Ordinary Life, Extraordinary Living

Staying Sane in an Insane World

It has been over six months since I largely checked out of the working world to recharge and "fill up the well".  I'm back in the saddle, but there's no guarantee that I won't go down the same path of burn out again, given my previous M.O.  Photo by tj scenes

My friend, Richard, who has designed retreats and renewal programs for teachers and physicians, astutely asked me this question:

What are you doing to ensure that you won't end up in the same place? 

Memories and lessons learned can fade quickly, once we are back in the hunt.

Here are five questions, courtesy of Richard, which I thought would be helpful for anyone who wants to lead a sane life:

• What are my mirrors? In other words, how will I know I'm off track?  For me, blogging goes by the wayside.  (Ooh....that means you, the blog reader can become a mirror for me when I've been silent for too long. Please. Do. Poke me.) Another sign for me is my body complains. This can be anything from lower back pain to dizziness to feeling ungrounded.  And finally, my family, especially my husband and my sister are likely to tell me when I'm off track. Photo by Cea. 

• What agreements do I have about what I will do when I am off track?  It's easy to get the data and ignore it. While I haven't made an agreement with others, I've made an agreement with myself to step away from whatever I'm doing to take a break.  In some cases, the break is a few minutes or a couple of hours. In other cases, it may be a day or two. Jonathan Fields in his new book, Uncertainty, talks about "establish[ing] a set of circuit breakers designed to allow you to come back from a quest that has turned into an abyss, to reconnect with the people and activities that add tremendous richness to life and serve as a source of fuel for even great ideas when you return to the endeavor."

This rings true for me. Getting off track doesn't always mean that my work is going poorly. Just yesterday, I had conversations with people related to projects that I'm excited about.  I was ecstatic with what was possible and with seeing a way to fulfill a long time dream. It was a real adrenaline rush. And by the afternoon, I could tell I was crashing. I needed to get out of the office, recharge (I'm an introvert on the Myers-Briggs scale), get grounded again. Trying to do more work, at that moment, would be an uphill battle, because that's not what my mind and body needed. 

So what did I do? I took a short nap (you're allowed to do that when you work out of your home) and then went for a long walk with my sister. The work in my office would have to wait. Photo by My Eyes Photo

• What triggers must I avoid?  Much like an alcoholic should avoid happy hour, there are circumstances that precipitate an all out frenzy to do more than is good for me. This is one of the hardest questions for me to answer. Fear of failure comes to mind. If I think I'm likely to fail, be embarrassed, be seen as incompetent, I'll work like a dog to keep that from happening. 

The opposite is also true.  If I can see the finish line, that overriding yearning to complete something will cause me to push myself past a reasonable stopping point. This is especially dangerous as I gain momentum on new projects. The creative juices start flowing, and seeing something take shape and move from idea to reality can be addictive. Photo by ukanda

• What needs are getting met by living in the old way? This, my friend, is a nasty one. In reflecting on this question, it forces me to see where my ego takes control.  The old way of living--depleting myself in the long run for the sake of perceived short term gains--is rooted in the need to look good, to be valued by what I get done.  I have always had trouble accepting that who I am being is just as powerful, if not more powerful, than what I can accomplish. The paradox is that if I can pay more attention to how I am being, I will actually accomplish more, in less time.
  

• What of my morning/afternoon/evening have I savored?  I love this question, because it reminds me that part of healthy wholeness is experiencing pleasure. I want to remember to enjoy the journey rather than only being laser focused on the destination. A little stress is good but too much stress ruins everything. Again, quoting from the book Uncertainty, Jonathan Fields speaks to this eloquently: "I turned my own creative process into more of a dance than a race." I want to dance. Photo by Aunt Owwee

Last year, I would have pushed myself to get through the to-do list.  This year, I step back to see when something actually needs to get done and what things can wait.  I'm findiing things that I thought needed to be done today or tomorrow were just mind chatter.  

Last year, I had an intensity about executing that was not healthy.  This year, I wait until the right moment to execute the right thing, when it feels like I'll be in the flow for that particular activity. I'm finding things take less time than I thought.

Last year, I planned months in advance, in gory detail.  This year, I plan a few months in advance and wait for the data about what to do next emerge. I have a "north star" but I don't worry about having a map up front for the entire journey.

Last year, my schedule was jam packed. This year, I work in 60-90 minute spurts and make sure I have lots of blank space on my calendar. Oddly enough, I feel more productive. Photo by xavi talleda.

Last year, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders.  This year, I'm finding that many hands make for light work.  Help is coming from all corners.

Life is not perfect, but I have a new equanimity to deal with situations.  I'm more grateful. I make time for a walk each day.  I'm happier.

How are you staying sane in an insane world?

 

Are You Fulfilling Your Destiny?

While journaling recently, I wrote the following question: 

"Have I fulfilled my destiny?" 

Have I met the promise of what others saw in me at an early age? For many, family and teachers are the first ones to see our talent, encourage us and see who we could become in the future--for example, a fine musician, a brilliant scientist or a gifted communicator. I see that with my own son, at college for the first time this fall. My husband and I have hopes and dreams for him. We know what he is capable of and where his gifts lie.  We have told him as much.  Photo by Casey David.

But how many of us take the time, decades later, to assess whether we lived up to our potential? 

When I was in high school, I worked hard enough as a flutist to be in top youth orchestras and bands.  Sometimes, people would ask me if I wanted to be a professional musician. I knew back then that music was not my destiny.  I remember two girl flutists who were destined to be professional musicians. Amy and I took lessons from the same teacher and I would hear her playing as I arrived for a lesson.  She had a sureness in her playing that seemed to spring from somewhere deep inside of her. Her fingers flew over the keys, never missing a note. The other flutist, Jane, was someone I met at a music camp.  Jane had an ease and grace with the flute that I had never seen in someone our age.  She was meant to play the flute.  Music was her first language. 

I went to college thinking my destiny was to be an engineer and solve hard problems.  I didn't really know what it was like to be an engineer other than it required training in math and sciences.  I did become an engineer, first a chemical engineer and then a software engineer.  But I know now, that was not my destiny.  Photo by Seattle Municipal Archives.

How did I know that? Not because I changed careers, but because it wasn't something I would have done for free.  I didn't have the curiosity or the love.  It was not my purpose in life to solve hard engineering problems. I know people who are like that, but that wasn't me.

It was my destiny to fulfill my immigrant parents' dream of having all their offspring graduate from college.

It was my destiny to get married to a wonderful man and raise children who are caring and capable and creative.

It was my destiny to go through experiences that taught me compassion, from developing a painful condition in my jaw over several years called TMJ, to taking care of two toddlers on my days off while my husband worked on weekends and holidays, to being laid off twice.

Although I wasn't conscious of it for many years, it was my destiny to speak about what I see and to be the scribe for the human experience.  I write what is true for me, whether it's good times or bad.  In doing so, I make the human condition more accessible, and honor it. The biggest bonus life has given me is the ability to help others through my writing. Photo by Metro Centric

It has been my destiny to uncover wisdom in unexpected places. In 2006, I started a project with a friend who was dying of Lou Gehrig's disease. We called the project, which turned into a podcast, Conscious Living, Conscious Leaving.  I interviewed her during the last six months of her life, through 10 hours of phone calls and many emails. That work was the purest I've done, in that it was labor of love.  I couldn't not do it.

It has been my destiny to continually find ways to learn what I wanted to know and in the process, create a structure for others to learn. In high school, I rallied fellow student council members around a mission--convincing administrators to set aside three days before spring break for an alternative schedule of classes for every single student and then making it happen.  All 1600 students had four periods of new classes, taught by volunteer instructors.  It was a student run, student organized effort called Unique Week. Students took classes in topics as diverse as CPR, cake decorating, fencing, and unicycling and took field trips to local businesses. Photo by matthewcornell

When I was going through coaching training, I created The Coaching Studio, a forum to hone my coaching skills and educate the public on coaching. The format consisted of three coaches, doing 12-minute coaching demonstrations with volunteers, followed by feedback from an audience.  Over time, The Coaching Studio spread to coaches across the U.S.

I'm not sure I was destined to teach others how to network but it has been my destiny to show others how giving first comes back to you many times over. 

It has been my destiny to become more of who I am throughout my lifetime. Not just an analytical engineer, but also an intuitive coach, a compassionate interviewer, a creative entrepreneur, a playful collaborator. 

If I were to ask my teachers, childhood friends and family if I've lived up to the promise that they saw in me decades ago, my hope is that they would be surprised.  I have not climbed to great heights in society. What I did do was this: I took my gifts and did something more meaningful and unique than they had ever imagined.  One's destiny is much deeper and more magical than what can be grasped at the beginning of the journey.  That is what awaits each of us.

Julia Cameron is a favorite writer of mine.  I ran across this passage in her book, The Sound of Paper and it immediately made me smile:

"It is very easy to forget our divine origins. It is very easy to see ourselves as the products of our birth families, shaped and colored only by those transactions. We are much larger than that. We are each a soul, unique and distinctive, bringing to bear on life a rich legacy of spiritual gifts if we but open ourselves to the possibility that we are not merely the products of our conditioning.  We are spiritual beings with spiritual business to transact here on this earth. We have a destiny to fulfill." 

Maybe the question to reflect on is not whether I've fulfilled my destiny, but how I am fulfilling my destiny.  Instead of a yes or no declared through the logical mind, the heart is better equipped to answer this new question. It's a feeling thing, not a thinking thing.

How are you fulfilling your destiny?  I'd love to hear from you.

 

When It's Time to Fire Yourself

A 2010 study by consulting firm, BlessingWhite showed that just 31% of employees are engaged at work.  That leaves a boat load of people who don’t want to be at work.  My experience is that a majority of professionals hang on to a job when they should be walking away.

Think about your current position.  Now think about you in that position—not just skill set, talent and experience, but also enthusiasm, attitude, motivation.  Now imagine that your current position is an open job post, and you are the hiring manager.

Would you hire yourself?

If you answered no, it’s time to fire yourself. Photo by 28misguidedsouls.

I’ve been where you are.  

In 2002, I was in a job that made me miserable.  I didn’t realize how unhappy I was until I was in a leadership development program.  I had to assess how much I was in alignment with the organization—in terms of values, interests, goals.   After filling out the form, I remember thinking, “That bad, huh?”  I had been in denial.

But I still wasn’t willing to take action.  In my mind, I assigned a half-hearted timeframe of 18 months to leave my job.   Of course, there was no plan, preparing me for this milestone.

A few weeks later, a friend called at the end of the day.  She was a couple of levels up from me at the same company.  While she didn’t say it out loud, I knew she was giving me a heads up that I was on a list of people to be laid off.  I didn’t have the courage to fire myself, so the company did it for me. They took the choice away from me and guess what?  It was a relief.  Someone had the wisdom to give me my freedom, because I wasn’t brave enough to claim it for myself.  Photo by Sean MacEntee.

On my last day at work, my manager came to my office.  She said quietly, “You are leaving too soon.”  And I replied, “No, it’s not too soon at all.” 

Many years ago, at that same company, I remember a VP who talked about his career as part of a career development program for employees.  He had recently arrived from a competitor and was known as a hatchet man at his previous company.  So it came as a surprise when he confessed to having gotten poor performance reviews during his career.  To him, a poor review meant that he had gotten stale in his job.  It was a sign that he needed to move to another job.  He fired himself.

Why is it so important to be able to fire yourself? 

As a career coach, it’s sad to see professionals who have stayed on the job too long.  The personal toll is significant, including:

• Energy drain.  A poor fitting job—whether it’s a mismatch in values, skills, talents, or interest—takes more energy than one that fits well.  It’s a constant uphill battle.  And these days, no one has energy to waste. Photo by sapiensolutions

• Erosion of self-esteem.  Often, a poor fit includes an unsupportive manager, or at least one who doesn’t appreciate your contributions.  Over time, you begin to doubt your abilities.   You yearn for respect and dignity again.

• Inability to produce your best work.  Sometimes, a poor fit results in a mediocre performance review.  If you are someone who has lots of experience in your role, you might be able to pull off good reviews.  But deep down, you know that you could be producing not just good results, but stellar results.

• Snuffing out of  life force.  In extreme cases, staying in a job that doesn’t fit can mean losing your mojo, the thing that keeps you healthy, resilient and vibrant.  You’ve seen people like this on the job.  These are the walking dead.   Their faces are lifeless.  It’s hard to get a laugh out of them.  They’ve been beaten down. Photo by PopCultureGeek.com

Still not convinced?

I know. You can’t leave your job.  You have kids to put through college, a large mortgage, and that expensive summer vacation to pay off.  Plus you’re due for a new car.   Not to mention that the economy is terrible.

This is called stonewalling.  It’s a tactic that a lot of people use.  In their minds, it’s a question of leave now or not at all.  But that’s a false dilemma. 

It’s not a question of whether to leave.  It’s a question of when.

With adequate planning, most people have more financial options than they think.   One of the first things I advise someone in this situation is to create a financial plan.  Know the bare minimum you need to live on.  Develop a reasonable budget.  Figure out how long you can go without a paycheck.  Take stock of your assets.  And be willing to trade off short term income for your long-term ability to earn a living, not to mention having a satisfying life.

Once you make the decision to leave, you’ll notice an immediate spike in your energy.

That’s because you have something to work towards that’s meaningful.  This is energy that can go towards networking, upgrading your online presence, and attracting opportunities by building a body of work that is distinctive and valuable. 

I once had a coaching client who decided she would leave her job in six months.  On the day that she made that decision, she took control of her destiny.  She stopped complaining about her work situation.  She became excited about the future.  And she showed up differently with others.  Several months later, she was approached for a COO position at a non-profit that she had volunteered with for over a decade. Within a week of her deadline for being in a new job, she accepted the COO position with the new company.

Sure, change is scary. 

And if you weren’t scared about the kind of change I’ve been talking about, there’s probably something wrong with you.  But I’ve never met anyone who felt they left a poorly fitting job too soon.  Have you?

The commitment to change is about valuing your self-worth.  It's the first step to having a rich career, not just a job.  Things won’t change overnight.  But by putting one foot in front of another, you’ll soon find yourself in a much better place.

A Place of No Answers

In our everyday life, we yearn for answers.   A solution to a sticky relationship problem, a confirmation that a project will be completed on time, a knowing that the new hire will work out, a tip on where to find the special ingredient for a new recipe. Photo by dannysullivan.

Recently, I told a colleague, "I'm in a place of no answers."

Two months ago, I was a mess.  I had taken four weeks off from work, only to jump back into my startup, My Alumni Link, and feel even worse than I had before the hiatus. More time off was what I knew was needed.

Since then, I've done a lot of crying, sleeping, and exhaling into a new rhythm of life.    Untethered like an escaped helium balloon, not sure of my work in the world, with no schedule to tell me who I really am, this is a place of no answers. Photo by josephpetepickle.

I have gotten clues to what lies ahead. But if I push too hard for "the answer", I know I'm screwed. The biggest questions in life demand that we not only carve out time to focus, but that we have the patience to let things unfold, in their own time.  Gentle attention is probably more like it.  Process is more important than getting to the end result quickly.

What I hold on to from day to day are the things I know I find joy in--writing, coaching, yoga, hiking. I have had moments of wonderful flow, when thoughts, ideas, and feelings burst through me.  I'm in my full power.  There is no gap between potential and reality.  And other times, I can feel myself drifting back to "working" in a way that is hard. Photo by gnuckx

This place of no answers is typical of most transitions.  Many years ago, I found William Bridges' work on transitions.  With every change, there is a psychological process that everyone goes through--when the "old thing" has ended and the new beginning has not yet started.  This is the Neutral Zone. It can be both confusing and time of great creativity. 

I am in the Neutral Zone. 

In the place of no answers, it helps to admit that you are there.  It helps to ask for help.  It helps to surround yourself with people who love you and believe in you. It helps to give yourself a break. 

After all, we're only human.  Or maybe what's more apt is to say, this is a time when being human is more important than anything else. 

Letting myself be vulnerable has meant letting myself be loved. I have been cheered on and touched by the love of those close to me and people who I've never met. A friend called the other day to see how I was doing. He had noticed that I looked tired a couple of months ago when he had been at my house, not to visit but to clear out our gutters. He knew to give me space before contacting me again. My college roommate emailed me last week, to tell me how much she appreciated my blog posts about burnout. It brought tears to my eyes. These are sweet moments in life.  Photo by Lel4nd

With the worst of times, comes the best of times.

I have a friend who had a stroke last year.  She started back at work early this year and has slowly been adding to her schedule as her capacity increases. My friend knows about moving into a different pace of life, a more human pace.  We have had intimate conversations, over the phone and through email.  We talk about when our egos want the old thing that we know and when our soul gently tells us, "Honey, trust me.  You don't want that.  What's to come is even better. Just be patient." 

On my good days, I listen to my soul. On my bad days, my ego is riding me hard.

With a post about no answers, there is no tidy conclusion. Only more questions. 

For you, what question is better left unanswered right now? 

On Being Fifty: Lost in the Wilderness

I am trying to make peace with being fifty years old. 

When I turned fifty last May, I moved into a new Nielsen demographic, as if I was suddenly a less avid viewer, more resistant to buying certain products, and not as quick to tune into the hot new show.  Actually, I've been that way for years. It didn't start with being fifty. Photo by Wonderlane

When I turned thirty years old, it was a celebration of maturity for someone who has always looked ten years younger than her age.  I was no longer the new kid on the block. I could claim a certain amount of experience that came with being a working professional. It felt great.

When hit forty, I knew that I was coming into my own, not just as a professional, but as a person.  I turned the corner from being a competent engineer to that of a whole person, with talents and skills that moved beyond the technical, to something more meaningful.  Forties were the decade for blossoming.  Photo by jmurawski.

Now that I'm fifty, I'm not sure what to feel other than lost in the wilderness, stripped of my favorite blanket and pocket knife. Society doesn't encourage the fifty somethings like they do the twenty somethings or thirty somethings. The forties are the time of claiming the trophy, harvesting the crop, stepping into the coveted position.  But fifties?  In your fifties, you are expected to already "be there", not still striving for being there. Who ever heard of an "up and coming" fifty-year old?  If you haven't already "arrived", it's unlikely to happen.

At fifty, I'm struggling for role models who aren't trying to look younger, or wiser, or something other than who they are. 

At sixty and seventy, you find people who joke about being older.  Nora Ephron wrote the book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, when she was in her sixties.  At fifty, I don't hear jokes. I see scurrying and hiding.  Find me a fifty something who proclaims loudly in a bar, "I'm in my fifties and loving it!" and I'll find you a woman who delights in finding the next crevice-producing wrinkle in her face.  Photo by 85mm.ch.

Many of us in our fifties have kids in college. It's a reminder of how we are not young anymore, that we aren't hip new parents with small children.  On Parent's Weekend, we are the old people visiting the young people.  Our kids are just hitting the parties at 11pm on a Saturday night, while we are getting ready for bed. 

I'm trying to make peace with being fifty years old.

Last year, I started a fitness routine, Fit by Fifty, that led me to the gym several times a week, had me eating salads for lunch and enjoying it, and losing part of the tummy that had expanded into new territory (a la West Bank settlement) over the last decade. It's been my way of turning back the clock.  But let's not kid ourselves. I feel it in my half decade old body, the one that doesn't move as gracefully, heal as quickly, or bend into a yoga position like it used to.  At fifty, my body complains more loudly.

In my fifties, I must make a fateful decision--whether to go down the road of dyeing my hair for years to come or let the gray hairs overtake my head, like a patch of prarie land being returned to natural grasses. The first time I applied dye on my "virgin" hair, it looked great.  I wondered why I hadn't done so sooner.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself as I looked ten years prior.  The next application was not so pretty, literally.  And now, I'm wondering if over time, the results will only get worse.  Photo by L. C. Nottaasen

I'm trying to make peace with being fifty years old.

My husband is fifty-five. Age does not seem to bother him.  In fact, it might be something akin to what my sixty-ish girl friend describes as the "why bother" syndrome.  By the time you are fifty-five, you are too far away from your forties to complain or yearn for something different. Growing older is a fait accomplit.

In my fifties, it's up to me to create the roadmap, to define what the decade is about, to set the standard for myself internally and externally.  That's the beauty and the curse.  Ambiguity provides an opening for playing it my way, instead of society's way.  So here's what I want my fifties to be about:

• Deepening my work. Career guru Pamela Slim likes to talk about one's "body of work".  This next decade is time to shape my body of work, whether it's in the form of writing about the human experience, coaching professionals through career transitions, or doing an Internet talk show.  The theme of my story comes into sharp relief through my body of work.  While I tried lots of different things in my forties, including starting three LLCs and completing countless projects, I want my fifties to reflect an overarching vision, where years later, someone can say, "That's what her life was about."

• Opening up options for how work is done.  This is a time to discover a gentler rhythm in life, where a moment of patience turns into a moment of savoring.  The drive to finish a project will be balanced with the enjoyment of the experience.  I want my work schedule to be best friends with the rest of my life. 

• Taking more risks.  I want my fifties to be a time when I have nothing to prove, other than the fact that my work in the world is what keeps me alive and fresh.  Stepping out is a way of doing that.  Looking back on this time should engender pride in doing things differently, not to be contrary, but because the situation was ripe for experimentation and innovation. 

• Finding grace in a changing body.  Not to get squeamish, but menopause will be here before the decade is out.  I don't expect to become pear-shaped or grow a third head, but I do expect that my body will feel a lot different.  I want to navigate these bodily changes with grace (and a few hormone supplements or whatever medical science deems appropriate at that point.) 

I feel better already.  I'm starting to make peace with being fifty. (This picture was taken the day I turned fifty.)

Four Weeks In: Laughing, Reading, and Writing

I'm starting the fourth and final week of my summer hiatus.  I'm in the mood to laugh, and to read and write. It doesn't get more basic than that.

This past weekend, I went to our local library and checked out several books.  I noticed that I was drawn to stories and humor, including Marlo Thomas' Growing Up Laughing and David Sedaris' dark humored, Squirrel Seeking Chipmunk.  Other books I picked for the title, books like "How Did You Get This Number" and "When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead."

This is different from the business books I usually read.  Before starting my hiatus, I had ordered a book about sales, thinking that one can always get better.  It arrived last week and when I opened it, the title, Spin Selling, was about as appealing as our cat's litter box.  Turds coated in something mildly acceptable.  I'm sure it will sound better once I get back to work. I put it with a stack of business books to read...someday. 

A friend told me recently that if he could, he would take a year just to write code. He started out as programmer but quickly moved into being an entrepreneur. He's now on his sixth startup. My friend talked about how software programming is meditative, an activity in which he could lose himself in. And at the end, there's the satisfaction of creating something from nothing. 

Writing does the same for me.  Someone recently wrote to say that he had read my post about hitting the wall and admired how brave I am.  Honestly, the best way I know to "get over" something is to go deeper into the experience and express what "it" is.  So bravery has little to do with writing about emotional experiences and more to do with a cheap form of therapy, one where I get to pick the time and place and where the doctor is always in. 

 

I'm surprised how long it has taken me to unwind and find my rhythm, in a new place.  Things feel very different than even two weeks ago, when I was working on clearing out clutter (including preparing for a garage sale) and last week, when I was dealing with the chaos of a flooded car.  I still have goals for my time off, but things are more fluid.  I'm much more content this week to shape the day based on how I feel, rather than what I want to accomplish.  In fact,  I'm taking the advice of a dear coaching friend of mine, who said to me:

"Follow only what has heart and meaning.  Trust the process." 

Photo by CarbonNYC

While she said this in the context of my time off, I think this is probably good advice for life in general.  The engineer in me will naturally gravitate back to "doing what needs to be done." But for now, I'm taking a cue from my cat on a hot summer day. He is content to hang out in our backyard, take an occasional stroll to look for mice, and roll around on the patio, with an eye towards napping.

When It Rains, It Pours

Life gives us messages in many forms, sometimes in literal ways that we can't ignore.

Last week, we had a sudden thunderstorm that left 2 feet of standing water in a shopping area where I was parked. My sons and I had gone to a bookstore and then walked over to the Whole Foods to grab a bite to eat.  When the rain stopped, we walked to the car to discover it partially underwater.  The carpeting and floor mats were soaked.

When it rains, it pours. Photo by macinate

My teenage sons thought it was cool to take off their shoes and wade to get to the car.  They seemed to think that when the inch of water on the back floor drained as we drove home, our worries would be over.  I knew better.

Three days later, I ended up with a ruined vacuum cleaner (from trying to use a dry vacuum cleaner for a moist carpet),  and hundreds of dollars in car repairs--to pull out the carpet, dry out the car, put it back together again, and to replace a failed starter.  This happened just two weeks after spending over a thousand dollars on other car repairs (including a new radiator, power window control, and rear view mirror.)

When it rains, it pours.

Among the others things that have broken down in recent months: hot water heater, garage door opener, dishwasher door, printer.

I have cried more in the past month than I have in a whole year.  If I wasn't crying so much, it would be funny.

When it rains, it pours.

Am I being tested?  And if so, for what purpose?  Am I to learn the truth of the phrase, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger"?  My mother once told me that it's easy to be up when things are going well. True character comes out when things are not going so well.

As a coach, I know that we're always in a perspective about something. I can choose to cry, laugh, or feel grateful, all around the same set of circumstances. 

First, the crying.  That's pretty obvious.

Next, the laughing.  My younger son stated it this way after we got into our flooded car: "That was a memorable way to spend the afternoon!"  What I can only see in hindsight, my kids could see in the moment. 

Finally, gratitude. The things that have broken are all material things.  With enough money, all of these things can be fixed. 

The things that have remained intact are the things that money can't buy.  My husband's irreverent sense of humor, lifting me from a moment of discouragement.  A strong, loving marriage.  Kids who are excellent students, respectful and appreciative.  Good health.  Close, supportive relationships with extended family.  Creative, hard-working collaborators and a giving network of friends and mentors.  Great clients. The freedom to set my own schedule.  The privilege of being a business owner, in an age when technology is cheap and in a country where individuals can still be rewarded on their merit.  Deep down, I know I'm lucky.  Photo by kateausburn.

Maybe all of this is about re-focusing on what's important.   Maybe what I needed was a torrential downpour to soak me to the skin and make me keenly aware of what it means to be alive, next to a roaring fire, surrounded by family and friends.  Dry clothes are not far away.

Today, after violent thunderstorms the past few days, I am sitting on my back patio, under brilliant blue skies and comfortable temperatures, with the sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling.  The flora is just as alive as the fauna. Cream colored roses and pale purple lavender throw off a calming fragrance.  A friend likes to say, "All's well in the world."  That's what it feels like right now. Photo by Thowra_uk

Letting Go to Grow

I am in the midst of catching up to reality.  My oldest starts college next month, I'm teaching both of my kids to drive, and my husband has been talking about where to live when we retire. 

Aside from taking more interest in the miracles of cosmetic changes (e.g., hair dyes, teeth whiteners) and starting a fitness program last year, I've given lip service to the fact that I'm well into middle-age and no longer the mother of small children. It wasn't until the last couple of months that it hit me.  Things have really changed. 

It started with my son's graduation from high school. The school was terrific about preparing both students and parents for this transition. A few days before graduation, during the "Night of Reflection", students had the chance to publicly say thanks to their parents and peers. My son, an introvert, assured me that he would not get up and speak.  Even so, I cried throughout. I was touched when he sat next to me during the evening, apart from his friends. It was his way of telling me how much he appreciates me.

The weekend of his graduation was a blur of parties and food, tears and hugs, with a visit by grandparents and an aunt from out of town.  Having known many of my son's friends since grade school, I marveled at how they turned out--young adults going off to some of the best colleges in the nation. Knowing that I might not see them for several years or if ever again, it was bittersweet. 

Two weeks ago, my son and I flew to Dallas, where he went through freshman orientation and registered for classes.  As we drove up to the main campus entrance, I smilled seeing the university name, etched in stone, stretched across green grass.   Over the next two days, I saw with my own eyes his new home and community--the engineering building, the freshman dorms, the dining hall, the library.  I talked with other entering students and parents, also nervous and excited about what lies ahead. After meeting with his advisor and registering for his classes, my son met me in the student union. I could tell he was feeling more comfortable and proud.  Our last task before leaving for the airport, getting his student id, was the capstone. He was officially enrolled as a college student.

When we returned from Dallas, I drove my son to a friend's house.  His friend, who I had known since he was in kindergarten, was leaving in two days for boot camp, at one of the U.S military academies.  His mother talked about the limited contact over the six months--one phone call in the middle of boot camp, one day to visit him on campus in the fall, and then two weeks leave at Christmas. I was grateful that I wasn't having to let go of my son in the same way--cold turkey. Photo by The National Guard.

I'm getting used to the idea of things changing.  After driving my sons to the same school for the last nine years, I am imagining what it will be like, come fall, when the car will be shy one student.  We will have a new routine. I will not be scolding my older son for getting into the shower at the last moment.  I will have to be on time in the mornings. My younger son is rarely late.

Instead of the sounds of piano playing after school, it will be quieter.  Again, a new routine.  At dinner, our table wil be emptier.  I will think of my son eating pizza and cookies in the dining hall, skipping the salad bar and anything even remotely nutritious. Going past his bedroom in the evening, I will envision my son still playing video games, only in another town (and hopefully doing more studying!)  I will be the parent of a college student, living hundreds of miles away. If I'm lucky, I'll hear from him once a week.

I had an epiphany one morning as I was waking up.  Over time, I've gotten used to having teenagers in the house--high food bills, getting into bed hours before they turned in, and updating their wardrobe with new sizes every few months to accommodate fast growing bodies.  And subconsciously, I had another image of them in my mind--the photos of them from 5, 10, even 15 years ago, that surrounded me throughout the house and in my office.  Seeing those young faces--babies, toddlers, mischievous boys, pre-teens--looking at me through the wooden frames, I secretly wished to see them in the flesh, at that age again.

I promptly removed from my bedroom dresser photos of my children from their grade school and middle school years. Instead, I placed them on a table outside of the bedroom, next to my son's high school senior photo. Instantly, I felt better, knowing that I would no longer be taken back in time without the context of the present. In my office, I replaced old photos of my kids, husband and myself with those taken within the last year.  It has made all the difference. 

This past week, my family prepared for a garage sale. It forced me to confront things in the house that no longer are useful, not because I bought the wrong color or received a gift that didn't grab me. These are things that are no longer relevant for who we are today.  My husband let go of baseballs and cleats and bats, used for over a decade in a recreational league before retiring last year.  My sons let go of plastic swords and light sabers and binders of notes, carefully archived from high school classes.  I have let go of kids cookbooks and boxes of art supplies, knowing that the more artistic of my children will be off doing his own thing, in another place, and the more culinary inclined of my offspring now cooks without a recipe, making midnight plates of nachos.  Photo by mel_rowling

Unlike when we first moved into our house twenty years ago, our life is no longer about acquiring and building out. It is about whittling down and re-configuring. I am preparing for the day when we decide we no longer need a fully furnished house with a lush yard, accommodating a family of four. 

This is not all bad. With fewer things tying us down, we have more freedom. It was startling when my husband told me how little we need to live on, when our kids are out of the house. I can imagine a life with more travel and adventure. We just need to let ourselves dream.  Photo by gnuckx

We spend our time differently now.  Bonding takes place with me in the passenger seat and my children in the driver's seat, literally and figuratively.  It happens on weekend driving practice through empty corporate parks or on the way to run an errand, discussing who has the right of way on the road. Or in teaching them how to light a charcoal grill.

At the beginning of each year, I choose a theme for the year, as in, "This is the year of <fill in the blank>."   This year's theme?  Letting Go to Grow.

I feel blessed to learn this lesson, alongside my family.

 

Tears of Joy in a Flower Shop

Sometimes, a touchstone from the past can give us both joy and comfort in the present. 

This past week, I was in Chicago for business.  Afterward, I rode the train from Chicago to Evanston, the town where my alma mater, Northwestern University, is located and where I had additional meetings with clients. 

Walking from the train station through downtown Evanston toward campus, I observed how the buildings and businesses had changed since I was an undergrad, three decades ago.  A hip new highrise had taken the place of a mundane drugstore. A trendy sandwich shop stands where there had once been a diner. While it's good to see things updated and growing, deep down, it's also unsettling. Human beings yearn for the familiar.  It's how we are wired. Photo by pasa47

Gone were the landmarks that I remember--the Marshall Fields department store, where I would buy panty hose or the Kroch and Brentano's bookstore, where I would find Christmas cards and small gifts for friends.

And then I came upon Saville Flowers. With its white facade punctuated by a striped red and white awning, it looked reassuringly familiar.  The outside wasn't slick and in fact, looked a bit worn over the years.  But more importantly, it looked real--a place that had been there for decades and wasn't about to lose its lease next month.

On the door, a handwritten note announced that they had bunches of daffodils for sale.  That was enough to beckon me inside. As I opened the door, I was transported back in time, the scent of flowers wrapped around my head. It was as if I were 18 again, picking up a boutenniere for a date before a formal dance. Photo by antaean.

Inside, it was as I remembered it. The shop was filled with displays of flowers, from Gerber daisies to ones I didn't know the name of but admired.  The cooler for flowers stood in the same place along with the area where customers picked up orders, shelves serving as a writing surface, extended from a column on all sides. The column marked the dividing line between "store" and "back of store" where the employees would emerge from the gray shadows with a customer's order.

A woman in the back came toward me.  I asked about the daffodils and she moved to where they were in the store, mentioning they had just come in.  She reassured me that the tight buds would soon bloom. In the light, I could see her face more clearly and having now heard her speak, I asked, "Have you worked here long?" 

To which she replied, "Oh, yes, I've been here for a long, long time!"

She knew what I was thinking.  "Did you go to school here?"

The next few minutes were a blur of tears and emotion, as we both realized we knew each other from three decades ago, when I was a young co-ed, coming in before a big dance and she was a young daughter working in the family business. I was particularly touched when she said, "Yes, I remember you.  I can see it in your eyes."

I don't remember other shopkeepers in town from my days as an undergrad. But she was different.  She made an impression over the years. Her voice and demeanor had not changed, similar to that of Leave It To Beaver's June Cleaver. She always seemed happy whenever I came into the store and she seemed happy now.

She recounted how she had lived in Spain for a few years, but eventually came back home and together with her sister, bought the business from her parents. She took down a framed newspaper article from the wall, with a photo of her with her sister shortly after becoming the new owners. Yes, it was her. (To the left is a more recent photo of the two sisters.)

She handed me two bunches of daffodils. I paid her.  We hugged.

When I gave the daffodils to my friend and client at Northwestern, I told her the story behind the flowers.  She remarked how it's easy to think of yourself as a twenty-something, even as the years go by.  You can still feel youth, inside your body and mind. 

Next month, I will turn 50 years old, well middle-aged, with my own son starting college in the fall.  I'm grateful to have stepped back in time, not in my dreams or memories, but in a real place that has remained true to its roots, throughout the years.  Thanks a million to Saville Flowers and the sisters who run it.

Winter Solstice

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice.

For the last few days, I've noticed the light and mood around 4pm, when daylight is fading away, marking the onset of evening. It leaves me with a mixture of both melancholy and gratitude.  Photo by ahisgett.

My mind returns to eight years ago, almost to the day, when I was packing up my belongings from my last corporate job, a result of being laid off. I had hoped to leave earlier, but somehow, it took me until nearly the end of the day to clear out my office.  Standing in my empty cubicle, my manager said, "You are leaving too soon."  She felt bad about the decision to let me go. Sure of the path that I was now on, I firmly replied, "No, it's not too soon. Not at all." I knew that it was my time to fly, to become an independent whatever and carve out my own destiny. I had no intention of looking for a job at another company. Photo by ahisgett

As she escorted me to the front lobby, both of us with bags and boxes in hand, I ran into a colleague. He had no idea I was leaving, and mistakenly thought it was my manager who was going.  I corrected him by saying, "No, I'm the one leaving." With those words, reality sunk in.  I started to sob.  I can still remember the harsh fluorescence lights of that big atrium, enclosed by large windows now turning dark.  It was about 4pm.  

I drove to my sister-in-law's house, as part of a planned outing to pick out a Christmas gift for my parents. I can remember the feeling of day turning to night and lights becoming blurry through the tears. When I arrived at her house, the sky had a soft glow, as if to invite me into the comfort and anonymity of darkness. I was grateful that my sister-in-law would not see my face in the light of day, puffy eyes behind tear-stained glasses.

As the door opened, my two-year old niece slowly revealed herself.  She was completely naked, except for black patent leather shoes on her feet.  She greeted me as if nothing, really nothing, was out of order.  I burst out laughing.  I was grateful for what life had handed me--perspective in the middle of my misery.

I said hello to my sister-in-law. I don't remember asking her, but I must have requested that she help me with a closing ritual in her backyard before going on our shopping trip.  I had brought a print out of my farewell email to my colleagues.  The moon was now high in the sky. Under its gaze, we burned the note in a clay pot, watching as white paper turned into black ash. My sister-in-law lit a sprig of dried sage and circled the pot with the smoke, as if to draw a boundary between the past and the present.  It made me feel better. Photo by Glen Bowman

Now, eight years later, I am sitting in my office, on the eve of Winter Solstice, reading an email that a friend from high school and college has died.  My first thought is, "It's too soon."  At 49, it feels like it's too soon for a contemporary to be gone.  But my friend, who would have appreciated the sadness on his behalf, would also have used his quick wit to make light of our bereavement.  I can almost hear him saying, "No, it's not too soon. And could you stop being so saccharine?"  He's on a new path, for sure.

In the depths of darkness, there is a seed of a light that will grow in the coming days.  From tears that mark an end, comes the emotional hardiness we need for the next leg of our journey.  Life has been more than kind to me. In this moment, I've never felt more blessed and grateful for everything in my life, from loving family and friends to great work and health to comfortable surroundings. I'd like to think my friend is feeling some of that right now as well. Photo by kabils

My friend, Dave, who lives literally across the street from one of the deepest parts of Lake Michigan, in northern Michigan, sent me this poem by Walt Whitman, titled Halcyon Days.  He tells me that "halcyon days" refer to the two weeks on either side of the winter solstice:

Not from successful love alone,
Nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or war;
But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm,
As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,
As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,
As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs
really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree,
Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!
The brooding and blissful halcyon days!

What does the winter solstice bring up for you?