This one step…

… – choosing a goal and sticking to it – changes everything.”

This Scott Reed quote came into my life a few years ago at an opportune moment when I needed it most, and it fueled me on to better, happier things. It’s actually still up on my “favorite quotations” section on Facebook (because I’m sure people check that out all the time, and think about what a smart, clever person I am.)

Saw this pictorial reminder today, and am therefore sharing it here. Killing two birds with one stone really: tending to my much-neglected blog and putting some inspiration front and center.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Blue

“Blue” gets a bad rap.  For example, people talk about feeling blue when they are sad.    A recent trip to Mexico showed me all of this blue, and “sad”  wasn’t the defining emotion.  :D

Weekly Photo Challenge: Sun

After a winter in Scotland, standing on Coumeenole Beach (near Slea Head on the Dingle Peninsula in Western Ireland) in the bright, spring sunshine made me think that perhaps the damp little corners of my soul just might dry out, after all.

Soaking up the spring sunshine and sea air while back-packing through Ireland.

Some Easter thoughts

Not being a ham-eater (I know!  The sacrilege…), Easter was not the holiday I looked forward to when I was growing up.  Getting up early for Sunrise Service and having to put up with ham in the house was not nearly offset enough by Cadbury Eggs (much as I love them).

For all of these reasons, it’s funny that now I associate Easter with a different set of feelings.

The change started in 2007.  [I was in the middle of the European back-packing tour that was the bittersweet conclusion to six months of living in Edinburgh, Scotland on a student work visa.  Coming back to America was a daunting prospect.  I was happy in Edinburgh.  While my family was in the 'States, there was not much else waiting for me... no job, no place to live, and friends who had been building their lives, post-college, without me around.  Knowing that being in Europe with free time wasn't likely to happen anytime soon, I had planned this whole experience to give myself almost six weeks after my visa was up before I had to be in London catching a flight home.]

Some pieces of this Grand Tour had been planned, but I had a gap between being in Morocco for a week with my old college roommate, and a planned stay in Florence, Italy.   I got back to France on the Thursday before Easter, and spent some time in Marseilles and Nice.   But as beautiful as Nice is, my restless little soul whispered to me “keep moving, this isn’t it.”  So on Easter Sunday, I hopped on a train for Genova, Italy, and hoped I’d figure something out to keep me busy and entertained for a few days before heading to Florence in a few days’ time.

I sat on that train, and missed my family.  Desperately.  It was a strange feeling.  I had missed them in the months previous, certainly.  But it was a “I wish they were here, so I can show them this [insert cool thing/place/scene here]“, rather than a homesick feeling of wishing I was there they were.  But, sitting on that train, I felt homesick.  And lonely.  And, possibly, a little bit sorry for myself.  My sister was going to be telling everyone the first kid of the next generation was on its way, and I wasn’t there.

Upon arriving in Genova, I knew this wasn’t my stop either.  Back on the train, and following a hunch based on five sentences in a Lonely Planet guide, I was headed for the Cinque Terre and a town named Riomaggiore.

Riomaggiore was a blessing unlooked for that day. Landing in this little Italian town provided some much needed peace to a weary and sore soul. Watching the sunset from a hill overlooking the town and the water, I couldn’t help but think about a lesson learned long ago in all my years of Sunday School. There’s a section in Luke where Jesus basically tells his disciples not to worry so much.  Worry will not add any time to our lives, he says, pointing to how the birds are fed, and the lilies clothed in splendor … and how much more important are we than they?

I am often too logical for faith to be easy.

But in that Easter, I felt like maybe I was a lily too – amply and richly provided for, through no effort of my own.

Two years’ later, I thought about that feeling again, after spending Easter with my family and hearing a sermon about being surprised by hope.   It was interesting to have my experience framed, however coincidentally, in a way that resonated so strongly.  And Easter and I became a little bit better friends, as I wrote about what I was thankful for in a Facebook note.

Last Easter, I got to hold my brand new nephew and know again the joy and unfathomable love that is holding a new little one that is yours. [Dear niece and nephews, you are mine.  I'm not replacing your parents.  But, know this: I love you dearly and will always be there for you].

The year since has been a roller coaster I couldn’t have predicted.  But here I am again, at Easter – grateful the lessons learned and the memories made on this day.   Time goes far too quickly too often, so I’ll just take a minute here, if that’s alright.  

Weekly Photo Challenge: Journey

“Journey” is a familiar word.

You could say I’ve got the wanderlust. After college, I moved to Scotland (where I had the opportunity to get a student work visa). When my visa was up, I backpacked for almost six weeks around Western Europe. I traveled by air, and train, and boat, and most certainly, by foot.   And, I took a few pictures …

The ferry that took me from Algeciras, Spain to Tangier, Morocco. Gateway to a new world, I think I took this picture mostly because I liked the bright colors.

The train station in Genova, Italy. And amazingly enough, photographic evidence of an impulse in the making. In 2007, I hopped on this train on Easter Sunday - feeling a little homesick for my family and a little lost about where to go next. I headed for a little town called Riomaggiore, and found my own little slice of heaven.

In the Italian Riviera, between Genova and Pisa, there is an area of five little towns known as the Cinque Terre. Now a UNESCO World Heritage site, these little villages clinging precipitously to the countryside overlooking the crystal blue waters were so remote that they were only accessible by carefully worn footpaths. These days, the trains come through, but the paths have become a national park. Visitors come in droves to hike from town to town, and enjoy the view (and the workout).

Weekly Photo Challenge: Arranged

“Arranged” is a concept with a few different connotations.  Taken one way, it can mean that something is purposefully controlled and ordered in a way that may not be totally genuine or natural.  And yet, “arranged” can also be indicative of something harmoniously organized for any number of reasons: efficiency, beauty, simplicity… without detracting from the sincerity of the thing (whatever it may be).

To me, this picture was definitely about the latter.  It was taken in Florence, Italy on an April day that was 80 degrees, sunny, and pretty much perfect.  Having hiked all over the town the day, I took the opportunity to indulge in some tiramisu and people-watching in the sunshine-y terrace of a little cafe just down the hill from the Piazzale Michelangelo.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Through

This gallery contains 3 photos.

I don’t often participate in the Weekly Photo Challenge, but have been neglecting my blog here in lieu of the stuff that pays me.  (Logical, but not always as fulfilling…).  This prompt caught my eye, since the concept of how … Continue reading →

A post directly from Bethany’s “irrelevant, senatorial level of consciousness”

Ever read a sentence that just stopped you in your tracks? Made you realize that those couple of dozen words perfectly encapsulated an unnamed thought that had been buzzing around your head? The sense of relief can be palpable. Because it’s those thoughts – or maybe they’re feelings? – that are the ones that have yet to be nailed down and made manageable. And they keep you up at night with a vague sense of unease.

It’s rooted in the concept that names have power. Go no further than the story of Rumpelstiltskin – and the idea that knowing someone’s true name gives you power over them. Is it such a leap to think that naming our thoughts is any less potent?

Perhaps therein lay the root of my reading habit. I read a lot. And for lots of reasons. Enjoyment. Education. To figure out how to write that Excel formula. Edification. It’s the last that ties in most closely to the theme of this post. I love best the books that cut closest to the bone, and the authors who seem to have figured out a bit more than me about this life game. They have this relationship with WORDS that makes enlightened description seem as easy as breathing.

The pure enjoyment of the well-written sentence is often its own reward, but every now and then, a sentence just blows me away. It’s a thought or a description that is so pitch-perfect; it creates its own moment of revelation.

For example, I read this recently:

“Sammy still refused to admit to himself – at that irrelevant, senatorial level of consciousness where the questions that desire had already answered are proposed and debated and tabled till later – that he was in love, or falling in love.”

- The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon*

And I had to put the book down, and just marvel in those words. Hot damn, Chabon! You are SO right. Why do we insist on thinking that we can think our way through love? That we won’t feel until we give ourselves license to…

Personal history tells me that this assumption is a common fallacy. [At least for me.] Love has always outpaced my big, beautiful, imminently rational and risk-averse brain. The verdict was handed down long before I had the chance to decide if it was a bad idea (… which, it was). But admitting that things might be otherwise strips me of a level of control that I do not easily relinquish.

Of course, I’m reading this little gem of knowledge in the midst of my own moment of denial. After a hiatus from dating and relationships, my life has started take on the basic shape of a laughable [unless you’re in it] rom-com movie.**  …Nothing like learning what people really mean by “when it rains, it pours.” … Thinking my way through it isn’t working, and I’m paralyzed by the sense that I don’t know what I feel.

On one hand, reading that sentence of Chabon’s made me feel better. One more piece has been placed in the puzzle. But, on the other … it begs the questions: “when do these two levels meet?” When will my thoughts know what my heart has already decided? If I must lose my right to think my way through this, could I at least know what direction has been decided, so that I can stop thinking about it way too late in the night? I have a sneaking suspicion that there is indeed a direction. And that I’m courting disaster and heartache by not settling on it quickly enough.

So it all comes back to the power of naming, doesn’t it? I have thoughts I cannot put into words right now, and it’s all the more frustrating because I believe those words are out there, just out of my reach.

*A seriously awesome book, for the record. Chabon writes in a way that is so lyrically perfect … sigh.  It makes you realize the difference in literature between “good” and “incandescent.”

**Woe to those who would involve themselves with me, as clearly I can, and will, process things related to them in my writing…. Fair warning.

Priorities and active listening

It might be a bit early for resolutions.

Given how this year has gone though … maybe I should start now. But why am I thinking about resolutions in November? Well, it’s something I read this weekend. I’ve been mulling over its importance. Worrying it, like a dog with a bone, actually. Is it really applicable to me? Why can’t I get this thought unstuck in my head? And today, a TED Talk – of all of things – turned on the light bulb.

But let me back up. This weekend, I was flipping through the December issue of SELF (mock me if you wish, it’s less intimidating than Women’s Health...) when I stumbled upon a quote in a section on a featured yoga workout.  

When I exercise, eat well, and get enough rest, I thrive.  Repeating those things every day is how I show myself love.”

-Mandy Ingber

At first, it seems a bit … something… for me. I’m practical. Logical. Perpetually in motion. I exercise. Attempt to eat right. Think longingly about sleep. Close enough, right?

Yesterday, I had the day off. Sweated my way through my first-ever Spin class. On the way home from the gym, I thought about how much better my workouts are when I’m not trying to shoe-horn them in between 70 other things. They feel good. More effective, even. I enjoy them, rather than stressing because it is just one more thing on my to-do list.

That feeling stayed with me, as I spent a couple of hours in the art studio, putting handles on mugs. And while I went to the library. These are some of my favorite things, and yet they are always relegated to a lesser position, and a lesser priority, in my life. There are so many other things to juggle, to keep moving in the air, and these things … well, I don’t get paid to do them.

But in case I was not getting the  message clearly enough (and in fairness to the universe, I’m occasionally a bit obtuse), an article posted to Livestrong.com crossed my path today.  Entitled “Is fitness dead?,” the blogger considers why December is so hard on our health, and wonders what could be done if only we didn’t give up only to start over in January. 

And these are the words that stuck with me, echoing what I had read in SELF:

When you’re interested in something, you do it when it’s convenient. When you’re committed, you accept no excuses; only results.

For me that’s applicable not just to working out, but to all things I should prioritize.  [Writing, mug-making, and running all seem to fall under that  "deserves commitment" umbrella]. While I’m thinking about what a nice quote that was, but generally still not getting it, I stumbled across a recommendation for a TED Talk* on one of the work-related blogs I read for my “professional developement.” This one was titled ”5 ways to listen better,” and given that “listening” is a key skill to what I do in my day job, it seemed worth a listen [har har.  ] 

Active listening is a skill, the speaker Julian Treasure says. And it’s a skill that’s endangered. A skill we are losing. A noisy world. Gadgets to cover our lack of attention.  Impatience and desensitization. 

Is it any wonder that the universe is shouting at me? So I’m listening now. My life could stand some reorganization. Prioritize the things that will make me happy, fulfilled … challenged. I’ll be more effective for it. Better at work and in my relationships. But I’ve got to commit to it.

I’ve got to remember to stop and listen.

*The interesting codicil to this story, is that I knew nothing about TED conferences or TED talks until this weekend.  And, but for the friend who introduced me to them serendipitously, I might not have felt that link worth the effort.  Sometimes, I think the universe realizes just who it needs to send a message to, and adjusts the volume accordingly.  It must get tired of the ham-fisted approach I force it to adopt…

Just call me The Hander of the Tools

Happiness comes in the little things.  This weekend, happiness came in the form of tools.  And the correct identification thereof. 

You see, my brother and I worked on our cars on Saturday.  We have built up quite a catalog of experience when it comes to “basic car maintenance” and “slightly less basic car repair.”  [Mostly my fault, the Present Car is the most reliable thing I've ever owned...].  Ostensibly, some of these sessions have been frustrating.  ["Oh. Great. That IS a previously unidentified oil leak that's routinely killing the spark plugs..."]  But, on the next level, these are actually some of our best times.

And, I’d like to think it’s not just because he’s slowly amassed an impressive collection of tools, in part due to my contributions.  [Rein Family Mechanic Rules - The driver in need of mechanical assistance will supply or purchase: all parts needed, willing -if not intelligent- labor, any caffeinated beverages requested, and any tools required that are not currently owned.]

I could get emotional here, and talk about how it seems like an important piece of our bonding ritual.  Or how much it meant this weekend that he could send me trotting off to one of the tool boxes and trust that I would know what he meant when he asked for the 1/2″ socket extension or C-Clamp, even though I’m not a mechanical person by nature.  [Note: I really love that I know these things.]  But I won’t.  Instead, I’ll share something with you that I read him a few years ago, when I first came across it:

I love the work.  Love to get in there.  Love grease on my hands …. Love to see the whorls of my skin outlined in black, a topographical map in the palm of my hand. I like the feeling of lying on my back beneath the chassis trying to reach a rusted nut with the heat of the trouble light in my ear … I know how to work like a mechanic.  I just don’t know what to do.  At best, I am a good helper.  A hander of tools.

-”Truck: A Love Story,” Michael Perry

As far as titles go, I’m good with Hander of Tools.