Micro moments. Thank you to my life, that I am not so distracted and busy that I miss the specialness of the treasures around me.
I treasure you from 15 years ago, small man in his 80’s in the local library. You were wearing the corduroy jacket with the worn suede patches on the elbows. How refreshing that they were probably placed over actual worn spots to make your jacket last longer; rather than by a designer to be on trend. You paused and smiled at me with such warmth and sparkle in your eyes that I saw, heard and felt your smile. I returned it. I wondered who you were. Did I know you? When I looked for you minutes later I could not find you. You were not even in the long line checking out. You appeared with a look of loving encouragement when I needed it. I did not know it then but I had in my hand a book that would change my life. Were you an angel waiting for me to find it? I remember you.
Thank you to the sweet man who held the door for me yesterday. The colleague who helped me make a few work calls at 4AM three months ago. The classmates who listen deeply and share fearlessly so we all grow. The woman at the coffee shop that remembers how I take my coffee. The nurse I had not seen for almost 4 years who came to chat before she left work. We are all very different and we all shared moments together.
I appreciate you, my friends who are happy when something good happens. I love you, people who text “love-hello’s.” And you, Ellen; for being loving and funny on TV; how delightful are you. Thank you to musicians, bands, singers and cellists and harmonica players. Thank you to painters and those that draw and those that quilt and those that knit. Thank you for seasons and scarves and mittens and boots. Thank you for planes that take my friends who resist the seasons to warmer climes.
Thank you for bountiful language and authors and publishers and book reading people. Thank you for creating books I will never read and books I love. Thank you to the quiet introverts; and thank you to the louder extroverts. You make the parties more fun and allow us quiet ones to sneak out early without others noticing. Thank you to the crabby, for you let me know that I am pleasant. Thank you to the people who hold tight to their money for you help me feel generous. Thank you to the generous for they help point the way for me to do more.
Thank you for the dancers who dance anywhere and the people who want to learn how to do that. Thank you to the people who eat crickets and the people who do not eat meat. Thank you to the people who are not average and stretch our imaginations. Thank you to the bigger and the smaller, the taller and the shorter, the simple and the complicated. Thank you for black tie and business casual.
I am counting on you... I cannot make our world this cool by myself. I am so glad for everyone that makes it different. We never came here wanting to be the same, believe the same, have the same dreams.
I want to look for who you might be, stranger. If you are driving slowly in front of me I just want to wonder why. I want to look for your specialness and find it. I do not want to miss you being your best. I hope to be moved to tears witnessing your finest qualities. I want to feel your heartfelt kindness and emulate it. I want to be struck by your wisdom. May I toast, with all my heart, your achievements. And the achievments of your children. If you decide to have them. Either is okay. May I keep my eyes open, and admire who you are.
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We were only days into it, and one of the women did not fit in.
I was a smart young professional with a new job, not yet a mother, newly married, my life ahead of me. I was in South Carolina for 3 weeks of sales training. There were 10 of us from around the country, 2 men and 8 women, staying at a lovely hotel in beautiful Charleston. We were accomplished. We had been hired for these positions of responsibility and been given company cars, salaries with commissions, and opportunities to travel.
The ten of us started together, and liked each other. At some point in the experience, between our training and our meals and our being out on the town at night, we decided that Linda was a little odd. We were kind people and we did not start out to alienate anyone. It was just that she did not want to go to the same places for lunch that most of us agreed on going to. And then she did not often want to go out after the long day. And then someone mentioned how Linda would sometimes answer questions in a nervous, rambling way in our classes. Oh, yes, now that you mention it, we had all noticed. Such crimes, right?
And so it continued. With very little effort and even less awareness, if we talked or noticed Linda at all it was to point out her imperfections. Together, in our nice little cohesive, supportive group, someone would have an amusing Linda story.
By the end of week one, none of us “liked” Linda. When it came to Linda, we were all on the same train on the same track going in the same direction. For by day six we were in some sort of silently made agreement.
This meant that if Linda did anything right, we were not going to be able to see it.
On the Friday at the end of week two, we were back at the hotel, each in our rooms. We were changing for a late dinner with the president of the company. There was a quiet knock at my door. It was Linda wearing a bathrobe. She did not know what to do. She had changed early, had been sitting reading to pass the time. Her period had started to flow as she sat. She gripped her white dress pants in her hands. The crotch of them was stained with fresh red blood. She had nothing else dressy to wear.
Her obvious distress made me pull her into my room. It was actually so funny that she knocked on my door, because I knew the best way to get the stain out. There was a technique I had been taught by my then husband Dan, who had to get stains out of clothing when he worked at a men’s clothing store. I told her that story, as I looked into her sad little face. I told her not to worry. She started to cry. I took them from her, saying, “No, really; I can get it out, you will be fine.” I smiled at her. I gave her a hug; I mean she just seemed to need some reassurance. I had her sit down while I worked on them myself. It took patience. I had to keep at it and keep at it. While I worked we just talked. When the stain was gone I dried Linda’s pants with my hair dryer. It all took about thirty minutes. And in that thirty minutes she taught me that I could like her, very much.
That is it. That was Linda’s gift to me. How wrong we had been. Ninety percent of our community had been in agreement… and then. I received the gift of time. Time with Linda, and time to see Linda in a new way.
Even in tiny little ways about small things and without even noticing we hop on trains that ride on tracks that keep us heading in one direction and we become blind to what we do not see.
Linda was in front of us, a living breathing person just like us and we could not see her. How easy it is then, to not see groups of people we do not know at all, who are different in little ways and live in places we are unfamiliar with and have struggles we have never felt.
The Pope has arrived, and I am not Catholic, but I recognize true kindness of spirit and a pure example of our ability to love one another in a divine way shining through his eyes and radiating from his body. We carry energies and his divine energy just traveling into and about our land is a blessing that I think I can feel. This man is special. He is coming from pure love. Can you feel it? Can we hear him? Can we see how he loves and learn from it? Can we love more divinely, all of us? The love the Pope reflects is in all P e O P l E. See what I did there? Just like the love of GOD is in every DOG. All living things, all life, birds-beasts-flora and fauna need the very best love each of us can bring to heal ourselves and heal our planet. YES! I love you even as you roll your eyes. I might need thirty minutes with you, but…
I do mean let us be corny with love. …Vulnerable with love. …Courageous enough to just love anyway.
May we question the trains we ride on, and where our tracks are going. May we occasionally hop off and take a cab.
May we learn that we can like each other, very much. Johnny K works from home some days, and he did yesterday. He is very busy, has phone meeting after phone meeting on the speaker phone in his office. He types emails and instant messages while he talks. He really does wonderful work, he is a brilliant man. Meanwhile I had purchased 5 little containers of Marigold plants.
While I had waited for him to get the shovel I had remembered one of the handiest tools of all. I let him return to his office before I got it out. A kitchen spoon. I went out and got the Marigolds planted. I think there are "tool men" and "make anything into a tool women." Or maybe it is not a male/ female thing, but more generally genetic. "Tool people" and "make anything into a tool" people.
He probably did not even notice my smile. As I look back on my childhood I dearly love my mother for the day we woke up early, while it was still dark. She made thermos's of hot chocolate, the home made kind with Hershey's cocoa powder. We headed North into New Hampshire. By the time the sun rose we were parked and ready for an adventure. Waterfalls, the smell of pine, climbs up forest paths and scampering about rocky streams. Beautiful fall leaves all around. I was with my family and yet had time and space for my own thoughts. One of the most delightful days of my childhood, visiting those mountains. What is the closest mountain to you?
-George Mallory (Delightful postcard by Sarah Uhl) I love quotes and wise people. I discover things in odd places that I do not want to forget. Perhaps when you share things you are less likely to lose them. And so, inspired by an artist who designed postcards many days in a row, I am going to send postcards many days in a row, send messages. To you. Wherever you are. Because we are all growing, and we all matter. Please, if you like one of them, feel free to "mail" it, too. Or mail it, TO: Someone special in your world who would find it meaningful. Life's wisdom. Pass it on. MLR The lovely postcard below, and my inspiration to share lovely postcards, comes from Colorado artist Sarah Uhl. Watch for more of Sarah's postcards...
I was always feeling too busy and too tired to do things. I was newly single, with 3 children and a time consuming job. Since spring my youngest had wanted to go looking at acoustic guitars. It took me until the heat of summer to promise that on my next day off we would go out to Tinicum Guitar Barn, a place I had seen a little wooden sign for on Route 611. "Just to look," I said. We were happy to have a plan.
The day came and it was hot and sunny. Following the wooden arrow I had noticed months before, we left the major road. We drove winding roads for a while, backtracking because we missed a few turns. The arrows pointing the way were placed up in the trees and the leaves had grown over some of them. We were feeling a little adventurous, because it was so rural and in the woods. We were lost in a “fun” way. We were happy.
We suddenly thought we found it. We pulled into a gravel-covered driveway that seemed to appear in the middle of nowhere. The crunch of tires clearly announced our arrival to this bare chested man sitting within the wide-open cave of a garage. The garage was set up like a living room. Garage bay open, he was actually perched in the middle of a traditional family room sofa. He was sitting in profile, facing a TV. As I got out of the car, he took a drag from his cigarette. He flicked ashes into a brass ashtray stand that stood on the floor, the kind my great grandfather had used for his cigars when I was a little girl.
There was not a guitar in site, so I was uncertain.
“I am not sure if this is the Guitar Barn,” I said, having left my son in the car. The bare chested man pointed to some wooden stairs that headed up along the wall behind the thick, boxy TV. I think the TV had outstretched rabbit ear antennas perched on top.
I gestured for my son to join me.
“Go on up. Feel free to play anything. Holler if you need me. Close the door after you, it’s air conditioned up there.”
Up we went. I closed the door after us, securing us in an attic-like space. We could no longer hear the cicada’s rattling in the trees, or the TV sounds. We could no longer smell the cigarette smoke.
Sunlight streamed in through a back window, and in it floated a galaxy of tiny little dust flecks. Our eyes scanned the space. There were used guitars on stands, guitars hanging from the ceiling, old toy plastic guitars, and guitars tucked way back in corners with a few dainty spider webs. Worn out oriental rugs criss- crossed in layers under our feet.
My boy was shy at first, strolling around the room, taking inventory. He was tapped into the pure self-wisdom that 11 year olds have before the world tries to change them. It was some time before he even picked one up to strum it, but we were in no hurry, we had nowhere else to be.This was the single event we had assigned to this day. There was no attic clock and I had no cell phone to distract me. I dragged a stool into the patch of sun and settled myself. From here I just watched and loved my beautiful golden boy.
He would pick up a guitar over here, make friends with it by sharing some chords or a song; and set it back in its spot. He would pick up a guitar over there.
At some cosmic moment he rounded yet again around a certain electric guitar that had caught his eye first thing. A different “category,” he looked to me for permission before he reached for it. It was a 2003 Gibson Les Paul Supreme, with a root beer finish.
The universe took a breath and held it, I think now. For this was the point we lost our sense of time, when we met this instrument. Was it the size of it? The balance? For once my boy lifted the strap over his head, this guitar rested against his body, an instant companion, a new limb. They introduced themselves politely. They talked to each other. From time to time they included me, asked me questions with rising notes and then answered them, not needing me. Without our knowledge the notes made their way downstairs and called to the bare chested man, lifting him from his perch. He came up and wordlessly looked about, dragged forth an amp, and got the new friends plugged in. “You’re good,” he said. He left them to play louder together.
At some point we realized hours had gone by. We drove home, bringing only the sweetness of the day back with us. The guitar had been very expensive. It was nothing we were considering.
And yet.
That night I described the magic of the day to my two older sons, who are just as special and loved by me. Without my asking, they each said we should invest in the guitar. We should use a chunk of family money to get something that was just for Chris. They both said he worked that hard. They both said he was that good.
Why was this day so special? Was it the day itself, and the delicious expanse of focused time together? To now be able to call up and relive the memory; even feeling the warmth of the sun despite the air conditioner, be back in that dusty room again, is that the gift? Was it unselfish love, having two older brothers emphatically believing in you and declaring it so clearly? Was it seeing the joy you created when the youngest heard of our unanimous family decision, how we made his face glow with delight? ? Was it the gift of seeing, and the gift of being seen? Or was it that, in all those busy days, I had carved out time that was meaningful beyond expectation. I had given us a life moment together. I loved that day then, and I love it now. Do not forget to LIVE your LIFE while you are living your life. Don't live life and miss your LIFE. MAKE SURE YOU TAKE YOUR TIME. If your life is crazed, if you are frantic if someone unexpectedly drops by, if you have piles of laundry endlessly in baskets that you shift from place to place… if you are short on the most priceless thing there is, time… then stay with me, I may be able to point you in the direction of a “once and for all” solution.
My friend Carrie messaged me that she thought I should order a certain book because she felt I would like it. I trust Carrie. I am a book lover and an Amazon Prime person, so in less than 2 minutes it was on its way to me. Weeks later I want to share that I found the book a life changer. “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up- The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing” has been quite the 206-page surprise. The author is Marie Kondo.
This is like no other system. It is not a system. Do not go out and invest in organizers. In a nutshell: you organize by categories, handling items and asking yourself if they spark joy in you. If they do not, then you pass them on, with thanks that they were with you for a time. You are not deciding what to give away; you are deciding what to keep.
I am not yet “done.” I am still enjoying the process and learning things and yet I am also really appreciating more than I can express the subtle changes I am feeling about my space and myself.
Yesterday, a rainy day, I had time to consider my cabinet of baking dishes and mixing bowls. It is a poorly designed cabinet, one of those awkward ones that extend deep into a corner. After I emptied the front I had to crawl partway in to reach the side "annex." I really had no idea what was living there, just that it was full. The part I can reach and see into is always a place where I am stuffing bowls or leaving a bowl on the counter, waiting for a chance to restack what is in there so everything fits. It has been “crowded’ for 10 years. The colander actually rents space other places because it is forced to move around- sometimes it will not fit in.
I pulled the contents of the entire cabinet into my kitchen. I found my missing crockpot, something I had convinced myself I “left” somewhere. I mean, this life we live, you do not have time to think sometimes, right? “ I am too busy” is some kind of badge we often wear with pride. ENOUGH. Life is too short.
The oblong Pyrex dish that was born warped, that I neglected to return when I took the cardboard wrap off 15 years ago, has lived here quietly for years. It wobbles when you are cutting or serving, and is never the one I reach for. I have two, and always use the other one. I do not remember ever needing two, or ever feeling joy about having two. And so I bless it and carry it tenderly to recycling.
I have never considered objects like this. I have never had this kind of clarity about what I actually like and use. If we are always reaching for the same things, maybe those same things are all we need. It is not minimalism, however. If those 100 egg cups you have collected make you happy every time you see them on your egg cup shelf, you are all set. Just do not make the egg cups you love live a lonely life stuck in a carton in your basement. Do not save the good crystal for "some day." You can enjoy your water in it today, all by your wonderful self.
I found 3 cookie tins that I have housed for years, as “they would be so good to use if I mail cookies somewhere.” They made me laugh. I have mailed cookies and never thought of using these tins. I find a few bowls and plates that are random and do not spark joy. I place them in my donation box, trusting that someone else will love them and appreciate them. This sounds so simple; taking a conscious look at items you are surrounded with, weighing their purpose. I never did it, ever. Taking time and actually making sure your bedroom drawers… your linen closet… your kitchen cabinet… contain things that bring you joy. “Does this bring me joy?” is so very powerful.
There is much wisdom in the book and it cannot be captured in a few paragraphs. Everything in the book is important. You might think the gratitude part is silly. And yet actual research done, unrelated to Marie and her work, shows that showing gratitude for things and people in our lives can actually be a powerful antidepressant. It can even be more helpful than medication. So even that tiny part is very important.
I have read the sweetest tributes to this work and how it has affected people. A mother of a young one who has challenges communicating verbally heard her son speak more words than he ever had before when she asked him which of his books brought him joy. He had been watching his mother go through her own process for days. I do not think she even expected him to answer; and yet he did. He told her he did not like the book she held; he liked the book about the stars and the planets. It was a "wow" moment for them. She had not known.
So many sweet things happen like this that people call it “Kondo magic.” Make some room in your life and you never know what will take its place. It is not always “things.” The space changes might trigger inner changes: a simple, conscious looking at your life and how it is working for you.
What is important to me? What can I let go? What brings me joy?
Love yourself enough to ask.
I got home after dark. There was a brief time The Regan Brothers, my 3 boys and their bassist Walker, actually practiced in my basement. I walked in to a dog hidden away on the 3rd floor from the sound intensity, and lots of sound beneath.
What sound. They were writing more original music and in jamming freely they had caught some sounds that were about to create a new song. They played and experimented and perfected and then I happened to come home. I fell in love with the intensity of the music in this piece. I cracked open the basement door. I set my phone on the floor to record it. I could not believe the sound they were making, the energy. I stood still and listened. This piece reminded me of them, their exuberance, their imaginations. It made me think of how they played "cowboys and indians," growing up, how they played baseball and basketball, how they played capture the flag. It made me think of rock music their dad had played when they were little. Certain songs they would want to hear to get "pumped up" for something. Something to hear before a baseball game or when they wanted to run really fast. There were certain songs they would request. They played this at their New Years Eve show last month. It was the first song for 2015. I loved how the crowd was singing the words with them, loved the crowd making whooping sounds at certain points in time to the music, loved how people had to gather up front, drawn to the exciting sound of moving toward something the boys were generating. People ask all the time, what is it like to be the mother of such a talented trio? To watch them play together? ( I adore their band mate Walker, too.) I am never quite sure what to say. It is exactly the same as it has always been. I am filled with love. Filled with respect. Filled with adoration. Filled with delight. Filled with the blessing that I got, and get, to mother them. I like to think of children, like they were, hearing their music and being inspired by it. Hearing the thump of the drum and the driving bass sound and the guitar and keys building energy. Urging them forward toward an achievement. Whether they are facing a race or a test or you want them to clean their playroom fast, the instrumental middle of this song might drive them forward. Just like music affected them when they were little. Want to run faster and jump higher? Put some music in your ears! There is something important I really want you to know. I am not sure what you will think about it. Yet I think it is so very important that we talk a minute. Technology and a breathing machine can keep your heart beating for an extra day or so when you, or your family, say that it is okay. That extra day or two on a breathing machine is powerful time. Life saving time. It gives births, weddings, fishing trips, proms, parents, grandparents, children, and bowls of strawberry shortcake with whipped cream back to others. You know, life things. Precious life things. Your local transplant experts will be contacted by the medical team. We will arrive at the hospital, no matter the hour or the weather. We will leave our children on their Birthdays. We will arrive and we will wait and try to determine the best time to ask your family. Most of us will have a certain sense of nervousness. We do not know what your family will say. We are the only ones that represent the unknown families that are counting on us to save the lives of the ones they love. Sometimes very meaningful words can cross your path. You file them away and never really consider how they have affected you. Back in the day we would copy something out by hand, or cut it out of a newspaper or magazine. Now we click and save. Last week I had an old newspaper clipping come back for a visit. |
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