Enjoying the sunshine or glow from the moon.

Ex-rays are a funny thing. They’re things that we may loathe at first, or that we may not even remember when we part. But while reflecting, like hindsight, can often provide a 20/20 sort of clarity, it also hopefully brings a bit more maturity and gratitude for the time and the good we had with someone else. And for those rays, I am thankful.

Patient and Kind

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By design, my life is fairly quiet.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s too quiet, but not because I feel I’m missing something. I wonder this because I’ll occasionally look inside my world from an outsider’s point of view and I’ll think that something needs to change.

This is a short-lived belief. I’m more than good with the way things are, as there is no shortage of peace.

The last time I went through this thought process was on Saturday. I was putting together some patio furniture I had delivered, and was doing so in the comfort of my family room. No music, no TV — just some ice water, some poorly written directions and some pre-packaged tools.

It was a warm day, but not stifling. I had the patio doors open, as well as a window for some cross-ventilation. Every now and then, a slight breeze would make its way inside at the moment I needed it the most. Aside from the clanking of an Allen wrench here and there, I was being productive in an otherwise silent environment. I was quite happy.

Then I heard it: angry yelling. The fight of all fights, or so it seemed. The neighborhood hadn’t heard anything like it in a long time, and in between his f-bombs and her screaming back, I found myself wondering what sort of apology could ever make up for the words those two were exchanging.

I know nothing about either individual, but I heard what was said. I heard threats and promises, and I don’t know whether they were empty or sincere. But I wondered whether a relationship of that nature would ever be one that either person would leave — could leave — or whether each was perhaps under the impression that it’s “just the way relationships go.” If the latter is true, then it’s a sad state of affairs. If the latter is true, I wonder what sort of example those people had set for them by family and friends over the years.

They got into separate cars and sped away in opposite directions, with all tires squealing and having their own say. They must’ve come back together long enough to find something else to argue about, because round two was heard on Sunday. If love is patient and love is kind, then this seemed to be anything but love.

I may wonder occasionally whether my life is too quiet, but deep down I know it’s not. The weekend, however, reminded me that sharing my life with someone else will require that he be an individual who adds to my peace, builds me up with kind words and not angry ones, and who knows the value of working through disagreements with a healthy dose of sanity and patience, versus avoiding the rough patches and leaving without any resolution. And I’m thankful that my parents have always been an example of patience and kindness in my own life.

What are the odds?

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I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I remember writing poetry from elementary school through college, and in my high school yearbook, my “dream profession” is a two-fer: psychologist and writer. I’m not a paid psychologist, but I do over-analyze myself on a daily basis. That counts, right?

Sunday night I was feeling a particularly painful longing — a yearning — for a profession other than the one that fills my workdays. It’s not a knock on my employer, because I love my job dearly. It’s just a statement of truth, a statement of fact. I want to be a writer. Only a writer.

I’ll always be a daughter, sister, friend, cousin, niece, granddaughter and the like, but I’m talking pure profession here. It’s what I want to put in the “occupation” field when I fill out surveys, or when someone on an airplane makes small talk and asks what I do for a living.

I write.

In reality, I do write for a “living.” I feed off its energy, and it keeps me doing day after day. I write, therefore I live. So that’s something, I do believe.

I set my alarm to wake up ridiculously early yesterday morning so I didn’t have to rush before an early morning client conference call. I found myself scrolling through Facebook from the cozy comfort of my bed for a few minutes when I noticed an author’s connection to a writers’ page that I hadn’t yet seen before.

I forgot about that page until I looked at Facebook during my lunch break when I came across it again.

Everything I was reading was tied to those feelings I had on Sunday evening.

Everything my eyes passed over was something that inspired a nod of the head, a pensive exhale or a quick copy and paste so that I could save the quote forever.

I believe that everything we see, hear and are exposed to on any level is something that we’re intended to encounter. We might choose to do nothing with it, or we can do something. How “something” is defined is unique to each of us, but I think of life as a very action-oriented existence. If we aren’t doing anything with what comes into our lives, what are we doing here? What are we waiting for?

Maybe some will become activists. Others might run for office. Then there are those of us who gravitate toward the written word, either by keyboard, pen, pencil or typewriter. It’s as noble a field as anything else, though some may argue otherwise. I choose to write because I take comfort in reading something that resonates with me. And if I can write something that resonates with others, that’s powerful. It may only be with one other person, but two people can be a force.

Today I am thankful for the confirmation and inspiration gleaned from stumbling across the random writers’ page on Facebook, and for all of its quotes and status updates being ones that spoke directly to my heart, my passion and my soul. I didn’t think I’d get that inspiration when I was down on myself Sunday night, but I did. What are the odds of that? It may not be an overnight career change, but I know that it’s one I’m dedicated to now more than ever.

Proof.

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As human beings, it seems like we’re always looking for proof.

Proof that someone loves us, as if to say that their words aren’t enough. Proof that we’re good enough, as though someone telling me that I can do whatever I put my mind to goes in one ear and out the other. Proof that something more than this life exists.

Without getting into the whole faith v. science thing, I’ll simply say that there clearly are passionate people on both sides of the fence. Some may even dabble in each.

I went to a Lutheran high school and was fairly involved in a music group there. We toured during spring break, and I had a small collection of buttons from each year I was part of the band. The buttons always had a cross on them, as well as the band’s name. They were proudly affixed to my backpack, along with anything else that was pin-worthy: my name badges from having worked at Disneyland, pins from places I’d visited — it was a backpack that was a gathering of postcards, if you will, from my life…places I’d seen, things that had an impact on me.

Even after high school graduation when I was heading off to college, I remember someone asking me about my backpack. “Don’t you want to take those buttons with the crosses off?” I was asked.

“Not really,” I replied. “If somebody doesn’t like it, they don’t have to look at it.”

I don’t know what has changed, but it’s been a number of years since I’ve felt comfortable displaying anything so meaningful. I think it’s a shame, frankly, and I hope to someday soon be less concerned about what others might think. There was a day when I used to not care, instead choosing to see it as a means of spreading a positive message instead of a solicitation for ridicule. It would be lovely to be back there.

Years ago, pre-high school and shortly after my grandfather passed away, I found myself thinking a lot about heaven. What does it look like? Does it take a while to get there, like an are-we-there-yet family roadtrip?

One evening just after his passing, I spent what seemed like hours crying while trying to fall asleep. I remember being very restless, very fitful, and wishing the minutes weren’t passing by so slowly. Before I knew it, I felt a hand touch my forehand. It was a gentle but deliberate touch, a touch that told me to calm down, be still, not worry about heaven and to not grieve for loved ones who have passed. I didn’t have long hair, so it’s not like I was mistaking some wayward locks for a hand. I wasn’t even partially asleep — I was awake. Fully awake. In a dark room. A hand had touched my forehead lovingly, and there was nobody in my room. My tears stopped, and I’ve never felt more peaceful in my life.

I don’t know if that night in my bedroom had anything to do with my confidence in displaying badges of my faith, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. If that’s what it takes for me to become more comfortable doing it again, I almost cringe to think what I’d have to experience in order to get back to that place. I remember my parents giving me a dime every Sunday morning to drop into the church offering basket. I was around 5 or 6 years old, and I treated each one like a prized possession, protecting it in my small, tightly clenched hand. But even those early memories of church and God and faith didn’t solidify anything with me until that night years later. I felt like I finally had proof.

Only I didn’t know I was looking for it.

It seems that proof can come in a variety of different forms, shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s the voice inside each of us that speaks up a bit more loudly than usual. Other times it’s something we see when we’re out driving, running errands or seemingly minding our own business — we take it as a sign, as proof of something that’s been weighing on our minds. It can be an outstretched hand that reminds us of the good in those around us, or a hand — out of the blue — that calms us and quiets our soul. Whatever proof we’re looking for, I’m confident and thankful that it’s out there waiting to be found. Sometimes it just takes listening a little more closely, patiently waiting for its arrival or being open to receiving it in a way that we might not be expecting.

The Worthy Voice

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Sometimes amid the chaos, the buzz and the constant rhythm of life, I forget that I have a voice. Have you ever forgotten yours?

We know what we want to say, but sometimes it only comes out when we’re talking with someone else about another situation or person.

“Did you really say that?” they ask.

“Well, no, but I wanted to,” you reply. The moment passed, and your thoughts were not shared when they mattered most. I don’t know why I feel so paralyzed at times, but I do. It could be nothing more than a simple comment that comes to mind, but I sometimes can’t get it to come out. Perhaps it’s shy.

Other times, we might intentionally forget about our voice. We might think that there are only two options: say what’s on our mind and risk alienating or offending someone, or let it go. When we do the latter, we silence the harshness before it can materialize and, once again, the moment is gone. The middle ground, of course, is to find a tactful way of saying something. Sometimes I remember to do this, sometimes I don’t. I hate when I don’t.

Then there are the instances where we may think we have no right — or that it’s pointless — to speak.

It’s been too long, so why now?

It’s not my place to say; I’d be butting in.

This is my lot in life, so I’ll just suck it up and stay silent.

Nobody will care, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.

I can’t make a difference on my own, so what’s the use?

I don’t stand a chance.

I’ll be embarrassed.

I don’t want to let my guard down.

I don’t want to hear their response.

I don’t want to be rejected.

What’s funny is that most of the time we’re bracing ourselves for, well, ourselves. In those times when we say what we mean with the heart, passion and voice that we’re so fortunate to have, we realize that it wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, it might even be a bit liberating — and you kind of can’t wait to do it again. In a second, all the voices in our head are quieted, and the one voice that matters was finally heard…by our own ears, as well as those of the person to whom you cared enough about to let it be heard. When it happens — when the truth and clarity is on the table — isn’t it a wonderful feeling?

Tonight I am thankful for my voice — one that could, frankly, stand to be used a bit more. I’m thankful for knowing that I’m sometimes my own worst enemy, and that the people who are worthy of being in our lives are the ones who will let us say what’s on our minds — without blame, without ridicule and without judgment, but with a welcome carpet of warmth and acceptance that our voices all deserve to receive.

Take the Plunge

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about taking the plunge. Not necessarily in the marital sense, but in the sense of doing anything big.

Anything life-changing.

Anything that has the potential to completely redefine the meaning of normal.

Normal changes when we do something out of the ordinary. Normal is safe, but branching out is necessary — for me, anyway. While it’s humanly possible to never turn your own world upside down and instead choose to stay comfortably holed up in a bubble, I’ve tried it. It’s a bit stifling, and it makes me fidgety. I might try to ignore a dream that needs chasing down or put off pulling the trigger on something that I’ve hemmed and hawed over for months, maybe even years, but I know it’s futile. Even if I were to let nervousness get in the way, stand firm and retreat back into the safety of the bubble, I’d be unhappy. Perhaps not at first, but it would eat at me.

I’d wonder what if, why not, and think about all the maybes. I’d know that the door would be all but shut on great things that could’ve been, great things that might’ve been uncomfortable at first but which could’ve made me better and been the life-changer that I was supposed to experience…unless I push that door back open.

Tonight I am thankful for knowing that what’s easiest isn’t always best, and what’s most rewarding might require going out on a limb and taking a chance.