Learning to Live … Every Minute

Carpe diem. Even if you haven’t seen “Dead Poets Society,” the phrase has become cliché. We use the expression when justifying another piece of chocolate cake or buying an impulse item because it’s on sale. We’ve forgotten what it really means to “seize the day” (or, as the poet Horace might have more literally meant, “to pluck and make use of”). And who am I to argue the meaning of old Latin aphorisms? Well, I’m just an ordinary woman who thinks we’ve lost touch with the extraordinary qualities of the average day – that we’ve forgotten how to live each moment to its fullest. If you can forgive me my lack of credentials on the topic, read on. I might have something interesting to say.

Whether we’re actively wishing our lives away (a la “Is it Friday yet?”) or just going through the motions each day, a little numb and without much sense of deliberation, the vast majority of us have lost touch with the value of each year, month, week, day, minute.

Why Not NOW?

If you haven’t taken the time to read Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, download it on your Kindle or pick up a copy at your local library or bookstore. This 1997 bestseller (which adorns the bookshelves of millions of readers) really got me thinking about slowing down – about being more “present” in my life and my interactions with others. I knew while reading it that I will need to read it again – perhaps three times before I’ll be able to really incorporate its lessons into my life in a meaningful way. But I think it will be worth the time to read it again.

Why is a book by a “spiritual leader” so wildly popular? Maybe it’s because there is a deep and palpable need in our communities to be more connected. Maybe it’s because, in our quest to “find” the perfect house, the perfect leather couch, the perfect mate, the perfect job, and the perfect pair of peak-toe pumps, we have lost ourselves.

Every day, I hear someone talk about what they are going to do “someday.” (And sometimes, that someone is me.) We all know that person who is going to visit Hawaii “someday” and the friend who is going to buy themselves a sports car “one of these days” and the neighbor who has a list of books she is going to read “when she gets around to it.” Who are we trying to kid? Why not NOW?

What horrible atrocities might befall us if we booked a flight to Hawaii tomorrow? Or made a down payment on the Audi TT this Saturday? Or spent an entire day, in yoga pants, reading an indulgent novel next Tuesday? I, for one, think the world is not likely to stop spinning on its axis if we turn “one day” into today.

How Will You Use Your Hours?

A few months ago, I had the pleasure of hearing a keynote address from Harry Kraemer, the inspiring leader who served as CEO of Baxter Laboratories and who recently published a book entitled From Values to Action: The Four Principles of Values-Based Leadership. And I learned something fascinating. I learned that it’s possible to be “successful” by the American business standards and also be a great spouse, an engaged parent, and a compassionate friend. And I learned about the power of 168.

Kraemer is a mathematician and his favorite number is 168. It’s the number of hours in a week. He reminds us that no matter how hard you try, you can’t increase that allowance. All you get is 168. Which got me thinking about the choices we make, and the impact it has on our lives.

Spend an hour arguing with someone on the phone … Now you’re down to 167.

Invest an evening watching a really bad movie … 165.

Worry for an hour about something you can’t control … 164.

Lose 5 hours this week to the commute … 159.

Go golfing instead of spending time with your kids … 155.

Attend two meetings where you accomplish nothing … 152.

Before you know it, there’s barely time left to sleep. And there certainly isn’t time left for the things that really matter.

What Matters to Me

If you were to follow me around, most days, with an audio recorder, you’d hear me muttering about the truly mundane. About “commitments,” “schedules,” “meetings,” “appointments,” “reports,” “paperwork,” “e-mail back-logs,” “strategy briefs” and “what will we eat for dinner?” Fascinating stuff, to be sure.

But the soundtrack of my subconscious is so much more inspired. She’s thinking about what really matters to me. I should listen to her. She’s pretty wise.

What matters is that I live more fully. That I have great love in my life, true friendships, soul-lifting laughter, and more smiles than I can count. What matters is that my life has more meaning and less “busy-ness.”

I’m not about to suggest that we can or should lose focus on how we’ll pay the mortgage or live up to the reasonable commitments in our lives, but I do think some of those commitments could be abandoned. I believe it’s possible to live each day and each hour with more vigor and less worry. I believe that we run the risk of “what if”-ing ourselves into not living our lives to the fullest.

What if we take too many vacations and don’t have enough money in our bank accounts when we’re dead? What if my friends think I’m crazy for adopting another puppy? What if I fall asleep on this chaise lounge? What if he doesn’t love me back?

As of this moment, I have been alive for nearly 14,000 days. But I probably have fewer than 100 truly “amazing moment” memories. This realization makes me sad; every day is worth remembering.

So I’m going to take Horace’s advice to go “pluck and make use of” my days.

I’m going to love more deeply and widely. I will laugh with reckless abandon. I will discover more, and revel more, and feel more. I will delight in the new and find joy in the now. I will see, and hear and smell and taste live more fully.

Will you?

Cut Short

The photo of the tree at the cemetery ... (referenced in "Learning to linger").

Learning to linger ...

It’s the last day of 2011 and it’s the kind of day made for reflection. By any measure, it was a day of simple pleasures and little stress. We took a break from putting away holiday decorations to enjoy a late-morning visit with our friend Marlena and her daughter, followed by a trip to the veterinary clinic for an annual check-up for one of our dogs. Then back home, where my husband and I sat near each other, each reading a book silently, looking up every so often to smile or comment on the antics of the four sheltie “children” frolicking in the living room. We had a nice visit with our friend Sara, sharing hot chocolate and rice krispie treats, and then settled into an afternoon with nowhere to go and nothing to do. And somewhere, in the quiet moments, I got to thinking about what I’d learned this year.

I have learned that life’s most powerful lessons come when we linger – when we stop rushing and take a deliberate pause. When we realize that the most meaningful moment is now.

Roses for Grandma

I come from a family without a religious tradition. So I don’t know how I’m “supposed” to handle death. On August 13th, I went to the cemetery where my grandparents and great-grandparents are buried, to bring a bouquet of red roses to commemorate what would have been my grandma’s 89th birthday. I laid down the flowers and immediately looked back toward my car, thinking there was nothing left to do but drive home. But something told me to linger.

So I sat down in the grass in front of the gravestone and listened to the birds. I slowly and deliberately brushed each piece of dried grass, thrown from the mowers, off the marble to reveal its lettering more clearly. I arranged the flowers perfectly. I smelled them and remembered how I
always brought my grandma flowers on Valentine’s Day and on her birthday. I took a moment to wonder what my grandpa was like; he died before I was born, when he was just 8 years older than I am now. I wondered what it must have been like to have been widowed so young, and how my grandma’s life was changed by that tragedy.

I stood up and starting wandering the row of burial plots. The stone next to my grandparents belongs to a couple whose wedding date is inscribed in a heart shape, right between their names. They were married on August 22nd – the same day that Robert and I were married. It made me smile and make a mental note to put that in my will – to ask my family to have my gravestone commemorate not just my birth and my death, but the days – like my wedding day – when I was most alive. Further down the row was a stone with three names – mother, father and 13-year-old boy – who all died on the same day. I lingered at length, wondering if they were in a car accident or a house fire, and wondering who gathered around their caskets to lay them to rest.

The other side of the aisle had more stories. Two brothers – one who lived to be just 4 and another who died at 10 – their deaths several years apart. How could one family be so unlucky? Did their sons both have the same genetic disease? Did the second child know what fate awaited him? How do two parents ever recover from this kind of double tragedy?

I never knew my great-grandparents, but am glad that they are buried in the same cemetery – and the same garden row – as my grandma and grandpa. I walked down to their stone to brush off the dried grass and to give them a warm smile.

And then I turned around to look out across the entire cemetery and saw a fascinating sight – several sturdy, stately trees sheered off in the middle of their trunks by a tornado that passed through the past week. I snapped a photo and went back to my car, thinking of the phrase “cut short” and not sure whether I was thinking of the trees or the little boys, or both.

Lingering Matters Everywhere

Perhaps you’ve heard the Alabama song “I’m in a Hurry to Get Things Done.” It’s really the theme song of my life – not something I’m particularly proud of, but an acknowledgement that means I can make meaningful change. I am always working too hard and too much, rushing from place to place, assembling achievements, scheduling more commitments, amassing “to do” lists that rival each previous “to do” list. And I infrequently take a moment to just think – to take a deep breath and to reflect on where I’ve been, what I’ve learned or where I’m headed. The inexcusable lapse between my blog posts is itself a tiny bit of evidence that I have spent much of my year rushing, and not enough of it reflecting.

So, while I’m not much on the idea of “New Year’s resolutions,” I am making one this year. I resolve to linger. More often. And longer.

Because I think lingering matters. It matters at work, where the choice to slow down before rushing off to the next meeting could mean choosing to share a compliment at how a difficult business issue was handled. It could mean impacting a career in a positive way, or building an alliance or gaining clarity. Sometimes being late to the next meeting is worth it.

Lingering matters at home. Just this week, I went to bed in tears, feeling overwhelmed with the discovery that the failure of a piece of computer hardware meant that I’d lost nearly everything I’d written – personally and professionally – between 2002 and 2007. I was distraught and angry and lashing out at my husband, who didn’t deserve it. Once the lights were out and we had both crawled under the covers, I expected Robert to fall asleep without another word or gesture. But he listened to me crying and he chose to come linger with me. He slid over to my side of the bed, wrapped his arm around my waist, and said nothing.

Lingering matters with friends and with strangers. This past summer, I took a long lunch break to go to the neighborhood park with a friend and his two sons. We lingered there long past when I normally would have gotten back to my desk. We lingered so long, in fact, that I got a horrible sunburn. And it was fun, and relaxing and joyful, and exactly what I needed.

And yesterday, I met a 94-year-old woman who is housebound and under the care of hospice nurses. I had been told she loves dogs, so I brought two of my pups to visit with her. And long after my mom – who introduced me to my new friend Betty – suggested we leave, I lingered. I watched silently as this amazing woman who has lived nearly a century got lost in the sensation of petting a five-pound puppy with her own tiny, frail hands, and in the joy of being kissed on the nose by this gentle creature who doesn’t see her wrinkles or care that Betty turned off her hearing aid.

In 2012, and always, I hope you linger. I hope that when you’re in the middle of a busy day, and have a nagging feeling that one of your colleagues is struggling with something that is going unsaid, that you will approach her and ask if she is okay. And then that you will have the courage to wait, in silence, for her to feel and acknowledge your emotions – for her to recognize your compassion and concern and to let down her wall for a moment to share what is bothering her. It might take just five minutes for you to take pause to remind yourselves that we don’t check our humanity at the door when we enter the workplace each day.

Quit rushing. Start breathing more deeply. Go ahead and close your eyes the next time you are kissed or someone tells you they love you. Brush the grass off a gravestone or go back for a second hug before a new friend departs. Smile before you walk away instead of after. Look your spouse and your children in the eye tomorrow during dinner. Ask someone how their day was, and if they say, “fine,” ask for more detail. Then sit back and listen.

Life is in the lingering.

Learning to embrace vulnerability as a business asset

In business, our greatest successes are often credited to great leaders -- to men and women who exhibit unflagging devotion to their companies' ideals, to the care of their customers, and to the daily acknowledgement that their employees are their greatest assets. And when it comes to the character traits required of such "great leaders," the descriptions often center around strength -- toughness, courage, perseverance, and the ability to forego one's personal needs in favor of the "greater good."

So, for most of us climbing the rungs of the corporate ladder, the last trait we would consider embracing is "vulnerability." And yet, the willingness to be vulnerable in business might very well be what separates good leaders from great leaders -- and overwrought professionals from those whose careers bring them balance, fulfillment and joy.


Early in my career, I determined that being tough was the key to success -- particularly for women in business. I accepted my first director-level role at just 28 and quickly found myself trying to prove my worth among colleagues with more experience, more tenure, more graduate degrees, more gray hair, and more -- well, let's admit it -- testosterone. In that particular organization, there were only two kinds of women in executive leadership roles -- the "sugar and spice" women who had been promoted by the old boys' network for the softness and balance they brought to the board room (carried in, of course, on stiletto heels), and the female leaders who had checked their femininity at the door and were hoping beyond hope that their boxy business suits and tireless hours at the office would somehow level the playing field. And I, for one, was not about to become the kind of leader who sustains her power by filling the office candy bowl, smiling sweetly, deferring always to the president (even when he's wrong), and scheduling the next cosmetic surgery procedure well in advance of needing it.


Let me step back for a moment to clarify that this blog post is not a lesson on gender disparities in business -- not a diatribe on embracing femininity in the workplace. My journey toward understanding the value of vulnerability in business has been colored (and delayed, I think) by my experiences as a female leader, but what I have learned would serve me equally well if I were a man -- in any industry, at any age, and under any circumstance.


Here's where my thinking got off track many years ago -- I equated vulnerability with weakness. And I attributed weakness to the softness that women are socialized to embrace. I read books like Nice Girls Don't Get the Corner Office, and I spouted nail-spitting phrases like "I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to be respected."


Looking back, I don't regret the years I spent being a "tough" business professional. I suspect my previous outlook and the behavior it inspired gave me the confidence to assert myself in a tough industry and to achieve a great deal for my colleagues and customers. But recently, my career has called out for a dose of balance. I got it by embracing vulnerability as a business asset. And you can too.


Imagine what your organization could achieve if you let down your guard long enough to admit that you don't know what you don't know. Imagine how you might help your employees grow if you could truly gain their trust, and be admired for your humanity as much as for your authority.


At a large marketing conference earlier this summer, an amazing thing happened. Keynote speaker and revered marketing expert Seth Godin ended his talk by encouraging the 500 attendees to spend their lunch hour sharing with their tablemates the "one irrational fear" that they were currently facing. So we did. Strangers and comrades, we talked about our work projects, our leadership deficiencies, and our dreams deferred. And in the moment of embracing the fear -- in becoming vulnerable to those who we respect and admire -- we released the fear, made valuable business connections and left -- yes, it's true -- impressions of ourselves that were strong and authentic and anything but "weak."

My New Book, Hot Off the Presses...

Last night, I received my first copies of my new book. I thumbed through a copy, self-critical and holding my breath. Then I tried reading it to my dogs, but they lost interest after deciding the fresh ink smell was not palatable. Then I autographed the first copy for my husband.

Then, like the big geek I am, I photographed the book on a shelf in our library. Here it is, hot off the presses and sitting on the shelf alongside the collected works of Shakespeare. Didn't you just know you'd live to see the day? :-)
 

Thank you all for your support.

If you haven't heard, "The Lessons No One Taught Us" is the inspiration for my next book, which will be a collection of essays about life's most important, and sometimes most startling, lessons.

Do you have ideas for a "lesson" I ought to explore (in the blogosphere, in the book, or both)? I welcome your suggestions. In fact, I'll choose my next post from among the topics you suggest. For today, I'm just focusing on "learning not to eat too many jelly beans."

ANNOUNCEMENT: Kate's book has just been published!

Drumroll, please...

The Other Side of Demure, a collection of poetry, is now available in hard cover. Thank you to everyone for their support. Now, it's time to start planning the tour -- readings at all of the usual haunts, like coffee shops, universities and libraries. Learn more at http://www.theothersideofdemure.com/.

Learning to "go public" with your private life...

We live in a world in which the lines between personal and professional, or private and public, are being blurred in powerful and significant ways. And I, for one, am learning to benefit from these wider categories. (Though, sometimes, I find it all a little intimidating.)

Just years ago, there were things that no one talked about in “polite company” (whatever that means) – not your love affairs or your recent medical tests or your excitement over landing a new job. But thanks to everyday bloggers and other forms of self-publishing, anyone can have a platform – even if it’s just your Facebook profile, where you comment on which child has come down with a cold this week, or your Twitter feed, where you like to wax philosophical about current events or the new restaurant on the edge of town.

Privacy Vs. Secrecy; And Sharing as a Way to Connect
Last week, Oprah Winfrey dedicated an entire episode to telling the world about her recent discovery that she has a half-sister who she never knew existed. She was candid and vulnerable about what this meant for her relationships with the sister, her mother, and her new-found niece and nephew. And she was quick to point out that she chose to do the episode because there’s nothing more powerful than owning your truth. (Indeed, she could have let the tabloids and news shows tell her story – or their versions of it. But to maintain the power over your life and its truths, you need to be the mouthpiece for your own stories.)

Sure, there are things that we don’t need to tell the world (and plenty of things the world doesn’t want to know about us). But I find it liberating that we live in an era in which strangers are connecting every day, where we’re loosening up our definitions of “friendship” to let more people into our lives, where the kind of silence that used to be respected as a preference for “privacy” is now sometimes criticized as “secrecy.” That last one can be a double-edged sword, indeed, but I – for one – don’t ever want to go back to a time when families whisper the word “cancer” or when we disown our adult children for their failed marriages or when we suffer in silence when dealing with a financial strain that could be alleviated if we would only reach out for the insights of others.

I’m a connector. I am logged into Facebook and LinkedIn every day. I have two e-mail accounts, three phone numbers, a Twitter feed, a Skype account, and a penchant for attending networking events. There are many things that I do not know, but two things that I know for sure: 1. I am more likely to learn about and conquer my areas of ignorance and fear if I connect to others. 2. My life is simply richer and more joyful when I am interacting with others versus turning inward.

A Caveat

To be able to have anything meaningful to say to others, we must first understand ourselves. So I’m not suggesting we spend all our time at parties, ballgames, or business mixers. The time we spend alone is incredibly valuable -- for our intellectual and spiritual growth, and for our overall physical and emotional well-being. I try to find some time each day to just be. To breathe deeply. To get lost in a beautiful sound – like the ducks flapping their way to a water landing on the pond behind my house, or a restful instrumental song on the radio. To do something that stretches my mind – like writing a poem, or a blog entry, or reading a chapter of a great book while soaking in a bubble bath.

Becoming an Open Book (Literally)

This year, I am taking on the challenge of purposefully blurring the lines between the self who likes to listen to backyard wildlife and the self who puts on a business suit to speak at professional conferences. And, no, I’m not going on a speaking tour to talk about ducks. Well, not exactly.

In a few months, I’ll be unveiling a book of poetry entitled The Other Side of Demure. It contains recent work, as well as pieces that I’ve written throughout my 20-year career as a writer. It is – as is most poetry or short fiction – a kaleidoscope of truth, fantasy, wonders, and observations. While there are many poems in which the speaker (voice) is not the author – or at least not entirely – she’s in there. These are poems that could not have been written by anyone but me, so I have to face the vulnerability of letting a reading public into my life in this way.

Once the ISBN is registered and the book is available for purchase, bits of my personal life will become public in a way that I can never take back. The idea invigorates me, and scares me silly.

So, Maybe You’re Not a Writer

Not everyone will write a book, or release an album, or offer up their words or art in a very public way. But we can all find a project that challenges us to be more authentic, more vulnerable, more introspective, and ultimately more supportive and welcoming of the people around us.

Ask yourself what you can do this year that would make you better connected to your family or friends; better connected to your colleagues or even your competitors; better connected to strangers who live on the other side of the world. Maybe you’ll offer helpful words to a stranger when her car breaks down and she seems overwhelmed by it all. Maybe you’ll make a donation to a micro-financing organization to help a family start a business in a third-world country. Maybe you’ll post a comment to an online magazine, where your perspectives will make others reevaluate their own thinking. Maybe you’ll raise your hand to ask a question the next time you find yourself in the audience of a town hall meeting.

Peel away just one layer of self-protective anonymity in the name of reaching out to others. You might be surprised by how much more whole you feel without that shell, and how much warmer it is when you’re just a little more bare.

Learning to cook...

I've always wanted to be one of those people who works magic in the kitchen -- who applies a little bit of chemisty with some creativity and a whole lot of love, and voila! The perfect meal is served. But I've always been lacking that je ne sais quois when it comes to cooking. And it sometimes makes me feel inadequate.

For most people, cooking is part of family or culture. In my family, we never went hungry... but we also didn't live in the kitchen, dangling from the apron strings of mothers and grandmothers. There are no "famous family recipes" but there are some food traditions, like eating fried green tomatoes in the summer. Until recently, I never really gave it a thought.

But about a year ago, I was looking around my kitchen and thinking "these countertops were made for kneading dough" and "my refrigerator has plenty more room for fresh vegetables." So I started experimenting with little things. I went "harvesting" in my friend Lynn's herb garden. I learned how to make gluten-free pizza dough. I created a recipe for a really healthy and robust vegetable soup. But then I got bored.

Can't cook? Hire a teacher!

It never occurred to me that you could hire someone to teach you to cook. But my friend Jolanta did exactly that -- she hired a chef to come help me navigate my quirky food allergies and whip up something delicious in the kitchen. Enter Chef Kathy Dederich (http://www.chefplease.com/). Imagine yourself roaming the aisles of your local grocery store, with your own personal chef. (Yes, she wore the white uniform!) While I enjoyed cooking with her, I think the opportunity to grocery shop with an expert was equally valuable. I asked questions like "how do you know which kind of onion to choose?" [her answer? whichever ones are on sale!] or "should you smell the lemons to know if they're fresh?" and "are chickpeas something you buy in a can or in a bag?" I learned so much.

We spent about five or six hours with Kathy, investigating the various uses of herbs and marveling over her fancy pressure cooker. (Santa: I'd like one of those next year.) In the end, here's what I learned:

1. Going on a great "date" with your husband doesn't have to involve a restaurant or the theatre. Try a cooking date in your own kitchen. Robert and I had a lot of fun learning to work side by side at the cutting board.

2. Chickpeas are found in the ethnic aisle, dried in a bag. (Who knew??)

3. If I try and am not afraid to fail, I can cook. I don't love it, but I enjoy it. (I won't ever be a food blogger. And, for the record, I hate the term "foodie"! Sounds like a trendy way to say "thinks too much about food." But I digress...)

4. Great friends give great gifts (Jolanta -- you're the best!). Looking for a great gift for a friend? Give them an experience instead of a "thing." Our personal chef experience has given us memories that last far longer than any material gift.

5. It's not too late to learn new things. So, in 2011, I'm going to find a few more things I'm not good at (or just naive about) -- like cooking -- and try to tackle them. Could be an interesting year.

Bon appetit!

Learning to let go...

If you’ve been reading this blog for any period of time, you’ve probably surmised that I write about three kinds of lessons:

1. Those I have already learned (usually the hard way)
2. Those I am in the process of learning
3. Those lessons I desperately need to learn, but with which I am struggling.

Today’s post is about that third kind of lesson – one that eludes me at every turn.

Holding On vs. Letting Go

Ironically enough, I was just listening to the Glee soundtrack in my car and am now humming “Keep Holding On…” (originally performed by Avril Lavigne, but beautifully interpreted by the cast of Glee). [end of tangent]

“Holding on” can be a powerful and positive thing when it comes to:

• Our values
• Having hope in the face of tragedy (like a difficult medical diagnosis)
• Our steadfast love for our families and friends
• Our ability to smile and giggle and enjoy the little things in life, and
• Our belief that the world is essentially good, and that we deserve peace and health and happiness.

The ability to hold on to the things that really matter is often what keeps us grounded, sane, and able to contribute meaningfully to relationships, communities and organizations.

But “letting go” is also a virtue. One only needs to look around at the clutter in the average American home or to consider the emotional baggage that often keeps us from living happy, healthy lives to know that we have an epidemic of “holding on” to the negativity around us.

What I’m Holding Onto

They say that the first step in conquering a problem is admitting that you have one in the first place. So the very fact that I'm writing this blog about my need for this lesson must mean I’m on the right track – even if I’m very far from my destination.

My baggage is physical and emotional (though, it’s all essentially emotional in the end – even the pile of old clothing or love notes from relationships gone by).

Here’s what I’m holding onto – what’s weighing me down:

• Anger and frustration about my health (the “why me?” attitude that sometimes rears its ugly head, asking unanswerable questions about why the universe would saddle me with a rare blood clotting disorder, an autoimmune disorder, liver disease, and a stroke).


• Sorrow and anger regarding the hurtful things people have said and done to me in the past.


• Musings of dreams deferred and opportunities lost.


• Memories of bad breakups, ugly family fights, and asshole bosses whose criticisms are still taking up space in my head all these years later.


• A black, wrap-around miniskirt (size 6) that closes at the waist and hip via Velcro rather than zippers or buttons, and that carries with it very fond memories (but that also makes me feel like a failure for not still being that small, sexy, carefree girl).


• A closet full of regrets and guilt. I’m holding onto clothes in the following sizes: 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24 (no, I’m not kidding). It’s a Goldilocks wardrobe – most items too small or too large, and some just right. About 70% of the contents of my cavernous walk-in closet is not about the now – about my reality. This means, of course, that every morning, I traipse into the closet to feel badly about myself – though sometimes I get a momentary thrill by musing my way through memory lane (that black, scoop-neck shirt I was wearing on that special day…those tiny denim shorts I bought at Old Navy before the dot-com bust ended my career in high-tech journalism).


• Books. Oh, boy – the books. Thinking of letting them go makes me cry. We have a library in our house, and I think of my books as friends and artifacts of my life – sometimes I think of them as trophies (particularly the really difficult fiction and ancient literature I read while working on my graduate degree in English). Ironically, while the books themselves might be holding me back, I’ve read many books about letting go.

Read These Books

• Clutter Busting: Letting Go of What’s Holding You Back, by Brooks Palmer. (I’ve worked with Brooks, once in cleaning my corporate office, and once at our home. What an incredible experience. I can hear him now, asking in his calm way, “Can we let it go? Is it serving you?” If you have a clutter problem, call Brooks. You might still have enough neuroses to blog about later – like me! – but I promise it will change your life.)


• Enough Already! Clearing Mental Clutter to Become the Best You, by Peter Walsh. (In my opinion, not as powerful or inspired as the work of Brooks Palmer, but an interesting and valuable read if you’re feeling emotionally stuck – particularly in your relationships.)


• The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle. Amazing. I intend to read this book a second time, to let it really sink in. If you’re not really living in the present moment, this book is for you.


• The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien. A book about a platoon of American soldiers during the Vietnam war. The three books mentioned above are self-help books, while this one is a novel. But it will leave you with a palpable sense of what it means to have physical and emotional baggage – how where we’ve been and what we’ve carried (physically and mentally/spiritually) can change us forever.

To their credit, without those authors, I wouldn’t be self-aware enough to even write this blog post. But I need to read them closely, and then read them again.

Public Service Announcement
I feel (worry?) that my readers who don’t know me personally or who have never visited my house must be thinking I live in a wreck. Not the case at all. Sure – I’ve got closet contents that don’t serve me, and I’ve got a stack of papers and Post-it notes strewn across my desk, and I haven’t sorted through my junk mail in over a week so it’s piling up on the island in the kitchen. But I’m very lucky to have plenty of good storage spaces in my house, so the real clutter is well hidden (from visitors, and – more importantly – from myself).

Back to My Point
I want to let go of the past, as well as my worries about the future, so that I can focus on now. Intellectually, I understand the value of making this mental shift. I just can’t quite get there.

There are perhaps three things we should all consider releasing: pipedreams (the kind that we know, deep down, won’t come true – like getting drafted to the NBA), negative emotions, and worries about what we cannot control.

At a recent conference, I heard the speaker advise the audience that we have three choices when we are presented with a situation that we don’t like:

1. Accept it
2. Change it
3. Leave it.

Simple, but powerful. Take a less-than-affectionate boyfriend or a demotion at work, for example. We can accept the change (learn to love the boyfriend for who he is and get the affection we need from puppies and friends, or accept the new role at the office as an opportunity or at least not the worst thing that could have happened). We can change it (work though the relationship problem – perhaps with the help of a therapist – or work hard to deliver results at the office before negotiating for a new opportunity at the company). Or we can leave it (pack our bags – or the boyfriend’s bags – or resign from the company and start over). But ultimately, those are really our only choices. “Holding on” to the negative emotions about a situation that we don’t like won’t help us move past it – it won’t help us create acceptance or change the situation or walk away.

Hmm. Prophecy by PowerPoint. Who knew?

So, I’m going to begin letting go. It will take work (and perhaps a lifetime), but I think it’s a worthwhile endeavor. Maybe by loosening my grip on what doesn’t matter, I can more firmly grasp what does.

(But I’m keeping the Velcro skirt.)

Learning to nurture and to be nurtured...

This is not a blog post about sweet, sappy love stories. It's not about puppies or butterflies or summer romances. It's about the basic human need to be nurtured, and the reciprocal need to be someone who nurtures others.

I will, without doubt, irritate or offend people with this post. Because I am going to posit that -- despite my status as a non-parent -- I have some legitimate insights about what good parenting looks like. So here goes...

A Soft Place to Fall

Everyone needs a soft place to fall. Not just when you're six years old (though probably especially when you are six years old). Workaholic, control-freak types (as my friend Scot calls me) are sometimes the most in need of that person with whom -- and that place where -- they can be vulnerable. All day long, I make decisions on behalf of colleagues and budgets and my organization. So, when I get home, sometimes (gasp!) I need my husband to decide what we'll make for dinner or whether we'll be getting a contract for TruGreen lawn service. And I always need a long hug. I need, at the end of it all, to feel safe. To feel at home.

I don't like to admit that I need to be vulnerable. I've spent most of my life trying to be achieve parity when it comes to salary or respect in my professional world. But I cry when I watch Oprah, and I sobbed when I read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. And, at 36, I'm starting to feel less "weak" when I admit that.

We All Nurture and Accept Nurturing Differently

If you haven't read The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman, you owe it to yourself and your spouse/partner to do so. We recently had the opportunity to read this book in the company of a group of couples we met at a local church. What a wonderful experience it became for us. Without recapping the book in a way that doesn't do it justice, I'll just say that there are multiple ways in which we can love and be loved. It turns out that my primary love languages are "acts of service" and "physical touch." That shouldn't even surprise YOU as blog readers -- you've witnessed me writing about how much I value little acts like Robert toasting me a marshmallow for the perfect s'more, and how important a great massage or backrub can be.

Robert's love languages? "Words of affirmation" and "quality time." And now that we know each other's languages, we are loving each other in the best way possible -- that is, the way we want and need to be loved.

Children

I love them, but I don't want to give birth to them; not this year, and maybe not ever. I don't think that makes me less of a woman, nor do I think it means I don't have a keen understanding of what good parenting looks like. I fulfill my desire to nurture through my marriage and my friendships and my obsessive love for my dogs.

Robert and I are also fortunate enough to have wonderful children in our lives -- two nephews (and a third on the way), two nieces, and friends who have the most amazing children who we have become "honorary" aunt and uncle to. And I never cease to be enraptured by the experience of spending time with them. Even at the youngest of ages, they impress me with their intelligence. I am in awe of their curiosity and their trust in the world around them. And I am humbled by the love they give to us.

Here is what I have learned from these children -- and what I sometimes worry that their own parents don't always see.

1. They are as impressionable as wet cement. What you drop on them will leave an impression. Forever. An unkind word or a harsh hand or a raised voice or an indifferent demeanor -- especially in repetition over a period of months or years -- teaches children to believe that they deserve to be treated poorly. Who suffers in the long run? The children. The parents. Those children's future spouses, who will someday struggle to understand how to heal those scars and who will likely flee.

2. A full closet and a photo album full of contrived smiles during over-scheduled outings does not constitute a happy childhood (nor does it cover up for poor parenting). Children don't need Xboxes or Gymboree clothing or 27 trips to DisneyWorld for family photo opps. They need time, and love, and security. Most of all, they need to be listened to. I recently went for a walk with a 3-year-old, where I focused on being 100% present. We collected pine cones and talked about everything we saw along the way. We laughed and wondered and took our time. She never once asked me why I wasn't buying her a present or asking a video game to babysit her.

3. Every temper tantrum -- no matter how frustrating it is to witness -- is rooted in real, legitimate emotion and need. I once saw a little girl screaming at the mall, doing that whole "my legs won't work so I'm going to collapse on the floor, right here at Sears" trick. And instead of dragging her by her arm to the car, making a scene (and a fool of herself), this girl's mother did something that I will never forget. She stopped. She got on her knees, right there in the doorway between the department store and the rest of the mall, and she looked her daughter in the eyes and said "Honey, tell me why you are so upset. I'm listening." Turns out that this little girl had been promised an ice cream cone, but then Daddy called and needed them to come home right away. The whole interlude ended something like this: "Sweetheart, I know you're disappointed. I promised you ice cream. I wanted ice cream too. But Daddy needs us to come home, so we have to leave now and we won't be able to get the ice cream this time. Do you understand? But we'll go out for ice cream soon. Just not tonight. How about we take a deep breath and stand up, and go see Daddy?" To which the sniffling little girl rubbed her eyes, stood up, took her mom's hand and smiled. Alas, she had real emotion (disappointment, anger) and she wanted to be heard. She wanted to know that her mother understood that she was upset. That's all. In the end, it wasn't about ice cream at all. Whether we're 4 or 44, what we ultimately need and want is to be acknowledged.

4. Children won't be little forever. At some point, it's too late to nurture them in the way they need you to. My first husband's sister has two wonderful daughters. They're college students now. But when I met them, they were both in diapers. As they got older, we got closer. They loved me and I loved them; they lived just three blocks away and I saw them almost every day. They put my hair in crazy braids, and we went adventuring to the zoo and to the museums. We spent every holiday together for 11 years. When the older of the two got sick, I would pick her up from school. And then my marriage came to an end. Those little girls got caught up in the "he said, she said" of what happened to their aunt and uncle. And today, I have lost them both. I love them now as much as I ever did, but when they really needed me, I failed them. They are adults now, and I blew it. It has been a painful lesson.

5. Children have "love languages" too. I'd like to buy a copy of Chapman's book about how to love children for every parent I know. Newsflash: If you have two or three children, odds are that they have two or three different love languages. And it's also very likely that they don't express and receive love in the same way that you do. As their parents, it's your job to figure out how to love them best -- and then do it. (Re: #1 on my list, this is especially important for children whose love language is "words of affirmation." #2 is a reminder that most children don't have "receiving gifts" as their top love language. #3 is all about quality time. Etc.)

Talk about It

If you've never had a long conversation (not an argument or an accusation-fest) with your spouse/partner, sibling(s) or parents about how you need to be nurtured, there's a huge opportunity awaiting you.

It's never too late to teach people how to love us (and for us to learn how to love better and more deeply). When I was a teenager, my dad didn't know how to say "I love you" to me. So I started saying it first, and I kept saying it (through all the awkward silences and fumbled responses) until he learned to say it back. Now, he usually says it first. Old dogs, new tricks. It's never too late.

Try starting sentences with "I've probably never told you this, but I really feel loved when you..." You might discover that there are little things you can do (or keep doing...or stop doing) that make a world of difference in the heart of someone important to you.

I've committed myself to doing this with my husband, but probably haven't taken full advantage of the practice with parents or siblings or friends. For example, I'm not sure that my brother knows that, in all my years, he gave me the most meaningful Christmas gift I've ever received. I'm a word geek, and he is not. So imagine my surprise (and delight) when I found out that my brother took several hours out of a vacation to stand in line to get Gwendolyn Brooks (former US poet laureate) to autograph a book for me. He took it home and wrapped it and waited for Christmas. And while that package sat awaiting its presentation to me, Gwendolyn Brooks died. When I opened that book on Christmas morning, I was floored. Not that I was the owner of an autographed volume from a poet I admired. But by the humbling discovery that my brother -- despite any tough-guy exteriors -- knew me well enough and loved me deeply enough to stand in line for hours for something he probably didn't value for himself but that he knew would mean a great deal to me. That was many years ago, and I still cry every time I tell (or write) that story.

Knowing Who You Are -- As a Couple

Two weeks ago, I was quietly attending to household chores while my husband was out of town. All the Colbert pets were sleeping and the only sound in the house was the gentle humming of the furnace fan, doing its 24/7 work of cleaning our air through its allergen filters.

I was washing dishes, slowly and deliberately. Not in the rushed way that tends to be my style -- but peacefully and in absolutely no hurry. I was taking the time to enjoy the feel of the warm water, the surprise when a soap bubble escaped the sink and went floating into the living room, the sound of the water running across ceramic and glass and silver.

Our kitchen sink has the most beautiful view. It abuts a v-shaped breakfast bar so the washer of dishes can see the entire heart of the house -- the living room with its cushy couches and curio cabinets, the breakfast nook with its windows facing the pond, the hallway leading to my office with its welcoming French doors, and just a hint of the family room with its afternoon sunshine and the piano that has belonged to my family for generations.

I have no idea how many minutes I spent washing those dishes -- those special or pesky items that don't go into the Whirlpool dishwasher. What I do know is that while I was accomplishing my task, I enjoyed a special kind of meditation. I let my eyes ponder each detail within view, remembering its significance. Every wall in our house has a story and, next year -- there will be more stories yet.

Robert and I built this home together in 2007. And it was a labor of love. Visitors see drywall and furniture and artwork. But I see collaboration, and adventure, and passion. I see the colonial white trim around the powder room door, knowing that beneath it is a 2x4 piece of lumber with Sharpie marker handwriting -- announcing the date upon which our house passed its electrical inspection. I see the ceiling fan that was hung with care by Robert and my cousin Paul. I see the ceramic tiles that create the fireplace face, and that were selected by my sister-in-law, who served as our interior designer. I see wall colors inspired by our love of vineyards and our desire to visit Napa (which we did -- on our first anniversary). I see all the decisions and musings that made this house possible. I see two people who believed that building a home together could be the beginning of their life's story.

Until very recently, I thought the expression "our life's work" referred to a person's career or their avocations or the volunteer work about which they are so passionate. I would have told you that my life's work involves helping other people (and organizations) advance their missions through the strategic use of words and other communications tools. But that's not my life's work. It's my career's work -- which is just part of my life. This house -- and what it stands for -- is "OUR" life's work. The combined efforts of my husband and me. And a marriage is not just the merging of two people's interests -- it's the creation of something that isn't possible without the two of you together. It is greater than the sum of its parts.

I've been married twice, and have had a colorful dating history. I've loved well and deeply. I have chosen mates who taught me much. But I've never before shared my life with someone who made me understand that being in a relationship should have a purpose. (And I've never been ready to learn that lesson until recently.) Beyond the abeyance of loneliness, the creation of excitement, or the strategic merger of two bank accounts, a relationship should hope to serve the world in some way.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I've never thought about this. I always thought a relationship was simply about falling in love. I'm even more embarrassed to admit that what got me thinking about it was a recent interview on Oprah with Will and Jada Smith. They suggested that a marriage should have a mission and vision -- just like a business. It should have a reason for being.

Hmm. That just makes good sense. So what's the master plan for my marriage? In the end, it's pretty simple. Robert and I have joined our lives so that we can create peace. So that we can share a gentle energy with others in a way that makes us -- and the people around us -- feel good. We've promised to help each other eradicate drama and anxiety. And we renew our dedication to this every day. It means our house is typically very quiet. That it's filled with books and comfortable napping spots.

How will we know if we've achieved our goal? Pretty simply, I think. We'll know we've accomplished much if children (nieces, nephews, neighbors and friends) are happy in our home. If visitors sleep deeply and at length in our guest bedroom. If the hours around a backyard fire are less about the s'mores than they are about losing track of obligations and anxieties, and enjoying the pure music of a loved one's laughter as it floats over the pond and disappears into the trees after sunset. If holiday traditions are created and kept within these walls. If visitors, too, can get lost in the sound of the furnace fan or find themselves mesmerized by soap bubbles floating over the sink and popping on their journey toward the sun-soaked living room.

Little bitty lesson: Being lazy is painful

Yesterday, I went to the spa (courtesy of my husband) for a 90-minute massage. By all accounts, it should have been a luxurious way to spend an afternoon. But, alas, it was torture.

Why? Because it had been three months since my previous visit to the massage therapist and my muscles were in need of some serious untangling. Yes, I admit it -- despite the aromatherapy and the relaxing music, there was agony. I teared up and gritted my teeth.

When I got home, I was thinking about what the lesson had been in that experience. For some people, it would have been "don't go to the spa again." But I'm smart enough to know that Shelbie at Arvasi is talented beyond imagination, and that her knowledge of the muscles makes her like a human MRI, seeking out the damaged and injured spots and giving them the attention they need.

The lesson yesterday was two-fold. 1: Don't wait 3 months between appointments. (I have piriformis syndrome, which means my legs require special attention if I want to live a tolerable life.) And 2: Being lazy is painful.

My muscles don't get tangled and injured because I'm running marathons or doing too much pilates. I'm a mess because I never move. My average day consists of 2 hours in the car, 10 hours (or more) in front of a computer or at a conference table, an hour or so puttering around the house doing chores and cooking, a couple of hours sitting on the couch talking to my husband or watching TV, and another 8 hours sleeping. And maybe once a day, I'll think to reach my arms over my head for a good stretch. Wow -- the very definition of sedentary. Is it any wonder that the muscles in my back and hips are all out of whack?

Being lazy isn't luxurious -- it's painful. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not lazy in the way I use my mental energy for my career. Shelbie never needs to squeeze lactic acid out of my gray matter. But my body is paying the price of "all work, no play." I need to move. Any suggestions for how to get started?

Learning to cherish the little things...

My husband Robert makes the perfect s'more. Two divinely toasted marshmallows -- their outsides patiently warmed to a sugary light brown candy crust, their insides warm and gooey in just the perfect way. He places them atop three little sections of Hershey's milk chocolate and sandwiches it all between two gluten-free graham crackers, serving it up on a dessert plate.

Sometimes, it's the little things that pleasantly startle us back into consciousness -- into appreciating our lives and all its wonders. I can't toast a marshmallow; I burn them. It's not that I'm not patient enough (though that's part of it); it's that I don't have depth perception, so I either get too close to the fire (and set my shmallows ablaze) or stay too far away (and get frustrated when they are still cool and raw five minutes later). So, for the perfect s'more, I need Robert.

I don't suspect that Robert knows how much I love it when he makes me a s'more (over a fire pit in the backyard or, more commonly, over the flame of our kitchen stove). To him, it's probably just a little cooking task. But for me, it's pure love. He's patient and attentive in his work, and the end product isn't just a yummy dessert. It take me back to childhood, remembering Girl Scout campfires. It's a warm, gooey treat that I get to eat with my hands. And it's somehow more enjoyable than any fancy flourless chocolate cake that could be served up by an accomplished pastry chef at a Zagat-rated restuarant.

It's Memorial Day weekend, and I've decided to take time to cherish all the little things. Here's just a sampling of the things that have brought me wonder and delight these past two days:

• An impromptu lunch with an old friend yesterday


• Organizing my piles of paperwork at the office and leaving with a sense of accomplishment


• Petting my dogs this morning, whose fur was warmed by the sunshine coming through the windows


• A pleasant 30-second interaction yesterday with a man in line at Target, who dropped a penny that I retrieved from under my cart


• The realization when I woke this morning that there will be one more day off before the work week begins


• Musing about something cute to wear to a family picnic this afternoon


• Making plans to attend a Memorial Day service at the Kenosha Harbor tomorrow -- a little gesture for the huge sacrifices that have been made in the name of freedom

You might not like s'mores, but I'm guessing there is something small and pure and sweet that reminds you how to live in the moment. I encourage you to find it, and build it back into your life, deliberately and with zeal. What little thing will you appreciate today?

Little bitty lesson: Dating isn't for single people

For those of us who are married, the word "dating" brings up all kinds of memories, horror stories, laughs, the rolling of eyes, and maybe even regrets. I catch myself sometimes saying "I'm so glad I don't have to date anymore!" And I think that sentiment of disdain comes from the stress that came from seeking and not finding, and of trying to put my best foot forward without being disingenuous. It's hard enough in this life to answer the question "Who am I?" But to add that identity crisis to "Who am I when I am with this other person?" makes life sometimes impossibly challenging.

Kissing frogs became tiring and I'd all but given up by the time I went on that one date that changed my life -- the night I met Robert.

Tonight, 19 months after our wedding day, Robert and I are going on a date. I bought a new dress, and we're going to a wonderful restaurant, and we'll be cuddling up at home later on to watch a funny movie. Dating is more fun when you're married -- it's less stressful, more controllable, and infinitely more meaningful.

If you're in love with someone -- perhaps someone you married 20 years ago -- I urge you not to think of "dating" as something that precedes and then ends with marriage. Take your spouse out on a date tonight. And do it again next week. Dating, in its most beautiful incarnation, isn't really for single people at all. It's for those of us who already know the warmth of holding each other's hands. And it's for those who know that a "date" isn't about a day, or a season. It's about a lifetime.

Little bitty lessons: Bite-sized blog posts

There are two kinds of blogs that I really value: Long blogs and short blogs. I've always been drawn to the long, languid blogs -- the ones that are deep and thoughtful musings about large issues, with multiple links and anecodotes. These are the kinds of blogs I like to read on a Sunday afternoon, and to talk about with my friends. When I started blogging, this is the kind of blog series I wanted to write.

But there is also another great blogging strategy -- short and sweet. I like those kinds of blogs too. Like Seth Godin's blog, which is usually no more than two or three paragraphs of insight (but is occasionally indulgent).

So I've decided to have my cake (gluten-free, of course) and eat it too. Once a week, I'll post a longer piece -- the kind you've come to expect from me; those pieces will always have titles that start with "Learning to ..." On a more frequent basis, I'll post bite-sized blog posts, and will call those "Little bitty lessons."

Today's little bitty lesson?

Cake is not just dessert. It's family, and hospitality, and love.

Yesterday, my husband baked a two-layer yellow cake with fudge frosting. It made me feel loved. And for those of us who don't eat gluten, this is a special treat thanks to companies like Betty Crocker. But beyond the sugar rush I enjoyed, I realized that cake has a special power. The beauty of it, on display under a classic glass dome, perched on top of our kitchen island, inspires many things. It made me want to be a better neighbor, and to clean the rest of the kitchen to rise to the occasion. And it made me breathe more deeply today, in hopes to catch another waft of that heavenly, buttery smell in the air.

I had two friends visit today, and I offered them both cake. They happily obliged my hospitality. My second visitor stopped by unexpectedly, so I felt particularly pleased with myself for being ready to welcome her with home-baked goodness.

This past December, my grandmother passed away. She always had a cookie jar (appropriately shaped like a big smiley face), brimming with treats for her visitors. And while I don't know if I'll ever be someone's grandmother, I hope to bring that same kind of simple joy to others.

Grandma had a cookie jar and I have a cake dome. And those simple gestures could quite possibly make the world a better place.

Learning to be joyful...

What makes you joyful?

This is a question that stumps me. I recently sat down to make a list of the things that infuse me with joy, and I found myself staring at a blank sheet of paper for longer than I'd like to admit. Perhaps it's because I've been so busy amassing education, climbing the corporate ladder and living the "American dream" (i.e., building a house, planning a wedding, planting a lilac bush), that all of my plans and activities started crowding out the thing that makes life worth living -- joy.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not an unhappy person. I love my husband, and I get great satisfaction out of my job, and I live in a nice house. There's not an overwhelming amount of drama surrounding my family or friends, and most of the crying I do has more to do with sappy movies or heart-wrenching books than it does with personal suffering or despair. So why am I not more joyful?

Back to Basics

I think true, unabashed joy is what makes us giggle with abandon, jump up and down, want to high-five someone, and smile or laugh until it hurts. Spend a day observing young children, and you'll see what joy is all about. It's been said that children laugh, on average, more than 300 times per day. Adults, on the other hand, laugh about 15 times per day. How is it that age has made us so cynical and conditional about how we feel and share our joy?

Don't we deserve to be joyful more often? I certainly think so.

Eventually, I wrote down a few things on that blank piece of paper. Here's what I came up with:

1. Puppies [little, roly-poly puppies that are hopping around the yard or the living room like bunnies, yawning with that innocent little squeaky noise they make, or licking your face with abandon]


2. Singing -- usually loudly and badly, to joyful songs like Paolo Nutini's New Shoes; sometimes, this kind of singing is accompanied by silly dancing in my kitchen


3. Writing [but not all writing, mind you -- business writing can be satisfying, but writing for ME, whether it's a blog post, a poem, an essay or a short story, is what makes me joyful]


4. Being tickled


5. Deep laughter [the kind that happens when I hang out with my childhood friend, Michelle, or when I go to a comedy club]


6. Little surprises [like coming home to discover my husband has made my favorite dinner, or winning a few dollars on a scratch-off lottery ticket]


7. Exhilarating accomplishment [like reaching a mountain summit after a long hike, or crossing the finish line of a race]


8. Teaching [go figure -- little miss "No Book, No Classroom" is happiest in the classroom

A Strategy for Joy

So I've decided that, in addition to my strategies for my career, my financial investments, etc., I'm going to craft a strategy for joy. Here's what my initial draft includes:

• More puppies. Because my shelties are now more than a year old, and it's not practical to get a new puppy each time the last one loses her "puppy breath," -- which reminds me of some women I know, who get pregnant every time their most recent baby abandons his pacifier -- I'm going to do things to keep my dogs young (like training them for agility competition), and maybe I'll volunteer at a veterinary hospital too.


• More singing. My new iPod will help in this endeavor. And if you ever see me driving on I-94, I hope the sillyness of me belting out a song behind my windshield makes you joyful too.


• More time with friends, more pillow fights, and more trips to Zanies. (I have a colleague who recently started performing stand-up comedy, but I think I'd be happier in the audience.)


• More exhilaration. We're planning a summer vacation, and I think I'd like to go back to New Hampshire's beautiful White Mountains, to climb again. And it's about time that I started training for another stair marathon. Hustle Up the Hancock, anyone?


• More teaching. I love my job as a marketing director -- it's enjoyable and a good application of my talents and experience. But I'd like to balance my day job with more time in the classroom. Last week, I had the opportunity to teach a business communications seminar for a group of employees at WMS Gaming. They were fantastic participants -- full of great suggestions and questions, and willing to be vulnerable and playful as we learned together. I left the training room and did something I don't do often enough -- I high-fived my colleague from the Corporate Education division of Lake Forest Graduate School of Management.

You Deserve More

You, too, deserve more joy in your life. More giggles and more high-fives. And more dancing in your kitchen. Take a few minutes to make your Joyful List, and get working on a strategy for seeking more joy. Not next month or next year or when you retire. More joy, right now. And I have a funny feeling that the more you focus on your own joy, the more your friends and loved ones will feel joyful too.

Learning to love your FICO score...

All these years after studying algebra in high school (and swearing I'd never use it), I still remember how to solve for X if 3X=2(y-1). And you guessed it -- I never use that precious, hard-won skill.

So, with all due respect to great (and patient and well-meaning) math teachers in high school and undergrad, I simply can't be the only person who is appalled that the U.S. school systems aren't teaching young people the quantitative lessons they truly need -- like now to calculate simple interest (ala your Bank of America card), how to create a realistic household budget, how to appreciate the incremental costs of a wedding if you invite your best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend (and if you have a cake and a dessert station), or how to save hundreds of thousands of dollars in unnecessary interest charges by making extra principal payments on your mortgage.

I've learned all of these lessons the hard way, and my mistakes have been many. But I'm hopeful that our younger generations might actually take a cue from the struggles of their parents, and that educators might start building curricula that include practical lessons for financial responsibility. One can at least hope.

Hey, baby. What's your...FICO score?

If you are a parent, I beg of you to teach your children just one lesson about dating and choosing a life partner. Forget astrological signs, and focus on character traits that you can take to the bank. I am far less interested in the fact that my husband is a Virgo (mutable, social, earthy -- whatever the heck that means!) than I am in his credit score and his retirement planning strategy. (And, yes, I did ask to see his credit report about three months into our relationship.)

To be fair, an approach to dating that is this pragmatic is bound to send some suitors packing. And good riddance to them! These days, most couples -- and I don't think this is an exaggeration -- are less scrupulous about who they have sex with than they are about who they would bare their bank account and credit report to.

Why is that? I think it's because so many of us never got "the talk" that really mattered. Sure, we heard some awkward explanations about the birds and the bees, but most of us never got schooled in the virtues of protecting our financial health. We learned about HIV, but not about bankruptcy. We might have learned how to balance a check book, but we didn't learn about 401(k) plans until after our first employers asked us to make elections (and we all went "um, what...?"). We didn't learn about credit card debt until our college years. And we didn't learn about the pros and cons of renting vs. owning a home until we'd fallen in love with the most adorable little condo near the lake.

Shame on us. And shame on the parents and teachers who should have prepared us for the financial realities that awaited us.

Silver Lining

This past year might go down in history as "The Great Recession, " but for those who were really paying attention, it was "the great education." It was the wake-up call that so many of us needed. It reminded us that credit card interest rates can go from 2.9% to 29% without warning; that good, highly educated, well-paid people can and do lose their jobs; that dream homes can lose equity (ours lost $50,000 in value this past year!); that not having a down payment for a car might now mean that you're taking the bus; and that your greatest defense against the disintegration of your marriage might be a healthy, honest, conservative financial plan that you both share.

So, I'm glad that this past year happened. It put irresponsible companies out of business. And it got Americans to slow down their spending and start putting their pennies in their savings accounts. It got me and my husband really talking about priorities and investments (and spending more quality time together, and less time and money at concerts and events where we can't even hear each other speaking).

With luck, there are great days ahead for all of us. Here are my financial tips for 2010:


1. Learn about the new FICO scoring system. Our days of ignorance are over.


2. Run your credit report (and your spouse's or future spouse's). Sit down together with a highlighter and a pen, and get honest with where you've been and where you're headed. Focus less on being ashamed of the mistakes you've already made, and more on the lessons that will take you forward.


3. Make a household budget. It doesn't have to be complicated. But it does need to have steadfast rules, timebound goals, and realistic parameters.


4. If you're a teacher -- especially a math, economics, accounting or finance teacher -- remember that the lessons you teach will change lives.


5. And if you're a parent, I beseech you... While you might think that giving your 14-year-old an iPhone with unlimited internet access and a texting plan makes you the "cool" mom or dad, doing so without making them responsible for part or all of the bill that they incur is -- I promise you -- going to backfire on you. Picture that teenager, 15 years from now, living in your basement still and making excuses for why the bank won't loan her the money for a decent car and for why the government is chasing her for her delinquent payments on her student loans.

Hell, I don't have an iPhone -- or even a knock-off -- with a data plan. Would I like one? Sure! Does it fit into my budget? Nope.

When it comes to wealth, I'm not a believer in winning the lottery or "marrying rich." Your financial destiny isn't destiny at all -- it's the result of applying the street smarts you'll probably need to pick up on your own. Because none of your teachers thought you needed a roof over your head as badly as you needed to take that foreign exchange trip to Paris.

**sigh**

Learning to reconsider...

I'm not sure whether it's an American thing, a Western thing, or just a human thing, but most of us have a tendency to get stuck in our ways. From childhood, we're encouraged to be decisive -- to have strong opinions and not to waver from a stance once we've made it. But it occurs to me that the inability to reconsider -- to change our minds as our lives evolve and we learn new things -- is getting in the way of our real happiness.

Consider these words of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: "Each indecision brings its own delays, and days are lost lamenting over lost days ... What you can do or think you can do, begin it. For boldness has magic, power, and genius in it."

Right on! First of all, who can argue with Goethe? And secondly, I agree that life is meant to be lived, and that there is virtue in making decisions and moving forward. (My boss once explained this as the "bias toward action." He'd rather we kept the business moving and maybe made a decision he disagrees with, than to get paralyzed by the inability to do anything at all.) So, am I really going to suggest that it's okay to reconsider a previous decision? Yes, I sure am.

Decisiveness vs. Stuck in our Ways

I doubt that few people who know me well would say that I'm indecisive. In fact, my DiSC profile is "results-driven" and I typically measure my worth -- at the office and at home -- by how much I have gotten "done." I like to get things done -- to feel the chemical rush of checking something off the "to do" list -- at almost any cost. And "doing" typically requires deciding. So, it's fair to say that I have a lot of opinions and I use them to make my daily decisions.

But the reason I'm writing this post today is to attempt to surface an issue that no one talks about: the right to CHANGE your opinions over time. For most of my life, I've thought that "changing your mind" meant that you were fickle or weak or ill-guided (i.e., your first opinion must have been wrong, and now that you're being rational, you see the light). In so many ways, we demonize the changing of our minds -- in politics, we call it "flipflopping," and in our personal lives, we'll be so bold as to accuse a mind-changer of lying (e.g., "You're full of crap. Ten years ago, you told me that you hated country music. And now you tell me that you're going to a Brad Paisley concert? You're a sucker. Who talked you into this?")

In defense of that fictional concert-goer, I'd like to say that it's not only possible that he's developed a love for country music over the years, but that it's nearly impossible for our life's experiences not to change us (our interests, our opinions, our tastes and our beliefs) in some way or other.

Sometimes, the most refreshing thing you can do is change your mind. (And speaking of music, if you haven't rocked out to Sister Hazel in several years, take a listen to "Change Your Mind.")

Here are a few things I've changed my mind about:

1. Relationships (and my ability to be happy in one). When I got divorced in 2002, I had some, shall we say "opinions," about marriage, men, and commitment. I was pretty confident I'd never get married again, and that I'd never figure out how to be happy in that "Americana and apple pie" kind of way. But I was wrong. (I won't gush about my happy marriage and my wonderful new husband, who, in all his wonder, is still human and still sometimes makes me roll my eyes. But I changed my mind in 2006, and got married again in 2008. I had changed, and so had the world around me.) I no longer think that marriage is for suckers or that all relationships are doomed. What a refreshing change of heart (go ahead -- call me a flipflopper).

2. Success. I've had a lot of strong opinions about success. About how much of career and life success is based on luck versus hard work. And about how I should measure my own success. If you'd asked me what a successful career looked like for me back in 1996, as I was beginning my graduate studies in literature, I would have waxed philosophic about the teaching of college English and about how all great truths are found in books and classrooms. Fast-forward to today, where that literary background still serves me well, but in a capacity I would never have imagined -- business! (Shudder.) That my experiences teaching Shakespeare to 19-year-olds would have been a stepping stone to my Lake Forest MBA? Ludicrous! And yet I've never been happier, or more effective, in my career than I am now -- as a marketing director. (And yes, when I decided to stop teaching to find a more lucrative and stable job in publishing -- an evil, for-profit enterprise! -- several years ago, I felt like an absolute failure. I had told the world -- and myself -- that I was going to be a professor. Forever and ever, amen.)

3. Religion. (Speaking of amen...) They say that people's strongest opinions are often held on the topics of religion and politics. Very true when it comes to me, particularly when it comes to god (God?). I was raised without religion. That's not to say we were raised to be irreverant to the beliefs of others or to fear or scorn organized religion. It just wasn't part of our daily lives, so we were a little leery of it all. Along the way, I had some bad experiences -- including a Catholic priest in Illinois who refused to shake my hand after the service because, as a guest in his church, I hadn't taken communion or kneeled during the prayers. (That, incidentally, left me pretty pissed off about religion in general.) I was downright cynical about organized religion -- the costumes, the stained glass, the incense, the Latin (or Hebrew or whatever else is spoken wherever you worship), the power distance between the person on the altar and the people in the pews. I attended a Lutheran undergraduate college, but steered clear of the chapel. And as I grew into adulthood, I got pretty comfortable with the words "agnostic" and "atheist" (and yes, I know the difference between the two).

So, who would have thought that I'd one day respond to a Facebook ad and some direct mail for a church that positions itself as "the church for the rest of us"? And that I'd like it? I mean, seriously, it's a CHURCH. And I hate church. But low and behold, I have now gone to two services at Great Lakes Church, without anyone's prompting. Don't get me wrong -- I'm uncomfortable still. Not so much with the idea of belonging to a church as with admitting that all the disparaging things I've said about organized religion over the years might have been a little harsh or, at the very least, not applicable to every organization that calls itself a church. I have changed my mind.

Opinions are Not Values

One closing thought. I'm not advocating that everyone re-examines their long-held beliefs so often that they begin to feel ungrounded. And I'm certainly not suggesting that you toss away your values. Opinions are relative -- they are based on circumstance and experience and vantage point. So, my opinions about the Republican party might change, as might my opinions about the medical benefits of eating organic food, or whether it's more dignified to grow old "gracefully" versus coloring my hair and having an eye lift. But these opinions are not my values. The things I truly value -- honesty, compassion, wisdom -- have never changed. It's just that I'm making a stronger effort to really demonstrate the value of open-mindedness. While I've always thought of myself as someone who allows others to have diverse and changing opinions, I've never given myself the same liberty to change my mind. So, I'm going to open my mind a little wider (and I'm going to stop worrying that old friends might see me -- long-time hater of Bible-bangers -- and criticize me for singing along to a song that contains the word "Jesus" on a Sunday morning). My life is changing and evolving, and so am I.

And yes, I might even go to a Brad Paisley concert someday.

Learning to relax...

I'm 35 and I've learned a lot of things -- mostly through what you'd call "formal education." In fact, the classroom is my comfort zone. I've been a student in 40 undergraduate classes and 30-some graduate courses. And I've taught and tutored hundreds of students at four colleges. These days, I get my academic "fix" in different ways -- by working full-time in the marketing department at a business school in Chicago and by doing consulting work for colleges and universities across the country. And yet, most days I still feel like I've got a LOT to learn.

How is that possible? Maybe it's because the most important lessons we can learn in this life aren't typically taught in classrooms or through books. The really valuable "holy crap, this is going to change my life" kind of stuff comes through experience. And sometimes that experience is messy or painful or surprising. But if we're paying attention, that experience can be pretty amazing.

So I've decided to join the 21st century and start blogging. Not about what I ate for lunch or what new trick I taught my dog. But about the lessons no one ever bothered to teach us. Maybe something that I've learned will have meaning for you too.

I thought I'd start with "how to relax."

At first blush, this doesn't seem like something we'd need formal lessons on. Heck, we're all born carefree and with low levels of cortisol. But somewhere along the way, life gets stressful. For me, being busy and taking on too much was how I measured my own worth. Eventually, I was so overwrought that my life was seriously out of balance.

We all use expressions like "I really need a vacation," but then keep pushing ourselves too hard and adding meaningless things to our "to do" lists. During the past two years, I've been trying to teach myself how to relax. Ironically enough, this is a fairly difficult task.

I started with yoga. Twice a week during my lunch break at work. It took several weeks before I could focus on my breathing and on the sensation in my muscles as they warmed up and stretched. And even after a lot of practice, I still had days when my mind would wander back to project deadlines or other distractions. Sometimes I catch myself talking to my inner "me," saying "shhhh.... focus on your breathing....stop thinking about work..." My mind is a like a hamster wheel that won't stop spinning.

(For the record, I don't still do yoga at work. But I do it at home. I'm a partial yoga flunkie, but that's a long story.)

After yoga, I started taking "blink breaks," as my ophthalmologist calls them. A few times a day, I take about 30-60 seconds to close my eyes and let the muscles rest from all that computer-screen glare. I do this sometimes when I'm on the phone, or on a bathroom break, or while I'm waiting for the microwave to finish heating my lunch. If I focus on my breathing at the same time, it's like a mini session of yoga. (Okay, I get that these are baby steps. For a high-strung, "results-driven" person like me, though, these were steps in the right direction.)

Next, I decided to make a commitment to the value of vacations. This was due in large part to a little "intervention" by my boss, who suggested I read a book called The Power of Full Engagement. The book is about how to manage energy, rather than time. It tells stories of executives and parents whose lives were out of balance, and who found renewed success in their professional and personal lives once they got everything back in balance. For me, this book was a wake-up call. (After finishing this book, I picked up The Power of Now. Also, a real breakthrough for me.) So, my husband and I spent our anniversary in Napa, sipping wine and taking long walks. And we didn't allow ourselves to check e-mail or voicemail for the first four days. On that trip, we made an important commitment to each other and to ourselves -- that no matter how busy we get at work, we'll always take a week for a getaway on our anniversary -- every year, no excuses.

Why in the world is it so darned difficult to relax? For me, it's partly personality and genetics. But I think we're living in a fast-paced world that rewards busy-ness. How many times have you heard expressions like "I don't know how she juggles it all. It's just amazing."? Being overwhelmed is the price of entry for most companies, and even our friends marvel at and admire the people who haven't slept in 3 days. But I, for one, think that happiness and success don't have to come at the price of exhaustion, damaged relationships and poor health.

Until very recently, I felt guilty for relaxing. If I slept more than 8 hours in a night, I felt like I was being lazy. And going to the spa?? Really? That was for pretentious rich girls.

But not anymore. We have this amazing spa down the street called Arvasi Spa Medica -- it's a little bit of heaven. And I've been getting massages and pedicures there because I deserve it. Two weeks ago, I was getting ready for a massage from Shelbie, and I caught myself needing a lesson in relaxation. I was sitting in the "Relaxation Room" (picture a room with a fireplace and candles, pretty music, chocolate colored couches, and a "no talking" policy), and my husband was sitting in the chair next to me. We were both in fluffy spa robes and he was reading a book. I didn't know how to sit still, so I grabbed a book and started squinting my way through it (my glasss were, of course, back in the locker room). I was on the third page before I realized that I didn't have to be DOING something at that moment. I put the book down, took a deep breath, and stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

Once in the treatment room, I was still struggling to relax. Lying face down on the massage table, I noticed that there was a little glass bowl full of water and blue beads on the floor just below my head. I wondered why. I started hypothesizing about whether it really belonged there or if it was full of Vicks vaporub to keep clients' noses from stuffing up. I really, really wanted to ask Shelbie what it was all about. And then I told myself to just enjoy it -- it was pretty. Then I finally closed my eyes and enjoyed the massage.

Relaxing, for some of us, isn't easy. For me, it's full of guilt. I often equate it with "laziness." But at the end of the day, my health, my happiness and my true effectiveness (personally and professionally) are at stake. So I'm trying to find new balance so that I can play and rest as vigorously as I work. And I wear a bracelet that says "Balance" to remind me.

So, how can you relax too? Start with taking time each day to focus on your breathing, even if it's only by turning off the radio in the car for five minutes and forcing your overactive mind to slow down. Take a bubble bath at least once a week. Take a nap on a Sunday. Do something that truly renews you. And most importantly, listen to your body. If your body is screaming out for renewal, you'll develop health symptoms that might be subtle at first. Just listen.

A final shout-out to a woman who I think has really figured out the importance of relaxation. If you didn't see her pitching her line of products from Stress Free Kids on ABC's Shark Tank, be sure to check out what she's doing to TEACH CHILDREN HOW TO RELAX. At last, someone who realizes that the most important lessons in life aren't being taught in our classrooms...