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I gave away my coffee

March 2, 2019

I gave my coffee away again today.

When I go to the city, I almost can’t help myself, but to be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about that when I bought the coffee.

My son and I had a rare morning just the two of us while my daughter was at a school practice. We made our usual Saturday trip to the library to pick up a couple of books and then I promised him a treat for helping with the snow shoveling the past two days.

“I want to go to Prince Street,” he said. Music to my ears. (I miss coffee shops, although it is nice to have a job that helps pay for the trips to the coffee shops, even if I have less time to visit the coffee shops. The struggle is real.)

It was the morning after a second hit of snow in as many days. Most of the sidewalks were clear, but the air was chilly, and the city is busy on Saturdays. Which often means more people on the streets–both in the pedestrian sense and in the homeless or panhandling sense. You see the evidence in the backpacks slung over shoulders and the worn winter wear on their bodies. One woman started coughing as we passed. I’ve seen her before, and I wondered if the cough was timed for our passing or just a coincidence. Sometimes, my heart is still so cold.

If I spend too much time thinking about the suffering I see or sense in the city, I become overwhelmed and almost paralyzed by the enormity of problems. I cannot do anything, I think, to fix this (whatever “this” might be). I rarely carry cash, so I can’t even help with a request, and the city has been discouraging open panhandling anyway. I don’t know what the answer is but I know I want to keep my heart more on the side of soft and open than on hard and closed.

We stopped in at market to see my husband and just say “hi” then made our way to the cafe. It was a bit crowded, so we decided to take our food and drink to go. We left with a coffee, a hot chocolate and two Nutella cookie sandwiches. My son held the cookies and I held the drinks. Every coffee shop we had passed in the city was full. I’m rarely in the city on Saturday mornings, so maybe this is normal. On the route back to where I’d parked the car, I saw a man I’d seen before, holding a sign.

“Homeless. God Bless.” As we passed, my right hand, the one holding the coffee, lifted almost on its own.

“Could you use a coffee?” I said as he took the cup I offered. My son and I had only paused, and the man looked at me and said “Thank you, darlin’.” It is the same every time. I have given this man a cup of coffee more than once. (The last time was not recent.) He is always in the same spot and we always say the same things, and I never miss the coffee I gave up.

It solves nothing, really, except that it makes me more aware of my own humanity. I give up my coffee to keep my heart soft and to communicate to another human being that they are worth at least as much as a hot cup of (good) coffee. The price of not sharing my coffee is higher than what I paid for the cup of coffee.

It was almost easy and instantaneous this time, but only because my soul has practiced this particular action. Sharing what I have, even when it isn’t a lot, or when I don’t have any money, is a skill, in a way. I had to do it once so that I didn’t have the excuse of “I could never do that” and then I had to do it again to make sure I believed that it was something I could repeat. Any new skill takes practice and is awkward and clumsy at first. Only with practice do we improve. We might never be pros but we also won’t be beginners.

Practice has become a word I can’t escape lately. If I want to have a life that looks like Jesus, I have to practice. It’s not going to be like a magic spell that turns Cinderella into a princess. If I want to be kind, I have to practice. If I want to be generous, I have to practice. If I want to serve others, I have to practice. If I want to love, I have to practice.

Practice. And repeat. Until it is almost second-nature.

Sometimes that practice looks like doing something I don’t really “feel” like doing. I could have talked myself out of giving away that cup of coffee, but I knew I still had coffee at home. And that man might not be welcome to walk into a coffee shop and order his own coffee.

This action was easier than others. I still have many ways in which I need to practice what I believe.

I gave away my coffee today, and I tell you about it because I believe you can, too.

We all have a list of excuses and reasons why we can’t get involved in someone’s life or why the problems of the world are too big, but I am naive enough (okay, make that hopeful enough) to believe that small actions can make a difference, even if the difference they make is only in me.

Except that I know that they are making a difference in someone else, too.

After I handed my coffee to the man, my son patted me on the back and said, “Good job, Mommy.” (He also wanted to make sure I had given him the coffee and not the hot chocolate. Baby steps!)

What makes a difference in us will often be visible to those close to us. And maybe it will make a difference in them, too.

New Eyes

February 20, 2019

“You don’t need the ‘b’ word yet,” my optometrist said to me after she’d finished examining my eyes. I could hear the emphasis on the yet. It–bifocals–was one of my fears going into the appointment. I hadn’t had my eyes checked in probably six years and I knew I was suffering from headaches and eye strain. That my vision had deteriorated, I was not surprised.

How much clearer I could see with a new prescription–that was practically shocking.

Why hadn’t I done this sooner?

The answer to that question is a reflection of my personality. When it comes to making appointments, I drag my feet. I like my schedule, and I don’t like disruptions–even good ones. The process of making a phone call and talking to a person to make an appointment is often exhausting, especially if the date or times I had in mind don’t work. (Online appointment scheduling thrills me, and if I can make an appointment for the next time while I’m standing in front of the scheduler at the end of my appointment, that’s good, too.)

Another challenge is choosing where to go. My insurance benefits don’t include my eyes, and there are dozens of choices when it comes to optometrists. I opted for Costco because it’s close to work and my house and because they could schedule me for the time I wanted. (Apparently 2 o’clock is a popular time to take lunch if you’re an optometrist.)

Any kind of medical appointment makes me nervous because I’ve usually spent far too long consulting Doctor Google about what my symptoms might mean. I need to leave it to the professionals because it’s never as grim as the Internet would lead me to believe. (This applies to so many things, but I won’t follow that bunny trail.)

While I waited for my eyes to dilate, I tried on dozens of frames. This is the hardest part for me because it takes time for me to get used to a new look, and I’m never totally confident about what looks good on me. (Sometimes I ask my tween daughter for fashion advice.) I boldly tried some dark frames but quickly ruled them out because that is not the look for me. I settled on a couple that I thought could work and then I went back in for the rest of the exam. I learned about floaters and why I have them and how they’re just a part of my life to get used to. And she told me what to look out for and to come back in if I experienced anything like that.

I was in good hands with this optometrist, and our personalities clicked somewhat. I don’t know if it’s an age thing, but more and more I want to have a positive relationship with the medical provider I’m seeing, not just a business-like transaction. This experience was more the former, and when I had decided on a pair of frames and paid, I couldn’t wait until I got to bring home my new eyes.

—

How we see the world fascinates me because we all see it differently but none of us can literally see through someone else’s eyes. And none of us really knows what the world looks like for someone else.

I mean this literally, of course, but also in another sense.

The same week I got my eyes checked, my husband and I got our personalities checked. Sort of.

If you’ve been around this online space for more than a couple of months, you’ll know that I’ve latched on to the Enneagram as a way to understand myself and how I operate in the world better. I still have so much to learn about myself.

This most recent foray, though, was not about the Enneagram, although having some knowledge of that tool helped me. Before Christmasl, my husband and I took two online leadership surveys, I guess you’d call them–the Grip-Birkman, by name–as a next step in helping us figure out some things for the future. After taking the assessments, we scheduled a meeting with our coach who is also a friend, and our schedules finally worked out so we could talk about what these results meant.

It was like an exam for my heart and mind. The tests are self-revealing based on questions we’ve answered and the picture shown by the results is like putting on a new pair of glasses. Suddenly, I could see some things more clearly about the words I say and the way I behave in certain situations. And I got a glimpse of how my husband operates in the world.

None of these revelations came as a shock. They made sense to me. But sometimes it takes someone else to help us see what we already know about ourselves.

—

It’s disorienting to put on a new pair of glasses. As the edges sharpen, the change takes some getting used to.

After picking up my new glasses and letting the optical employee adjust them to my face, I walked out of Costco feeling unsteady on my feet and like I was seeing the world anew. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn them home immediately, but Costco is close to my house and I wanted to get used to them right away. Now, I have an entire snow day to let my vision adjust, and if I have a headache, so be it.

Sometimes we don’t know how poor our eyesight has been until we see with new eyes. Adjusting takes time.

Sometimes we don’t know how much we’ve gotten used to our poor eyesight until we change how we see.

I don’t think I’m talking about glasses anymore.

How we perceive the world–events that happen, other people’s circumstances, what it means to be “normal”–is unique to our experiences of the world. Sometimes, that means our vision is poor, or at the very least, short-sighted. And we need someone to help us see better.

Sometimes it’s from a book or a personal interaction. Other times it’s via social media or another kind of media like a documentary or television show.

Just like there is no denying that I have literal vision limitations, I need to recognize that my metaphorical vision also has limitations. I cannot see the whole world clearly from my own head. I need to know what and how others see the world to expand my sight. Sometimes, I need a new pair of glasses.

This has not always been easy. When you start to see with new eyes, you realize how much there is to see.

The example that comes to mind is race. I am a white woman who grew up in the Midwest. I have limited vision when it comes to race, and if I’m honest with myself, I have biases and prejudices that I constantly have to acknowledge and work to undo. My “eyes” need to adjust to the world as it is, not the world as I see it.

I need to see with new eyes. And there’s always something new to see.

Sometimes it shakes what I thought was steady ground. A recent example:

I have not been in favor of a wall between the United States and Mexico primarily because of my volunteer work with refugees and asylum seekers from other countries. I have met people in real life who have fled their home countries, and I have learned facts about the immigration process and statistics. Keeping out people who are in desperate need of help is not in line with my understanding of how I live out my faith. (I know we might disagree on this. I’m saying it anyway.)

I consider myself educated on this topic.

My kids and I have recently enjoyed the show “Nailed It!” on Netflix, and when I saw that there was going to be a season of “Nailed It! Mexico,” I was excited to watch. I wasn’t sure what to expect–if we would have to read subtitles for the entire show (not a problem) or if it would be dubbed over in English (it is). What has surprised me the most is how much the contestants resemble people I might see in my neighborhood.

It is easy for someone who lives more than a thousand miles from the border with Mexico to make assumptions about the people who live in that country. (The same could be said of just about any country I haven’t actually visited, including Canada.) When there is constant talk of keeping “those people” out (who may or may not be from Mexico, I realize) or assumptions that “Mexicans” are all just farm laborers in our country, there’s a narrow perspective of what life is like in that country. What I see on “Nailed It! Mexico” are people with regular jobs and dreams, just like people here. They have families and live in cities and like to travel.

None of this should surprise me.

I’ve also realized that describing people from Mexico as “brown” isn’t accurate as a whole.

I have so much work to do inside of myself.

—

Why am I telling you these things?

I’m not exactly sure. I’m certainly not comfortable confessing my sins of prejudice, bias and ignorance publicly, but I also know the power of saying things out loud and committing to change.

Maybe I just want you to know that it’s okay to not have perfect vision. That it’s okay to need “corrective lenses” when it comes to experiences and circumstances and issues that are affecting other people.

I know I can’t make you go to the eye doctor. I can’t make you put on corrective lenses. Not if you don’t want to.

At the very least, I just want you to consider that the way you see the world is not the same as the person nearest to you. And it definitely isn’t the same as the person furthest from you.

Learning about myself and how I see the world and how that’s different from how other people see the world has been an invaluable practice. It starts with me. The better I know myself, the more I can become a healthy person. That benefits everyone I come into contact with. And the more I’m willing to listen and understand others’ perspectives, the better, as well.

That’s the good news.

If there’s any bad news, it’s that it takes work and the best results occur with other people involved. Especially those with more experience or professional training.

That can be the hardest part. At least, it is for me. Exposing weaknesses, or what I see as weaknesses, to someone else is uncomfortable until I remember that we all have them in different ways. Maybe you aren’t on the verge of needing bifocals because your eyes are so terrible. Maybe you don’t have a need to be appreciated (that one was kind of ouchy for me). But you have something else about you that makes you who you are.

And none of it is bad or wrong.

It’s just you.

Maybe that’s actually the hardest part. Accepting who you are when you feel like who you are is somehow wrong or ugly or broken.

That’s not the point of any exam. Well, maybe a medical exam because something isn’t working the way it should be. But that’s the spirit behind the kinds of exams that explore your inner life, as well. It can be painful, at first, to “diagnose” yourself but if the goal is to function more fully and wholly, then the work is worth it.

Trust me, I know. And I’m still learning.

About those miles …

February 2, 2019

I’m exhausted today, but not for the reason I expected.

Instead of running four miles today, I slept.

Let me tell you why.

On Friday night my husband spiked a fever that had him shaking with chills so much I was actually scared for him. He could not get warm and it wasn’t the air temperature. He also had pain in his chest, and this probably was the reason he decided to go to the hospital. (To be clear: I would only make this decision for him if he was being ridiculously stubborn. We are grown-ups who decide for ourselves what our bodies need.) Because he is a veteran and we get his healthcare through the VA, the closest hospital is 45 minutes away. Did I mention it snowed all day on Friday and the roads were questionable at best and I hate driving in winter and had already slid through three intersections on my way to work that morning?

But taking control of our health and well-being in all areas means doing whatever it takes to take care of ourselves. So after 7 on a Friday night, we loaded up the family and drove the 45 minutes (or so, I lost track of time actually) to the Emergency Room. They took my husband back just after 8, and the kids and I settled in for Minecraft on the tablet and reading. I had no idea how long we’d be there. When The Blacklist came on the TV in the waiting area, I thought maybe it was time to ask for the remote. Lucky for us, we found a pro lacrosse match on the local Philly station. Our son is going to start playing lacrosse this month. It will be an education for all of us.

We watched the entire second half and about a minute of overtime. The Philly team won. It had been a couple of hours so I walked back to the room where my husband was being tested to take him his phone, books and water bottle because neither of us remembered to have him take them when he left. They were running several tests. His heart rate was high. There wasn’t much for us to do but wait.

I went back out to the waiting room where the kids were hanging in there like champs. About an hour later, a doctor came out to find us. “We’re thinking of admitting him,” he said, “and he wants everyone to be in on that decision.” We listened to the probable diagnoses. Pericarditis–inflammation of the sac around the heart. Maybe something respiratory. They wanted to do another EKG and give him more fluids. Did we want him to stay in the hospital or did we want to wait longer and take him home?

Home is always the most appealing option and after a brief discussion with the doctor, we decided the kids and I could hang in there a little longer. By this time, it was closing in on midnight. Our son said we could make up for not staying up till midnight on New Year’s Eve and when the clock ticked over to 12:00, he said, “Happy New Year!”

We watched the EKG and another blood draw and when the nurse came back with another bag of IV fluids, she told us it would be another hour yet, so back to the waiting room we went. Both kids fell asleep in chairs and on me, leaving me with my phone draining power and my thoughts. Before the final IV bag, I was still thinking about doing the run. On five or six hours of sleep, I thought I could still handle it, but as the hours ticked on, I realized my opportunity to run this race this year was slipping away from me.

Another hour later, we wandered back to my husband’s room. We met the ER doctor who had been making the decisions and we were told the plan of action. It was close to 2:30 a.m. by the time my husband was released and we were back shivering in the car as it warmed up on the way home.

The kids conked out in the back seat and I said out loud, “I’m not running the race.” And the saying of it out loud caused the tears I’d been holding in to trickle out. I immediately tried to console myself with words like “it’s okay” and “I can do it next year.” I got the tears under control because seeing out the front windshield was hard enough. We pulled into the driveway and fell into bed in the 3:30 a.m. range. No one brushed their teeth and I think some of us slept in the clothes we were already wearing. I set an alarm for a few hours later so I could tell a couple of friends who needed to know about the run that I wasn’t going to make it.

I cried myself to sleep. And I keep crying when I think about how disappointed I am that I didn’t get to attempt this run today. It was more than just the running, and I had so much I wanted to tell you about why. I guess it’ll wait till next year, and in the meantime, I’m going to do my best not to wallow and get right back out there. The weather is supposed to turn mild next week, and I might schedule multiple runs just to remind myself that I can do it and I’m not a failure.

I am still strong and capable.

Even if today I feel like I let some people down. Including myself.

But if I’ve learned anything in recent years, it’s that it’s okay to feel all the feelings. I don’t have to deny the disappointment or try to shrug off the tears. I can cry about it if I want to. And I can still go out there the next time and run as if I am strong and capable.

Instead of running a race and recovering, today was about running errands to pick up meds and groceries and recovering from a late night. My husband is feeling better than he did yesterday and has a cocktail of medications to help him improve, as well as a doctor’s ordered rest from work for a few days.

We’re going to be okay.

Strong and capable

February 1, 2019

Strong and capable.

These are the words my therapist said to me–about me–repeatedly during our sessions during our three years together.

I didn’t always believe her words then. I don’t always believe them now.

Tomorrow, I’m running four miles for the first time, and in the days since I registered for the race, I have felt moments of strength and capability, like I can reasonably accomplish this goal. Not that I will finish in any kind of spectacular fashion. I might come in dead last. But even while I was sick and fighting a sinus infection this week, I haven’t really doubted that I can do this.

It is two days before the race and while the sinus infection is fading, my body does not feel as strong or capable as I would have hoped by now. Sinus infections, I now know, are brutal and coupled with the mental strains of this week–my husband also is not feeling well and I’ve been trying to take care of the house and the kids while still resting and recovering and going to work and staying warm–and I just feel tired. At this exact moment, I’m even feeling a little bit light-headed. Is that the sinus infection? The medication? Something I ate? The afternoon coffee from Panera? Forget about finishing the race, now I am worried about having a medical incident before I even hardly get started.

I probably just need to drink more water.

But the fear is real. Like I’m in way over my head and this might end disastrously.

I was thinking about this while making dinner, and I realized that one of the reasons I run is to feel strong, not the other way around. I don’t run because I already am strong. I started running because I didn’t feel strong, and I keep running because when I run, I feel like I can do anything, no matter what anyone else is doing.

When my therapist told me I was strong and capable, I didn’t believe her and there was no evidence to suggest that I actually was. But after she said those words, and later when I thought about them, I felt like maybe I could be strong and capable. And sometimes I even acted like I was.

There is power in the words we speak and we can live into the words spoken of us and to us and about us. (This works for good and for bad, but I’m thinking mostly of the words that open up possibility in us.)

I don’t run because I’m strong; I’m strong because I run. It’s a subtle shift that pulls me off the couch and out of my house and onto the path. It’s a mantra I’m repeating for the next two days, until my feet begin the rhythm: Run and you’ll feel strong. Run and you’ll feel strong.

Sometimes we have to test the truth of words with action.

Because of the weather and the sinus infection, it will be 10 days since I ran when I start the four miles on Saturday and closer to two weeks since I ran anything even close to four miles. (It was 3 miles.) I’m counting on muscle memory (including my brain) to get me through this challenge. That once I’m out there, no matter how I’m doing, I’ll feel strong and capable.

I’ll have more words about this run after it’s over, but I felt like I needed to get this out now. To admit that I’m not sure I can do this but I’m going ahead with it anyway.

(Also I drank an entire bottle of water while writing this post and I’m feeling better. Stay hydrated, people.)

I’ve gotta be me

January 22, 2019

The girls snickered, trying to cover their laughs with their hands, but their eyes were cast in my direction and their fingers pointed right at me. I can’t be certain, but I think they were making fun of me.

Maybe I was imagining it, though. Sometimes in the midst of my workday, my own middle school experience follows me through the hallways and even though the middle school I attended as a student is hundreds of miles from the one I attend as a staff member, the memories are like shadows and I’m aware of their presence.

Their teasing would have been justified. I was wearing Christmas socks pulled up partway to my knees over top of my jeans and it was the exact look I was going for on a holiday accessory day. How else were people going to see my socks if I didn’t wear them OVER my pants?

The whispers and pointing–if it was directed at me–didn’t bother me. Much. (I mean it will always sting a little.) Mostly it just reminded me that my aim in life these days is to bring my whole true self to everything I do.

That doesn’t always make people comfortable.

I wanted to pull the girls aside and tell them that someday I hoped they would have the courage to be who they are no matter what people think and to accept others who are living their true lives. But I know those lessons can’t always be taught with words. More often they are caught through experience and maturity.

Sometimes, I want to pull myself aside and say those things, too.

While some people seem to have an ability early in life to be their true whole selves in any circumstance, me, I’ve been a shape-shifter for most of my life. Depending on the group I’m in/with, I’ve tried to adopt whatever persona I needed to survive. Sometimes that included being more “Christian” than I was. Sometimes it meant being less. I wanted to be accepted by everyone and I thought I needed to conform to others’ ideals and expectations.

I remember a time in college (stop me if I’ve told you this story before) when a bunch of us were sitting around in a dorm room talking about our favorite movies and every movie that someone mentioned, I chimed in with “that’s the best!” For every. single. movie. Someone finally called me out on it. “You’ve said that about every movie! They can’t all be the best!”

It’s true. I probably didn’t even like half the movies mentioned much less consider them “the best.” But I was too afraid to have my own opinion. Too afraid I’d be rejected for it. And I was totally clueless about who I was as a person.

These days, I find myself more at ease with myself. I am equally comfortable with those who profess the same faith I do and with those who do not, without a need to downplay either. I have questions. And convictions. This is who I am.

And I’m more likely to express myself creatively, even if it’s a little bit goofy.

One time when I was in middle school (as a student), I wore a pair battery-operated earrings–each one was a triangle with a couple of red lights that blinked. I was the kind of middle schooler who wanted to blend in and fly under the radar so WHY ON EARTH DID I WEAR THESE EARRINGS? They were hard not to notice, and I was noticed. Perhaps I was testing the waters letting only a small part of my true self out into the world. I cared deeply what people thought, and every dress-up day in middle school and high school was a point of stress for me. How do I look cool while I’m participating in crazy hair day?

The same fears taunt me as an adult working in a middle school. We often have special dress up days and when I’m planning my outfit, I still have a sense of unease. I worry that I’ll have the wrong day or my outfit will be too distracting, but mostly I just go with it and decide to have fun no matter what. And I always find that my coworkers are participating in the fun, too and most of the students won’t admit that an adult did something cool anyway. I embrace the spirit of showing them what it means to be yourself and have fun and sometimes look like a fool. (Remember the Smarty Pants incident of Halloween? I’ll never forget it.)

Know what you’re about

“We’ll be selling subs to raise funds for our program costs.”

The email struck fear in my heart.

I remember as a kid how the order forms and fundraisers would drench me in dread. Going door-to-door, asking our neighbors if they wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies or wrapping paper or popcorn or whatever was never on my list of favorite things to do. Our kids haven’t had the same kinds of pressures I remember from my childhood. There are the occasional ones but maybe the kind of world we live in now isn’t as conducive to the “ask-your-family-and-friends” kind of fundraisers of the past.

I had almost forgotten they existed. And then the order form came home, along with a “goal” for each student. (I should mention that this is for an extracurricular activity which costs us nothing up front.) The goal expectation had me hyperventilating. I could not for the life of me imagine us selling that number of items. So I calculated the cost to just write a check for an equivalent amount and immediately I felt better. I think I would have rather paid a registration fee for this activity than have to sell anything.

Because I am not good at selling, and I know this.

To sell, you have to be convincing and confident and sometimes I am one of those things, but I’m never going to push someone to buy something, especially if I’m not sure they need it. Not even if it’s a book I wrote, which I hope is something I will do more of in the future.

In this particular case, our family is not in a position to ask all our family and friends to buy a perishable item because so many of them live 800 miles away, and everyone and their brother locally has a fundraiser of some kind. We can’t support all the ones we’ve encountered, and I cannot expect others to support ours. When I think about putting effort into selling, a generic Facebook post that a few people might see is the most I’m willing to put into it.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized it’s possible we will sell a few of these items, even if it’s just for us. They’re sandwiches and we need to eat. But I’ve still given myself permission to write the check and be done with it.

This is what works for our family, and I’m no longer willing to cave to outside expectations. I also know that it does not work for us to be busy every single night of the week. Adding one after school activity per child maximum is about the limit of our involvement. More than that, and I feel out of control, like we’re always in a rush. I need more margin to be healthy and whole. Even adding extracurriculars at all is a big step for me personally. If I had my way, every day would be the same as far as schedule goes and we would never deviate from that. But my kids are too active for that to be the way of things. They need time in groups and away from each other.

It’s hard, though, to follow the path you’ve set out for your family (or yourself) and not go along with every expectation and invitation. And for me, it’s hard to keep myself from sounding judgmental when I draw a line where our family is concerned.

It’s even harder when I have to do it for myself.

At least when it’s for my family, I can pass off some of the blame. “It’s for the kids” or “because of Phil’s work schedule.”

It’s harder to be confident about the decisions that only affect me and my time. (Although let’s be honest, what affects me affects my family because we are all in this together.)

It is no small thing to say these words: I know what I’m about.

I know what works for me. I’m learning, anyway, what I’m capable of, where my strengths lie, where my weaknesses pop up. This is not to say that I can’t be stretched or that I should never do anything outside of my capabilities. I need to do this to grow. But I’m trying to make the majority of my choices with the consideration of what I’m about and what I’m not about. (This latter thing is sometimes harder to discover than the former.)

Why is it so hard to ask for help?

I have a college degree and a decade of professional experience in my field as well as another decade of at-home learning. I am confident in certain abilities related to writing.

I have one year of experience to my credit at my part-time job at the school. And in the last few weeks, I’ve found myself asking for help more than I have since my first weeks on the job. On the one hand, I feel kind of bad about this. Like, shouldn’t I know my job better by now? Shouldn’t I be able to solve every problem I’m faced with during a school day?

On the other hand, I know I’ve asked for help from people with more training and more experience in education, and there is nothing wrong with that. I’ve actually felt really satisfied watching them solve a problem, and I’ve learned something new from them about how to do it better or different the next time. I keep telling myself this is okay, and it’s necessary, although when students ask me a question and I have to say, “I don’t know” because I’m not the person with years of education, training, and experience in that particular subject, I still feel a little bit unskilled.

Sometimes I still want to have all the answers and solve every problem. And when I can’t, I begin to doubt my worth to that particular team/group/task.

But “I don’t know” is not a phrase to be avoided. Neither is “I need help.”

Who else can you be but yourself?

“You can’t be good at everything” is something we have told our kids. We also try to celebrate the things they are good at or what makes them their unique human selves.

One night recently, our daughter was struggling through her math homework. There was more of it than usual because she had had her band lesson during math class. If she had been in class, some of her homework would have been done then. The math homework that night was causing enough frustration that I could have said, “Well, I guess we’re done with band now.” Except our daughter loves band. And learning to play the flute has been a necessary creative outlet for her. I believe math is important but not at the expense of band. So, we worked through the problems together.

Our daughter might never be a math whiz, and that’s okay. She’s only 10, so it’s still unclear what she will become. And we try to encourage her interests, especially when they aren’t the same as ours.

Like art and drawing and sewing. Just tonight, she was making a small gift for her teachers–and she was sewing it herself.

I try to do this with my students, too. Their school experience is different from mine, so I work to find ways to praise their unique contributions to the world. For some it is art or design or machinery. We reward kindness and loyalty and honesty as well as completed assignments and grades. We acknowledge effort to work through something hard. (I’m writing this as a message to myself. It is so easy to be constantly critiquing behavior and performance.)

Some of us have easily identifiable strengths and sometimes that discourages others from trying to find theirs. What we don’t always see are the weaknesses. What we don’t always show are the weaknesses. We do not have to be all things to all people nor can we be. It is enough just to be ourselves. Which means we have to take the time to know ourselves, too.

It is a lifelong learning process but when we free ourselves from the expectations that we have to do or be something we’re not, the world opens up because we can do and be what we’re meant to. We can give our energy to our unique place in the world and let others give theirs.

And wherever you are in life, you can start now.

Be you. Know what you’re about. And what you’re not about. Bring your whole self to the world right where you are.

A man in the middle: Review of 13 Days in Ferguson by Captain Ronald Johnson

January 16, 2019

When Michael Brown was shot and killed in Ferguson, Missouri in August 2014, and protests and riots followed, I didn’t watch the news as much as I should have. I was disturbed but I didn’t understand all of what was happening, and I didn’t always know which reports to believe. This is why I like first-person accounts of events, and while I know that Ron Johnson’s account doesn’t tell the whole story, he was there for the duration. 13 Days In Ferguson is an important work.

13 Days In Ferguson by Captain Ronald Johnson

The book walks readers through Johnson’s experience as a Missouri State Highway Patrol captain from his initial response to the protests and violent acts after Michael Brown’s death to his charge to lead the security effort in Ferguson to his vision for Ferguson in the future. Through it all, he is firmly a man in the middle.

I wanted to read this book because of Johnson’s perspective–as a black man and a law enforcement officer, he has a unique position in the conversation about race and policing. I felt he was honest in his recollection of the events and he didn’t paint one group in a more favorable light than the other. As a man caught in the middle of a national conversation, he is using that position to try to bridge the gap. I was inspired by his community policing efforts and the sincerity of his hopes.

I’m glad I added this to my racial justice reading list, and I would encourage you to add it to your list as well.

Disclosure: I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Review reflects my honest opinion.

A new course for 2019

January 7, 2019

A few weeks ago, I was sure my word for 2019 would be “listen.” But then a friend asked a question directed toward a group of writers about what we wanted for our writing in the new year, and instead of an instant reply, I took some time to think about it.

A word settled in.

Intention.

I want my writing to be less haphazard, more purposeful in the coming year. I want to write what I want to write and be more consistent about writing. I want to finish the projects I start. I want to keep making time for my writing, and I want to be less afraid to keep it to myself. (Especially the fiction.) If I want to achieve certain goals with my writing, I have to make an effort toward those goals. No one is going to hand me my dreams on a silver platter and beg me to take them. I will have to do some work.

The more I thought about this word–intention/intentional–the more it made sense for my year as a whole. With the year that just passed being one where I took more control and made better choices for health and wellness, where I didn’t for the first time feel carried along by whatever current we found ourselves in, looking ahead to 2019 makes me want to keep making conscious choices about our life.

I want my life to be about the things I want it to be about. I want to remember the power of saying no to things that don’t fit with my goals. And I don’t want to say yes to something just because it seems like a good thing to do.

This word has already been active, before the year even started.

While we were home for Christmas, I was offered (and accepted) the role of chief Christmas cookie baker for our family. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has been making large batches of cut-out sugar cookies for Christmas and other holidays. These are generally the only sugar cookies I will eat, and most everyone in the family looks forward to them each year. My cousin even gets a batch shaped like Pac-Man for his birthday. (Round cookie with a small triangle cut out and a chocolate chip for the eye. A huge hit with most of us who experienced the 1980s.)

This year, Grandma decided she’s done making the cookies. It is a rigorous process and what used to be a family effort isn’t anymore. I blame myself not living in the same state as my grandmother. Others in the family have tried to make these cookies and they don’t always turn out right. I once said that I would take the reins when it was time because I have had some success with the cookie recipe. My daughter is also on board. Apparently, we have what it takes to take this on. We’ll see.

Valentine’s cookies from several years ago

It’s been a little while since I’ve made these cookies. I have all year to practice. If you live nearby, you might find yourself gifted with practice sugar cookies. You can thank me later.

Christmas cookies for the family is not something I can do on a whim or without preparation or at the last minute. It will require intention–which to me means setting aside time to bake and figuring out how to send dozens of cookies cross country during the holidays. (And do I decorate them before or after I mail them? Hmm…)

I can’t adopt this put-it-off-till-the-last-minute or “I’ll do it someday” attitude with other parts of my life, either. I have to make sure that my intentions don’t just stay as “happy thoughts.” Intention is a word that gets thrown around a lot and doesn’t always have substance behind it, and I don’t want to be just another person with intention and no action. This is not about a buzzword or fad.

My intentions must be followed by actions. And while my OneWord always surprises me, in this case, I think it would be good to have at least an outline of a plan.

So, here are some of my “intentional” resolutions, if you will:

Better and more frequent communication with family and friends. I rely on Facebook too much for disseminating the details of my life. The thing is, lots of people don’t see Facebook posts or even use it that much anymore. (According to my students, Facebook is for old people, so now you know.) And I’m desperate for depth when it comes to catching up with the important people in my life. Already, I’ve had a video phone call with my oldest friend that was so life-giving and much too short that we’ve made plans to talk again next month. She and I did not talk via the phone at all last year, and when her Christmas letter came, I realized how much I missed her. Living 800 miles from family makes keeping in touch a challenge, especially with school/work/sleep schedules, but technology makes keeping in touch not impossible.
Immediate action. Related to the previous goal, I don’t want my intentions to be just intentions. Too often I have good intentions that never translate into action because I put off whatever it is I think is a good idea. Sometimes, it’s good to take immediate action when I think of someone I want to talk to or something I want to do for someone else. Even before the new year ticked over to 2019, I did this with a college friend. Instead of saying “we should get together when I’m home,” I offered up our availability and we made it work. I too easily talk myself out of making plans because they require work. (This literally required an hour-long drive and restaurant research. Sooooo hard. Not.) I’m trying to do better at responding sooner than later or reaching out when the first thought of a person comes to mind. No more “I’ll get to that later.”
Get-togethers in our house. Phil and I love getting people together and we have used our house as an excuse not to. We took some steps toward that this year but want to expand on it this year. We don’t have to wait for a special occasion to have people over, or a holiday. We’re already thinking about events, though, like the Super Bowl. And making sure we follow up with people who say things like “We should get together soon.” Our most recent date night resulted from such a follow-up.
Vacation. Yes, it’s only January, but summer is our prime time for family togetherness, so we’re already talking about what our vacation for this year might be, and it will require planning. (My husband has already ordered some vacation planning materials from the places we are thinking about visiting.) I think planning and intention go hand-in-hand and while I’m good at planning certain things, there are other areas of life where I’m still go-with-the-flow. This latter attitude sometimes means I miss out on things I want to do. I don’t want to wait for a better time or day or year or season of life.
This year I want to keep working on my after-40 goals and that will require intention. I’m no longer in a place where time or money or kids is an excuse. (I mean, there are still limitations on all of those things, but they aren’t impossible obstacles.) One thing I’ve already done this month is set aside time each week to start learning sign language with my daughter so we can communicate with my niece/her cousin. It’s too important for us to just think “we’ll get to that later.” We started already, and we have a long way to go.

I could probably keep adding to this list, but I’m starting to feel a little overwhelmed. Energized, too, but definitely overwhelmed. Intention requires attention and effort and it’s a good thing I got a lot of practice at being awake to my life last year so I could walk into this year with a renewed sense of purpose.

And just to be clear: this isn’t about living life at full throttle, never slowing down to take it all in or rest. Slowing down, resting, breathing deeply, silence, listening–these are all things that also require intention. I need to build them into my life.

So this is where I start. With my eyes, heart and mind turned to intention and all the ways that it has the potential to show up in my life this year.

Have you picked a word yet? (Maybe one picked you!) I’d love to hear about it.

Workiversary

January 4, 2019

One year ago, I went to work.

That’s such an ordinary statement, especially now, after a year has passed, but at the time, it felt big. Like, really big. And important.

It had been nearly a month of clearances and trainings and paperwork leading up to that day, and I remember walking out of my orientation the day before with an ID in my hand and a kinda sorta plan for the next day. Ready or not, the job was waiting for me.

My memory is fuzzy about a lot of things from this past year, mostly because there are so many experiences. I remember how quite a few of my first days were two-hour delays, which was an extra measure of grace as I learned my job, although it made getting into any kind of routine difficult for a few weeks. And I remember thinking how fortunate I was to have a job with the same schedule as my kids, especially on these delay days. I’m not good with spur-of-the-moment plan changes that require extra effort for decisions like “what do we do with the kids?”

Two weeks into my job, before I’d even received a paycheck, I wrote this longish post about what it meant for our family to have a second income, even if it was small. (It’s kind of a financial history of our family, and it is some of the rawest stuff I’ve ever written.)

A year later, I can still say that this job has been more than just a paycheck. If it was just a paycheck, I’m not sure I’d still be doing it. The extra money has been nice for our family, yes. We’ve reduced our debt load though not completely eliminated it, and we were able to make wise decisions to benefit our family’s overall wellbeing, not just get by or survive. (The differences between thriving and surviving and huge, and it is hard to bridge that gap.)

But beyond the money, this job has awakened something inside of me.

When I was little, I would dream of being a teacher. (It’s the same life goal my daughter has now.) I don’t know if it was because I liked school and I mostly looked up to my teachers or because I sort of liked being “in charge.” Or maybe it was because school was my whole world and I didn’t really know anything different. Somehow, this “dream” faded and I decided I was too shy to stand in front of a group of children (whatever their age) and lead them day-in and day-out.

When I think back on it, I wasn’t just shy, I also wasn’t confident. If I had attempted being a teacher earlier in life, I don’t think it would have worked out. Even at age 40, going to school every day, where there are teenage students, is a test of confidence. Mostly I consider it all practice for the fast-approaching days of parenting teenagers.

People have asked me if I would consider going back to school to get my teaching degree and if they had seen how much I initially resisted applying for this job, they might not ask. Truthfully, I’m not ready to even look into it. I’m not sure it’s what I’m meant to do and as long as I don’t get any more information, I can’t consider it further. (This is me sticking my head in the sand. )

While I might not have made a good teacher in my 20s and 30s, for some reason, being a paraprofessional (I heard a friend call it “parapro” for short and this makes me sound like a superhero, so this abbreviation stays.) in my 40s is the exact right fit.

Maybe it’s the kids I serve. They tug at my heartstrings, and I have lots of room in my heart for them. I am at a place in my life where I care deeply for others. (This has not always been the case.) Much internal work led to this, but I feel really lucky that five days a week I get to act on my compassion for others in tangible ways.

I was so scared that my new job would somehow diminish what I think is my life’s work as a writer. That somehow my purpose for living would seem less. But the truth is I feel more alive now than I ever have. I can look at the time I spent at home, trying to put words to the page, trying to make something happen with my writing, binge-watching Netflix and scheduling coffee dates in the city with more honesty now. While I’m glad I had the opportunity to rediscover myself after years of stay-at-home parenting, and while I cherished the freedom those days allowed and the experiences I was able to have working with refugees, overall I was drowning a little bit. I can see the slow slide into something in the neighborhood of depression. I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t have to leave the house, I won’t. Comfy clothes, sporadic showers, too many snacks–this was my life, and it wasn’t the dream I tried to make it out to be.

These five hours I work outside the house now force me to do a lot of good things. Interact with adults, for example. Wear clothes that look good. And make better use of my time. When my days are full, there is no “I’ll do it tomorrow” for important things. (I mean, I still do put things off, but not as frequently.) I have to budget my time. I have to make use of the two hours after work before the kids come home. This is when I run or squeeze in an errand. I wake up most days at 6 to get some writing in before we start getting ready for school and work. Before, I would crawl out of bed about the same time as the kids because all I felt I really needed to do was get them ready for school and on the bus. Then it was “me” time. (And that often meant more coffee, second breakfast, and/or a trip into the city.)

I feel more productive and purposeful. Maybe more tired, too, but not always. It’s a funny thing, how this work doesn’t drain me even though it requires more of my mental and physical energy than staying at home did. I am energized by the work and therefore able to keep moving, most days, when I get home while still being appropriately tired at night.

Initially, I thought I was taking this job for the good of my family. For the extra income. And I was. But I didn’t realize that I was actually doing it for me. How much I needed to do something that wasn’t directly for my husband or my kids. These hours at work are all mine and I think it makes my conversation a little more interesting because I have done something all day and I have new work friends I can tell my family about. How for a few hours a day, my life is about something more than what’s inside the walls of my house.

And I think I serve my family better now because my whole world isn’t about them. (This dynamic is still a little bit mysterious to me because I know other women who serve their families so well by staying home. We are all different with different needs.)

So, it’s been a year. And I’m celebrating that because my life is richer for having this job, and it was the first of many steps I needed to take to be more me.

How do you measure a year?

December 31, 2018

It’s been a full year and I can hardly believe it’s almost over. Nothing that happened this year feels incredibly momentous but I also don’t want to forget the seemingly small things. Every year is unique and contains memories that will never be repeated, not exactly. It’s a time in our lives we can never get back, and I don’t say that to lament. It is part of life. I think remembering is important, and sometimes seeing things all together is a good reminder of the things that filled our life this year.

A quick scroll through social media helps me remember and the more I think back, the more I see themes emerge. I begin to see what our priorities are, what was important to us this year.

An overview. In reverse.

December: Our son turned 9. Maybe that’s not a milestone, but every year older he gets is just evidence of how our family is enduring and thriving.

November: Phil and I ran a 5k on Thanksgiving morning. We revamped our living room and bought a furniture set for the first time in our married life. Also a new TV. We don’t have to squint to see words on the screen anymore. We redefined family for our Thanksgiving meal, and it was so memorable and lovely. A tree came down in our yard.

October: Phil ran a 5k in Philadelphia. I completed a Whole30 eating plan. I published my first co-writing project with a client. And started playing guitar in church.

September: We spent a day in Washington D.C. that we hoped would include a baseball game, but it rained the whole day. Still, we visited two museums, including the National Portrait Gallery, which was my personal highlight of the day. We hosted a Labor Day gathering at our house.

August: We saw the Cubs play in Pittsburgh. Our daughter went to a sewing camp and discovered she loved it.

July: We spent the Fourth of July in Harper’s Ferry. The kids and I traveled to Illinois to visit family. We gathered a group of friends to watch fireworks. We hosted a Kenya team reunion. The kids rocked their swimming lessons.

June: We took an epic road trip to our vacation in Florida with my family, a wonderful week of unforgettable memories, including a visit to Kennedy Space Center where we saw a space shuttle up close and personal. We took the long way home visiting friends in North Carolina and driving a portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I drove to the Philly suburbs to gather with other Chicken Soup for the Soul writers and to meet the publisher.

May: I turned 40. We bought a car and traded in our van. Phil threw me a small birthday party gathering. I ran with my daughter in the Girls on the Run 5k, during which it poured the whole time.

April: Phil and our daughter ran a 5K at Cowan’s Gap State Park. It was the first time we’d been back there since a visit on our fifth wedding anniversary. I got four long braids of hair cut off.

March: Our daughter turned 10. We went to our first hockey game.

February: I started running again, training for the 5k in May. I met one of my favorite authors at a local event. We watched the Olympics.

January: I started working part-time at a school.

If I was going to pick a theme for our year, it would be “improvement.” Or maybe “rebirth.” This was the first year in maybe our entire married/family life that I felt like we got to make positive choices for our family and didn’t have to settle for doing things the way they’d always been done or making choices that weren’t necessarily bad but also not necessarily good. For so many years, the choices and decisions for our family were based on survival and/or meeting our basic needs. This year, we had more freedom to choose based on what would help our family be healthy in all the ways.

From job decisions to physical achievements to conscious choices about food to vacation and travel, I felt like we had more control over our life. That’s groundbreaking when all I can sometimes remember is feeling like I’ve been carried along by circumstances and the consequences of those.

It was a year of plenty for us, a major shift for a family that has known only “enough” and often “lack.” Where previously we were surviving, this year, I sense what it means to thrive: as an individual, as a couple, as a family.

This does not, of course, discount anything else about 2018 that wasn’t good or great. There has been a lot of sadness and turmoil and the world is still a place with so much hurt. A year can be both wonderful personally and terrible globally. This is a hard dichotomy to reconcile. I think maybe I haven’t allowed myself enough engagement in others’ pain this year. More opportunity to do better in 2019.

How did your year measure up? What defines a year for you?

Waking Up is Hard to Do

December 17, 2018

I’m a bit of a daydreamer. Something I’m learning about myself is how much I live inside my head, so much so that I often don’t notice things the first time. (On the flip side, I can be scarily observant, picking up on feelings and seeing needs without anything being spoken.) I can sit with myself and have entire conversations in my mind. I can imagine scenarios for every circumstance I’m facing. Sometimes I’m just replaying a movie I’ve seen or a book I’ve read, letting the images come to life inside my brain.

It is, like most attributes, a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I’m a writer, a curse because I’ve been known to zone out in conversations or while driving. Sometimes there are so many things on my mind that I can’t see what’s right in front of me.

It’s a great coping mechanism when I don’t want to face reality but when reality is ignored for too long, all kinds of problems follow. Sticking my head in the sand has left me exposed and vulnerable, even though it seems like my problems disappear. (I can’t see you; you can’t see me.)

This is why it was so important to me that I choose a word for 2018 that counteracted my natural tendencies. (It is reflected in previous words for the year like “enjoy” and “present.” But those did not really go far enough for this time in my life.)

This is what I said about the choice in January:

My word for this year was “Awake.”

“I am waking up to myself, my needs, my abilities. I am waking up to the world around me. I am waking up to the ways my upbringing was different than those in other parts of the country. I am waking up to the realities of life. I am vowing to live with my eyes open, to not turn away when what I see is too hard/messy/brutal. (And also to not turn away when it is too lovely/sparkly/beautiful. I have a problem seeing that, too.)

“I want to live this life intentionally, not drifting along waiting for something to happen to me. (This is mostly a work-related vow. I will write more about this later.) I am a daydreamer by nature and if I’m looking at you, sometimes I’m not seeing you at all. I’m living a story I’ve made up in my head or thinking about a conversation I had last year. It’s going to be hard work for me to recognize this as it’s happening and pull myself out of it to be fully engaged with the person right in front of me.”

It is now December, and I have not written a single word about this journey this year. Maybe that’s not exactly true. Maybe I have written about it in different ways.

This was a year of waking up and taking action. Of conscious choices and decisions instead of going with the circumstantial flow.

Late last year, I wrestled with the idea of going to work part time outside my house. I had gotten myself into a comfortable rhythm of writing and coffee dates and whole days of “freedom” but we were struggling financially and I was struggling emotionally more than I knew. After a gentle kick-in-the-pants by friends and husband, I started a job in January that I was nervous about at first but learned quickly was the perfect fit for me. I love it. And it has forced my eyes wide open. I still miss the “freedom” of having an entire day to myself, and I can’t keep up with the housework all the time (but this has initiated more family involvement in keeping the house clean) but overall, I am more productive and less likely to procrastinate and feeling more purposeful than I ever was staying home all day.

In May I turned 40 and I embraced it by starting a list of things I no longer wanted to say “someday” about. It’s not a bucket list nor is there a deadline to finish the list by the time I’m done with my 40s or anything like that. It’s just a way for me to catalog what’s important enough to stop dreaming about and start acting toward. On the list are races I’d like to run (more about that later), writing goals, travel destinations, and ways to express and establish my identity. It’s a working list both in the fact that it’s always under in progress and I’m continually working on something on the list. Throughout the year, I took risks on my after 40 list: playing guitar in church, doing a Whole30 eating plan, scheduling family photos taken by a professional, entering writing contests.

I released myself from counseling. This, too, needed a prompt from my therapist. We had gotten to the point where I wasn’t talking about one major struggle anymore but giving a positive report about a variety of things. At her suggestion, I considered whether I was ready to step away from these monthly appointments I’d had for almost three years, and even though it’s scary sometimes to consider whether you’re ready to tackle life without an arm of support you’ve been leaning on, I did think I was ready. I considered it my first birthday gift of the year.

I committed to running two times a week. I ran in the rain and cold and on the beach in Florida when I thought the humidity might choke me. I ran a 5K on Thanksgiving morning when temperatures were frigid, and I ran the whole thing without anyone coaching me to keep going.

I said what I was thinking, even when it didn’t come out the way I wanted. Relationships survived. (This has been and is still a major fear of mine: that expressing my opinion and thoughts will damage relationships.) One of these conversations happened on a family vacation, and I remember all the times I’ve held my tongue because I didn’t want to rock the boat. I still don’t want to rock the boat, but my opinions and needs and voice are important, even if they are the minority. Another conversation happened at church. My husband and I had been holding in months of frustration and one day it all came out and it was not exactly kind or pleasant. It was truthful and I don’t regret saying what we said, only how we said it. Most amazing to me is that we were not asked to leave nor ostracized from the group. Saying those things out loud had led to us taking more initiative to include people, and I feel like our bonds are stronger with our church family, even if it isn’t always what I want it to be.

I attended more than one prayer vigil/rally/protest. One time I was interviewed for the newspaper. I am naturally empathetic to the hurts of this world and also easily overwhelmed by the needs. So I have a tendency to feel everything to the point of being mentally paralyzed and needing to spend the day in bed crying or to bury my head in the sand and pretend everything is fine, fine, fine. Taking the news (and social media) in doses and taking action where I can makes me feel engaged with the rest of humanity. I still look away or ignore more often than I’d like. The news, the negativity, it is all still so hard to bear. But in waking up, I find that it’s often easier to make informed decisions.

I recognized that sometimes my awakening was more like that of someone who is sleep-deprived. You can be awake but not in a place of alertness, and it was in those times that saying whatever I was thinking was hurtful and damaging. Rest is a necessary counterbalance to being awake, not just in the literal sense of talking about sleep cycles.

And maybe that’s where this word is leading me for 2019. (2019? Writing that number makes me feel like time is a myth.)

As I’ve started thinking more about my word for this coming year, but I feel need to focus more on listening. On silence. Both are lacking in my life right now. Sometimes I choose a word for the year that I can predict how it will stretch me. I know what comes from silence and listening. It scares me a little. But I think I need it.

And I need to ponder it more.

I think the word is going to be “listen” and it is going to be difficult.

When I look back at the words I’ve chosen (or that have chosen me) since that first year I started, I see a progression. And growth.

2018: Awake

2017: Tender

2016: Present (Which ended up sounding a lot like my reason for choosing “awake”)

2015: Whole

2014: Enjoy

2013: Release

If you’ve never chosen a word for the year, I’d encourage you to think about it. I’m always surprised at how the word shows up in my life when I choose to focus my attention there.

And if you do choose a word, leave a comment and let me know. I’d love to hear why you chose that particular word.

I gave away my coffee

New Eyes

About those miles …

Strong and capable