The Calling

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I came across a video today in which Louise Hay, best-selling author and founder of Hay House, spoke about about her experiences, journey in life and publishing path.

If you’re willing to change your thinking, you can change your life. She’d heard this before, but it finally resonated with her. “That little penny dropping was a big deal,” she said. Yes, a big deal, indeed.

It’s funny when you hear things over and over in life, then one day you hear them in a new light. It’s as though the words have new meaning, or perhaps more appropriately, they’re suddenly relevant to your job, your marriage, your world, your calling.

Calling. It’s a funny word, isn’t it? I picture a phone ringing, with someone from another world speaking one word into it:

“Parent.”

“Teach.”

“Wife.”

“Travel.”

“Husband.”

“Write.”

We all have a calling, whether or not we realize it. On the surface, some callings may seem more grandiose, more worthy of the spotlight. But that doesn’t mean those in our life are less affected by our efforts. They just need to be efforts that count, and the effect on others needs to be positive.

“You’re crazy — you’ll never sell this thing.” That’s what someone told Louise when she printed 5,000 copies of her first “book” — a book she wasn’t aware she was even writing at the time. A list she was working on just ended up turning into something more — something that it was supposed to be…destined to be. And therein was her calling.

Callings aren’t always accepted by the masses. Some may mock, words may not always be kind. Support won’t always flow freely, and the questions may be endless. But a calling is a calling is a calling, so long as our ears are always listening for it.

“Two years later, I sold the last of the 5,000.”

You’ll achieve what others thought to be impossible when your calling is given room to grow, mature and when it’s given the time and dedication necessary to be more than just a hobby, more than just a time-filler. By virtue of the word itself, your calling allows you to call others into your world — whether it’s a world filled by the written word, or a world filled with patient lessons taught lovingly to children; a world of gently winding roads you’ve found as a reward for heeding the call to travel, or a world where little eyes are illuminated with understanding as you educate, becoming one with a piece of chalk and a blackboard.

“When life calls us, that’s when we have to answer.” She said that people would ask her how she managed to do everything she did. Her answer? She answered the telephone, opened the mail and did what was in front of her. And then life would give her something else to do, and then something else. As my mom would say, she put one foot in front of the other, and she repeated. Hourly. Daily. Yearly.

“You never know where life is going to take your work.” So very true. And how very exciting.

Today I am thankful for coming across the video where Louise Hay’s words not only rang true, but inspired a new level of dedication within.

Relax.

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You know those days where everything is going non-stop and, before you know it, you look at the clock and you realize you’ve been in the office for 12.5 hours? All of the project-juggling seems to have accelerated time and you can’t remember the last time you drank something, ate something or had just a few moments to mindlessly stare out the window.

That was my day. My brain is fried.

F.

R.

I.

E.

D.

While jam-packed, the most concerning thing about it was wondering if I’d get home and find cars parked in front of the house (which means my trash barrels would be denied), or whether my new adopted kitty had decided to think outside the box…if you get my drift.

Upon pulling onto my street, I saw that my barrels did, in fact, have room curbside. Score. (It’s the little things.)

When I walked into the house, I was so tired I felt like I had a strong buzz going on. I was woozy, wobbly and light-headed, not unlike the way you imagine a newborn giraffe might feel…a giraffe with a penchant for vino. I wondered how I’d just driven home. Hm. Curious.

When I found le kitten, he had behaved all day and was waiting for me with a tiny half purr, half high-pitched meow.

My dinner of champions (read: egg whites) left much to be desired, but I was starting to feel like a human being again.

I sat down on the carpet to blog via app and the little furball crawled up into my lap; I had no idea until this evening that he was a lap cat. His eyes shut and he was immediately calm.

They say you shouldn’t let life pass you by, and life practically did today. I saw that it was raining at one point, but didn’t get a chance to enjoy the gray beauty. I saw the clouds begin to break late in the afternoon, giving way to rays of sunlight; I didn’t get more than three seconds to admire the heavenly scene before me.

Aside from my morning coffee, the most calming part of my day was when my lap became a warm bed for a kitten, even if only for a few moments. He reminded me about the importance of finding a little place each day — or as often as possible — where you can feel safe, relaxed and where you can enjoy simply being.

Tonight I am thankful for the lesson I was reminded of by none other than my kitten. The other lesson he’s currently reminding me of? To have a ball — preferably one with jingly bells inside. Oy.

After a long day, I think it’s going to be a long night.

Sigh. Night, y’all.

A World of Billions

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I had a strange moment of pseudo-loneliness tonight.

Today was Cinco de Mayo, something I completely forgot about until I was driving home from the store this evening.

I went into work this afternoon, oblivious to the fact that tequila and margaritas were likely in abundance everywhere around me; my snooze-worthy Starbucks iced coffee kept me company while I toiled in the office. I left, and even when I thought about having tacos for dinner, things still weren’t clicking.

My groceries were snug and safe in my trunk. Low clouds hung in the sky and a weird glow was visible in the distance. The night air was cool, a welcome departure from our prematurely toasty first few days of May.

I wasn’t sure where the glow was coming from exactly. It seemed too close to be coming from Disneyland, and then it hit me: it was the carnival that had moved into a local park for the weekend. Celebrations were underway.

Those fly-by-night operations have always freaked me out, but others don’t seem to be bothered by them — as evidenced by the long lines and throngs of people milling about, eating greasy festival food and clinging to balloons whose life will end sometime tomorrow when their helium loses its potency. This particular park has long been the site of annual Cinco de Mayo celebrations and, sadly, many stabbings, a shooting or two and a number of other assaults over the years. I have never been; the police presence and tales from prior events are enough to keep me away.

Something about the song on the radio — I can’t even tell you what I was listening to now — instantly brought me down a bit as I passed the park; it was one of those surreal, straight out of a movie scenes where things happened in slow motion; time practically stood still, and all was quiet. I looked at the people in the park, at the ferris wheel, at the rhythmic blinking of orange, yellow, white and red lights; they were mesmerizing, yet numbing.

In a world of billions of people, many of which were celebrating with others, there I was — toting my weekly bundle of flowers, hearts of romaine, old-fashioned oats and light blue cheese dressing home.

Solo.

One.

Just moi.

Nobody except the people driving next to me, in front of me and behind me knew where I was. And although aware of my presence — or at least my car’s — they didn’t know me. Not that I’m “someone,” but the fact that we were all just perfect strangers was underscored.

In a world of billions, nobody was calling.

In a world of billions, nobody was expecting me at home.

In a world of billions, nobody was hoping I’d show up and join them at the park or at a bar.

Don’t get me wrong — these things are fine by me. I am, unfortunately, easily exhausted by social settings and usually don’t make a habit of seeking them out. People tend to think I’m quiet anyway, even though I can be having a perfectly good time.

I was glad that I’d had a productive day, and was comforted by the fact that I wouldn’t have a hangover of any sort to deal with tomorrow. But tonight in the suburbs, driving home from the store with partying going on everywhere made me feel a little like a boat adrift at sea: slightly directionless and hyper-aware of how vast the world is.

Out of nowhere, a question came to mind: “Is this all there is?”

I slowed as some carnival-goers crossed the street in front of me. Some parents grasped their kids’ hands, while others carried the smaller ones in their arms or on their shoulders. I smiled to myself.

No, it’s not all there is. But I realized that trying to chart a course is sometimes difficult to do alone. A good navigator and someone to help with the oars can go a long way in the great wide open.

One person is just one, but two can be a force.

Tonight I am thankful for the people in my life who make me stronger when I’m with them, who provide quality over quantity when it comes to friendship, and who made me appreciate their contributions to my life even though I wasn’t with any of them at that moment in time. But knowing that I can call on them at any hour of the day is worth everything.

The Outlet

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Outlets are a funny thing in that you have to put something in before you get anything out.

Whether you’re plugging in a radio, vacuum, mixer, coffee maker — everything needs a source to draw from in order to work.

On my way into the office a few days ago, I was thinking about how lucky I am to have an outlet — a writing outlet, in this case. Not everyone has time for one, and if there is time, not everyone knows what they’d want to do; I’ve been there. It’s a very depleting feeling.

I’m not saying this blog is necessarily going to win any awards, but I adore it. I look forward to sitting down and writing at the end of each day the same way I look forward to my first cup of coffee each morning. It’s an outlet, but only because I put in the time on a daily basis to make it one. If this was a once or few-times-a-year thing, it would be a diversion, a brief time-filler. Nothing more.

For me, I demand much of my outlets. Each of them needs to calm, inspire, excite, invigorate, spark new ideas and make me think. If it doesn’t, the dreaded void rears its ugly head; something is left unfulfilled, and my outlet hasn’t done its job. This blog has yet to fail me on any of those levels. Even the most boring or pointless of daily writings still makes me think and still inspires me to write better next time — although its message usually (strangely?) resonates with at least one person…and that’s exciting.

Music does the same thing this blog does: it keeps me coming back for more because it delivers on its demands each and every time. Although I’ve shelved one keyboard for another and the metronome for a mouse lately, I’ve been feeling the pull to get back to my musical roots. And when an outlet calls, I owe it my attention.

Tonight I an thankful for the outlets in my life and for my ability to spend time with them, care for them and develop them. It’s a two-way street, and for as much as they give me, I am determined to give them my energy, my focus.

Here’s to exploring our outlets, creating and inspiring across all our days.

A Wonderful World

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Sometimes it only takes a simple song to remind us of all the good the world has to offer. It really is a wonderful world, but sometimes it’s so hard to see.

More often than not, I feel discouraged when I look around. How can people do the things they do, say the things they say — how can they essentially take the humanity out of humanity? Why can’t we live and let live, and love our neighbors as ourselves?

I don’t know if looking around at the world we live in is a function of age, driven by the media, a byproduct of maturity, or maybe a little bit of each.

Another song tells us to imagine — imagine no heaven, no hell, only sky above us. No countries, nothing to kill or die for, no religion, just people living peacefully.

If there was never an “Imagine,” I suspect someone would have eventually penned a similar song. Its sentiment seems to be a common reflection among generations, across the ages.

It, and others like it, may have been the source of inspirational sayings that we “like,” print out, post in our offices, our cubicles, that we recite in our heads and buy magnets of for our refrigerators. Dream big. Live, love, laugh. Dance like nobody is watching. Believe. Hope. Wish upon a star.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Thank God for that.

Tonight I am thankful for both songs. Both ring more true than I ever manage to remember — that is, until I hear them, and they’re a good reminder of people who felt the same way we probably all do: saddened at the state of the world, but at the same time hopeful the good and the beautiful will continue to be visible.

Find the good, people. Find it no matter what.

Really, people?

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I started off my day at the dentist. My recent crown, the first-ever dental issue of any kind that I’ve endured, was being quirky. It was as though my previously cracked-by-an-almond tooth would’ve been preferable to the “fix,” which in reality hadn’t fixed anything.

Scrambled eggs hurt it. Yogurt hurts it. Water hurts it.

“I’m just wondering if this is normal,” I said to my dentist. His bedside manner seemed off, for some reason.

“Well,” he said, “it could be that you need a root canal.”

I freaked. To go from having nary a cavity to hearing the words “root canal” in reference to my mouth was not the makings of a good morning. “If it gets worse,” he said, “just let me know. I’ll refer you, because I don’t do them here.”

“What do you mean by worse? What constitutes ‘worse’?” I asked. I had no point of reference for this stuff, and he should’ve known that. After all, I’d been going to the guy practically since I was in the womb.

He said that if it kept me up at night, I’d likely need one. I asked how long I’d need to wait before it might, in fact, “keep me up at night,” and he became cranky.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, what would you do?” I asked him.

“I’d have a root canal.”

Really? Just like that? Seems hasty, if you ask me. I was ready to snatch my decades-long file from the lady at the front desk and find a new dentist pronto, but motored into work instead — venting on the phone the whole way.

On my way down Beach Boulevard, I passed an old lady going 20 mph — when the speed limit along that stretch was 45. I went around her, and she practically took a nap on her horn. She didn’t like being passed, apparently, or felt that I was a young whippersnapper who was whippersnappering her way a bit too speedily down a main thoroughfare. Her horn, long and steady, blared at me. I waved as I went around. I’m not sure why.

When I arrived at our office complex’s parking deck, I got on at five and took the elevator down; another woman got on at three. In a 5′ x 6′ elevator, the woman — a heavy breather — entered, stood approximately 2.5 inches from me, and didn’t move an inch. I took the passive aggressive I’m-going-to-look-at-you-out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye-while-I-slooooooowly-scoot-away-from-you-and-stand-at-a-normal-distance approach. She wasn’t amused.

She exited the elevator first, then walked i n c r e d i b l y   s l o w l y once she was on the main walkway. I went around her, and she sped up.

Really, what’s with people? Why such a funky Thursday?

I have no idea. All I keep going back to is that perhaps everything saved me from something. Maybe my dentist’s strangeness and my last-minute appointment kept me from being in the middle of an accident — maybe even the one that I saw on my way to work. Maybe the old lady on Beach Boulevard was keeping me at a safe distance from something that might’ve happened just ahead. Perhaps the creep-tastic woman on the elevator had gotten my radar up, and I was on a higher alert for strangers’ shenanigans than I would’ve been had she not been in my personal space.

Whatever the reason — even if it was all just fodder for Thanky — I am thankful for everything. At the very least, it has provided a good laugh in hindsight.

What does it say?

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Do you ever wonder what certain things say about you?

I’d rather be a parent to an animal or two than a human being. I’m not sure if this means I just haven’t yet found “the one,” whether it’s foreshadowing or something in between. Perhaps someday I’ll hoard animals? Let’s hope not.

I’m terrible at dating. For one, I don’t really have a desire to do it anymore. The last person I went out with enjoyed dressing like a pirate, I found out on the fourth date. Done.

I tell myself I’ll try the online thing, but I always bow out before my time is up. Always. Case in point last month: I signed up and paid for six months, only to hide my profile three days later because I didn’t have the stomach or energy to get back on the horse again. Maybe it says I’m a lost cause, or maybe this is more foreshadowing: perhaps I’ll show up on the doorstep of a convent…? Nah, they wouldn’t have me.

I make a beeline to my pajamas most nights and like to turn in early, though I rarely succeed at the latter. I see nothing wrong with having a single, solitary piece of celery with peanut butter for dinner. Or cheese with a smear of fig butter. Or maybe just a glass of wine. I like that my nights are simple, quiet and that the most stress at home is whether I’ve given the cat enough attention to keep him from becoming anti-social, whether I have clean unmentionables and whether I’ve sorted my recyclables properly. Do these things mean I’m old? Hopefully it just means I’m an old soul in some respect, because 36 doesn’t feel old.

Sometimes I wonder why my life is seemingly so quiet. Others seem to live lives with far more excitement. I’m not complaining, I just wonder about it. While I don’t care what anyone else thinks about my peaceful world, I do wonder what they see from the outside.

From my vantage point, I can’t help but wonder: what’s coming? Is something on its way? Is this the calm before the storm? I’m sure it’s all for a reason.

Maybe it’s so that I’ll have a bit of personal bandwidth available to help out a friend or family member.

Maybe it’s so that I can work on an idea and see where it goes. They say that you should devote yourself to an idea, struggle on it and overcome your fears of it. None of that would be possible if there wasn’t bandwidth.

Maybe I have bandwidth simply because I had none for so many years. Working 12 to 15-hour days in advertising used to be the norm for me; I never questioned it. Isn’t that what people do, after all? People who want to skyrocket up the corporate ladder? Turns out I didn’t want to climb any ladder other than the one that allowed me to reach a dream or two.

And consistently working 12-hour days wasn’t one of my dreams.

I have time for them these days. Time for my dreams of music, writing, thinking and exploring — with a little bit of travel here and there. Time for time off, time to enjoy things. Time that wouldn’t exist if I had a family or child, a draining job or corporate ladder in my rear view mirror…a ladder that I’d climbed but then sat at the top of and wondered, “Now what?”

I’ve never wanted to run a company or be anything at the “chief” level. And I’m not. What does that say about me?

I like to think that it says that I know myself, but I know that I have so much more to learn than I can even begin to realize. I know more than I did five years ago, though, and certainly more than I knew ten years ago.

It doesn’t matter what any part of your life says to anyone else so long as you’re happy, that you’re going where you want to go and that you’re content with what you have. Time is fleeting, but we have our choices forever. Choose good, choose to let the bad go and choose to be at peace with your decisions.

Tonight I am thankful for my journey, for knowing myself a little more with each passing day, month and year, and for finally having the time that I never had before. Here’s to making the most of it.

The Mighty

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It had been a while. A long while, actually.

The last time I passed you, you were cold. Tall. Lean. You looked like you’d seen better days. In fact, I remembered those days — I saw them, too. They seemed like they were so long ago.

I can’t say for sure whether my not coming around was intentional or a byproduct of something deeper. I was struggling with some things emotionally, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been a bit depressed and out of sorts over them. I didn’t know you were what I needed, but when I saw you it made me realize how far I’d come. Just like you.

I was midway through my walk — a walk I’d been neglecting in order to tend to matters of the heart and to lick my wounds — when you came into view.

You looked happy.

Complete.

Refreshed.

In a way, I felt the same. Isn’t it funny what a season can bring?

One of my favorite trees along my walk isn’t anything special, but it does keep me on my toes. During the winter, I’ll get a bony, narrow branch in the eye if I’m not careful. Spring has given it new life, as last night’s mileage-logging brought me face to face with an old friend. He stood proud, full of greenery I hadn’t seen for months.

I was shocked at how a relatively short amount of time had changed things — for him, and for me. We both had a new look, a little more to give, and we’d both said goodbye to the cold and the empty. And at the end of the day, isn’t positive change all we can ask for?

Tonight I am thankful for the strong yet unassuming tree along my route. It provided a much needed reminder that we can endure far more than we think, even if if stretches us to our limits.

We are mighty.

Seasons change, renewal will come, the sun will continue to shine and leaves will fill our lives again, beautifying our world.

The Sparrow’s Prayer

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I saw it at the last possible second, and couldn’t tell whether it was a piece of trash getting caught up among speeding cars, or something else.

It was something else.

That “something else” was a tiny sparrow. While they’re known for quick, exact movements, the idea of a sparrow trying to fly across the street at too low of an altitude struck me as odd. Perhaps it was a young one, recently born into a world of chaos and unsure of its path.

I’d been watching the car ahead of me for a mile or so. Inside, children were fighting; their tiny arms were reaching towards the other, hitting, while they rode in the backseat. The adult who was driving the car would periodically turn around and insert a large, violent hand into the equation. The children would quiet, then do something to anger the driver, resulting in more fury.

The sparrow came into my line of vision at the most violent point of the childrens’ car ride. I’d say it was stunned, but it was still flapping its wings and trying its hardest to regain control. I jerked my wheel ever so slightly to the left when I saw it coming towards the right front-end of my car. I know I avoided it, because I saw it tumbling about when I looked in my rear-view mirror. I wanted to turn around and somehow help it, but it was rush hour; multiple lanes of traffic heading in either direction made it nearly impossible.

When I was little, I went to a Lutheran elementary school for a few years. When our dog died, I asked my teacher if it would go to heaven. She looked at me, clearly shocked that I would be stupid enough to ask such a question. Had they not taught me anything? A series of blinks met my hopeful gaze.

“Well, no — of course not. Animals don’t have souls,” she said. And with her statement, she was finished with my question. My eyes welled up. I was crushed.

I told my parents, and my mom was furious. Couldn’t she have humored me, played along and treated my question similar to the way adults the world over handle Santa queries? Apparently not.

Around that same age, I remember driving with my parents through the desert at night; it was a more tolerable time to cross such an expanse. Out of the darkness, a rabbit darted across the highway. Tried to, that is. He found the wheels of our car, and all I heard was a thump-thump as we ran over him. I sobbed for miles in the backseat; my parents tried to console me, telling me that it probably never felt a thing and that it’s impossible to control things like that.

“Things like that.” Yes, I understood. But this evening’s sparrow was suffering a different fate — one that was more drawn out, more tumultuous, more distressing.

The car with the children and angry driver turned onto another street; I held my breath for the children, and also held it for the small bird. Did it ever regain control and flitter away, hopefully into the safety of a nearby bush? Did another driver manage to be in a better position to help? Did anyone else even bother to have these thoughts about a sparrow?

Disregarding my teacher’s words in my head, I said a prayer for the sparrow. I asked for peace and comfort in a world that seems to accommodate anything but. I asked for a strong yet gentle hand to lead it to safety, but if that wasn’t possible, I asked for it to have a sense of calm in its final moments. It’s a prayer that can also be applied to those children, and it is a prayer that can be applied to us every day of our lives.

Despite not knowing whether the sparrow is alive among us or flying happily in an eternal sky, I am thankful for a new prayer and for the memory of the tiny bird that I saw for only a few seconds. We might be distracted by the violence, the unbelievable events or the sheer human-to-human brutality around us, but there’s usually something just outside our direct line of vision that needs help, a shoulder to cry on or can lead us down a path that can soften our hearts.

For the sparrows in all of our lives, I am grateful.

Seek the Egg

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In three days’ time, I covered five airports, gave myself two heel blisters, broke a toenail, two fingernails, managed to consume the equivalent of two bottles of wine and accidentally ran over a fellow traveler’s foot with my wheeled, eager to off-road carry-on bag. Oops.

I’m also not sure how it happened, but in the last two years, I’ve gone from having a knack for drawing the seat next to a crying baby to one where I now consistently sit next to sick people or ones who insist on eating eggs. You name it, they’re chowing down on it: egg white burritos, hard boiled eggs, homemade egg salad sandwiches brought from home — basically anything that smells like a giant toot. I can’t think of anything I’d rather smell in an enclosed area, can you?

I think it’s karma.

I went through a phase where I’d take eggs to work, peel them around 10am, discard the yolks and keep the egg whites for some mid-morning fuel. I’d escort them proudly back to my office and snack while working, always pleased that nobody bothered me.

One day I found out why.

“Sweetjezuz!” my coworker said. “It DOES reek in here!”

He’d walked in — or tried to, rather — and my pile of egg whites smacked him in the face. He retreated.

I’ve not eaten anything eggy in my office since that day; I’m confident others are pleased with this decision.

Since my latest aircraft seating streak began, I’ve never been sure what I’d rather have next to me: a sick person, or a stink bomb. Tonight, in the absence of eggs, I finally know.

They’re all around me. Two men in the row ahead, as well as one behind, have loud, phlegm-laden coughs. The sleeper to my left, pre-doze, sneezed four times before popping some cold meds and catching some shut-eye. (As an aside, she also has stinky feet, evidenced by the odor wafting up from her bare hooves from which she peeled away both shoes and socks to get comfy.)

Oh, how I wish the smell of a faux-toot could fill my nostrils right about now, instead of the germs that are likely infiltrating my person.

Answers of all kinds come at the strangest times. Sometimes the questions are serious, other times not. Sometimes the answer is life-changing, other times it simply serves to help inform the next situation you find yourself in.

Or the next flight you find yourself on.

I now know to seek the egg when possible, and will gladly ask others to swap seats with me from here forward; I’m set on having a nose for health. If you’re on a plane where someone snatches the PA system mic from the flight attendant and asks all egg eaters to identify themselves, that’s me. Say hello.

Tonight, for the egg vs. sickness answer which came to me 36,000 feet in the air, I am thankful. I’ll be even more thrilled if I manage to dodge the illness bullet, but until I know for sure which way things will go, I will hope that the pungent foot stink next to me is perhaps powerful enough to kill any cold or flu germs in the vicinity.