In Lieu of Writing: Stuffed Poblano Peppers

Alright so I haven't posted to my blog in a year. As an excuse, I started graduate school and dropped my writing group. My writing group, and writing guru, Diane Owens, is the key to unlocking my muse. Despite writing my 20 page research papers this year, I am missing writing the really awesome, soul searching/revealing stuff that feeds my soul...so...just started back with the writing group. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, instead of feeding my soul, I've been (as usual) feeding my belly. I love to cook. I am pretty good--not stellar (I'm no Lisa Alado or anything), but I hold my own. Tonight, I tried to remake some stuffed poblanos I'd made 6-8 months ago, but I am an ad-lib cook, so I couldn't remember what I put in them. I thought I'd share this iteration of the recipe with you, so perhaps next time I go to make them, I'll have it recorded somewhere!

6 poblano/pasilla peppers (our store never has poblanos, so I use pasilla)
1 c Lundberg Jubilee rice, cooked (got it at Whole Foods)
1 lb. pork chorizo
16 oz. canned black beans
1 tbsp. olive oil
28 oz. crushed tomatoes
1 clove garlic
1 tbsp ancho chile powder
1 tbsp ground cumin
6 slices cheddar or monterey jack (I didn't have the MJ so used cheddar)
1/2 cup queso fresco

Preheat the broiler on high, with rack set to middle of oven.

Cut the tops off the peppers, carefully removing the seeds and membrane. Reserve the tops.

Cook the chorizo (seriously, it's worth it to get it at Whole Foods...WAY less grease and it crumbles instead of turning into a weird, red mushy mass). Add black beans (drained and rinsed) and cooked rice. Stuff each pepper full of the chorizo/bean/rice mixture. Place on broiler-friendly pan. Put top on end.

Heat oil in pan over medium heat. Add garlic clove, cook for a minute or so. Add crushed tomatoes, chile powder, and cumin. Stir and cook on low heat.

Put peppers in oven. Turn after 10 minutes (this was tough, but it's doable). Pepper should be turning brown/black and starting to blister. Broil 10 more minutes, then pour the tomato sauce over all the peppers and place a slice of cheddar on top of each one. Broil another 5 minutes.

Remove peppers from oven, sprinkled crumbled queso over all. EAT UP!

Hope you enjoy. Stay tuned for my reentry into writing...

Wow, Too Bad You’re Not Taller...and Ten Pounds Thinner

I had an epiphany today. When I tell you what it was, some of you will say, “duh.” But some others of you might have an epiphany, too. Still others won’t be ready to hear it yet, but someday, you will. So tuck it away.

Here it is: There is no such thing as being self-deprecating.

I grew up in a culture where women were taught that the polite, humble thing to do when complimented was to put ourselves down or dismiss the compliment.

“What a lovely dress!”

“What? This old thing?”

or

“You look beautiful!”

“Maybe if I lost ten pounds!”

We were told and shown that it was immodest and haughty to accept a compliment, to acknowledge our accomplishments. What happened, at least for me, was that I learned to put myself down—to others and in my own head. I thought that’s what nice girls did, but there’s nothing “nice” about it.

Every time we put ourselves down, we put down our source, our Creator. We tell Him or Her, “you didn’t do a very good job.” We basically tell our parents the same thing. Our put-downs tell our spouse or partner that he or she didn’t choose very well, or their eyesight or judgement isn’t very good. Our self put-downs tell our kids that we’re not worthy of love or respect...and neither are they, since they so closely align their goodness (or lack of it) with ours.

I’ve noticed that when I put myself down in a group of friends, even though I think I am expressing dissatisfaction with some aspect of myself, really I’m telling them they’re not good enough either. When I say I’m too tall, how do taller friends feel? Or how do my shortest friends react? What about when I comment on my weight? What am I saying about their weight? Regardless of the fact that I love them exactly the way they are...fat, thin, short, tall...what I am telling them is that they are not good enough either, and they have terrible judgement if they think I am smart, beautiful, or any number of other positive things.

So let’s just all give it up, shall we? (And definitely let's put an end to it with this generation!) I’m not saying we have to go around touting our gifts, talents, and achievements (although, why not, really?). What I am saying is let’s put the kibosh on put-downs of all kinds. We would never think of saying to our friends “Hey, too bad you’re not taller and ten pounds thinner!”

Yet, when we say terrible things about ourselves we are inadvertently commenting on all those around us.

Maybe next time you catch me saying something self-deprecating, you can just simply say, “You’re wonderful just the way you are...and so am I.” It will be a nice reminder that the God of the Universe doesn't compare and did a pretty darn good job.

For those of you that have always known this, there is no lengthy lecture necessary (that only defeats the purpose). For those of us working on it, it will be a good reminder for ourselves and others. For those who aren’t yet ready to absorb this yet...all I have to say is “You’re wonderful just the way you are...and so am I.”

Merry "whatever doesn't offend you": Peace, love, and a little family fighting

I always knew, but never really thought, I'd be the kind of person who moved out of my hometown. I dreamed it, but part of me always thought I'd stay put. Like most things in my life, I was ambivalent about it. Over six years ago, my husband came home with the news that we had the opportunity to move to Phoenix, AZ. Just a slight change from our gorgeous, yet gloomy Seattle. We deliberated, but decided to go for it. Moving was everything I'd ever dreamed of...and dreaded. I love the weather here, but it has been a difficult change. I only thought it would take a couple of years to settle in, make friends, and resume our wonderful (if not complicated) life. It took a lot longer. Like 4 years longer. I thought we'd NEVER make friends! It took forever, but now, here, on Christmas Eve, I have so much to be thankful for. I love how I am friends with people in Seattle now that I wasn't that close to when I lived there (thank you Facebook!). I love how I've kept in touch with Seattle friends, that even though they're not every day staples like they used to be, we can pick it up in a heartbeat. And I used to have a hard time mourning the friendships that seemed to disappear when we moved, but now I have enough distance to just be grateful that these lovely people were there in our lives when we needed them. And a few old friends that had gone AWOL are suddenly reappearing! I can't begin to express my appreciation for the people we've met here, who hung in there with me. They listened to story after story about how AMAZING Seattle is. And occasionally they still have to listen to it. It's part of who I am. But I have to admit...I'm part Phoenician now, too. Maybe it's easier when I've got the love of my life by my side. I hope it is, because even though I doubt it will happen, I hope we end up overseas somewhere cool together. All my love to all of you...past, present, future...who have extended your hand, your ear, your shoulder, your laughter, your tears, to reach out and touch my life in such incredible ways. Bless you, my friends. Bless you.

Letting Go of the Boat: The Trouble with Making Decisions

“Let go of the boat!”

I barely heard the words as the thrashing water of the rapids bounced me around while wave after wave crashed over my head. The fear and freezing temperature took my breath away as I clung to the rope that surrounded our upside down raft. Just a few moments earlier, our guide, Neils, had asked us if we wanted to go through the next (and biggest) set of rapids on the river. He explained that the boat could flip, but that he'd navigated this area many times and flipping was something he knew how to handle. As my friend, Ronda, and I considered it, he asked: "Do you want to go big or go home?" That settled it. We were going big.

We were paddling through the roughest part of the rapids, doing just fine, when suddenly the boat was upside down and we were under it in the frigid, snow-melt water. After getting out from under the boat, I found myself repeatedly pummeled with waves that filled my mouth with water every time I tried to take a breath. As I clutched the rope that connected me to the raft, I found myself staring up into Neils' calm, but serious face from his perch on top of the flipped boat. Although his voice was steady and firm, I couldn’t fully process what he was saying to me.

“Let go of the boat!”

Slowly, his words sank in. The idea of voluntarily casting myself adrift into the rapids was terrifying—This is how people drown, I thought to myself. The snug fit of my life jacket was less than comforting. My friend, Ronda, was behind me in the water—one hand holding onto the back of my life vest, the other, like mine, clinging to the rope connected to our boat. Neils’ order defied logic; The boat felt like the only thing that stood between me and drowning. But it was the right thing to do. Our guide, despite his youth, was very experienced; he grew up on the river and led countless friends and family members on this trip. I had to trust that he knew what he was doing. In order for him to flip the boat back over, Ronda and I would have to let go.

My river run with Ronda a couple of summers ago is a great metaphor for the way I make most decisions in my life. I cling to what I know, what seems to be true and solid, in fear of the unknown. As I research on the Internet and talk to friends ad nauseam about whatever the decision is at hand, the waves of information eventually threaten to drown me. I feel as if I can’t breathe. My thoughts swirl as surely as the whirpools of the river as the water flows over rocks and fallen trees.

The funny thing is, the fear and paralysis occur regardless of the size of the decision. From picking out a movie to deciding on schools for my kids, I have a very difficult time making choices. Choosing one thing is not choosing something else. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I miss out on something that would have been better?

Right now, I’m in the midst of one of those agonizing decisions. After working on my own for the last 17 years as a consultant in corporate training and communications, I got burnt out and quit. That was a year and a half ago. At first, it was nice being at home and I needed some time to regroup and recover, but now—it’s time. I need to decide what comes next.

I’m not qualified for any other careers right now, so that led me to the idea of going back to school. The problem is that my interests and background don’t lend themselves to a practical degree like Nursing or Accounting. You know—the kind of degree that qualifies me to get a job. My undergrad degree is in Humanities, so the program that appeals to me is a Masters in Liberal Studies, which, in my opinion, qualifies me for life, but not so directly for a job.

Do I enjoy the next two years and get the degree that best suits me? Or do I suck it up and get a degree in something more practical? Or do I just try to find a job and skip school all together? The decision feels overwhelming and it will take a while before I can answer those questions—after all, at least some research is in order for major life decisions, right?

One thing that gives me comfort is that although it’s easy for me to get stuck in the decision-making process, I’ve never regretted a single decision I’ve made. Apple founder, the late Steve Jobs, said in his Stanford commencement speech in 2005, “…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.”

Looking back, the dots do connect. Every decision got me to where I am today—a place I am happy to be. I love my husband, I like who my kids are, I had an amazing career, and I have to trust whatever comes next will only add to a life well-lived. The fact is: there are no wrong decisions. Regardless of which degree I choose or if I decide to get a job, my experience will have its positives and negatives, but ultimately it will have been an experience worth having.

Back in that river two summers ago, I did finally let go of the boat. While the waves kept crashing over me and I struggled to catch my breath, I held on to my paddle and felt Ronda holding on to me. There we were, two middle-aged women, adrift in some pretty gnarly rapids. After what seemed like an eternity, but was mere seconds, I felt Neils’ strong hand grab the shoulder of my life vest as he hauled me into the boat. I lay there, spent and heaving, as he pulled Ronda to safety as well.

Even when it seems illogical, even when I want to cling to the safety of the known, it’s true that the better decision is to let go of the boat—to release myself into the flow of the river of life (preferably with a friend holding on to my back). Whether the current is slow and smooth, or crashing whitewater, I can trust that God, my river guide, will not let me drown.

Let go of the boat, Dana. I’ve got this.

Letting go, He will pull me to safety, where, relieved, I can enjoy the rest of the trip.

Expect Nothing, Be Open for Anything

“The best things in life are unexpected - because there were no expectations.” - Eli Khamarov

Every frustration, disappointment, or fear in my life comes from expectations. Sometimes it's that people aren't who I expect them to be, or they don't do what I expect them to do. Situations don't turn out the way I expected. It seems that culturally, we talk of "hope" and "expectations" as if they are good things, but I am beginning to wonder. It seems to me that it is better to live in the moment and free myself of expectations, since hoping and expecting are all about a future that I cannot see.

A standard part of human experience is that we fear not living up to others' expectations. We talk of "expecting more" of our kids or our employees. But really, when we have specific expectations of others, aren't we limiting who they can be? What they can accomplish? When we have expectations of ourselves or others, they are based on our tiny, little, pea-sized view of the world. How can we create expectations for the best possible things in our life when we can't even see all of the possibilities?

Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun, says: The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new." By creating expectations on what we "know" to be true, we are restricting ourselves from taking in new information. If my goal is truly to be present—for that is all I have—then it seems to me that I must let go of expectations. Even "hoping" implies expectation—hope for the best—so it seems best to leave that behind as well.

Backward-facing emotions like regret, shame, and guilt usually come from past expectations. I didn't expect to lose that friendship. I expected more of myself. My parents expected more of me. These rear view thoughts serve as a cage to keep us from the present and all of the possibility of "what could be."

Moving forward, my choice is to expect nothing, but to notice everything. To pause, and say "Hmmm...based on my limited world-view, my tiny sense of truth, this doesn't look so good. It's not what I expected. But who knows what a God of the Universe could DO with this! Let's see what happens!"

Damn, It's Hot

The day we moved into our house in Scottsdale, Arizona it was 115 degrees. It was the first house I’d ever lived in that had air conditioning, but of course we couldn’t turn it on that moving day, with the doors open to facilitate the process. As a girl who had spent her entire thirty-five years in the cool, rainy Pacific Northwest, it might have been normal for me to think, “Oh Lord, what have we done,” but I don’t remember thinking that. What I do remember thinking is: Damn, it’s hot.

Everything is different here, even the houses. For instance, very few homes here have basements. Every home I’d ever lived in in Seattle had a basement. Basements, while great for storage and rec rooms, lodged big, brown fuzzy spiders seeking someplace dry to dwell. Basements were cold and damp—damper than the rest of the home. During the grey, rainy months that made up the better part of the year, that dampness seeped into my bones, making it impossible to feel warm, despite cozy fires or comfy socks.

Instead of walled-in patios with swimming pools, our homes in Seattle had decks and front porches for enjoying the sunshine when it did come out. On those gorgeous, yet rare, blue-sky days when the sun graced us with its appearance, everything was outside on the deck. Our first home as newlyweds was a tiny, white brick, “war-box” house to which we quickly added a giant deck. If it wasn’t raining, the deck was where the celebration was—birthdays, baptisms, impromptu get-togethers, all celebrated in our outdoor space.

After spending our whole lives within five miles of the house I’d grown up in, we decided to follow my husband’s job to Scottsdale. We had two weekends to find a house that would suit Jim and me along with our two boys that were nine and twelve at the time. Between two whirlwind trips packed with home tours, we settled on our current home—a remodeled southwest-style ranch home. My first home with one floor.

We traded hardwood floors for travertine marble tile…everywhere. We traded cozy rooms for soaring 14-foot ceilings. None of our “contemporary Northwest” furniture worked in the new home, but even after replacing it with more appropriate counterparts, our voices literally echoed through the house. Friends back home would call and partway into the conversation would ask, “Where are you? It sounds as if you’re in a cave.”

Out front, instead of rhododendrons, there are bougainvillea and giant, towering saguaro. Fuzzy thyme plants have been replaced by small barrel cactus and plants for which I do not yet know the names. We almost ripped out a dead looking, medusa-like bush/tree thing before finding out it was a dormant ocotillo. Ironically, the one thing we have more of in our desert landscape than we had in Seattle is a giant swath of thick, green grass.

My favorite thing about this house is that I can run from one end of it to the other. Or dance across it. With a wall of glass doors that open up to our patio, I often delightfully boogie across our living and dining area, spying outside to the swimming pool, palm trees, and hammock that paint the picture of a lovely vacation day. And, just as in the brochures, the sun is always shining.

No, I’ve never entertained the thought, what have we done? Even during our five scorching summers where you just survive five months of hotter-than-hell. I don’t believe in regrets. Despite the fact that the desert is pokey and harsh, and in many ways trying to fit in here has been the same, I am glad we moved. This home, like all the others I’ve lived in, is not “home” because of where it is or what it holds. It is home because it is where I live with the people I love. In many ways, our move to Arizona has brought our family closer because we have only had each other.

Our sons, now 15 and 18, will be moving along soon, and Jim and I already talk about “our next home.” It could be a loft condo, or a small flat in France, or a beach house in Central America. We still own our house in Seattle and people always ask if we will move back. We always have the same reply: Even if we did move back, we would live in a different house. That house, filled with the sweet memories of raising our young boys, served its purpose for us. Each new home has served the stage of our lives we were in well.

For now, with our teens fast asleep on this sunny Sunday morning, I’ll just take another sip of coffee, and do my little boogie across the house. We’ve got three more months to enjoy before damn, it’s hot begins again.

The Joy Choice (Part 3)

(Part 3 of 3)

Choosing to Laugh and Play More

The last choice I'll share with you in my quest to choose joy is choosing to laugh and play more. We humans tend to take life so seriously! We need to lighten up, laugh a bit more. Right now my son is a senior in high school and talk about serious...you should hear parents who are going through this college admissions process!

What is he going to do next year? Which school is he going to? What if he doesn't get in to his first choice? What if he doesn't get in at all? When is this due, that due, what if he doesn't graduate--he'll never be able to be productive in the world! All will be lost!

The fact of the matter is, they're going to be okay, these seniors of ours. Why do we insist on creating all this stress and pressure on them at what is probably one of the most exciting, hopeful times of their lives? This is a time of opportunity and dreams...all on mom and dad's dime! If we could just lighten up about it, maybe they could experience the joy of the experience.

Even in our darkest circumstances, there are opportunities for us to play and laugh. The late Gilda Radner, a marvelous comedienne, said: "Cancer is probably the most unfunny thing in the world, but I'm a comedienne, and even cancer wasn't going to stop me from seeing the humor in what I was going through."

And play and laughter is not only good for us personally, but it also connects us to those around us. Another great comedian and musician, the late Victor Borge said: "Laughter is the shortest distance between two people."

But I'd dare to take it one step further.

Choosing joy--through laughter, choosing our thoughts, making choices, noticing, and however else--does more than just impact me or the people I come in contact with on a regular basis. I would argue that it changes the world. 

How can we solve war and discord in the world if we do not first eliminate it in our own hearts and minds?

So, for me, in this moment and in as many moments as possible while I am on this planet...I choose joy.

I hope you will, too.

The Joy Choice (Part 2)

(Part 2 of 3)

Choosing What I Say "Yes" To

When I hit my emotional/physical brick wall a little over a year ago, initially I had to say no to everything. I was physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted so it was easy to just stop doing anything. As I started to feel better and get my energy back, I found that I was much more discerning about what I chose to spend my time and energy on. I've spent the last year learning that NO is a complete sentence...and I can say it!

In my old life, I had two criteria for doing things--if I could do it or if I thought I should do it, then I said yes. This lead to a crazy life that was living me instead of me living my life. Now, I ask myself: do I want to do it or do I feel so strongly that this needs to be done that I want to do it? If the answer is yes, then I choose to commit to it. If the answer is no, even if it seems like a really fun thing or great opportunity, I say no. (For more on this, check out my article: When Saying Yes Means Saying No on HeadDrama.com).

What I've found is that because I am spending my time and energy on the things that I choose to do, the things that are important to me, I get more joy out of participating in them! Choosing what I say "yes" to has heightened my experience of joy in my daily life.

Choosing to Notice More

Another choice I've made is choosing to notice more. We can have people and events all around us that bring us joy, but our lack of recognition can lessen our experience of it. It is so easy to just get on autopilot and do what we've always done without taking time to notice moments of joy.

A woman in my writing group was sharing her experience of this the other day. She loves to do Zumba® fitness dance classes, but had realized that she was going but not really taking the time to notice how much fun she was having while she was there. The simple act of stopping to make mental note of how much fun she was having increased her experience of joy in taking the class and in her day.

We are such creatures of habit--sitting in the same spot on the sofa, taking the same route to school or work, shopping at the same stores--I think sometimes we need to purposely shake things up so that we can notice more.

Years ago, I worked at Starbucks corporate offices and one of the vice presidents had previously owned a furniture store. He told us that he made a conscious effort every day to enter the store in a different manner: sometimes he crawled on his hands and knees, other times he'd climb on a chair. These vantage points gave him a different perspective and he noticed things that he would have otherwise missed if he'd just walked in the same old way.

So choosing to take the time and make the effort to see shift my perspective is increasing my experience of joy in my daily life. It ain't always easy...but it's worth it!

Stay tuned for Part 3: Choosing to Laugh and Play More

The Joy Choice: Little Decisions That Make Life More Joyful (Part 1)

(Since this was originally a ten-minute speech, I'm going to break this down into several blog posts so that someone might have a prayer of actually reading all of them.)

Part 1 of 3

I love watching little kids when I'm out and about--2, 3, 4 year olds--the ones that are too little to be in "real" school yet. They seem to have an innate sense of whatever will bring them joy and they just do it! They twirl or drop to the ground and roll around or stick a finger in their nose. They do what they want to be joyful and don't care what anyone (including their parents) thinks. Somewhere along the way, I think most of us lose that sense of what will bring us joy and then choosing to act on it.

A little over a year ago, I had a bit of a meltdown. I had a fantastic life--wonderful husband, great marriage, two wonderful kids, our home (something to be grateful for in this day and age), our health--and yet I wasn't happy. Sure their were moments of happiness, but I didn't have that deep-down core happiness that I call joy. And I couldn't figure out why. I had everything I'd dreamed of, yet joy eluded me. Then, the meltdown. I hit a psychic brick wall and had to just stop everything. I was physically and mentally exhausted from "living the dream."

I was blessed enough to have the time over the next year to do some serious personal work. I got to explore why I wasn't experiencing joy and how I might experience more of it. What I discovered was that much of my joy was in the choices I was (or wasn't) making. I'd like to share some of the ways I've been choosing joy in my life.

Choosing My Thoughts

If you think about it, much of our experience is really about what we are thinking. If we are having stressed out, worried thoughts, we are experiencing a stressed out, worried life. And vice versa.

For example, my son goes to school about a half hour from our house and I get to experience an hour's worth of freeway and downtown commuting right at rush hour. Believe me, other drivers give me plenty of opportunities to lose my joy! They change lanes without signaling, they cut me off, go too fast, go too slow, tailgate...and my first reaction is anger. Irritation. Swearing. But none of my reaction affects them, my reaction only serves to ruin my own day. My joy is in my perception.

There was a story in one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books a long time ago. You've probably heard it before: A woman is looking forward to a quiet commute home on the train and a man gets on with his unruly young children. She gets more and more worked up, wondering why he isn't doing something about his kids' behavior so finally, she confronts him. The man explains that they are on their way home from the hospital where his wife, the kids' mother, just died. In an instant, her perception shifts. The kids are still unruly, she's still tired, but that one little piece of information melts her anger into empathy.

Maybe that guy who just cut me off is on his way to Phoenix Children's Hospital where his kid is fighting cancer. Maybe that woman tailgating me can't be late to work again or she'll lose her job--and her home. I don't know what their stories are, but isn't it just as easy for me to assume that they're not just assholes? The fact is I get to experience more joy in my life when I choose to think positive thoughts...OR when I just choose not to think negative thoughts.

Tune in next time for choice #2: Choosing What I Say "Yes" To

Perfectly Imperfect

As far back as I can remember, in any given situation, I've been excellent at reading other people to figure out what's "expected," and then do what it takes to meet or beat those expectations. I have always been good at people-pleasing.

This means at home I was the "good" kid. At school, I was the "good" student. When I met my husband, I added “good” wife to my list. Then, when our boys were born, I took it to a whole new level. I read every parenting book I could get my hands on. I was not going to be just a "good" mother...I was going to be the perfect mother. I was going to do it the "right" way and raise perfect children. 

I lived this way, trying to please everyone else, to live up to someone else's idea of perfect, for most of my life. Until a few years ago, when my kids entered their teen years. They had their own ideas about what they wanted to do and who they wanted to be. I kept trying to fit them, and our whole family, into the impossibly perfect mold I’d created based on what I thought was everyone else’s vision of “perfect.”

Now, we had never measured up to this mold of the perfect family that I was trying to fit us into, but as the kids gave up youth group in favor of playing death metal, we were getting farther away from this version of perfect every day. The more I tried to make the mold fit, the worse things got for all of us--frustration, arguing, nagging were making home life unpleasant. Until about a year ago, when the mold just broke. Really, I just broke.

You can call it whatever you want—a meltdown, a mid-life crisis, a crash—but essentially I had to let go. I was physically, emotionally, and psychologically exhausted from trying to measure up to some impossible—and incorrect—version of who I thought we should all be.

This "crash" has been the greatest gift of my life.

For a year now, I’ve been in the process of learning some fabulous life lessons and I’ve been blessed with amazing, supportive teachers along the way. 

Here is what I am learning:

·      There is no one right way. This may not be shocking to many of you, but this was a revelation to me that took 40 years! There are a lot of right ways--and none of them is perfect. It was the French philosopher, Voltaire who said, “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” And it’s true. I missed out on a lot of good stuff while I was striving for someone else’s view of perfection.

·      The more I try to be perfect, the more distant it becomes. Trying to be perfect actually keeps me from being excellent. When I am afraid of screwing up—whether it’s in public speaking or in my marriage or my writing—that’s when I do my least best work. It’s when I’m willing to make mistakes and reveal my “true self” that I form deeper connections with others.

·      Being present is more important than being perfect. It is my life’s work from now on to be more present and more grateful. When I am focused on being perfect, it removes me from experiencing what “is”—I’m too much in my head thinking about what to do, how to be. When I'm caught up in all my mind chatter, I'm not present and can't connect with anyone.  And I happen to believe that forming deeper connections with each other is part of our mission on this planet.

Maybe the most important lesson I’ve learned, though, is that I don’t know. I don’t know the "right" way, or what I'm supposed to do, or why others do what they do. As far as I can tell, my job is to show up and let go of the outcome.

As we start this new year, I would challenge us all to look at whatever it is in our lives that holds us back, keeps us from being present, keeps us from having the kinds of relationships we long for, and I would encourage us to take steps to change that. It's a process, not a project, but I think the more of us that get started on it, the better off the world will be.

We can’t be perfect, but we can be excellent, and excellence happens when we are present, when we are passionate, and when we are just our plain ol’ imperfect selves. So Happy New Year, and here’s to being perfectly imperfect.

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.