The Wrong and Right

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Leave it to me, my brother and his wife to have a deep discussion on Christmas Eve. Really, there’s no better time for it.

Wine is open, conversation is flowing, and memories are being recalled. We landed upon a topic that is true for any area of our life.

“Good students learn from their mistakes. Great students learn from the mistakes of others,” my brother said.

We’d been discussing the yin and the yang of life — the to and the fro, the good and the bad, the wrong and the right — basically the truth that whatever was wrong with one person was made right by another whether they knew it or not…though often times they did — subconsiously.

If one mother had shortcomings, their offspring made up for it by doing the exact opposite with their own children. Whenever we saw a deficiency in one person, we tried our damndest to not be sucked into it ourselves.

Memory after memory was dusted off and discussed, and the truth that we as human beings didn’t want to stumble into the same ditch that others had stumbled into came up time and time again. When one is cold, another tries to be warm. When one is narissistic, another tries to be selfless. When one is shut off, another is embracing.

Without the wrong, we’d never be able to turn it on its head to get to the right. Without the wrong, we’d not be able to see where we could improve upon the course of lives for generations to come. We’ll have our own faults in time, but tonight I am thankful for those which we see that we can put a positive spin upon. Some may see our own faults and try to turn them around, but for now I’m proud to be able to flip on its head that which has weighed another down for so long.

Here’s to turning the negative into a positive and for making a right out of a wrong.

What good shall I do this day?

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“A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it.” -Don DeLillo

Do you do it? I do.

I’m at my computer when I realize that I’m thirsty. A walk to the kitchen turns my attention to my feet. They’re cold. Time for socks. As I pull on my socks I see carelessly strewn pajamas on the floor, then my eyes fall upon an unintentional collection of hair ties that I’ve removed just before sleeping. They’re in a small pile on the carpet, next to my bed. (So that’s where they all went.) I gather the PJs and take them to the washer, return for the hair ties and deposit them on the bathroom counter. Back to the computer…until I realize I’m still thirsty. My feet are also still cold, though I tell myself to be patient and let the socks work their magic.

In front of the fridge, my red seedless grapes look divine. I snack — and, yes, I continue to thirst. Time to nip this in the bud already. Tea? Not in the mood. Water? Had enough for the day. My cat wanders in. He’s hungry, not to mention pretending to be oblivious to the buffet of options he just passed by. I swear he can hear the fridge door open from a mile away, the same way our dogs would come running at the sound of a leash being fetched, and the way they’d salivate when the word “walk” was uttered.

Out of the cabinet come his treats. He’s ravenous for them, and munches away happily. Back into the cabinet they go. I still haven’t figured out my beverage. Maybe I really don’t need one. I shuffle back to the computer.

My space is clear. It took a while for things to become this way. A couple years of the office being nothing more than a catch-all room ended during the summer, and the space I craved — quiet, calm and dark, save for a dim light in the corner behind me — was finally here. I can’t say I’ve made the best use of it, although I don’t know what I’d consider “making the best use of it” to be.

Sometimes the best use of something — an object, a ritual, a schedule — simply leads to that which fulfills a part of us. If the object is scripture, reading it may quench your spiritual thirst. If it’s a ritual, sticking to it may simply fulfill our desire to not stray too far outside the lines. If it’s a writing space, going to it on a daily basis is a grounding, humbling experience; no matter what makes its way into a post, the need to do this crazy writing thing every day has been fulfilled — for better or for worse. Sometimes it’s good to be kept on the straight and narrow.

Benjamin Franklin’s daily routine, rigid though it was, was outlined down to the hour. He awoke around 5am, and was back in bed by 10pm — not unlike my day, although everything in between is vastly different. In the morning, he asked himself, “What good shall I do this day?” At the end of the day, he’d follow up: “What good have I done today?” I’m not sure how long he stuck with this hourly road map, but that’s not the point. It was crafted with good intention. And if every hour has good intention behind it, one would suspect that the nightly question wouldn’t be that difficult to answer. And that’s a good thing.

Tonight I am thankful for to-do lists, as well as for the myriad ways we find to squander our productivity and solitude on our way to checking off our tasks. While our lists may not be fully complete — while we might’ve been sidetracked and we may only have begun one or two items throughout the course of the day, we can proudly say we’re no longer at the starting line. We’ve taken a step, and that can lead to a lot of wonderful things.

That — that is the good we shall do on this day.

The Upside to Assumption

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It was bad enough that I was in one of my least favorite places on the planet, but the tech at my doctor’s office couldn’t resist going the extra mile.

“So, how old are your kids?” she asked.

In the few moments we’d been in the same airspace, I’d said nothing about kids or family. Had she been a bit more observant, she’d have noticed I wasn’t wearing a ring — something which might‘ve hinted at any existence of a family that I’d helped create, although rings aren’t necessarily an indicator of such things these days. Perhaps this is why she assumed.

You know what they say about those who assume.

Without hesitation, I responded with, “I don’t have kids. Why do you ask?”

I could have left it at “I don’t have kids” which would’ve punted the awkwardness back her way quickly enough, but I chose to go deeper with the “why do you ask” part, just for fun. Naturally, she didn’t answer the question.

“Oh, um…I’m sorry,” was all she said.

In truth, her question didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. Her assumption is what was annoying, though I understand that many of our assumptions are based on what we’ve come to know as the norm. I had the same assumptions about myself 15, 20 years ago.

The other day, I asked someone if she had any plans for the holidays. She said no, then asked if I’d be celebrating with my family, or with my husband’s.

Did I miss something? When did I get married? Again, assumption — for one reason or another.

I’m aware that the marriage-less, child-free path that I’m currently on isn’t the norm, but it’s hardly the rarity that it used to be. Comically, I came across a write-up just tonight about a book that deals with the sans-kiddos topic.

Henriette Mantel’s introduction to No Kidding: Women Writers on Bypassing Parenthood recalls a memory from her earlier years that made me laugh out loud.

“Years ago, I remember watching The Tonight Show with Joan Rivers, who was the guest host. Gloria Steinem, who was about forty years old at the time, was her guest. In her usual obnoxious way, Joan said to Gloria, “You know, my daughter has been the biggest joy in my life and I can’t imagine not having her. Don’t you regret not having children?” Gloria Steinem didn’t miss a beat. She answered, “Well, Joan, if every woman had a child there wouldn’t be anybody here to tell you what it’s like not to have one.” Joan looked at her like that thought had honestly never crossed her mind.”

The article also calls out another writer’s recollection of when her eight-year-old niece asked whether writer Andrea Carla Michaels — then nearing forty — was married.

“Aunt Andrea, are you married?” I said, “No, are you married?!” She seemed alarmed and asked, “Why would I be married?!” and I said to her, “Well, why would I be married?” She folded her arms and said, “You’re weird.” “Good weird or bad weird?” She grumbled that she hadn’t decided yet. But it was already so clear to her at eight that people were married and had kids, and if you didn’t, you were “weird.” It’s amazing how young those attitudes start. This “chat” with my niece didn’t prepare me for the now-daily shock of being mistaken for someone’s mother. I overheard my other ten-year-old niece Alexa patiently explaining things to her six-year-old brother, who was piecing together family relationships. He asked who I was the mother of. Alexa dramatically turned to Ricky and exclaimed, “Aunt Andrea is the mother to no one.”

I’m no stranger to weirdness — which is good, because that’s exactly what some people think of us unmarried gals. It’s not necessarily bad — it’s just weird.

Once upon a time, I sat next to a woman on an airplane, and she called me weird — weird at the ripe old age of 11. She was a nut herself, tossing her hair and clutching a script in her hands that never had a page flipped — yet which she was stuck on for most of the flight. I’d been dubbed “weird” because I had an aisle seat and kept glancing out the window whenever Nutjob’s daughter would open it. Nutjob didn’t want the window shade open, and kept slamming it shut. When I finally asked if she’d mind opening it as we were getting ready to land, I was met with, “Yes, I would mind, and I’ll tell you why. I think you’re weird.” Nutjob didn’t realize my parents were a few rows up, so I promptly tattled and let Mama Bear handle things as we exited the plane.

To be fair, I also know many happily-paired-up ladies who don’t find anything weird about those of us without husband or offspring. I’d venture to say they’re the “live and let live” type, versus the type to quickly assume.

Regardless of whether we’re paired up or not — or have kids or not, assumptions can run rampant when it comes to these topics. But there’s an upside: they teach us a lot about where someone else might be coming from, about other perspectives, about the status quo, about norms — even about what people think of us. I like to think that something as silly as an assumption can be a good thing, so long as our takeaway is anything but anger toward the other person. Maybe we’ll find patience or understanding when we’re met with an assumption, or maybe we’ll just laugh it off. Maybe we’ll mull it over after the fact when we have time to think and come to a conclusion that didn’t present itself at the time said assumption was delivered. Whatever our response, there’s a learning tucked in there somewhere, so be on the lookout. Yes, people who assume really can make an ass out of you and me when we’re short-sighted, or they can do exactly the opposite in the wake of reflection or dialogue.

Here’s to the good that assumptions can bring.

Quest Physics

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“In the end, I’ve come to believe in something I call “The Physics of the Quest.” A force in nature governed by laws as real as the laws of gravity. The rule of Quest Physics goes something like this: If you’re brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting, which can be anything from your house to bitter, old resentments, and set out on a truth-seeking journey — either externally or internally — and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue…and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher and if you’re prepared, most of all, to face and forgive some very difficult realities about yourself, then the truth will not be withheld from you.”

That’s a quote from Eat Pray Love and, interestingly, tonight is the first time I’ve really heard it. It’s the first time it’s really resonated within me.

Many are the weekends where I’m at home, as though there’s a magnetic pull between the casa and my person — not that I mind. It’s calm here. It’s peaceful. I like it. Why venture out? Inevitably, during the times when I’ve wandered for the sake of wandering or photographed towns I haven’t been to for a while, I come across something, someone or someplace that gives back. I’ll stop off for a coffee and overhear a conversation which makes me think, and in thinking I dust off a belief I didn’t know I had.

I’ll meander down a sidewalk and will step off to let the elderly man maintain his course and pass easily, only to hear words of thanks which make me wonder who wouldn’t do such a thing? In doing what comes naturally to me, he’s taught me two possible things (that I wouldn’t have considered had I sat at home): one, that not everyone would do the same — or two, that there are people who still appreciate small acts of kindness…and that I should do them for anyone, regardless of age. After all, kindness fosters kindness.

The idea of clues being tucked away in the everyday and in the adventure, in the hesitation and in our haste, is something that fascinates me…because it’s true. I’ve seen them. They’re like little Easter eggs waiting to be found, opened and enjoyed. Something sweet is in there — bitter though it may be at first — and you’re supposed to have it. Don’t let them sit there for eternity. Look for them. They lead to the truth.

Tonight I am thankful for a part of a movie coming to light after (strangely) having been passed over so many times before. And yet perhaps that’s a clue in itself. Slow down? Pay attention more? Listen and observe more frequently? Maybe it’s something a bit more harsh — something like one of those “difficult realities” that’s spoken of above. Maybe I’ve subconsciously avoided the passage because I wasn’t ready for it, for some reason or another. Regardless of why things come to light at the points which they do, I’m thankful for them all.

Let’s date.

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We all need to go on more dates. With ourselves.

A woman on LinkedIn began a discussion in which she asked what advice her readers would give someone who’s trying to reinvent themselves.

The answers were varied — some thoughtful, some semi-cliché. Some were vague (“think logically”) and some were rambling. One woman recommended the person make a date with their soul, and that stuck with me. It stuck with me because I’ve been trying to do this very thing with fluctuating degrees of success.

I took myself on a date the other night — really carved out some time and sat, thought, sat some more, then thought some more. The problem is that I had a splitting headache which made anything darn near impossible, particularly thinking. Successful in making time, unsuccessful in thinking things through.

I like to go on dates in the morning, even though I’m not a morning person. My morning commutes are a great time for this. I listen to music, think, wonder, look at scenery, people-watch and, yes, I watch the road, as well. It’s a good almost-hour that I have to let my brain warm up for the day, and in this time I feel like we can really hear our soul speak. It’s starting to stir, and it’s shifting around a bit under the covers. If you asked it a question, you’d get a pretty honest answer. Example: Do you want to be awake right now? No? What’s a better hour for you? The “better hour” might dovetail nicely into where your reinvention may exist.

The mere idea of a date is one that speaks to giving oneself credit. You believe you’re worthy of someone else, therefore you go out on a limb. The soul-searching date is the same thing. Do it, and you’re entertaining the possibility of doing more, being more, exploring more, allowing more.

If I were to have answered the woman’s question, I’d have said this: Give it a shot. Try your hand at it. What’s the worst that can happen? If you don’t do, you’ll never know. If you do, you can then refine, hone and zero in on something in a way that you’d never be able to do had you not tried.

Then I’d say this: the people in the world who we admire and applaud are people who didn’t know for a fact that they’d succeed at their efforts — they’re simply people who thought, “Why not?”

It’s a good question. Why not?

Tonight I am thankful for quiet time and dreams of reinvention, and for knowing that getting there can sometimes be as simple as taking a step. No step, no reinvention. Step, and the possibilities could be endless. Take yourself on a date and see where things lead. You might be surprised.

Fair Share

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My neighbor dropped off a Christmas gift tonight. Unfortunately/fortunately, it’s edible.

What was masquerading as your basic apricot pastry from a local, mildly famous bakery was, in reality, more like a delicious, stone fruit pizza, complete with a buttery, flaky, croissant-like crust, sweet glaze and sugary frosting swirls on top.

Why can my diets never go accordingly? I mean, tonight at the mall someone had the nerve to force me inside the Nordstrom Cafe for a glass of wine — a welcome end to an emotional day, and then I was held captive until I cut into said fruity pizza, subsequently devouring a quarter of it.

Earlier this week, I was coerced into truffle sampling at work. And caramel corn sampling. And home-baked goods sampling.

OK, so that person in all instances was me. Darn the holidays!

The good news is that I rarely keep junk food in the house. The bad news is that it’s a slippery slope for me when the sweet tooth is dusted off, then humored…because it’s never truly satisfied until I either overdo it, or until I dive head first into a batch of lentils or quinoa and simply pull the plug on the sugar train entirely by killing it with smarter carbs. The latter is less fun, but better for the belt, natch.

I can complain all I want about my waistline woes but, in truth, it’s a complaint that millions will never know. Makes me want to become better about my fair share — specifically, knowing what’s absolutely necessary to survive, as well as sorting out my wants and needs a little better. There’s a fine line between enjoying what we’re fortunate to have and being wasteful or squandering our blessings.

This holiday season, let us be thankful for the abundance in our lives which can teach us a lesson or two about moderation, and about true needs versus wants. Our share is generally more than fair, while others’ shares frequently come up short. Here’s to remembering that we’re often fortunate enough to assist through charitable contribution, giving our time or making a donation to a food bank, your neighborhood Salvation Army or Goodwill representative, shelter or pet rescue.

It’s only fair.

Sparkly silver.

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I arrived home this evening to something lovely in the night air.

Someone had a fire going, and its smell was drifting through the neighborhood. Church bells chimed. The streetlight was illuminating a misty haze settling in for the duration. Neighbors’ Christmas lights were on. Finally, the weather was beginning to feel the way it should.

I vowed that I’d race myself to bed. I’ve been weighed down by an unshakable headache since the weekend, and I missed yesterday’s shut-eye target of 9pm by a modest hour and a half. Woops.

As a result, this morning was painful. Upon waking, my head throbbed for hours but subsided to a dull ache nestled behind my right eye by 11am. Tonight’s goal of tucking myself in by 8:30 is moments away, but I think I’ll make it.

There’s nothing better than crawling into bed on a cool night — a night so chilly that the heater cycles on and off periodically, creating a soothing white noise routine which keeps my slumber constant. Well, there’s nothing better — except for crawling into bed headache-less, and having no work the next day.

Rumor has it there’s rain on the way. With any luck it’ll be more than a few sprinkles, but we take what we can get in these parts. No matter what we’re blessed with, the night reminded me that a silver lining can always be found. A charming night in return for a pesky headache, a bit of rain to remind us that December is here in spirit — even if a 70-degree Christmas is in our future. For them — for the sparkle of silver and the good in everything — I am thankful.

Here a Rut, There a Rut

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My annual rut has arrived.

I usually stumble into one at some point during the year, but “stumbling” seems to imply that there’s a sort of uneven ground that your feet happen upon, followed by some more shuffling as the soil gives way to rockiness, which gives way to a gully.

This year’s rut feels like I stubbed my toe on a concrete parking bumper, then fell face-first into the Grand Canyon. No warning, no gravel shifting underneath — nothing. Just the impact, then the fall.

Ah, ruts. If I’ve mentioned one in the last 11 months, please scratch it from the record. It was merely a blip, with nothing rutty about it.

One of the [many] things that’s fueling this particular rut is the realization that time passes too quickly. Earth-shattering, right?

This morning I was washing a few dishes and wondering if there’s a way to make time slow down. Not literally, because that’s too much science for me (not to mention impossible). I’ve always wondered whether making a point of writing specific things down in a daily journal would help.

Being the bright bulb that I am, I then realized I could simply reflect back on the last two-ish years of daily writings to see if this proved to be true. I did a bit of rewind magic and, interestingly, wondered if I’d been high/drunk/coherent/awake/alive when I wrote most of them — because I hardly remember penning the majority, with the exception of a few of my favorites, and a few of the more recent ones. So no…it doesn’t help. Not for me, anyway.

Oh, ruts. Is there no way around you? Must I traverse through your length-to-be-determined ditch the way one rides out a storm?

Apparently. But when it comes to ruts, they’re everywhere — we just happen to fall into the ones we’re most vulnerable to. What constitutes a rut for us may not constitute a rut for someone else. The landscape is one, massive, pockmarked minefield rife with every item on our list of things that bring us down.

Here a rut, there a rut, everywhere a rut-rut. The good thing about them is that they do, in fact, end. By virtue of having fallen into one, there will inevitably be a light at the end of the tunnel…an increase in elevation that brings you back up to level ground. For every low, there is a high. For every evening, there is dawn. Every season has an end, and every wound is sure to mend.

Tonight, despite the sudden onset of my rut, I am thankful for realizing that the passage of time is something that cannot be slowed. Even if it results in remembering just once to pause and take in every ounce of a moment, a silver lining is found. Regardless of our ruts — their duration, intensity and timing — here’s to remembering that this too shall pass.

18.

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Eighteen.

The number of days left — including tonight — until I will have blogged daily for two years…minus a small hiccup last summer when the Palm Springs heat lulled me to sleep without warning…and without writing. Oops.

Eighteen years ago I was eighteen. But I can only say that for thirteen more days…then 37 will arrive.

Eighteen years ago I was going off to college and had so few cares in the world it wasn’t even funny. For the most part, this is still the case. Dreams unfulfilled, however, yes. Things could obviously be far worse, though, and I try to remember to count my lucky stars every night. God willing, maybe I’ll see some of those dreams come to fruition in the next eighteen. A girl can hope.

Eighteen years ago there was first love. Eighteen years later love has more layers, more depth — and more risk. I still think it’s worth it, but hope the other person will, too. Only time will tell.

Eighteen years ago I felt like I ran towards a lot. I ran with open arms and an open heart. I stumbled and I got back up again. Eighteen years later I can say that I’ve almost mastered the art of running away, and I rarely stumble when it comes to that. I find myself feeling vulnerable when my heart is open, so it’s barely ajar most days.

The years can take a toll, but the years also hold lessons and light. Eighteen years ago I never would’ve thought that I’d form a two-year habit, and I don’t know what will become of it once the next eighteen days are up. What I’ve received from it isn’t something I was looking for, nor is it something that would’ve found me had I gone down any other path in this life — because the path would’ve held other things. It would’ve held less quiet time, less reflection, less hearing myself think and less doing. With a noisier life comes a more crowded life, for better or for worse. Maybe there would’ve been writing, but it would’ve been different.

Tonight, for Thanky’s origin and for reading a devotion almost two years ago that revealed two years of gratitude, I am thankful.