Gifts: You Just Might Find, You Get What You Need

What is a gift? Have you ever gotten a "bad" gift? Recently, Jimmy Kimmel asked parents to pull a prank on their kids where they gave their kids bad gifts and taped their responses. Of course, their reactions ranged from sad, to cute, to appalling. In this season of gift giving and receiving, it provides food for thought.

I love giving gifts. I always have. I remember as a young girl, after all the Christmas gifts had been opened, going and finding household items, wrapping them, and giving them to my family. I didn't want the unwrapping, the gift-giving to be over. Sure, I loved receiving gifts, but the whole giving/receiving thing was wonderful to me. That is why I hate, H-A-T-E, that gift cards seem to have replaced so much of personal gift-giving. To me, gift cards are the same thing as giving someone cash and telling them to get their own gift. Giving shouldn't be about the money, the cost of the gift, it should be about taking the time to give someone something you think they might like.

The reason I think we love gift cards so much is because we don't know what people might like--and we don't want to take the time to find out. We are not close to people. We don't know what they have, what they want, what is important to them, what makes them laugh...or cry. So we give them money. We get money. Money...to get what we want. But what do we really want?

Some of my most treasured gifts are things I never would have asked for. One of the first things that comes to mind is a beautiful green, glass platter with a spiral design that we got as a wedding gift from a co-worker/friend/mentor of mine. I love that platter. It wasn't on our registry. I never would have registered for it in a million years. Twenty-one years after our wedding day I use that platter and every time I think of my old friend, Gay, who gave it to us. And I love it.

I have wonderful bowls from friends and family that I think of every time I make pancakes or salad. I have a great big pink diamond bottle stopper from my friend, Leslie. I think of my friend Kath when I see the solar lights in my back yard. I didn't ask for any of these things...didn't even know I wanted them...but every time I use them I smile and they bless me with thoughts of people I hold dear. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Tonight, I was showing my husband something on the Internet and the tears flowed, as usual. You see, tears come very, very easily to me. You might say that God gave me the "gift" of tears. I've always had them, just ask my mom. To me (and her), they have often been a curse. I can't speak of anything meaningful to me without the tears flowing, but slowly, over time, I am coming to see them as a gift. Not everyone can cry. My tears are liquid love, as if my heart is overflowing. They show people I care. They are a release. My tears express emotion for those around me who can't. I'm not sure of all the ways they are a gift, but I am coming to realize that, somehow, they are.

If God had been part of Jimmy Kimmel's prank and I'd opened this "gift" of tears, I might well have reacted the way those kids did: irritated, angry, unappreciative and even downright disrespectful. I might have said, "God, what kind of gift is this? One that makes my nose run, that makes me look silly and feel self-conscious? Is this some kind of joke?" But God, like my friends, knows what I need even when I don't know I need it. He doesn't give me a gift card, to get the gifts that I think I want. No...he gives me what he wants for me. So when you give and get gifts this season, even if it's something you didn't want or don't think you need...take another look. Maybe, just maybe, it's the best gift you ever got...that you didn't even know you needed.

Saying Grace: A Thanksgiving Note

Today is Thanksgiving and Facebook is all-alight with statements of gratitude and platitudes of thanks. Now I happen to think the group of people that are on my friends list are pretty aware and enlightened (like me, right?). I know that these good people are thankful for friends, family, and blessings more than this one day a year. I wonder, though, if like me, they get complacent sometimes. All these messages gave me pause to consider, for what am I most thankful?

It is easy to get bogged down in the seemingly important details of my life. With two teenage boys in the house, there is plenty to fret about as they alternately dip their toes in, then plunge, then recoil into adulthood. Being married 21 years is no easy task either. When I tell you that being home all day not working is a challenge, I can see why you may not see why, but take my word for it—it gives me a little too much time with myself and there is plenty to worry about there.

So this morning began like any other holiday morning of late: Jim and I slept in until 9 or so, I went for a run, the kids are still sleeping at almost 1 and we need to leave in half an hour, and my appetizer is getting ready to go in the oven.  As I ran this morning—sometimes waving at the other food-loving souls who were trying to pre-empt the damage of today’s indulgences—it gave me plenty of time to think about what I am thankful for.

One word immediately came to mind: Grace. I am most thankful for grace. Grace from my husband, my kids, my friends, and, of course, God. You may find this hard to believe, but I can be quite irritable and snappy. Jim, my ever-lovin’ husband, often bears the brunt of this, since we don’t see the teens much and I have no co-workers to help with the burden. You see, sometimes, he annoys me.

Like when he loudly picks at his nails while we’re watching TV…snap, snap, snap. (evil eye) Or when he asks 30 times during the movie who that character is and what just happened (evil eye accompanied by irritated sigh) Or when he launches into another life-lesson lecture at dinner. I think I’d better stop there.

It’s easy when I am so irritated to focus on him and what he is or isn’t doing, but eventually what occurs to me is not what a great wife I am to love such an annoying person (ha!), but what a great husband he is for loving me despite my being annoyed.

What is the key to a lifelong marriage? Grace. He forgives me. He gives me another chance. He sees past my evil eyes and petty sighs and loves me despite my impatience and arrogance. He waits for the kind and loving wife he knows I can be to once again resurface. He loves me for who he knows me to be, not for who I am being in the moment. Makes me think that this grace thing is more than just the key to a long marriage, but also the key to a joy-filled life.

What better display of God’s love could I ask for?  So today, and all days, I am thankful for grace. And my hope and prayer is that as I continue to receive it from Jim and others around me, I will be better at freely giving it as well. May your Thanksgiving, and all your days, be filled with the joy of giving and receiving grace.

The Value of a Human Life

What is the value of a human life? This question is unanswerable because we don't have all the data. Our small brains cannot process the impact one person has on the world. I think we lose sight of how much we change the world every day by our mere existence. I know I do.

I have always been proud of my accomplishments: excelling in school, being part of the foundation of Starbucks' success, running a successful 15-year consulting business, creating a great marriage, raising two amazing young men. This year, when I decided to quit working, I realized just how much of my self-worth is tied up in this "accomplishing." For almost a year now, I've not contributed to our family financially, and with my kids in their teens, my mommying has been less in demand as well. Who am I if I'm not producing?

I was sure that I was destined to do "something big"--whatever that means. It didn't necessarily mean fame and fortune, although those themes definitely wove in and out of my dreams, but it did mean doing something significantly world-changing. Something all could see, point to, and recognize as a "wow, that really changed the world" contribution. Now that I'm reaching mid-life, I'm beginning to wonder if that's my destiny (notice I say, "beginning to wonder"...I haven't let go of that dream yet).

Instead, I am wondering if we can recognize those "something bigs" when they occur, because I think most of the time, we can't see them until we look back. Steve Jobs is a great example of someone changing the world right before our eyes, but it took place over many years, in small steps, and over a tumultuous course, so it wasn't always easy to recognize. What strikes me now, is how much each of us changes the world each day, simply by living our lives.

It is impossible for us to know the lives we have touched, what small act or gesture, what conversation, touched someone and altered their path. Does the pebble know the course of the ripples it created upon being tossed into the pond? If I had one wish for every human being on the planet, it would be for each of us to know that our lives, no matter how small, have impacted more people than we can imagine. If each of us could fathom our greatness and the extent to which we impact others, our words might be sweeter, our eyes softer, our hearts bigger.

Living a life of purpose, to me, means knowing that I don't have to produce to have impact. I just have to be. I have to be present. In each moment, I can strive to bring my best self so I don't miss out on the opportunity to do "something big"--share a smile, bring an open mind, open a loving heart. I may not make the history books, but then again, some small thing done in the moment, might just change the course of history. It's worth a shot.

Holding Time

Time is elastic to me. It stretches like a rubber band, pulled taught at both ends by nimble fingers, then suddenly, it snaps, contracts, smarts. Some people “master” time, harnessing it to use it productively, but for me, time has no master. It is my friend, my enemy. It is single grains of sand falling through an hourglass, as Hemingway wrote, “slowly, then all at once.”

 I can’t hold time in my hand or in my head. Just this week I was a contestant in a speech contest and for some reason I had in my head that I needed to be there at 11:15 in the morning. I went to my usual 8:30-9:15 workout, came home, made a leisurely waffle breakfast for my son and his friend. After their breakfast was ready, I made some eggs for myself, then sat down at the computer to surf while I nibbled at my plate. I decided to print out the flyer for the contest in case my Ironman-training husband got home in time to attend. I printed it and sat surfing my Facebook page, knowing that since it was just 10:00 a.m. I had plenty of time to get ready—even though I was still in my sweaty workout clothes. 

While waiting for a page to load, I glanced at the flyer. Something caught my eye. There, in bold letters it said:
                     Contestant Briefing: 10:30 a.m.
                     Contest Start: 11:00 a.m.

 I glanced at the clock on the computer. 10:04. I looked back down at the paper. 10:30. It would take me ten minutes to get there, speeding, and if the stoplights were in my favor. I jumped up, ran to my bedroom, stripping as I went (thank goodness my teenage boys were not there), jumped into my three-minute shower, threw on some nice clothes, blew-dry my hair in record time, smacked on foundation...then, took a deep breath and s-l-o-w-l-y put on my eyeliner (because if you try to do it quickly, you end up looking like Alice Cooper). I grabbed my props, shot out the door and made it there in record time. Of course, they were running behind and I was fine, but that's beside the point.

 I suppose many people experience time as I do: it passes like molasses when I'm bored, but when I'm engrossed in something, it's like a freight train on a mission and I couldn't slow it down if I tried. Like times with good friends or at parties where I never want them to end. I could stay up all night because I am so enjoying the moment—usually singing 1980’s karaoke songs. My dear husband, though, who asked at 11 p.m. if we could go home, is suddenly not happy that three seconds later it's one in the morning. I can tell by the look on his face that I will not be singing "one more" karaoke song.

 Having kids has made me more acutely aware of time than ever. I remember when they were little, screaming and whining, or when I was changing a never-ending stream of diapers, or when I thought my youngest would NEVER turn five so he could go to school, well-meaning older women would say "enjoy it, it goes so fast!" Fast? You've got to be kidding me. Endless days of Disney movies, and backyard baseball games, dirty clothes, and nerve-frazzling arguments seemed to make time drag, melting one day into the next. How could they possibly think it was going by fast?

 I should have known that age would trump youth. I look at my giant man-child who at 17 knows everything and nothing and I can't believe he painted the stick figure framed in my room that says
FOR M
         O
         M

because his three- (or was it four?) year-old mind hadn't planned any space to be able to paint the letters next to each other. I wonder how his 18-year-old self will go away next year and begin fending for himself.

 And I look at my 15-year-old boy-man who impresses me everyday by knowing so well who he is and what he wants. I spent so many years and so much time frustrated by his straining against my will for him and now that strong will of his is creating a life that he can call his own.

 Where did my babies go?

 And I look at Jim, my husband. Was it really 27 long years ago when I as a teenage girl used my feminine wiles to get him to ask me out as he changed my tire at a gas station? Looking back there is a lightning-fast slide show of happiness, sadness, joy, frustration, arguing, sharing, and mostly, thankfully, love.

 It isn't hard to picture us as my parents, over 55 years into marriage, enjoying each other in a peaceful life, having little bickerings over the same old things. Or as Jim's dad, widowed by his wife, Joanne, after 35 years of travel, golf, and raising their kids. I wonder how it feels at 87 to know that there are fewer days ahead than behind. But I know I won't have to wonder for long.

When I wake up tomorrow, I will be there.

Commemorating 9/11

I'm sure that every American who was over the age of five remembers that day. Living on the west coast, it was very early in the morning. We were just getting up and starting our day. I remember feeling scared, thinking our entire nation was under attack. First one plane. Then another. Then the third. Then the fourth. Then days of total silence and empty skies as all flights were stopped. Then weeks and months of images of destruction, tales of loss, and, eventually, stories of sickness of first responders. It was a dark, dark time.

While I did not know anyone who died that day, I--like many Americans, I'm sure--entered a period of depression. I was plagued by sadness, crying at odd times without provocation. It was an immense, all-encompassing sadness that I understand cannot compare to the ongoing loss felt by those who lost loved ones that day, but nonetheless was a personally challenging time. Even though it was ten years ago, it feels vivid and tangible.

As we near the anniversary of this terrible day, I find myself plagued by stories in the media. Every radio station is "remembering 9/11." There are TV shows. On NPR they had stories from parents and grandkids of those who died in the attacks. As I listened this morning in the car, I found myself crying, tears streaming down my cheeks as they did ten years ago. I had to turn the channel. And it made me think. What are we doing?

In no way am I suggesting that we forget, but I have to wonder, especially with the current economic chaos and uncertainty in which our country currently finds itself, is all of this "commemorating" a good idea? If someone's family was tragically murdered, would any therapist suggest that every year, or every ten years, they reenact, retrace, re-imagine the horror of every minute of that day? It seems unhealthy. It feels unhealthy--at least for me.

I would like to know what the families of the deceased would like to do to remember their loved ones. There is a giant controversy over the ceremony in New York City. Who is invited, who is not. Is this really a way to honor those who died and remember what happened? What might be a more appropriate way to honor those thousands of lives without plunging ourselves back into the deep despair that followed the original event? There must be a better, brighter way to move forward out of the tragedy.

I, for one, am not participating. I will not watch the TV programs. I will not listen to the radio. I will not be part of the sensationalism of one of the worst days in American history. I will call my friend, Maureen, whose brother--a firefighter--died that day and give her my condolences. I will say a prayer for all those still suffering. I will honor those who died by doing something positive in my community--something that builds connection so that we are not so divided by religion, politics, skin color and all of the other labels we like to put on people so that we can be right and "they" can be wrong.

But I will not dishonor those who died by being part of the media circus. And I will not return to the darkness of ten years ago. I will be part of the light. It just feels like the right thing to do, the honorable way to commemorate an unspeakable loss--being a little splinter of mirror reflecting light into the dark corners so that hopefully no one has to experience anything like this ever again.

My Trouble With Pausing

I have a pause problem. And it’s not menopause…yet. For some reason, I seem to have a hard time pausing. Big pauses, little pauses, it doesn’t really matter. Pausing is not a natural skill with which I have been blessed. If a thought enters my mind, I blurt it out. If I experience an emotion, I show it. I run from thing to thing, speak from sentence to sentence, without pausing. It’s beginning to be a problem.

Truly, it’s always been a problem. When I was consulting, there was many a time I’d lose my cool a bit with a client. A friend and associate of mine had this great reaction when something went wrong or when she was surprised by something a client said or did: she would pause. She would put her hand to her chin, look up a little to the right, and give a little, audible “hmmmm.” It was perfect. Just the right amount of time to consider possibilities, control emotions, and formulate an appropriate response. I envied her pause.

Now that I am working on my public speaking through Toastmasters, feedback on my lack of pausing is coming up more frequently. Like after every speech I do. I’ve coached people on public speaking, for gosh sakes, I know the value of a pause! But for some reason, when I’m up there, the words just rush right out and the pauses never come. It makes breathing a little difficult.

I have difficulty with bigger pauses as well. Life pauses. Like the one I’m in right now. I left my 20+ career in corporate training and communications in February (by my own choice), and have been in a pause ever since. A six-month pause. At first I didn’t rush to fill it, but now I am getting antsy. Looking at jobs, contemplating writing books and articles, searching for what is next.

When I catch myself in “filling-the-pause” mode, I am working on quietly reminding myself that the best thing I can do with this pause is be present. I take a deep breath, and ask for help being calm and aware. Looking back on life, I can see that the pauses have set me up for the next thing, so it’s important to see it when it comes and save my energy for it. Sure, I know it will take some effort on my part, but I also know I’ll know it when I see it. The worst thing I could do is waste time and energy on stuff that isn’t “it.”

Breathe. Listen. Watch…Pause.

There’s nothing like a giant pause to perfect my pausing skills!

Sing Your Song: Making the Case for Making a Joyful Noise

The itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out, out came the sun and dried up all the rain and the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

When I think of songs like "Itsy-Bitsy Spider" it takes me back to a time when singing was a part of my every day life, whether it was learning the ABC's with the alphabet song, or playing "Ring Around the Rosie" with my friends, or looking up at the night sky with my parents singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." I have always loved to sing. I even remember as a little girl singing myself to sleep every night. But, in the U.S. (and perhaps in other countries as well), something happens around the ages of 9 or 10--we slowly segregate kids into two groups: those who can sing, and those who can't.

I was in the "can't sing" group. And it was devestating to me.

I'm sure you know which group you're in. Maybe it was a music teacher that asked you to just "mouth the words." Or maybe at camp a friend called you out in front of everyone for singing off-key. But that is when you stopped singing in front of people--I know I did. Sure I still sang in the shower or the car, but it's not the same thing. When we stop singing together, we lose something very important--connection.

I am always delighted and amazed when I see movies about African tribal culture because singing and dancing is so much a part of their lives. I recently saw a movie on the Lost Boys of Sudan, called And God Grew Tired of Us. These people had walked thousands of miles, through terrible circumstances and had seen atrocious things because of the civil war in their country, only to end up in the desert in Ethiopia in a refugee camp with 80,000 people, very little food and water, and maybe, if they were lucky, just the clothes on their backs. In the midst of this, they came together and sang. Their singing together connected them, began to heal them, and even brought them some joy in the middle of a dire circumstance. That's what singing can do.

I have a couple of personal experiences that have made me realize how important singing is for our whole lives and not just when we're children. When I was a young parent, my kids were about three and five, I was spent. Like most young parents, I was putting all of my time and energy into work, the kids, the house and I just ran out of energy to keep doing that. I went to go see a counselor and she asked me, "What do you love to do?"

"Sing," I replied. And she said, "Go do it." So I did.

I found a wonderful voice teacher who got it. He would say, "we're here to share, not to show, to express, not to impress." He knew it wasn't about American Idol--it was about the joy that comes from singing with and for others. (By the way, the voice is an instrument, and like other instruments if you get training and practice, you can improve!) The teacher had a glee club, which I joined and sang with for about five years. I even did solos and duets! I did one duet with my best friend which is one of the highlights of my life. Singing filled me up so that I could continue to take care of the ones I loved.

The other experience that made me realize how important singing is started with a phone call we got at 5:30 in the morning about 10 years ago. You know that call you dread getting? You're sound asleep and the phone rings and your heart is in your mouth? It was that call. My mother-in-law had had a major stroke on the left side of her brain. It took away her function on the right side of her body, and it took away her speech. Tens of thousands of words in the adult vocabulary and she was left with just one: alright.

As anyone who's been through tragedy like this knows, there is laughter amidst the tears. We would laugh, and Joanne would laugh at herself, with her "alright" conversations. But she didn't always laugh. It was frustrating for her not to be able to express herself. Try as we might to rebuild her vocabulary, those brain cells were dead. But what we did discover was that she could SING! Singing, you see, comes from the right side of your brain. She knew every word to songs she'd known her whole life, like "Happy Birthday" or "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I would take her on walks around the neighborhood and we would sing the songs I knew from glee club, songs from the 40's and 50's like "Dancing Cheek to Cheek." It was so wonderful to hear her voice, to see the joy it brought her to express herself so effortlessly through song, when everything else was so difficult. Those walks where we connected like this are special times I'll never forget.

Today, I'm encouraging you to sing your song! Make a joyful noise! So you don't miss out, so we all don't miss out, on the special connection that comes from joining in song with others.

An Open Letter to My Sons: It's YOUR Road

To my sons (and young people everywhere who want to change the world):

There is no "right" way. Especially right now. I can see it in your eyes: a fire, really a spark right now, burning, waiting for some oxygen to really fuel it. You feel stifled, restrained by the system and structures around you (including your dad and me). I remember that feeling.

I just knew I would be a famous actress. Part of me still believes it (at my age!). Now, though, that passion I had is funneled into other pursuits. I want to change education so that people like you and me don't have to suffer through years of feeling like our fires are not being stoked. What if you had an education that found out what your dream was and did everything possible to support it? That is what every child deserves. The system, though, is not going to give it to you, so you need to find it yourself.

What I want to tell you is that there is no "right" way. The pressure right now is to get good grades, graduate from high school, go to a good college and get a good job—but that may not be your path. More people than you know follow a different path...and that is OK. Do I want you to get good grades? Sure. Do I want you to go to college? Yup. But if you don't, that can be OK too.

I say can be OK because there is one condition: you need to be pursuing your passion. Most famous people who didn't graduate from college (Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Halle Berry, Jennifer Anniston, Michael Dell, etc.) have one thing in common—they left to pursue their passion. Whole-heartedly. Doggedly. Without distraction. If you don't go to school so you can sit around and play Call of Duty all day, that's one thing. If you're out there kicking ass and taking names, that's another. (And one way receives our financial and moral support, and the other way doesn't. Just so you know.)

(Can I add a caveat to my caveat? Sometimes what may look like "playing" to others may not actually be "playing." When Steve Jobs dropped out of Reed College, he hung around and audited classes including calligraphy. At the time it appeared to have no practical application in his life—it just interested him. The "usefulness," however, became clear a few years later when he and Steve Wozniak created the Mac—the first computer with beautiful typography. In Steve Jobs' words: "you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something—your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.")

For some reason, we like to make young people think that there is only one path, one right way, but that is a lie. Education, especially as it exists today, is mostly an exercise in learning how to follow the rules, to tolerate boredom, and, at best, to demonstrate that you can show up everyday and get something done. If you can do the latter part, though, if you can show up and get something done, even outside the structure of school, then you are already on your path to success.

So fear not. Do your best in this system where you do not fit, and then make your own way. Keep your eye on the prize and know that with hard work and persistence, you will get there (please note that it is highly unlikely that it will be handed to you). If you go to college right out of school, if that's the right path for you, great. But college will always be there if there is something you need to know that you can't learn some other way (for instance, if you suddenly decide that "rock star" doesn't cut it and you'd rather be a surgeon or an attorney). (And please don't tell Grandma I said this.)

In the meantime, know that you are a talented, brilliant human being, regardless of what anyone else thinks or what everyone else is doing. It can be a tougher road when you're making your own way, but it is your road. Make the most of it.

(By the way, Steve Jobs' commencement address at Stanford University is one of my favorites. Watch it sometime. )

Love,
Mom

30 Days of Creativity - Day 1

My Fear of Anticipation

I hate the moment when my feet leave the diving board--that split-second when there's no going back on my decision to jump and before my body plunges into the shock of the cold water. I have been known to stand on the diving board for minutes, warding off threats from my husband and sons who are dying to push me in. What's so weird, though, is that hitting the water is never as bad as I've made it out to be. The fear of what might be far outweighs the fear in the actual experience of what is. The fear I experience is not a fear of the thing itself, but in my imagining of the event.

Take bungee jumping, for instance. My husband really wants to go up to Nanaimo, British Columbia in Canada and bungee jump off the bridge there. What scares me about bungee jumping is not the fear of dying, but the moment between when my feet leave the bridge and when I feel the cord "catch" at the bottom. That's a heckuva long moment compared to leaving a diving board! But think about it--that IS the experience of bungee jumping. If you're going to enjoy the experience, you need to enjoy that anticipation while you're flying through the air, plummeting toward the earth. In order for me to enjoy life, I have to be doing more than just anxiously awaiting for that cord to catch at the bottom.

It's the same reason I hate horror movies. I experience no pleasure whatsoever in that moment where the killer is waiting, poised with the knife as the unwitting future victim slowly puts her hand on the doorknob. Now, I don't enjoy movies with a lot of killing anyway, but wiping out a group with machine guns is far less scary because there is no anticipation. It just happens. The event itself, again, is less scary than the anticipation of it.

So how can I deal with the fear that comes from anticipation? As far as I can tell, there is only one way--to fully experince each moment. It takes practice to constantly bring myself to the present, but the reality is there is usually nothing scary in this moment. Even when bad things do happen, it is usually just in one bad moment, surround by a bunch of very manageable or even good moments. Being present, even to fear, is far less scary than the events I anticipate. So, I breathe, let go of my thoughts, and once again strive to just be.

I think it's time for a swim.

When Saying "Yes" Means Saying "No"

I know I am not alone in having trouble saying "no" to things--especially as a woman. There are so many things I want to do, it's hard to turn things down. Sometimes I can't say no because I feel guilty, or obligated. Usually, though, I say "yes" without even thinking; if I can do it, then I should do it.

For a number of years, this worked for me...sort of. I ran through life, from one thing to the next, not really having the time to be present to any of it. For the last 20 years I have worked, raised children, volunteered at school, maintained a house, volunteered in the community, acted, sang, helped out friends and family, ran marathons and races, and on and on. It probably doesn't sound too different from your own life. It wasn't until this last fall, that suddenly (and I do mean suddenly), this crazy life caught up with me. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't.

So what happened? It felt as if I hit a brick wall. Trying desperately to control every aspect of my teenage sons' lives, while working and doing all these other activities pushed me over an edge. I think it all began with a helicopter crash last February in which five people died--people we knew. It was followed by a couple more tragic deaths of young people in our community and then the death of a friend from high school. I think my undoing was at least nine months in the making (if not years prior to that). These untimely deaths planted seeds in my soul that started growing, pushing out old thoughts and behaviors and demanding new ones.

If life is so uncertain (and it's easy to pretend for stretches of time that it's not), then I need to make conscious choices about how I want to live it. Living in constant fear and worry, trying to control everything, stressing out over what needs to be done next isn't me living my life--it was my life living me. I made a conscious decision to quit working at a job that I was totally burnt out on, and spend this year supporting (not controlling) my sons and working on my writing and speaking skills.

What happens when you actually make a decision about what to do? Why wonderful opportunities come your way, of course! Opportunities that I now have to say no to, based on the direction I've chosen. I have to say no to people with whom I've worked for years and admire and respect. I have to say no to work that gratifies my ego and would earn us some extra cash. I have to say no to travel and another accomplishment for my resume.

The opportunity, I need to remember, is not in saying yes this time. The opportunity is in saying no to anything that might distract me from the course I've chosen. If I continue to fill up these spaces with busy-ness, I will find myself right back where I was. So, I take a deep breath, choose to let go of all the chatter and fear, and find the courage (yes, courage) to say "No. Thank you, but no."

What Are Words For?

I had an unusual situation happen this week. I said something in a group of people and completely offended someone. Now, don't get me wrong. I have blatantly offended people before by expressing my beliefs or ideas on a topic. I've also put my foot in my mouth and experienced the lovely taste of leather many a time. This was different. I was speaking from my heart, and someone completely misinterpreted what I said. That is not a common experience for me.

I consider myself somewhat of a word expert (although since I've begun playing Words with Friends, I realize now that I am a neophyte). I am an English/Psychology major and daughter of an elementary school teacher. I have been in corporate communications for the last 20+ years. I am a published author. I consider myself a clear communicator--so you may not like what I say, but very rarely have I been misunderstood.

The person's reaction caught me completely off guard. When I discovered how the person felt about what I said, I was shocked and felt terrible. As a people-pleaser, the last thing I ever try to do is hurt someone's feelings. What I said had affected the person so much, he or she was contemplating not participating in the event about which we were meeting. That's a pretty big deal.

While I am going to let it go and not beat myself up about it, since it was not my intention to hurt anyone, it did make me think. As comfortable as I've become in communicating, words are an imprecise business. That's what I've loved about them. I hate math and am terrible at it. I've never like the right/wrong thing with solving math problems. Words are fluid, flexible, changing, and present you with a variety of options. The thing is, we hear and speak them through our own filters.

I'm thankful for this experience, jarring as it's been, because it's made me think about an aspect of communicating with which I haven't had much experience. What are words for? Hopefully they're for peace, for love, building people up and other positive things. Sometimes they're for fighting, when necessary. We must never forget, however, their power. In an age when we are surrounded by words--texting, tweeting, e-mailing--it would be imprudent to forget that.

I am THAT parent...

I’ve lost sleep for many nights now, waking up in the middle of the night, worried about the future of my teenage sons. Over the years, they have both had challenges with school, sometimes alternately, sometimes simultaneously, adding numerous grey hairs under my “natural” brown hair. After the 16-year-old leaves for school and I drop the 14-year-old off at his, my day is spent looking in dread at the caller ID on the phone each time it rings. “Mrs. Keller? This is Mr. So and So at Such and Such school. Could you come pick up your son?”

I am THAT parent of THOSE kids. The ones that get in trouble. The ones who get sent to the principal’s office—something I spent my entire school career trying to avoid. And somehow, every time I get that call and make the long, anxious trip to school, then enter that office with my tail between my legs, I am suddenly 10 or 13 or 16 again and haven’t managed to avoid the principal’s office at all. I see the sad, sullen face of whichever boy of mine managed to make an impulsive, regrettable decision and I am distraught.

In that moment, I feel ashamed and heartbroken. Perhaps I should be angry, but all I can think of is how great this young man of mine is. I know his heart, his intent, and his remorse. They are not malicious, my sons. They are not bullies or druggies or vandals. Their infractions usually center around disrespect, or controlling their emotions. Somehow I have raised two kids with no tolerance for bullshit or ineptitude, for which I am proud, and yet I have failed to teach them how to contain their contempt and frustration. Perhaps we cannot teach our children what we fail to do ourselves.

As this man (always a man) charged with being school disciplinarian looks at me and articulates the wrongdoing of my offspring, thoughts swarm in my head. My heart races. When he finishes, his words hang heavy in the room as I hear the soft sniffles of my son, head hanging, nose dripping. This man is waiting for me to say something. To give him some explanation of my failing or my son’s, to get angry or defensive, or give him some clue about what great parenting technique I am going to employ to change my son’s behavior. Or better yet, what punishment I will dole out that will be painful enough that he will never sin again.

But I don’t know what to say that will fulfill this man’s need. Sitting there calmly, my demeanor belies the tempest inside me. I hear words fall lamely from my mouth to somehow convince him that I am a good mother, an effective parent. Really I am just trying to move through this as quickly as possible so that I can race my child in slow motion out of that office and into the car and the safety of our home. I want out from under this magnifying glass hovering over his behavior and my parenting. Truthfully, the safety is partially for him and mostly for me.

The car ride home is usually quiet at first. After a few minutes when I think I have collected myself, I begin to talk, to question him, but the tears always come. Tears of sadness for him and his situation. Tears of distress that I have somehow failed him. Tears of frustration that here we are, once again, neither one of us learning how to prevent a repeat performance of his poor judgment. He sits, quietly, knowing that this is the second part of the torture that is his punishment for his behavior—me trying to force him to talk about his thoughts and feelings.

Usually, eventually, he will toss some crumb to me of what is going on inside that head and heart of his. It will have to suffice, because the more I push, the more he steels against my prodding. Sometimes, there is some consequence doled out—you can’t use the car, you’re grounded this weekend—and he slinks off to his room, texting, I’m sure, his real thoughts and feelings to his lifeline of friends.

Just as a wave peaks, then crashes, the drama of the event subsides over the next hours, running swiftly yet calmly up the shore. This is when inside I question myself, and begin the rumination over the details of the incident, trying desperately to find the key to what will change my son so we don’t have to do this again. It involves conversations with my husband—mostly me puking my thoughts and feelings on him—as well as time spent looking for counselors, diagnoses, medication, personal development programs and more. I am going to “fix” them, you see. I will show the world and that man sitting in the chair across from me at their schools that I am a good mother. They are good boys.

Years of this are beginning to take their toll on me and on them. I am spent. I am faced with what I know is true. I have two sons who are smart, funny, kind, thoughtful, emotional, creative, and strong-willed. While their personalities are so different, they share these traits. I am proud of the people they are and the men they are becoming. I raised them—intentionally and unintentionally—to question, even authority, to be different, to be passionate, and in doing so, to be messy. They are not on a straight and narrow path—they are on a divergent one, a bumpy and beautiful one of their own making.

In my heart, I knew this is what I wanted for those sweet little babies placed in my arms so many years ago, but I had no idea how difficult it would be for them to experience and for me to watch. I know my friends are facing the challenges of watching their kids go off into the world on their own as well, but I can’t help but feel that they have the reassurance of seeing down the road their son or daughter is on, even just a ways, while my son is standing in a jungle and I have no idea what is behind that next whack of his machete as he clears a path in front of him.

The days when they’ve gotten in trouble at school often end with dinner together, or sitting on the sofa watching T.V. and we find ourselves laughing at some You Tube video they are showing me, or they pull me in to listen to their latest guitar riff or drum solo. I see once again who they really are and I know in my heart I am a good mom. They are good boys. I valiantly try to let go of who I expected them to be, and desperately strive to embrace who they are and who they are becoming. It isn’t easy. But it is the work I am most proud of.

What is Mainstream?

The past few months have been a time of introspection for me. As my first born is turning 17 and we are focused on helping him toward independence, and my youngest is now 14, I am focused on the hard work of parenting teens. Although society frequently tells us that this is a daunting job, I still find myself looking around and wondering if it's as hard for everyone else as it seems to be for us!

It's not that we have bad kids; on the contrary, we have great kids! I am amazed every day by their senses of humor, their brilliance, their resourcefulness and loving kindness. They have beautiful hearts (messy rooms and smelly, dirty clothes, but beautiful hearts). And yet, they each face challenges that I don't see the majority of other kids around them facing. I told someone the other day, "they're just not mainstream." Her reply? "Why would they be? You're not either."

I have to admit it took me aback a bit. I have always wanted to be mainstream--at least part of me did, but it's true that another large part of me has always been different and wanted to be different. And if you ask anyone who knows Jim if he's a typical accountant...well, don't be surprised if you're met with a chuckle. While we aren't WAY out there, it's true that we probably haven't taken the road more traveled.

So I am doing a lot of letting go. Letting go of who I thought my kids would be. Letting go of who I thought I would be. Letting go of having control over what they choose to do. Letting go of the things I have been doing--like my work. It feels good on one hand, but on the other it's a little disconcerting. A bit like floating in space--looking down at how lovely the marble Earth is, but terrifying to be untethered to it.

I am beginning to see, however, that after this letting go, it's time for embracing. Embracing the wonderful, unique people my kids are and are becoming. Embracing a new vision of myself, what's important to me and what I want to achieve. Embracing not being in control and loving "what is."

Eventually I'll wade through enough of this psychological muck to see the possibilities and explore them. In the meantime, we'll keep hacking our way through the weeds and helping our boys to do the same. Creating your own path is challenging, but in the end, (hopefully) rewarding.